winesoakedramblings – the blog of Vickie van Dyke

Several months ago I lost a friend. And when I say “lost”, what I really mean is – she died.  After an all-too short struggle with cancer, she died.  I hadn’t seen her in well over a year (we had spoken on the phone and emailed a few times) and then all of a sudden she was dead.  Just like that.

My initial reaction, being the best non-Jewish Jewish woman you’ve ever met (ask my Jewish friend Max), was guilt.  Guilt that I hadn’t visited (we tried to set up something – once – and she was too ill), guilt that I hadn’t called more often, guilt that I wasn’t a better friend in her time of need, guilt that I sucked as a human being.

And then I stopped.  And really thought about it.  You see, L was a lovely woman and I truly enjoyed her company.  When it arrived.  She was a fan who became a friend and even though she often graced my gigs with her ruby-red smile and bawdy laugh, she also visited my home and became friends (or perhaps social acquaintances is a better term) with some of my friends.  She called every year on my birthday (just a few days before her own, a fact she always remembered and I did not – until she called) and most years at Christmas (from her second home in the sunny south).  She always wanted to know about my love life and she usually wanted to share details of her own. Co-conspirators in mid-life dating she and I were.  She yearned for my yarns.  The sexier, the better.

How thrilled was I then, when she eventually found the (second) love of her life (her first husband had died before we met).  She was blessedly content with her Mr. Perfect and offered concrete hope for my own somewhat pathetic adventures.  These were happy times.  And I was incredibly happy for her.

Until of course, she got sick.  That was a miserable, shit-kicking, suck-hole surprise.  Thankfully Mr. Perfect stood by her side throughout her campaign with all the love his heart could hold.  And when she died, he sent out one of the most poignant, bittersweet tributes I have ever read.

So yes, there I was.  Feeling very, very guilty.

Until I stopped.

Because it occurred to me in one flash of enlightened brilliance (to me, anyway) that we all have what I have started to call a “Friendship Totem Pole”.  As our friendships evolve, change, ignite or even disappear over the years, out Totem Poles continually alter.  Some friends are on top, some in the middle, some at the bottom, some change position frequently, some maintain position over many years.  And truth be told, my dear friend L – my dear fan/friend L – had for whatever reason placed me at a much higher location on her pole than the one she occupied on mine.  Now please understand, this does not in any way diminish my affection for her.  But it did perhaps lessen the amount of energy I possessed to devote to her.  Because all those higher-up friends demand (and deserve) attention.  And as much as I wish I had more energy, and as much as I wish I could crowd everyone onto the pinnacle, I simply cannot.

My totem pole fluctuates often. I have a few cherished friends who never seem to waver from the upper echelon, some who have crashed and then returned and then some who, having moved on to other Totem Peaks, have toppled on mine. And then, I suppose because I meet a lot of people and I’m a pretty darn friendly girl, I often behold an over-populated statue.  And I become overwhelmed.  I really and truly want to be everything to everyone.  As it turns out – I can’t.

The hard truth is – I couldn’t be a Totem-Pole Topper for L.  From my camp (and therefore my perspective), we just didn’t have that kind of relationship.  Do I wish I had seen her one last time?  Of course.  Am I going to beat myself up forever because it didn’t happen?

Maybe a little. 

But I will try to give myself a break too.  Because I do know what it’s like to plummet on someone else’s mast.   Or to aspire to a position I will never attain.  And that’s okay.  Because the only Totem Pole you can control is your own. 

My only advice?

Don’t let it control you.

I’m tired of waiting. And I’m not going to do it anymore.

You know what I mean? We live our early years in blissful “presence”, enjoying each day as it comes with gleeful abandon. Up until we’re about 11, the only thing we wait for is Christmas. Maybe dessert. And then … it begins. In our teens we can smell the gas and we start waiting to get a driver’s licence. Then waiting to reach legal drinking age. Waiting to get our first job, our first car, our own place to live. We truly believe that our lives will not begin until these milestones are achieved. We wait to finish high school, we wait to get that coveted degree, we wait to achieve a certain modicum of career success and we wait to buy a house. Or get married. Or have kids. We’re always waiting.

Then we start playing the “as soon as” game. Like – as soon as I lose 20 lbs. I’ll buy a bathing suit. As soon as I lose 30 lbs. I’ll actually wear it in public. As soon as I get through my divorce I’ll quit smoking. As soon as the kids are in school I’ll start working out.

More waiting.

