ODE TO THE MORTGAGE PROCESS (with apologies to Dr. Suess)

(author’s note:  this poem was originally written when I bought a house in 2010 as a response to the loan approval process.  I am finding that the sentiment still holds true today, as I go through this arduous process yet again………..)

Hi, I want to buy a house

Can I buy without a spouse?

I have money, here it is!

All this wonderful money, gee Whiz!

“I’m not sure that money’s yours?

Did you earn it doing chores?

If you did, we need to see

Taxes starting 2003….

You have money?  That is good!

But make sure it’s understood.

We need to know exactly where

It is from, and do not dare

To cross the i’s or dot the t’s

We will know, and we won’t be pleased!”

My money comes from near and far,

Receipts and statements? Here they are!

I found ten dollars on the ground….

“Money isn’t simply found!

We need at least 3 witnesses…

To prove the money can stay as is!

Please be exact, down to the penny

Wiggle room?  There ISN’t any!”

I have counted every cent,

I can’t even pay my rent!

Or buy groceries, or go to a movie

I am feeling less than groovy

“Oh, my gosh, please quit your bitchen,

Go line up at the soup kitchen

It will be over soon, come what may,

You’ll eat again after closing day”

You mean then, it just won’t matter

That I served up my finances on a platter?

“Just learn how to play the game,

Your life will go back to being the same,

The nice change that will cause you to forgive,

Is that you’ll have a new place to live!”

Oh, yes, I almost forgot the lure,

The reason for all the financial tor-ture!

It WILL be worth it in the end,

And maybe we can part as friends…

And if you come to my house-warming soiree

Talking money will NOT be okay!

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THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF AUNT FLO

WARNING: Squeamish men, don’t read. It’s mostly metaphor, but still… only read if you are interested in what women go through.

Aunt Flo has changed her ways. She has been visiting me very regularly since I was fourteen. She didn’t come by when I was pregnant; she must be averse to pregnancies. But other than those two times, nine months each, she has been very consistent.

You know how when company comes, you get energetic and want to clean house and make a good impression? Well, this is the exact opposite. I grow slovenly a few days before each visit, barely able to drag my ass out of bed. Weepy and hungry, I pray for her arrival, because, even though she is a veritable bitch, I somehow get some relief. Once she gets in and unpacks her bags to stay about five days, I know it will all be okay. Before her visit, though, life is dismal.

The last few years, though, Aunt Flo has been unpredictable. Never one to worry where I am at the time of her visit, she regularly visits every twenty-eight days, no matter whether I welcome her or not! But she showed up while I was traveling in South America, twice each month. I don’t know why! Did she not trust me? Did she want to make me feel uncomfortable when I was already out of sorts and sort of lost?

Sometimes she is mean. The opposite of a caring sweet aunt, she kicks me in the stomach –slightly lower, actually—and doesn’t apologize. She causes discomfort and inconvenience; she drags me down emotionally and makes me feel fat and unattractive. I can’t wait for her to leave!

But even so, her gradual disappearance has been disconcerting. She threatens to show up for weeks before she finally comes, and then she barely unpacks and she leaves quickly. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I miss her, but I feel so used to our routine, tortuous as it was, and I don’t know what to do anymore.

“Are you coming back?” I ask desperately as she makes her way out (where does she go? The airport? The bus station?) She looks over her shoulder with a wicked grin and shrugs. Who knows?

Truthfully, I will be glad when she’s gone for good. But her gradual fading, like an on-again, off-again relationship, is annoying as hell…………….

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The Writing Life

I haven’t felt this way in so long.  I’m trembling. I’m dizzy. I’m ignoring my friends, not walking my pleading dog. My stomach is in knots .I forgot to eat all day. The hours have passed and I have not moved from one spot.

What could this be? Am I sick with the flu? Strung out on drugs? Maybe, you might venture to guess, I’ve fallen in love?

Wrong, wrong, and wrong.

I’m writing!

It’s been too long, my patient manuscript. I’m truly sorry for the neglect. Now, armed with pages from an insightful editor (not cheap, but insightful nonetheless) I am back at it with a new sense of determination.

My head is spinning and my fingers are numb.  I surfaced briefly to take a blog break. Now I dive back in….

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SULLEN IN SEATTLE

I’m In Seattle for a weekend with my kids.  Well, not kids, exactly.  My daughters are young adults, 22 and 23 years old.  Tonight, my older daughter Emily heard from an old friend she knows from theater who invited us to meet him at the bar where he works, in the Capitol district.  I was game.

The two of us went to meet him, and we had to stand in line while they checked IDs.  As we waited, a guy passed from the other direction and said, “Come on girl, you too old to be getting in this club.”  I may or may not have turned around and hollered “Fuck you, asshole!”

