MaryB and the City

Hands of time.

I came home for Christmas. Technically it isn’t home though. My parents moved out of where I grew-up about five years ago to begin their retirement. Their new residence is 30 minutes away from the overcrowded, suburban city where I grew up til leaving for college and never looked back. In the beginning, the metaphorical separation hurt my heart. My Mother even made me take all of the trinkets, stuffed animals and yearbooks; there would no longer be a bedroom to call my own.

But as each year passes with countless visits and holidays celebrated in the cozy, professionally decorated abode, it no longer feels quite as threatening to my coveted childhood memories.

Every single time I return to the stomping grounds of my past, without fail I visit with a friend. No matter what, I make the time and the intention known that I’d like to see that particular person, taking turns among about ½ dozen lifelong friends each trip. And every time it is another reminder what a different script I lead than the majority of my peers. Today, for example, the small-stature partner-in-crime from our Catholic, private high school heydays stopped over with her 15-month-old son. Our most recent encounter was the Thanksgiving before last, making her son a mere 2 months old at the time.

She is that friend who can genuinely be placed in the we-don’t-have-to-talk-regularly-but-pick-up-right-where-we-left-off category. While I was mesmerized by the toddler’s pale, chubby, soft skin…and instinctively situating myself between him and every single sharp edge within reach of his newly discovered ability to waddle [the thought of a tiny, frail skull crashing down on a coffee table scares the hell out of me], my sweet spoken friend poignantly tells me while sitting Indian-style on the hardwood floor, about 20 minutes into our banter, “So, I’m pregnant.”

The first thoughts that run through my veins are joy. Untainted, blissful joy. Since we don’t talk consistently, I don’t know the ins and outs of her marriage. But from what I can tell, theirs seems to be solid. Come to think of it…I honestly don’t know behind-the-scene’s scoop of my regularly scheduled married comrades, either. When we’re single and co-navigating relationships, detailed information-sharing knows no bounds. But apparently once you are legally bound, those kind of inner circle secrets dwindle.

I digress. So I’m super thrilled to learn about this life-changing news. We eventually move onto other conversational subjects, after covering the basics [how far along, when is the due date, how did hubby take the news, and the like]. As I witnessed her caring for the cutie pie offspring smiling and cackeling, while another cutie pie nugget quietly grows inside her belly, I couldn’t help but think, “She’s lapping me.” Not in a negative sense, per se, but a factual observation.

That’s what happens. First they get hitched, then they get pregnant, then they get pregnant - again.

Mr. Big decided to take a break in travel and didn’t make the 450 mile trek back North for this annual holiday, so his colleague graciously extended a dinner invitation into their home for the festive feast. Big randomly texted me about an hour into his arrival something so sweet and equally surreal, I literally stared at it for a few minutes, digesting the unexpected dessert.

“He has an adorable baby girl. This Christmas makes me think of what ours will be like with our family one day.”

Enter: Our future.

For the first time ever, it finally feels like Big is there. We’re (both) currently at an intangible place of witnessing the workings of others around us building their futures together. And our sights are set to press Play.

The last 48-hours have been spent non-stop with family members and their little ones in my parents’ downsized house. And while I’m typically not claustrophobic - I really needed to breakaway for a bit and escape into a chic lit book. Something Borrowed by Emily Giffin is my homework, if you will, to help wrap my wordsmith mind around fiction…with the intention of composing one myself someday. My imagination was so far removed from reality, a good 2/3 of the way through, when I stopped to notice my Mother standing in front of a Grandfather wall clock in the foyer. She took an old fashion-looking key, inserted it into the face, and turned and turned and turned it.

“Mom, I didn’t know you literally had to wind the clock for it to work.”

She explained how it must be manually cranked, how the chimes are turned off so all of the relatives can sleep through the night and not be disturbed, and then noted that for some reason, “the clock is fast.” So she simply took her finger, placed it on the minute hand, and moved it backwards to where it should be.

I sat there with my feet up on the couch and book clenched to my chest, thinking, “If only life were that easy.” Move the proverbial Clock of Life backward, or forward, as you see fit.

I’ve come to a more peaceful place as far as my own clock goes. Sure there are times where I can taste a hint of envy on my palate from those that lap me. Or worry that my children will be much younger than their cousins. Or that my sister, 12-years my senior, will not wear a bridesmaid dress in her mid-forties. Or that my Dad who recently had a health scare and for the first time has shown significant visible signs of aging on his face, may not be able to keep up with the grandchildren I provide while he is well into his seventies.

But ultimately, although my tick tock may be beating at a different, slower pace than I dreamt about while growing up back on Four Oaks Lane, I’m comforted to know that the saying really is true: [at least] Time flies when you’re having fun.

A new day.

December 14: It has been a pivotal day on my calendar for the last eight years. It was the day my story officially began with Mr. Big.

I took him as my date to my holiday party for work, which at the time was for a TV news station. The festive event was held at a Botanical Gardens venue. It was extraordinarily cold that evening, but the glowing backdrop of Christmas lights that lined the walkways was romantic beyond reason [this past July we visited it again for the first time since]. We mingled, drank cocktails, then headed over to a popular night club and continued the celebration.

Although I notoriously have a terrible memory, I do remember that night vividly. Especially the part where we danced…like no one was watching. Because it was the beginning of our relationship and still regularly sizing him up, it stood out that this guy could keep up with me. Not only was he a good sport to let loose to the music, twirl me around and had legitimate rhythm… but he seemed to enjoy it as much as I did.

The night ended with a bang, literally, as his car was broken into while we were inside unknowingly starting what would develop into a very long courtship. The hours of fun turned into complete chaos with a million pieces of passenger window glass covering his leather seats, and my purse filled with every major possession inside, stolen. I won’t bother addressing any underlying irony of that omen.