For me, much of the wait these past few years has involved love. Romantic relationship love. I always reckoned that as soon I found it (or it found me), then my life would truly begin. That’s not to say I didn’t still have fun. I went to Vancouver – a city I learned to love –  not once but four frigging times. I went however, in search of romance. So it doesn’t count. I did experience San Francisco with the girls, Cuba with the kids, the cottage with my son and sunsets with myself – and they were all fulfilling experiences. But (I’m ashamed to admit) never without that melancholy “Oh, if only Prince Charming was here with me/us.”

I was still waiting.

There were a few close calls. You know, princes who were charming but ultimately not “the one”. When I was involved in those relationships I waited … to figure out if they would work, to figure out how to end them, to get dumped. Whatever. I waited.

And then a certain prince did show up and after much work, work and more work, we settled into a partnership that felt good. It felt solid and right.  Did the waiting finally end?

Um … no.

Because our relationship involved a lot of commuting (we’re talking hours here, not minutes), living in two houses (where the heck is my pink sweater?) and much energy (which is at my advanced age sometimes in shorter supply) devoted to merely being in the relationship. So, said I, I will write a book once we get a bit more settled. I will write more blogs when we are finally living under the same roof. I will tap into my creative well once I don’t have to drive so much.

Do we call this the “once” game? Once upon a time? More like once upon a future.

Then my beloved suddenly found himself “between jobs” and living with me (Oh there’s my pink sweater!). With a PhD in Fish Physiology, we understand it may take some time to find the right position. Now I have no doubt this perfect position will present itself but I also understand that said right and perfect position might be anywhere in the world.  So guess what? Once again I’ve been playing the “once” game.  Once he gets a job, once we move, once we are settled, then I will get down to my business – whatever that business might be (I’ve always wanted to have a B&B).

Ha!

Not anymore, folks. As of today I am giving up waiting. I am tapping into my inner ten year old and I am going to live fully and completely engaged in the present. This present. Today I started writing a book. There are at least three of those suckers in me and they will find their way out. 

And here I am, for the first time in ages, blogging.  Because believe-you-me I’ve got a lot to say and I’m going to make an effort to say it at least twice a week.  Go ahead, hold me to that. I’ve got lots of wine and I’m ready.

And you know what else? I’m going to buy a bathing suit. I might even buy a bikini, something I have not worn since I was twenty. Because this summer I want a tan on my belly and I’m not going to wait another year (or lifetime) to get it.

I can’t wait.

Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again …

Then again.

You get to a certain age and you’re bound to have regrets.  Maybe more than just a few.  And you can try to sugar-coat it all you want with with platitudes like “learning experiences” and “life lessons” and you can tell yourself (and the world) that you wouldn’t be the person you are today without blah blah blah. 

But the cold truth is that, when we (read: I) look back at life, there are some things that we just plain old regret. Decisions. Choices. Actions. Non-actions. Words.

It’s not that I’m desperate for a do-over. It’s just that if I could go back in time I probably would. Do over.

So what tops my list?

Well … after I finished University (where majored in Drama) I did some summer stock theatre and via that was introduced to a very successful theatrical producer in Toronto. She told me to be patient. She had the perfect vehicle for me on the horizon. Ha!

Patience has never been a horse in my stable so I joined a touring pop band.  I wanted to be the next Carole King and I also had a little thing for the guitar player. Fast forward a few months and the producer called me. I say No thanks, I’m in a band (earning about a hundred bucks a week if memory serves). She says Vickie, this is crazy – you were meant for the musical theatre stage. I say (cause I’m so damn smart) No M’am, I’m meant to be a singer/songwriter with this fabulous guitar player. The conversation went on and on as I held my ground whilst this dear woman attempted to convince my (ridiculous) 21 year old brain that I was making a mistake.  I would have none of it though, smarty pants that I was.

Ten years later I quit the road (I had quit the guitar player years earlier) and eventually got into radio. I never did become the next Carole King and damn, did I ever miss musical theatre.  Still do for that matter. I love radio and my life ain’t half bad but do I regret that fateful 21 year old decision? You bet I do.  I regret the guitar player too (but that’s another story).

But that one is small potatoes compared to my BIG regret. The BIG whopper of a life-altering, history-changing, heart-smashing regret, the one that haunts me to this day.  Ready? 

I wish that I had worked harder on my marriage. There. I said it. I wish that I had worked harder on my marriage. 

Not necessarily for my own sake or my ex-husband’s sake but for the sake of my one and only son.  Because the simple reality is this: the demise of his parents’ union denied him his family.  Mom and Dad under the same roof when he comes home from college.  Christmas morning with both parents in their PJs.  Summer holidays at the cottage together.  These are all delights he has already been denied.  And when I look down the road the list becomes even more heartbreaking. His wedding?  The birth of his first child?  When he wins his first Grammy?  Oh yes we shall both be there, smiling and proud with our significant others in tow.  And he most assuredly will never kick up a fuss.  He is deeply loved and he knows it.  But I will know that is it not the picture he would choose. And I will regret that I did not choose to work harder on my marriage.