I was doing nothing out of the ordinary.  I was standing politely in line, not demanding attention, not soliciting dick-headed comments from the penis gallery.   I was offended.  What the hell business of his was it where I was or why?  And why did I feel like somehow I needed to justify myself?

I know my age.  Fifty-two bright and beautiful years have passed by my eyes.  The eyes that donned reading glasses to write this piece.  I have earned and processed each one of those years.  I have come through hard times to stand before you as a stronger woman, ready to face what life has to bring.  I have learned enough not to judge others most of the time, and when I do, I just leave it to the little bitchy voice in my head.  And that is where it stays, a snap internal reaction – in my HEAD – where no harm is done.

I don’t say shit out loud to people!

As my daughter and I sat at the table, I was still fuming.  I know I should let it go.  The guy was kinda geeky.  Maybe he’d had bad luck that night.  How could he know I was a babe in my day?  But my day was, admittedly, the 80’s.  I’m 52 now.  Should I hide myself away in mortal shame?

No, you know what?  No.  I have as much right, hell, even MORE right than you, geeky un-laid jerk, to be anywhere I want to be.  Those girls in their twenties, gorgeous, inept, drunk, whatever they are – I have been there and surpassed it.  This bar was nothing special.  I didn’t have to do anything to deserve to be there.  In fact, we waited about ten minutes for Emily’s friend to get off work and we went to a bar closer to our hotel and more intimate.   We left the bar crowded full of youngsters,  of young women displaying their bodies and young men eyeing them.  We stayed a while and talked and had intelligent, grownup conversations about travel and culture.

After that, I took my leave.  We old gals need our beauty sleep, and I’m not so senile that I don’t know when to gracefully bow out and let the kids have their fun.

PS  Thanks for this blog title go out to my younger daughter, Veronica, who blissfully slept through the whole encounter back at the hotel!

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If These Walls Could Talk

I just signed the paperwork to sell my first house.  I’ve bought a house or two (ok, fine, only two) but this is the first one I have sold.

I bought this house in 1995, which means I owned it for close to twenty years.  My eventual-ex-husband and I moved in right after our baby turned two.  Our first party was our first-born daughter’s 4th birthday party.  She’ll be 24 this summer.  How time did fly!

The house has been through a few exterior paint jobs and myriad color changes of the inside walls.  It went from 3 to 4 bedrooms.  It housed my daycare business, where I had the honor of helping to raise other people’s children while still raising my own.  Oh, we had some fun there.  Birthday parties with ponies, art extravaganzas, and Pokemon marathons!

Over the years, the house heard the pitter-patter of countless little feet.  It heard a few dishes smashed, some by accident, and as my husband and I began to fight in earnest, a few on purpose.  I studied at the kitchen table through three college degrees, and that table saw my kids from kindergarten to high school. The house guarded my daughters’ secrets and shored me up for single parenting. It holds the memory of my marriage, my divorce, and a few subsequent lovers. After my divorce it watched me fall in love anew, stricken like a teenager myself, and held me in its wooden arms as I cried for the loss of that love five years later.

It noted my dalliance with the way too young, way too sexy, and certifiably bonkers handyman who did some (ahem) work for me. The breakfast bar often functioned as a wine bar for me and girlfriends, lamenting the course of life’s roads, or excited about new roads on the horizon. Friends helped me paint, fix, and patch, as I readied it for sale, then rent, then sale again.  After the last tenants, I spent my entire one-week “vacation” fixing, cleaning, and improving the things they had neglected.  I live several states from the house; it’s impossible to keep a good eye on a rental property so far away.  After the summer, I knew I should let it go before I got renters from Hell, before the house fell into disrepair in my absence.  As I walked through, it felt clean and open, ready for its own new start.  So I put it on the market and waited a bit.

Finally, I don’t regret my decision, but I didn’t expect the sadness that came with signing it away.  I know I don’t want to live there again.  The last few times I’ve visited, the memories were faint, faded like old photographs to a warm sepia tone. But now they are housed only in my head and in a few pictures.  I won’t stand on the deck and look at the lake again.  I won’t feel the solace of an old friend that has literally housed me and my kids for decades.

But in selling my old friend, I will benefit from the financial security we have built up together.   I can wish the best for the new family that seeks shelter in my old house’s steady arms.  I know I can treasure those memories I earned there and I will seek to make new memories now.

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RESURRECTING LOVE

I have noticed an interesting trend in relationships over the last few years.  My cousin is doing it.  A friend recently did it.  It’s the practice of looking up ones old high school boyfriend after a relationship ends and getting together with him.

As a single woman of a “certain age”, I know that it’s slim pickings out there.  I’ve about exhausted the online dating sites.  It’s brutally unfair, really; if one is not prepared to put a lot of time and effort into it (that one would be me!) you just quickly assess potential soulmates by the picture they have posted and what – if anything – they have written in their profile.  There are so many cell phone selfies in a bathroom mirror posted that it makes you wonder why these guys don’t have one friend or family member who would offer to take a decent picture for their online dating profile.  And the write-ups are often two sentences.  Not much to go on.