Over the years, we’ve broken up…ok I’ve actually lost count…but would definitely have to use more than one hand yet not quite two hands. Some separations lasted a week or two, the most recent was almost a year. But without fail, when December 14 arrives at our feet, we recognize and celebrate “our anniversary.” At our fifth (or maybe it was sixth) anniversary, we went to a popular Italian restaurant. The staff seated us at a lovely table and were presented with a special dessert, congratulating us in chocolate script handwriting around the plate’s parameter.

As we each exchanged cards to share heartfelt sentiments, our jaws simultaneously dropped when discovering — we got the same exact card for each other. It was a black and white photograph with two young children in total adoration of each other, dressed in what adults would wear to a black-tie affair, and the printed text said something along the lines of: When I’m with you, I feel like a kid all over again. Although the odds of this duplicate purchase happening were rather small, at the same time, wacky examples like that happen to us on a regular basis. Even to this day, we’ll text each other at the exact same time and write the exact same thing.

Last year over this historic “anniversary weekend” he took me to our favorite and most visited getaway, New York City. Mr. Big surprised me and set up reservations all over town where Sex and the City scenes were filmed. The gesture completely blew me away and it will go down as one the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had, not to mention one of the most thoughtful. A mere two point five months passed and our attempted reunion went up in flames, but that doesn’t negate what a memorable time the excursion was.

So here we are, another year under our belts, together again. And on the eve of December 14 I naturally assumed we’d honor or at least acknowledge the date as something important. Nine years. Nine. I hear it and read it and digest it. But still can’t seem to comprehend how long that actually is.

While on the phone a few nights ago, I asked him, “Do you know what is a few days away?” Seconds later he said, “December 14^th.” In retrospect — it is interesting he didn’t instead say, “our anniversary.” Then, he continued, (to paraphrase) “…but do you think, at this point, we should celebrate it? I mean…we‘ll have a real [wedding] anniversary date anyway.”

You would have thought someone said a puppy died, because my heart sank. I scrambled off the phone as quickly as I could — I didn’t want to have a long, drawn-out conversation analyzing or trying to explain my neurosis to him. Instead I wanted to save that dialogue for myself.

The next 15 minutes were spent sobbing, the deep-deep down kind that came from my belly. The kind where you can’t fall asleep because your nose is totally stuffed up. The kind where you’re afraid in the morning, puffy eyes will be swollen beyond repair. The kind where you use cuss words in place of your significant other’s name. I was mad. No, make that very hurt.

While processing my tears (and frankly taken back by how unexpectedly inconsolable I was) I had to think through what exactly was really going on here. Why was I losing it? In short — I felt that because of his completely indifferent stance on seeing December 14 as important, made me feel that he didn’t think the last nine years were important either [that may sound extreme, but let’s not forget I’ve got Santa beat on baggage]. At around minute 13 into the water works show, my alter ego voice of reason chimed in. “Ya know, maybe this isn’t such a bad idea. Maybe since you’re starting over, starting fresh with him…you should also restart your anniversary date.”

OK. That’s an interesting concept. Just because December 14 will not serve as *the* annual date to celebrate our union… does not necessarily negate that we dated for the better part of a decade. The past, while it does have many memorable moments of good times, is also archived with exquisite injuries. If we’re truly, honestly, wholeheartedly going to create a new start and clean slate, in as much as that is even possible, it does make sense to leave that anniversary behind as well.

I certainly don’t want history to repeat itself, not to mention I’m not even the same person from back then. So, it begs the question…why would I want to recycle that mile marker?

“History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived. However, if faced with courage, need not be lived again.” -Maya Angelou

First dates.

Despite the fact that I’ve been a long-term, serial monogamist since 6th grade, I’ve still gone on a respectable amount of first dates. Special thanks to the infamously immature and totally normal “breaks” that transpired throughout these relationships ~ which coincidentally continued into my twenties.

It was during those breaks, that lasted anywhere from one week to one year, when I dabbled in the interviewing a potential mate arena.

I could teach seminars on mastering Match.com. Hell I even wrote an online column based on blind dates. And frankly, I think being one of the last unwed women in my 30-something peer group warrants me some credibility in having a point-of-view from singles shoes.

Now that I’m officially off-the-market and my mind is far, far away from strategizing a plan to find eligible men, there is a silent but significant sigh of relief that permeates from my heart.

No more dreaded first dates.

Don’t get me wrong…sometimes they’re lovely and unexpectedly easy. But other times they epitomize a glimpse of hell on earth. I will never, ever forget my worst experience - it gives me chills just thinking about it.

So when I heard from a former colleague turned friend who is going through a divorce and decided to give new love a chance, my stomach churned when reading about her reality [she gave me permission to share her story].

The Lesson: It’s times like these where I wholeheartedly believe we should all stop, look around, and truly reflect on how good we really have it. Sure “good” is a relative term — but if your companionship is healthy, communication is strong, and a roof is over your heads, things aren’t that bad. And, if nothing else, at least you aren’t suffering through the pains of disturbing dates.

Dear MaryB:

After too much family time around Thanksgiving, I was craving the attention of just about anyone not related to me. Therefore, I proceeded to tuck away my pride and hit the Men Seeking Women section of Craigslist. I know…I know… a trainwreck waiting to happen. But a good friend of mine swears she’s met some cool people there.

Moving along, scroll through a couple ads. Find one that isn’t pleading for a wife or a no-strings attached relationship. Email back and forth with one gentleman who casually mentions his “kids”. He sends a photo, I’m irked by the unibrow but impressed with the physique, especially the one in all spandex on a mountain bike. I figured by date #3 I could take him to a salon for a waxing. 