That’s not to say that more hard work could have solved our problems. We tried for years to muddle through. Or ignore and bury. Or confront and battle it out. We just didn’t try hard enough. Or honestly enough. And then at some point I lost sight of the end-game.  The “family” and my son’s roll in it.  All I could see was MY happiness (or lack thereof). MY future.  MY life.

I reasoned (to anyone who would listen) that children are resilient.  I argued that it was my responsibility to show my child “true love”.  I maintained that humans aren’t meant to spend fifty years with the same person and I proclaimed that it was my “right” to be fulfilled romantically and emotionally and that just wasn’t happening with my husband.

Stupid girl.

It had happened. There was a time when he and I worked. The problem was we did not evolve together as our lives progressed and then one day we were just friends – or to be completely honest – I felt like were just friends.  And then that old wandering eye got me into trouble.  And I’ll tell you, that horse Trouble has been a frequent guest in my stable and once he started galloping there was no reigning him in.

So here we are, almost ten years later. My Ex and I are poster parents for amicable divorces. We’re not best buddies or anything but we still co-parent (as much as you can co-parent a 20 year old) and we are quite cordial.  For the sake of our son we have even, with our significant others, socialized on a few special occasions.

My Ex found love soon after our union’s demise and it has lasted.  I found love, and then like, dabbled in lust, different love and more love again.  At this point in my life I’ve thrown away all crystal balls and I just do my best.  Really.  Day to day.

But if I’d had a crystal ball ten years ago I would have looked at it every day and I know the picture would have never budged.  I would have seen FAMILY.  My son’s family. Together.

We all know that getting together takes very little work.  Staying together takes work. And trust me, I don’t bandy that word around lightly.  Work on a marriage is fucking WORK. It’s not passionate and it’s not romantic and it is sometimes gruesome, gut-churning, soul-destroying work.  I tell ya it is way easier to start over with someone else.  Because getting together takes very little work.

But if you have a child then you know it’s not just about precious little you anymore.  It’s about precious little them.  Don’t get me wrong – if there is abuse, violence, cruelty or any other inalterable, get the hell out (and bring your child with you).  But if you are leaving because the marriage just isn’t working anymore, I suggest with all my heart that you DO THE WORK.  Do it as hard and as long as you can. Do it until you are absolutely sure there is no chance for your family.  Do it for your child and do it for yourself.  Do it harder than you’ve ever worked at anything and do it even when you’re positive there is nothing left.  Trust me – there is.

And then, even if there is ultimately no resolve, you will walk away with confidence. Hopefully that confidence will follow you through the years. So that ten years from now you can say “Regrets, I’ve had a few …”

And you will know with complete clarity that walking away from your marriage – and your family (I know we can argue semantics but take this from someone who has lived it – family is best served together) was the right choice.  For you, your partner and most importantly – your child.

They (anonymous cowards that they are) say you should never stay together for the kids. Agreed.  If the circumstances are truly beyond repair. I say however, with ten years hindsight in my pocket, that you should NOT give up too soon. You should NOT take the easy road and you should NOT expect pots of gold.  Not if the real gold is your family.

Stay.  Do the work.  Do ALL the work for as long as it takes.  Do it for your kid.  Do it for yourself. Do it brutally and honestly in all its bloody glory.

You’ll have one less regret.  Trust me.

Well here it is my birthday once again, the perfect opportunity to celebrate continued breath (as Cher once said, growing old sure beats the alternative) and also a chance to reflect just a little. It’s funny that when you get to a stage in life when you are quite certain past birthdays will far outnumber those in the future, you start taking stock. You look back, you remember, you wince, you smile, you cringe, you laugh, you maybe even shed a tear or two. And then if you’re really, really fortunate – you celebrate. You celebrate that you survived the ride, that you embraced the adventure, that even when you were drowning in tears and regrets and sorrows and longing, there were many blessings in your life. And so you smile again. And prepare to blow out the candles. With delight.

I’ve never understood folks who don’t celebrate their special day. Those who say “I stopped counting at 39.” Those who say “My birthday is a non-event.” Those who implore “Please don’t make a fuss.” Not me. No sireee. Make a fuss please. A big honkin’ fuss. Fuss all over me all day long. Because I am here! I am alive. I am continuing this adventure with optimism and joy. Okay, yeah, also with wrinkles, grey hairs (just a few), sore joints (only sometimes) and a bit of middle-aged spread. But I am here damnit! And that warrants some serious celebrating.