And let’s talk for a moment about what people look like at this age.  Often the ladies have hit menopause and are gaining weight.  We have wrinkles.  We look tired.  The men have lost their hair, or it’s gone white.  They have a beer belly.  We’re all the kind of people who you would have a great time with if you sat next to us at a dinner party and had a conversation.  No expectations.  What a nice surprise, it was so great to meet you!

On the other end of the spectrum, there are the aging beauty queens and athletes.  The ladies have had work done.  Fake boobs, eye lifts.  They wear too much makeup.  Botox has frozen their features.  They squeeze into teen-size jeans, and some of them still look pretty good!  The guys still want to spend a lot of time skiing, hiking, and mountain biking.  Their skin is weathered, but they don’t bother with the botox.  They’ve gotten a little barrel-chested perhaps, but they are still out there being fit. They want an activity partner to ski and hike with, and she should probably look like one of the aging beauties.  But does she ski?  Hopefully these two types will find each other; I don’t want to be with a guy who judges me by my fashion sense (zero) and how much makeup I cake on (very little) and big fake boobs and skinny legs (boobs are big and real, legs not skinny!) And I am not an activity partner.  When I hike, I get out of breath, and I can only bike on the flat.  No mountains, thanks.  Let’s just say I am good at indoor activities……  But he’ll never know that, he’ll be out climbing a 14’er.

So I guess that’s why people are looking up their high school sweethearts.  Back then we were perfect (some of us didn’t know it!)  The boy we loved was sweet and scrawny and sincere.  The girl he loved was a ripe peach, innocent and luscious and guileless.  The sex the two had was inexperienced, frequent, and oh so grand.  Maybe, thirty or forty years later, when we call that guy on the phone, or send him a Facebook message, that’s how he remembers us. And we don’t see his bald head and his paunch; he has David Cassidy feathered hair and his SUV is somehow reminiscent of that cherry red Camaro.

Or maybe I’m just jealous; I never had a high school sweetheart.  I was the geeky kid who didn’t know what to do with her hormones.  I can’t call up the guy who took advantage of me while I was drunk and throwing up at a party –although I’m sure he grew into a swell gentleman.

Being single at this age is a challenge, an adventure, sometimes a gift.  I took a lover on my Bahama vacation and “got my groove back”.  No strings attached, and what a lovely time!  I spent some time exploring celibacy, then had four booty-call men on speed-dial.  I haven’t found the perfect solution yet.

What I do know is that it isn’t good to rush things.  When people just get together with the first interested party, how can that be authentic?  Reconnecting with the ex from way back when, well, maybe that works out.  Nothing is ever what it seems.  The lady I know who brags the loudest on Facebook about her husband confessed to me last summer that she had been messaging online with someone and wanted to sleep with him. Nothing is perfect.

I do think that we were all meant for love, but maybe it’s not always what we think it should be. Until then, I’ll look around, and count my blessings that I’m not in a hurry.

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The Hidden Benefits of Yoga

Today I woke up from a bad dream (I was traveling and had forgotten to bring my bags and my phone was broken so I couldn’t call to have them brought) – and my alarm was going off at 6:40.  Why, you ask?  Because I had agreed to teach a 7:30 AM Sunday yoga class.

I grumpily wiped the snow off my windshield and got into my car.  I used to think heated seats were ridiculous, but not anymore.  With a warm butt and a heavy heart I opened the studio.  They are taking this class off the schedule soon.  Maybe no one will show up, and I can go home and climb back into bed with my warm doggy!

But one guy came in.  He was fairly new to yoga, an older gentleman (well, probably my age!) who was tall and athletic.  We talked about his personal yoga goals, the classes he likes to take, and I came up with a plan.  We worked on Vinyasa (linking movement and breath) in the sun salutations, on alignment in postures, and on breathing, introducing Ujai breath.

And when we were finished, my grumpiness was gone.  Where did it go?  Sucked into the yoga vortex and spit out the other side, I figured.

For this is a fairly reliable part of yoga, at least for me.  It gets rid of the psychological nonsense that buzzes around our brains most of the time.  Yoga reduces us to our core self:  breath, body, energy.  Yoga has been called a moving meditation.  And although I am completely capable of continuing my brain chatter through a class, especially as a student (this is harder when you are teaching!) I am chattering less and centering more lately.  It’s a mini-cleanse, 60 minutes or more of not-worrying, not-stressing, not-thinking.

And that is why I return to my mat, keep teaching classes, and keep my yoga practice strong.  The benefits of yoga (“union”) sometimes spread farther than we even know.

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