I get a little bored with the back and forth so I sign off. By the next evening, I have 3 emails from said “gentleman”. One of which tells me that he was bored and Googled me. He then suggests I get my bike out of storage so we can go for a ride because the trails in my neighborhood are awesome. Creep alert! I was afraid to go home thinking Mr. Unibrow was going to be outside in his spandex waiting for me. He turns on the pressure a little to “get together”.

After a really miserable feeling-sorry-for-myself day on Monday, I relent and agree to meet him for a drink. 

Wait for it…wait for it…. 

Unibrow shows up 10 minutes late wearing shorts and a skull cap. Plops himself down across from me, and begins chatting right away. At which point, I’m suddenly struck with the fact that the unibrow is kinda charming. Especially because he’s missing teeth! Yep, I said TEETH not just a tooth.

He then continues to ramble on about his kids and I realize there are a lot of names getting thrown in there. I ask how many and he drops the bomb that there are five. Then proceeds to tell me the younger three are adopted and are the children of his crack/meth addicted younger sister.

He starts to tell me about the estranged relationship between him and his 16-year-old daughter at which point he begins to cry. Yes, real tears.

I’ve already checked out at this point and am just letting him wallow around in more self pity. The check comes and this douchebag makes no effort to look at it. As the lights get turned on and the floor sweeper comes out to mop I realize I’m going to have to pay for this freak-show’s cocktail.

We exit the restaurant and he walks me to my car after eagerly pointing out his 25-year-old SAAB in the parking lot. And all I could do was think of the getaway.

This was one time I was thankful that I have lost both key fobs to my car and therefore have to physically insert the key. That allowed me time to turn my back to toothless and fumble around in an effort to make sure there would be no physical contact coming my way.

Unfortunately as I turn to say thanks, he was already coming in for a landing. I was able to dodge the kiss but did get the creepiest hug I’ve ever had. I felt the need to rush home and check for bed bugs. 

Good news is that he was sweet enough to text me about 30 minutes later to let me know he got home okay. As if I cared.

How fairy tales really end.

Snow White

Little Red Riding Hood

Aladdin (Jasmine)

Sleeping Beauty

Cinderella

Beauty and the Beast (Belle)

Joint custody.

Love is certainly in the air recently. Or at least in the air waves I suppose. 

Poor Eva Longoria has her adorable professional basketball player husband cheat on her, with their mutual friend. NBA star or not, why men continue to poke multiple women outside of their marriage confuses me — don’t get hitched if you’re bored or easily distracted with one sex partner. Very, very simple solution.

Then Prince William gets engaged in a fairy-tale like arrangement with Kate, England’s very own version of Jenny from the Block. It’s a sweet story, really.

While my own Prince Charming aka Mr. Big works to earn my trust back…I am regularly reminded of the state of my heart. Which is comparable to a Code Orange. Like an attack on our homeland, once you’ve been threatened, can you ever really, completely trust that it will never happen again? Or is Code Green the best possible outcome…never totally feeling 100% safe, but close [enough] to it.

When we first reunited over the summer, and I eventually decided to give the cat nine lives + an extra bonus round, I wasn’t quite aware at the time how severe my security blanket would become. In the beginning, having full access to every single password-protected touchpoint of his world, and also having him housed in my city’s backyard, left me relatively relaxed.

Then lately I’ve noticed my internal investigative radar has skyrocketed. Partly because he relocated so I don’t have as much facetime or micro-level knowledge of his whereabouts or know his social and professional cohorts, and partly because things are getting serious.

The stakes are getting higher.

Mr. Big has walked a straight line, on a tight rope with no net below, for 3 months straight. Which for some may not sound like a long time, but in the past our revived relationships would go back to mediocre within two weeks or less. The truth is, I’ve been waiting for him to significantly slip. Not wishing, but just…waiting. And the last thing I want is for it to take me off guard, or eat me alive.

The more time passes and no balls have been dropped, the more paranoid I’ve become. I am confident there is a direct correlation there — because as more time passes, the more vulnerable I am. In the early days, my broken, jaded heart was practically in another time zone. But now that every measurable aspect of our rekindled relationship has been virtually flawless, that means my guard has to come down a bit, and that scares me.

So for self-protection purposes, I’m overcompensating by crossing every single t and dotting all foreseeable i’s. I can’t afford to bury my head in the sand and risk being betrayed behind my back, but I also need to be careful not to become obsessed with playing secret-agent MacGyver or I’ll eventually go certifiably insane. It is one thing to check-up on someone who has broken your trust, and it is another to make it a hobby.

I’m genuinely, legitimately happy with where things stand, and look forward to the day when my confidence level no longer has a bright color code associated with it, can put the magnifying glass away, and rest my eyes-wide-open.

For now, though, both him and I will have to share joint custody of my heart.

Only girl.

Last night, at what was supposed to be a standing monthly happy hour appointment with a small group of single ladies, quickly turned into several hours of tell-it-like-it-is, chick flick-like conversating. Cue the screenplay, He’s Just Not That Into You, but not quite as sad (because he is into her…on his own terms).

The whole experience felt very surreal to me because a girlfriend going through some turmoil with her manfriend of just over a year, is struggling to find a healthy balance, and of all people — I was actually able to provide advice.

And not just atta-girl’s; real, meaningful insight and perspective.

Despite all the drama I’ve been through in my marathon of a relationship with very high & super low moments, the collective experience ultimately left me with an extraordinary amount of self-awareness, clarity and love for moi.

I finally get it.

Sure I can rattle off empowerment-laced mantras with the best of ‘em, but there has been a fundamental shift inside of me. For the first time since 1979, I…literally…love myself more — more than anyone who treats me less than I deserve. Those aren’t just words. Or delusional claims. Or denial statements. Or Hallmark Cards, Inc. expressions.