It’s also the perfect time to count up my many blessings. And so here goes.

I have been blessed with an amazing child. Only one, but amazing he truly is. That doesn’t mean he isn’t also a king-sized pain in the ass, a constant worry and as mouthy as his mother. He ain’t perfect. But he is perfect for me. He is and shall always be – the love of my life.

I am blessed with a loving family. At 88, my mother is wonderfully alive, engaging and still so darn lucid she is about to publish her third book. My father, sadly long departed, is still part of my every day. He set the standard and I’ve been searching for a duplicate ever since. I have one sister and she and her family bring me huge joy. And comfort. We all actually like each other.

I am blessed with not one but three phenomenal jobs. I get to do radio and share music of two distinct varieties in two distinct locations with two very distinct audiences. I get to hang with super-talented people, I get to be creative, spontaneous and funny (I hope), I don’t have to work very long hours and if I’m being perfectly honest I don’t have to work at all. Sometimes the drive to the station is work. The actual work is never work.

Then I get to sing. With not only uber-talented musicians (you know who you are) but uber-nice people. And I get to sing. In front of people. People who actually listen. I get to sing. And (sometimes) I even get paid. I don’t care. I get to sing.

I am blessed with an incredible (and diverse) group of friends. I’ve had to reinvent myself more than once during these past *cough*ahem*sputter* years and along the way people have come and gone. Those who have come and stayed are my true angels and for them I am eternally grateful. I have musician friends. I have high school friends. I have work friends and neighbour friends and friends who are cousins and cousins who are friends. I have ex-boyfriend friends, senior citizen friends and friends who are half my age. I have friends on Facebook who I barely know or have never met and yet somehow they become an important part of my life. I have friends who were fans and friends I’ve never even met. I have friends who left me – and then came back. I have friends all over the world. And I know there are still more friends to meet.

I am blessed with a crazy mutt named Shiloh who followed a crazy cat named Jack and then there was Katie and Max and Zip and Chopsticks and Skippy the Wonderdog and Joey the nut-poodle and it all goes back to Ginger and MewMew. Oh how I have been blessed with a love for furry creatures, and their beautiful unconditional love in return.

I am blessed – and here’s a crazy one – with an outstanding ex-husband. When our marriage ended our co-parenting did not and we to this day have “walked the talk” better than any divorced couple I know. It really was all about our son, no matter how dramatically our egos fought for time. Even when we digress we always return. Even when we want to do battle we don’t. At least not for very long. Because our one glorious achievement is our child. He is both of ours until forever. And he deserves better.

I am blessed with a lovely home, food in the fridge, a (reasonably) safe car to drive and a few bucks in the bank. I am blessed to live near water, to live in an amazing country, to have health care even without private insurance and to know peace. My parents knew war. By the time they reached my age they had both been transformed inalterably by war. Not I. I see war on television and I read about war in newspapers and on-line but I do not know war. I only know peace.

I have known heartache and heartbreak just like everyone else. Well, sometimes I think maybe more than most but that’s probably just my silly hubris talking. Most of my heartbreak was caused my men. I freely admit I am a woman who was born to love and that rocky road to love has – for me – difficult. And a tad time-consuming. Love (or something like it) has lead me down roads I should have avoided, clouded my judgement and dulled my brain, created havoc and chaos at every turn and – produced some of the most magnificent moments of my life.

And so now I find myself blessed to be madly in love with a pretty special guy. I often believe “mad” is the operative adjective when describing any romantic love. If you had put the two of us together “on paper” you would have probably guffawed. But with age comes wisdom (we hope) and I am old enough and therefore one hopes wise enough to understand that love takes work. Hard work. And when you work hard you never really know what might happen.

So here I am … old, creaky, wrinkled, grey, happy, loving, loved and … blessed.

If that doesn’t deserve a wee bit of a celebration, what does?

Shortly before my marriage tanked, my pretty fabulous husband and I engaged in a heart-to-heart. I remember this well. We were hiding in our bedroom whilst our pals and kids mingled in the living room of our Quebec rental chalet. Yes, we were on a group holiday and I wasn’t having very much fun. Wasn’t quite sure why. The skiing was fine. I just knew I was running on empty and needed something to keep our union from imploding.

So we had the “heart talk”. We didn’t do this often. Probably because my heart was always one big ball of mixed-up-mush and his heart was typically resigned and quiet. But on this auspicious occasion he uttered something so beautifully profound it has stuck with me these ten years since. Those words? “I only want to do three things in this life. I want to take care of you and our son, I want to build machinery and I want to make music. Whatever else it is that you need, I’m not sure I can do.”

Turns out he was right. Mostly because I had no clue what I needed. I knew I just needed more.