In basic meditation, there are mental exercises that have you close your eyes, be perfectly  still, quietly present…and focus on *feeling* say, — your hands. But you don’t move them, instead you just mentally focus on the fact that you know they’re there with their inate energy. If you think about it, we go about our daily lives moving our limbs without consciously embracing the actual sensation. So, as much as I’m acutely aware that if I don’t actually see or move say, my feet — I still know for a fact that they’re there…that’s how cognizant I [now] am of of my intangible value and worth.

I never really thought about it this way before, but I used to cheat on myself. I wasn’t loyal to me. There’s an expression a cliche that you have to love yourself first before someone can love you. And the jokes on me because that’s actually true.

Tragically it took a lot of bullshit and getting emotionally beat-up to arrive at this place. But I guess that’s also referred to as Life. And that was my lesson, which I managed to drag out for more than eight years with Mr. Big. I own that too, all of it. Because it got me here.

So after going in circles with my friend who is palpably confused, and feeling like she isn’t getting her needs met, and continually sacrifices her happiness to make him comfortable even though he takes her time for granted, and keeps making excuses for his decisions…I wanted to peel back my skin that was crawling into my pitiful past.

And just as much as she is to blame — enabling him to get away with selfish behavior, he too regularly slacks on making her feel…wanted.

Rihanna got it right. Her Top 40 song on the radio first and foremost makes me dangerously dance while driving, but even beyond that, the lyrics are so simple and so true.

Want you to make me feel like I’m the only girl in the world
Like I’m the only one that you’ll ever love
Like I’m the only one who knows your heart

While I can’t speak for all women, I’m confident in saying that if our male counterparts will just give us the kind of attention that helps us know we are unequivocally the only girl in their world, “happy hours” could manifest for their originally described intention vs. being spent analyzing relationships without equilibrium. But even beyond that, and I will speak for all women here, first and foremost — choose to love yourself…like you’re the only girl in the world.

Common denominator.

I’m not a fighter, really. It’s not part of my DNA sequence. Charlotte from Sex & the City said in a series episode: “Trey and I never yell. We’re Wasps. Wasps don’t yell, it’s genetic.”

The same goes for me and Mr. Big, mostly. In fact I’d say that is one of the single greatest aspects over the course of our courtship — our ability to communicate, openly and respectfully. And, when we do have rough conversations, they almost always are done without sucker punches to the noggin or stings to the ego.

I firmly believe if that pivitol aspect was not part of our relationship repertoire, there is no way in hell we could have recovered as many times as we have.

The other day I read an article based on a study [sponsored by the maker of hormonal contraceptives which I found hilarious] that says although we can’t control the timing of most arguments, but, if you have a bone you’ve been waiting to pick, you might want to put it on the calendar for 3 p.m. since that is a woman’s highest chance of ”winning.” 

The study wants us to all get in touch with our biorhythms and mood swings so we can lead a more agreeable life and, of course, get what we want. But this alleged scientific insight meant nothing to me as my objective has nothing to do with who is right, who is wrong, or who has the most chips — it’s only about understanding where each other is coming from.

So the fact that these last few days have been layered with multiple misunderstandings, misconstrued sentiments and skewed expectations with Mr. Big…has put my zen into a tailspin. We already had so much working against us living in the same county lines, and now we are forced to communicate with the assistance of long distance area codes.

Sometimes, I’ve found, feelings can get lost in translation.

But this isn’t breaking news. We both knew what faced us. We knew it would be work, get-your-hands-callused-and-dirty work, to pick up the pieces…day by day. And it is in those macro moments of vulnerability, when fears surface without notice, that it takes micro-level reminders to just take a deep breath. We don’t have the luxury of laying in bed anymore and say I understand or I’m sorry with a reassuring toe wiggle - the lack of physical presence has to be overcompensated by verbal validation sprinkled with thoughtful, meaningful gestures.

Last night in total emotional exhaustion I collapsed on my kitchen table. After realizing I was fighting with myself to hold back the tears, I eventually just put my hands up and said OK, it’s OK, just let it out. Followed by, shortly thereafter - girl, get a grip. It was a full moon after all.

Today I had brunch with a fiercely independent, beautiful inside & out 30-something female. We bantered about stupid boys pretending to be men, careers and faith. I ate up every drop of dialogue. Something she shared that really resonated with me was how often times we dissect, analyze and rip up when, how and why someone else disappoints us. But yet at the same time, we can fail to remember the common denominator which in this case is, me.

Just as much as someone else plays a role in the development and fostering of a relationship, it also takes two to tango. So although lately I may be feeling like Mr. Big isn’t “getting me”, my perspective and where I’m coming from — baggage and all — I have to remember that he too has bags on his back, literally. Moving his entire life on very short notice and all that relocating entails has to take a significant toll on his capacity for patience.

It’s in these moments when two people are on the brink of reaching their limit, they have to step back and remember: We’re on the same team.

Finding companionship and sustaining it are individually two completely different games. The hand we’ve been dealt is a tricky one and the stakes are high, but as long as we’re both playing for success, transparent enough to expose our cards, and not willing to fold when times get tough, Love has a chance to win.

Good goodbyes.

The longer I work for a pet products company, and don’t have a pup to call my own, the more I feel like a fraud. From morning to night, I live and breathe animals. But I won’t harp on that hole in my heart because I simply can’t have a 4-legged friend at this point in my life due to current housing restrictions. The good news though is that one day, when I am able to become a FurMom, I’ll be ridiculously prepared to humanely raise a confident, obedient, and happy doggie.

Since my short tenure in the industry, I’ve had the privilege of meeting two of the most prestigious, well-respected trainers in the world. These guys are polar opposites of the domineering, pro-wolfpack leader Caesar Milan - their training techniques simply couldn’t be any different. You see, this breed of educators believes in a method called Positive Reinforcement. While I have zero credibility to professionally advise on this methodology, I at least know enough and have seen dozens of demonstrations to understand that we don’t have to physically or emotionally abuse pets in order to get them to do what we want.