So here we are ten years hence and I now know exactly what I need. Probably because those words resonated so loudly I had no choice but to sit up and think. I mean seriously, how did he get to be so damn smart? How did he know what he needed when I was completely devoid of any intelligent thought on the matter? And yet is just seemed so flipping simple. Figure out what you need, then do it. And I would like to emphasize that “do” is the operative word. Yes kids, it behoves you to figure out what you should do. Verb. Activity.

I had spent my entire life so completely enthralled with my navel I had never given any thought to what I needed to do to attain some sense of fulfillment. I waited endlessly for a man to provide me with joy, I experimented with numerous careers hoping that something would fit and I even gave motherhood a stab, thinking optimistically that making another human being my priority would vanquish all of my long-simmering demons.

Nope.

Some things certainly helped; professional success brought pride and motherhood brought even more but I was never content. Happiness eluded me like the beach bartender at an all-inclusive.

Post divorce I fumbled through several relationships, always wondering – what are my three things? Then of course I would pose the question to my hapless suitor. Recounting the tale of hubby dearest I would ask with full sincerity: what three things do you want to do in this life?

One of my recent beaus was none too happy with this query, probably because it compelled him to think really really hard. He finally muttered through frustrated lips “I just want to be happy.”

Oh. Golly. Never thought of that.

I mean WTF? We all just wanna be happy. The question is – what are you going to do to get happy? He seemed to think that serene happiness was his God-given right, thank you very much, and that it would just magically float down from heaven and land on his head. Even when I persisted and offered once more – “I understand that honey, but what do you want to do to create that happiness?” – he had no answers. Reminded me of someone I used to know.

Yeah, yeah … me. Ten years ago.

I just kept wondering how anyone could find happiness if they were not willing to “do” what it takes to reach that lofty goal.

And so we return to little old me and the list that has only taken ten years to write. What are my three things … the three things I want to do?

1) I want to nurture. Turns out for all the gypsy in me (and there is plenty) I also like to nest. I like to make a beautiful home and care for those who reside in it, cook inspired meals, keep the joint clean and tidy, do laundry and dishes, entertain and, most importantly, create a vibe that those I love will love to share.

2) I want to do music, on any number of levels. Whether it’s singing, songwriting, radio, mentoring, producing or just helping every last musician I know achieve their goals, I want to do music.

3) I want to do relationships. I want to do whatever it takes to be the best mother, partner, daughter, friend, sister, ex-wife, colleague I can be. As I often to say (to anyone who will listen), the three most important things in life are relationships, relationships and relationships. And I sincerely do want to walk that talk.

So at this point maybe you’re thinking – What’s the big deal? Couldn’t you do that stuff with fab ex-hubby?

Probably. If I’d had a clue and had we enjoyed the one thing that supersedes my list. You see, in order for me to do what I want to do, I have to be in a relationship that stems from emotional availability. I need to know that my partner is emotionally available and ready to kick up some dust. If there is work to be done then damnit let’s have it. And if every now and then I need to do a heart-to-heart then please come along for the ride. Work does not have to be frightening. Work can actually be … exhilarating.

So this morning I asked my current love what his three things were. It’s taken me awhile, having learned that this is perhaps not first-date conversation fodder. We are now nine months into this thing and we have worked very, very hard. You know what? It’s been worth it. Because we are very, very happy. Well, I suppose I shouldn’t speak for him. I am very, very happy. I hope he is.

His response:

1) I want to be recognized in my field. Do great work and have it acknowledged by my peers.

2) There are a few more mountains I’d like to climb. Just in case you think he’s being poetic I can assure you he means this quite literally. He is a mountaineer and has even threatened to drag my old ass up a slope or two.

3) I’d like to have someone to share it all with.

I love those three things. I love that he has ambition and drive (and the intelligence to back it up), I love that he is athletic and physical and dare-I-say daring, and I love that for him, being in a relationship makes the former two even better. It’s not that I’m going to suddenly become a scientist or bag Everest. But I’ll be there with champagne and hugs when he wins the Nobel and returns from the climb with a grin on his face all in one piece thank you very much.

I’ll be there because he wants to do sharing. And I want to do relationship. And that is more than enough to put us on the same page.

Maybe even the same (reasonably gentle yet still challenging) mountain.

That is of course, after he sings me a song.

You can’t escape it. It’s everywhere. It’s been everywhere since Christmas. It’s been some places since before Christmas. It comes every year at the same time, whether we want it to or not. This I know because the words you are about to read were written by me last year. And ya know what? Even though life and love have changed, my feelings have not. I’m talking about February 14. Valentine’s Day. Sappy cards, lovey-dovey cards, anonymous cards, silly cards. Long-stemmed roses, heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, expensive dinners, maybe even diamond rings.
Meh.
I am an avowed hopeless romantic and I for one do not much like Valentine’s Day. I adore Christmas, Easter is nice, Mother’s and Father’s Day present a beautiful opportunity to express appreciation (are you listening, son?) and birthdays are the bomb (bring on the cake!). But a day devoted to love? And not just love, but romantic love?
No thanks.
Why?
1. If you’re in love, every day is Valentine’s Day. Or could be if you treat it as such. I would much rather be surprised with flowers or chocolate or a lovenote for no apparent reason on some random day than sit around hoping and praying for them to appear halfway through February. And that leads to …
2. Pressure.
Oh, the pressure, especially on hapless menfolk with no propensity toward passion and poetry. If you buy a dozen long-stemmed red roses, well honestly you’re just like every other schmuck in town. Can you spell UNORIGINAL? And what if you get a bad bunch? One year, when I was embroiled in a long-distance love affair, I was delighted (not) to receive twelve perfectly wilted, drooping, brownish-red blooms. They died the next day. I asked my beau (jokingly) if this was a harbinger of things to come? Well, goshdarnit, turns out it was.
Or what if you send the wrong colour? I mean, who knew rose colours have meanings? Well boys, let’s just assume your sweetie-pie does and you innocently send yellow (which I personally like way more than red) and you know what you just screamed at her? FRIENDSHIP! Ya honey, I just wanna be pals. Or maybe you choose white (my all-time favorite)? Goodness gracious you have just suggested PURITY. No hanky panky on Valentine’s night for you, sweetheart. Of course you could go the other way and offer up coral, which apparently signifies DESIRE. Nice. As long as she doesn’t slap you in the face with a tearful “But I thought you loved me?”
Seriously, the pressure.
There’s also the pressure of choosing the right card. Okay, if we’re being honest here the big pressure is buying any darn card, period. And then to make it the right one? What if it’s too mushy and she’s feeling frisky and light? What if it’s too light and she’s feeling mushy? What if it’s too tiny and she likes big? What if you just sign your name and she was hoping for a personalized sonnet?
Pressure.
And then comes Valentine’s Night. Whaddya do? Dinner out someplace fancy? Order pizza so she doesn’t have to cook? Cook for her and risk botulism all-around? Take her dancing? Let her control the remote? The decisions are endless and the opportunities to screw up? Also endless. I remember the first Valentines spent with my darling (now ex) husband. The night before he was reading the paper and nonchalantly spewed “Oh hon, it’s Valentines Day tomorrow. You wanna go for brunch or something?”
No I did not. Because I had bought him an amazing gift and an amazing card and I was expecting – well – something amazing. And he had not given it a moment’s thought.
Like I said. Pressure.
And the pressure continues further if you factor in all the other people you could treat with a Valentine’s surprise. Your kids. Your parents. Your grandparents. Your siblings. Your best friend. Where does it end? I swear you could bankrupt yourself on cards alone.
3. And then – what if you’re single? Well, thank you so much for issuing a big fat reminder that I am alone and obviously unworthy of love. Alone and probably always will be because I am so pathetic. Alone, with not even the slightest hope of a wilted rose or tasteless drugstore chocolate.
Oh, does it sound like I know whereof I speak? Well ya, turns out I do. There was this one February (post divorce) when I was decidedly alone. However, loving love as I do, I chose to celebrate this day of love regardless and invited one of my best girlfriends to join me at a fancy bistro. The night before. Because obviously she would be spending Cupid’s hallowed evening with her husband (she still had one, and a good one at that). We had a swell evening. We laughed, we drank nice wine, we ate fine food. And when we left I slipped on the restaurant’s icy step, turned my foot around backwards on my leg and broke my ankle in three place. Yep.
Happy friggin Valentine’s to me.
Which leads to another question – Why don’t we have an acknowledged Single’s Day? You know, celebrating those who are not romantically connected? Divorcees, spinsters, bachelors and in-betweens? We have days for teachers and secretaries and grandparents and apparently, lovers. Why not single people? A day where all the single adults give each other flowers and candy and stuff. Imagine all the extra cash Hallmark could rake in?
Just askin …
So, with another Valentine’s Day just around the corner, what’s a girl to do?
I’m pretty sure I’m gonna cave, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m gonna buy my sweetie a card and a gift and hope they are right. And then you know what else I’m gonna do? Sit around all day waiting to see what he’s gonna do for me.
Pressure.
Dumb pressure.