While I sat in a seminar today given by a sharp, witty chap who is the equivalent of Martha Stewart in the canine kitchen, prepared to hear wisdom and insight that helps foster relationships between people and their pets, it threw me for quite a loop when the British-bred gentleman overlapped the fundamental principles to training animals with training children, and even spouses. More on that later.

I am completely fascinated by sociology, psychology, and the subconscious, so the man had my undivided attention. As a matter of fact, he is such a great speaker and fully captures your focus, I bet that is exactly how his paw-clad clients feel too.

For starters, the best way to change behavior is to reward good behavior.

But many owners rely on another approach. Inducing frustration and fear. There are 3 types of torture - inflicting pain, loss of control, and no predictability [which is the worst kind - being afraid is the highest/strongest emotional trait]. The side effects of punishment is aggressiveness/defensiveness, emotionally shutting down/depressed, and physical damage [i.e. choke collars damaging the trachea]. And to think, people do this to their alleged “best friend.”

All mammals are the same in the sense that we associate a bad experience, and then try to avoid it. That is called a behavior response. So the concept with Positive Reinforcement [vs. using Negative Punishment] is to reward the behavior that you want your dog to repeat. If you consistently and continually do so, they figure out that X Behavior = Y Positive Outcome [treat, belly rub, get to sit on the couch, etc.].

By either rewarding a good behavior, or if you want your dog to stop doing something, you have no more than 3 seconds to reinforce it - they’ll put two and two together and learn the association. This is the Law of Effect…situations accompanied or closely followed by satisfaction will be more clearly connected with the situation, and the opposite is true too. So if you come home to find your trash raided or carpet soiled, don’t bother flipping off the handle because your pooch won’t know what the hell he did wrong.

Classical Conditioning is when your pet learns to associate between 2 stimuli. One great example the trainer shared is when he has visitors over at house, they walk to the kitchen upon arrival and gives his dogs a treat. Over time, the dogs learned that visitors = positive experience. So now they don’t bark and go crazy at the door knocking, instead they sit nicely and behave properly knowing there is a benefit just around the corner. But don’t think for a second they won’t know when it is an intruder ~ their sixth sense is paramount.

Another interesting piece of knowledge is that there is no learning of “behavior” without feeling, thus you learn to respond [behave] to signals that have induced a feeling. All mammals including humans have the same original brain structure. We share at least 7 common emotional systems & learn/refine behavior the same. The most important system is fear. So think about it. If you are put in a position of fear, how do you react?

A seemingly small tip but could be huge for dogs who battle boredom — is never feed them meals in a bowl. Put food in a treat/kibble-dispensing dog toy, dampen the food, and stuff it in the container. This is especially good for when the owner has to leave the house — keeping them entertained, mentally stimulated, and busy. You should leverage this easy, daily task and put it to better use.

And this is where the lecture got really perverse.

He said humans, horses and dogs are the only mammals who put up with abuse. You’ll never see a cat, parrot or bear put up with it. And not only that, we are punished and keep coming back [only if there was an established relationship before the abuse began]. Although it sound totally backwards, we all have a need to be wanted and needed, and sometimes even being mistreated…won’t stop us from coming back for more.

Ninety percent of training is getting your dog to want to do what you want him to do. If you scare the living daylights out of him, sure he may do the deed, but it isn’t a pleasant experience for either one of you, and he won’t be inclined to repeat the behavior on his own. Teaching a dog to understand us, has to be treated like teaching a child ESL. If a kid isn’t picking up quickly during a reading assignment, would you shock, beat him, or pull sharp little knives into his neck? No. You’d pull your patience together and keep trying. This is the exact same concept as teaching a dog how to heel.

Kindergarden teachers are the best trainers of all. They can command an entire classroom of 30 little people, and not even raise their voice, by standing still with their arms crossed and say absolutely nothing. Eventually the kids will be quiet and listen. Then, in a soft tone the teacher thanks them [rewards the behavior] and continues with her lesson. So you see, the same concepts can be applied to kids, as you would a pet. Achieving the exact same outcome just by being consistent, calm and not showing attention to the unwanted behavior.

If your vocal 4-legged child goes crazy when the mailman comes by the house, teach him how to lay on a mat. Treat him when he gets it right. Once he has learned the behavior, when the mailman comes again, tell him to go to the mat - then treat him. Eventually he’ll associate the mailman with going to the mat automatically.

Additionally, just as our dogs want to please us and react strongly to positivity and praise, so do children and companions. If you scold your youngster for not writing the letter “e” in the right direction, they’ll be discouraged and not look forward to showing you their homework again. If you ridicule your spouse for not taking out the trash after you asked him to earlier that morning, he’ll probably avoid you like the plague the rest of the night. On the contrary, if you twist the approach by instead saying, “Joey you did a great job writing ‘e’ [then show it to him in a mirror reflection], let’s see if you can try copying how it looks in this image too” and thanking your forgetful housemate when he *does* take out the garbage [reinforcement].

And just like that, it hit me. We really are all so similar. Responding to kindness, gratitude and encouragement goes so much farther than manipulation, anger and loud noises. So whether it’s your little girl/boy, cutie patootie pooch or partner…try reinforcing the good behavior first and foremost and you’ll get a lot farther, faster.

His parting words had nothing to do with training, either. Instead he left us with a sentiment to be appreciative.

“So many people mourn the loss of their pets…their hearts completely break. Yet they take them for granted while they’re here. So, hug them today. Kiss them today. Have fun with them today. Every single time, give them good hellos, and good goodbyes.”

Are we there yet?

I’ve lost my Zen, and have put a warrant out for its immediate return. No questions asked.