I haven’t been rambling much of late. It’s not that my life isn’t still wine-soaked, it’s more that I’ve just become somewhat, well, quiet. Not because quiet is my natural disposition; it most certainly is pretty much the opposite. More because it would appear that I am thinking more before I ramble. Honestly this isn’t really much fun. Drinking before rambling is fun. Thinking before rambling renders me … silent.

Because I truly am a “words” girl. Several ramblings back (July 8 to be exact) I wrote about love languages. And my language is “words”. Or to quote author Gary Chapman (who wrote the book “The 5 Love Languages“) words of assurance.

Yep, that’s me. Little old un-assured, wallowing-in-wonder, please-feed-my-word-addiction me.  And that’s just me on a regular day. Imagine me on a day or to be more succinct a whole bunch of days strung together in a row when the object of my affection and I are apart. As in geographically disconnected. We’re talking separate continents here, people. Really apart.

Except with the advent of modern technology no one need be really apart anymore, right? My friend S and her love M recently spent three work-related months on opposite sides of the globe but twice-daily Skype-fests kept them virtually (literally) entwined. J and her husband D have spent several weeks at a time in different provinces but always make a point to talk on the phone at least once (often twice!) per day. What with texts, emails, on-line chatting and video interfacing we truly are one big happy global family.

Except for when you’re a word-girl like me. When you’re a word girl like me it’s not just about communication frequency (although that is important). It’s about the “quality” of the words. It’s about their emotional impact. It’s about how they might stir my senses and caress me to the core. It’s about me being a ridiculously optimistic romantic (insert “fool” here) who longs for sweeping sonnets, playful poetry and something – anything – that will make me feel loved, missed, desired.
I was recently reminded of a line in the movie “Dead Poet’s Society”, when the Robin Williams character advises his students to “Avoid using the word ‘very’. Because it’s lazy. A man is not ‘very tired’. He is ‘exhausted’. Don’t use ‘very sad’. Use ‘morose’. Language was invented for one reason boys – to woo women. And, in that endeavour, laziness will not do.”

Oh baby, how I doth agree!

You see the thing is, when you’re apart from your lover, all of the other love languages are no longer at your disposal. And yes, we do speak them all. It’s just that most people have a primary one (have I mentioned that mine is “words”?).

When miles separate two hearts, it’s somewhat inconvenient to give generously (“Gifts”). Oh sure you can always bring back a wee memento but that doesn’t help with the daily speak. Although I will admit that when my son was very young and his father and I left him for a full week so that we could avail ourselves of an almost-free cruise (the shame!) I left a wrapped gift for him to open every single day that we were gone. I know my kid and he loves getting gifts. And so he felt loved (even though the ship sailed without him).

“Touch” (as you can imagine) is pretty much impossible when you’re not in the same room. Unless you’re cyber-kinky or phone-sex friendly and (I can only imagine) neither will ever really suffice.

“Acts of Service” are also difficult to facilitate across the miles. When I was in my early teens I went camping with a friend’s family for five days and upon my return discovered that my fabulous mother had turned all of my dull old brown bedroom furniture into French Provincial white! I was thrilled, and she certainly demonstrated big love through this act of service. But I only felt it after I got home. While I was sleeping under the pines I had no idea.

And then there’s “Quality Time”. Yes, it’s pretty tough to have quality time when you’re in different time zones. It’s not like you’re hanging out on the sofa holding hands and watching movies. Or cooking dinner together. Or even walking the dog together. Sure, there is that Skype thing and even phone calls but it’s really not the same, is it?

So now we’re back to words. This is the one love language that really doesn’t have to change a bit, miles be damned. Because as we romantics know well, a few perfect words can keep us floating for days. In a daze. That’s how damn easy we are.

But as Robin’s character stated, lazy words will never woo a woman. Perfunctory, cursory and mundane will never woo a woman. “Checking in” will never woo a woman. Even a travelogue (and I do like a good travelogue) will never woo a woman. All of the above she will welcome, yes, and even welcome with gratitude (honestly guys, sometimes we just want to know you’re alive) but will she feel loved? Missed? Wooed?

Notsomuch.

So what’s a poetically-challenged guy to do? I mean seriously, if pulling a lyrical ode out of your ass on a daily basis is as likely as say, cutting your trip short and rushing back to our loving arms, what’s a guy to do? You know, for maybe just a bit of wooing. Cup-of-woo as it were. Just enough to tide us over till you return to our ever-loving arms with gifts, touch, acts of service and quality time?

Well, as it turns out this is why God invented ‘the echo’. God must be a guy because he invented the echo to save your ode-less ass and still keep us chicks wooed. It works like this (because as previously mentioned we are that easy):

Text, or email –

Her: “I love you”.
Him: “I love you too, baby”.
Her: “I miss you”.
Him: “I miss you too, baby. More than you’ll ever know”.
Her: “I can’t wait to see you again in 6 months.”
Him: “Me you too, baby.”