Ok that’s a lie. There are lots of inquiries. After peacefully swimming in a stream of consciousness more nights than not lately, one whirlwind paid-time-off trip threw my tranquility into a tizzy. The last five days were spent out of town with two of my closest gal pals; both are in completely different spaces in their lives right now than moi.

One is married – her legal union began the exact same time my courting journey began with Mr. Big, many moons ago. We stay in touch compliments of our long distance carriers and I loosely hear about what life is like raising 2.5 kids [the half being a gorgeous canine that I immediately fell head over heels for]. The most unexpected poignant moment was when her & her husband were in the backyard picking up dog shit one afternoon around sunset. I gazed through the sliding glass door, watching them conquer a thankless, smelly task. But the simple fact that they were doing it together, seemed so unmistakably special.

The other comrade who accompanied me on the overdue friendship fostering visit is a bride-to-be and in the early but pivotal stages of nuptial planning. The host matriarch and I share bridesmaid duties in the coveted wedding party.

Over the course of my suitcase’s stay, I very much felt like a front row spectator in the uncharted territories surrounding me.

Besides four siblings who have their own offspring and only briefly see me over major holidays, I really haven’t had a vantage point on what their lives are like from the inside, out. So this quasi vacation gave me a more 24-hour, day in and day out perspective on what running a household, maintaining a marriage, raising children [aka simultaneously keeping them alive, happy and out of trouble] and constructively participating in the local community, looks like. Without realizing it ahead of time, I was suddenly transported into foreign soil as a fly on the artfully spackled wall.

Sometimes it was pretty, sometimes it wasn’t. Sometimes it excitingly made me want to fast-forward to my very own 2.5 family and get started yesterday, sometimes the tantrum-laced experience acted as a prescription-free, organically grown form of birth control. Sometimes I felt like an outsider with little to contribute in conversations ~ wondering why I’m the last to be picked on the dodge ball team of housewives, and yet sometimes it felt like a third eye gift from God…being able to passively observe what life behind a family’s closed doors is really like…to know the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Marriage and Mommyhood is hard. Really, really hard.

Over the years, I’ve been internally conflicted over my recognizable lack of wanting to produce mini me’s in the foreseeable future. For a while, I honestly wondered if maybe I was missing the maternal gene. But I’ve come to realize that ongoing, little by little over-exposure to the unadulterated pains of parenting – has left my mind in a stagnant state of fear – consequently causing the ticking time bomb in my 31-year-old womb to be muffled out by mental warfare.

Not to say I am not capable of being nuturing; that comes naturally to me. But will the magnificent responsibility ever supercede the sacrifices, not to mention the ample room for error to royally screw up my spawn. Specifically…

Can I be selfless enough to give up my freedom to come and go as I please?

Can I handle the exquisite pain of pushing a butterball turkey-sized human out of my pocket-sized hole?

Can I manage my finances diligently enough to provide a stable and fruitful habitat for their innocent lives?

Can I successfully keep my professional career and share an equal accountability as a caretaker, all at the same time?

Can I effectively teach my kids to be decent, respectable members in society?

Can I manage to borrow the positive attributes of my own parents’ philosophy, while dissolving the ones I didn’t care for through a child-turned-adult’s eyes?

Can I actively keep the romance and love alive with a husband while struggling to stay awake past 9pm?

Can I appreciate the little things, practice patience beyond understanding, and not fall into the unconscious cycle of being swallowed alive by stress, and then, without even realizing it… simply give up on trying and poof, you’re divorced?

Those are just some of the questions that undoubtedly make the meaning of procreation less than desirable. And, from what I hear, those are also the very sacrifices that are washed away the moment newborn eyes meet for the first time and a new type of love is created that only a parent knows. 

This last week of sitting on the sidelines, up close and personal, only exacerbated second-guessing when or if I’ll ever be ready. Although it would be greatly appreciated, I will never get a notarized written letter from God, hand delivered by a courier, advising me of the perfect moment in time to get knocked up. Faith will have to ride solo on this one.

Meanwhile, in between the three of us catching up, chatting, cheering and getting candid about the facets of what is prominent in their individual worlds – emphasis on babies and bridal gear – Mr. Big’s presence sat in an idle position on my heart the entire time; his name was never once spoken. Perhaps he was the elephant in the room that was too massive to swallow. Or maybe the “if you have nothing nice to say” plead the fifth code was being upheld. But nonetheless, the absence of acknowledging my personal and not-so-private happenings left me feeling all the more like a disconnected bystander.

While in a mini van ride on the way back to the airport, a 4-year-old girl said to her father, “Are we there yet?” I smiled and quietly thought, “Funny… [although in a different context] I was wondering the very same thing myself.”

When I finally returned to my humble home, I cried. It was the kind of weeping where you can’t even put your finger on the root cause, really. You just know that something deep inside is hurting, and it wants out.

Then it became crystal clear through a vision – the boxing ring. I’m in one corner, and a large sampling of family and friends are in the other. I really don’t feel like my… for lack of better words…support group, is on my side. It feels like there is a gravitational pull going on and the direction is not in my favor.

As a teenager, my Mother forbid me to date a certain guy. He wasn’t good for me. And that wasn’t just her inherent instinct chiming in — I even knew it. But the more she tried to put me on lockdown, the more I rebelled…cliché as it sounds.

My Father always told me I have an old soul. I think one example was the fact that I knew, even at a young age, if she had just loosened up the ropes a little and let me learn some lessons on my own and experience life in its rawest form, I wouldn’t have invested even half as much time with said prepubescent boyfriend. By trying to control every step and stroke of those impressionable years, she actually pushed me away on both sides of the spectrum. Which ironically, is history repeating itself today.

The takeaway is that I don’t need anyone’s approval or endorsement of my personal decisions. I just need their unconditional support. One commonality in the human race is we all just want to be heard and accepted for who we are — I’m no different.

I’m also not perfect, and still have a ways to go as I sort through the hard stuff.

Although I may not necessarily be there yet ~ although some may have chosen a different path for me ~ I refuse to forget that life isn’t about the destination, it’s about the journey. And this one, the journey I get to call my own, through the good times and bad times, is pretty darn beautiful.

Sin and the City.

Judging a book by its cover is not typically something I like to do. But when it came to Nevada’s most notorious city, bad reviews ran rampant as far as I was concerned.

For years, my push-pull relationship with Mr. Big was tainted by not feeling like I was a priority. Countless nights were spent either at home solo, or going out stag with my girlfriends, while he participated in exclusive guys’ nights. As we collectively grew older, though, and those boys turned into men, who also acquired long-term relationships/fiancés/wives…they would regularly include their better halves in the festivities. Except me.

It drove me crazy.

Mr. Big visited Vegas more time than I even remember during the Wonder Years of our relationship ~ for bachelor parties and just for fun. When you are already not feeling like numero uno in a relatively harmless city which we mutually reside, fear and egos escalate when suddenly your manfriend is across the country - doing and seeing - God knows what. Not to mention I generally tend to sway more on the conservative side…so envisioning just how exotic it was in real life, left me in a tizzy.

I just spent my first ever seventy-two hours in Vegas for a business trip, and although I didn’t get to fully experience its entertainment offering to the max, I now know it’s exactly what I thought it was.

Sex, Drugs, Money, Rock ‘n Roll.

At times I can tend to be a little naïve. Or maybe it’s just that I’m underexposed. For example, during the short visit, I got a decent taste of nightlife including fancy dinners, shaking it on a dance floor, fearlessly knocking back shots of premium tequila, and gambling at a Roulette table with the best of ‘em.  But it didn’t dawn on me that many of my male colleagues were approached on several occasions [when I wasn’t present] by prostitutes. Why that news shocked me, I’m not sure. But just as I was beginning to think the elevated Sin and the City wasn’t all that bad, suddenly I was reminded it is in fact the original Sex and the City.

Now that I’m in the midst of reconciling with a refurbished Mr. Big, I realize that whether your sidekick is tucked away in the casino dungeons covered in female flesh, or working late hours at the office, trust doesn’t have geographic boundaries. You either know implicitly that integrity, respect and honesty will be pillars of your union – or they won’t. It’s that simple.

Half-naked girls romping around in lingerie as effortlessly as walking around in PJs in the privacy of their own homes, bottle service at bars, pheromones stinging the nostrils, one hundred dollar bills being used as effortlessly as a Kleenex – can certainly bring out the worst in people. Yet at the same time, there are those who have self-control despite being put in precarious situations, and know when to draw the line.

I’ve made a self-imposed deal that until I trust him again, whole-heartedly without a doubt, I will not sport a diamond. Well, on my ring finger anyway. That verbal and publicly announced commitment has to [metaphorically] be rock solid first and foremost.

Temporarily stepping into this faux fantasy world, that until now, was always so elusive and untouchable, has broken the barrier of what my mind sketched it out to be: As with any scenario in any area code, you have the choice to be a slut, sinner, or saint.

Mr. Big and I have plans to visit the famous strip ourselves someday; which I foresee being both ironic as well as a tribute to how far we’ve come [albeit we make it that far].

Truth be told, I was definitely enamored by the grandiose, over-the-top, shiny sequence and sounds. And I will no longer think it is necessarily a gateway directly to hell. Sure Vegas undoubtedly has made a deal with the devil, but it’s those who have made a deal to be true that will make it out alive.

SNAFU.

I’ve spent the better part of summer’s end reconvening with Mr. Ex ~ who will for the context of this blog, be reinstated as Mr. Big until further notice. The daily happenings have sorta felt like an outer body experience. I know this is happening, and it’s happening to me, in real life. But so far the process has been borderline painless, it doesn’t even seem possible. My feet are so far implanted deep within the earth, there is no way my jaded, jilted self could possibly be sailing around up in the sky with my head in the clouds, living a fantasy.

Although truthfully, it would be deceitful to say that our entire integration has been easy. Since the day I sat on his counselor’s couch in July ~ sure, my heart has been hovering in a state of unshakable peace. But for several months leading up to that day, I was managing a severe case of cardiac arrest, through our sporadic run-ins and social scene SNAFUs.

Situation Normal: All Fucked Up.

It was the unknown. The limbo. That confused realm is what had me hanging out inside the depths of I-can-never-be-with-him-again purgatory.

Now that we’re officially taking it “day by day” and he has literally and metaphorically shown up more in these last few weeks than he did collectively in years, literally…it’s like I’m dating a whole new man, reincarnated in the same life. The past was chock-full of sales pitches, powerpoints, empty promises…eventually followed by a stop, drop and roll routine shortly thereafter. The present, however, is full of the opposite spectrum.

The cookiecutter cliche of that statement aside, it’s honestly true. I don’t know how or where he heard about it, but there must be some kind of military-like bootcamp for reformed manfriends who incinerated your relationship, leaving only ashes and memories…to be born again like the Phoenix bird, and rise from nothing.

My friends used to say to me, “I only wish he could be the man you want and need him to be.”

His patience level shadows that of a saint. The attention, delicacy, affection and determination competes with that of a brain surgeon. The humbleness, gratitude, awareness, and steadfast presence is that of a fasting monk striving for spiritual enlightenment. And ironically, the only sales-like tactics in this situation would be consistency and transparency.

So now I get it. Now I get what countless observers in his inner circle have been professing to me, “He’s different. Somethings changed. I never once believed him in the past, and for the very first time, I do…” blah blah blah.