DONE!

Like dinner. Wooed. Simply, easily, wonderfully wooed.

Now I’m not saying all of us word-gals wouldn’t prefer original rhapsodies, oozing with all the woo you can muster. We’re just pragmatic enough to realize that Shakespeare you most probably are not. And that’s okay. We are after all, in love with you. Not some guy with a funny collar and frilly shirt who may or may not have been authentic.

So travelling men, I leave you with this – whether you echo, compose, borrow or steal … woo with words. It will help the days fly by and … trust me, make the reunion very sweet.

Oh wait Robin – I meant delectable.

I like to leave ‘em with love. Well, in a  perfect world I’d want to leave ‘em with love and laughing.  But sometimes you just can’t be greedy at the end of a love affair so if I have to pick only one, leave ‘em with love.

I don’t understand big dust-ups, especially the ones that occur weeks and even months after the final nail has been pounded. Why would anyone want to walk away from someone they once loved feeling angry, bitter and hostile? You did once love, right? Why not hang on to that instead?

Okay, okay, I know there are extenuating circumstances. Like if he say, beat the crap out of you, abused your children or ran off with the babysitter. But I do believe that in most “mature” breakups there were a million precursors and most often, the blame is more or less equally balanced. And yes, I’m even talking about when cheating is involved. Because unless one of you is a flaming philanderer, cheating usually stems from discontent. And discontent stems from, well, an unsatisfactory relationship.

Don’t get me wrong.  I do understand the cathartic nature of a good scream-fest.  The passionate fury of a dramatic “fuck you” farewell.  Even the final slamming down of a phone can feel somewhat satisfying.  For a second or two.  Then you just feel stupid. And immature.  And unresolved.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?  At the end of a relationship you want resolve. Resolution.  Closure.  I mean, unless you’re an outright masochist, you want to close that old door so new windows can open.  Beating your chest, wailing and spewing vitriol will rarely accomplish this.

Personal case in point: many years ago my lover/co-musician (we were in a band together) and I had decided to call it quits. We were quite capable of gazing adoringly into one another’s eyes but it was impossible for us to gaze down the road in the same direction. At our final gig I said to him “Let’s take a moment sometime tonight to just sit together, drink a beer, and acknowledge that what we had was special. That it was worthwhile. That our love was real and important.”

He was all for it. Until his ex, the same woman he had left for me and who had caught wind of our impending demise, showed up in all her glory and sat with his parents!  She danced flirtatiously in front of the stage while I sang. She fraternized wantonly with his family.  She staked her claim loud and clear and I just about had a nervous breakdown.

I managed to get through the night without completely losing it but after the crowd dispersed all bets were off. I turned into a crazy-woman. I screamed, I shouted, I cried and then I screamed and shouted some more.  You now, something about “I hope you get hit by a bus and it runs over her twice.”

Yeah, I know.  Not my shiniest hour.  Thankfully, one of my saner band-members hauled my sorry ass home and talked some sense into me.  And I felt like a complete, first-class idiot.

So now here I am, almost seven months post-breakup with the most recent love of my life.  We didn’t end our relationship with hostility and there has been none in the ensuing months.  We have facilitated the dissolution of our joint life with kindness, respect and affection.  He has someone new and so do I.  This is the perfect way to do it, right?

So we get together to meet with lawyers, sign off on a few legalities, wrap up a few loose ends.  Soon there will be absolutely nothing binding us together.  He will be another memory.  The inspiration for a few songs and a few blogs.  Moments captured in pictures that will last forever (or until my computer crashes) but feelings that will subside, diminish and eventually disappear.  The negative ones are already gone. 

We look at each other one last time with such sadness.  Such melancholy.  Such … finality.  And then we hug so hard I think my bones might crack and I don’t even care.  And then he drives away.

The next morning he emails me.  Tells me he read my blogs.  Tells me he wishes he knew months, even years ago what he now knows.

Yes.  Don’t we all wish we had a rewind do-over button. 

But we don’t.  And I respond that our newest lovers will reap the benefits of the lessons we taught each other.  That doesn’t seem terribly fair, does it?  But it is the reality.

He closes his email with these beautiful words: “Find or let happiness come upon you.”

And I think “Damn”.   After all these months he is finally speaking my love language.  And I wonder if it’s even possible for someone like me (facilitator to the end) to ever let happiness come upon me?  Maybe, maybe not … and that’s fodder for another blog.  Doesn’t matter.  His words touch me to my very core.

So then I wonder … is it ever possible to end a relationship with too much love?