But before savoring my next sip of Shiraz while delighting in this new-found space, the semi-permanent impression left on my band-aid laden heart is simultaneously waiting for the other shoe to drop. This won’t last. Inevitably, something will go wrong. He’ll get scared. Or bored. Or tempted. Sure he is vastly more conscious, yet, can someone *really* change, really?

The difference on my end, this time is ~ my earth won’t crumble below me if in fact the guy flakes. I’ve always listened to my heart, my insides, my spirit. I know with undisputed conviction that I am exactly where I’m meant to be. Right now. And tomorrow, I’ll be right where I’m supposed to be.

Day by day.

We went to see the movie Sex & the City 2 a few weeks ago @ the dollar theater. Despite the fact it was a surreal experience and I never ever thought that day would have come…there was a moment when the clock stopped, my mind froze, and I asked myself, “If he disappoints you again, what will you do?” There was a 10 second pause. Then very gently and confidently, I heard, “You’ll be just fine.” I also passively can’t help but wonder if our ridiculous parallel storyline to Carrie & Big will ultimately playout, after all.

Do I trust that I won’t be hurt? Hell no. Am I genuinely happy and feel complete stillness about taking this journey? Absofuckinglutely.

“You must have failed deeply on some level or experienced some deep loss or pain to be drawn to the spiritual dimension. Is suffering really necessary? Yes and no. If you had not suffered as you have, there would be no depth to you, no humility, no compassion.” -The Power of Now

Do not disturb.

Last night I fulfilled my once-a-week quota to hang with the Quarterback [QB] in between his out-of-town sporting stints for work. He is a huge fan of BBQing and wanted to break-in the new Weber grill so invited me over for some grub. In all honesty…I wasn’t in the best of moods, considering the recent weekend drama and having to rehash the story among friends only forced me to keep reliving it. But I pulled my big-girl pants up, slapped on a smile, and carried my hungry belly on over for what inevitably becomes another epic hangout on the patio.

QB knows nothing about the Mr. Ex saga, other than that he exists. While on the one hand it’s Brita-filter refreshing to have just one morsel of my life uncontaminated, yet on the other — sometimes I just want to come clean with him and expose the warfare done to my heart. But because we were having such a nice time, I decided to leave the verbal vomit for another occassion.

The dynamic between us continues to be perfectly complicated. We’re “early on” and there is still that initial “act” taking place. You know – the one where you’re on your very best behavior? You still really care about your prim & proper appearance. You haven’t quite let your hair down yet, so to speak. But because we hung out maybe a dozen times one year ago, we’re not total strangers.

The more dialogue we exchange, the more I’m gaining insight into his private playbook. So far from the sidelines, I’ve only observed his moves on the dating field, but now I’m getting a glimpse inside the locker room. He’s starting to share secrets.

For instance – I learned about his family, parents, and some girlfriend history that impacts his personal outlook on relationships. In other words, he too comes with baggage. Well, I guess it’s good that at least we’re both packin’. I learned that…all my joking aside, he really does have diagnosed A.D.D. I learned that because he has “known me for more than a year” [albeit most of it we weren’t in contact] – psychologically he’s much further down the road than I am. I learned that he keeps his cards close to his chest until he fully and completely trusts a ladyfriend before opening up in every sense of the word.

Last but not least, I learned that his interpretation of officially advancing with a sidekick is earmarked by passing gas in front of each other, walking around the house bare-ass naked, coupled by one person using the toilet while jointly sharing the bathroom facility with the other. Specifically, #2.

And suddenly, he was a guy again.

If there is one thing about me that will never change [never say never does not apply here] it’s that my private parts will remain in privacy while natural, biological happenings take place that has an outcome…well, of coming out of me, literally. Do not disburb. No seriously, don’t.

I know, I know, I know I’m the exception to most rules – but even after dating Mr. Ex for a kagillion years, we never *once* farted in front of one another. Is that normal? No, it’s not. Do I care? No, I do not. For the record, I blame my four brothers for sabotaging my 5 sensitive senses as a child. Flatulence is not flattering, period.

One guy I dated briefly last year tooted left and right, only weeks after we started hanging out. What’s worse…he blamed it on the dog!! And laughed about it. Friends comforted me by saying, “Oh that just means he is *really* comfortable around you.” Well if that really was the case, his extreme comfortableness was making me that much more uncomfortable. Opposites did not attract in this case.

I explained to manfriend-in-training that my relationship gauge is based upon feeling emotionally close to the person, and seeing them regularly. Then, inevitably, some of those other “moments” would happen organically down the road.

Because I believe in the concept of compromise and I also don’t believe in trying to change someone — today I sent him information on an odor-busting product that could save our Febreze-filled future together.  

Couch potatos.

One full month in relationship remission, and I’m starting to feel the detox effects. The extreme anger has subsided, thoughts of imposing physical harm have all but dwindled, and I can’t remember the last time I shed a tear. The final chapter of Mr. Ex escapades is quickly becoming a distant memory in the rear view mirror of my memory.

Can I get an Amen?

All the while, I’ve been steadily, but slowly, incorporating the Quarterback into my passenger seat…while being impossibly careful to make sure he isn’t, nor feels like, a rebound. Shifting into cruise control has been a breeze.

That is, until last night.

Last night I had a teeny tiny, itty bitty meltdown on the Datequest highway. I had been so good about remaining calm, taking things day by day, not overanalyzing things, and appreciating the little butterfly moments.

Recently I wrote about my past angst while we briefly dated last year…and how I wished he’d be more proactive as far as planning. These days, with my head screwed on tighter, I’m actively taking everything in stride and respecting his busy work schedule during this hectic sports season. I’m not lowering expectations by any means, just being more realistic at this crammed calendar time period.

However my manic turned mellow mindset experienced a temporary relapse.

“When do I get to see you again??” came through my text inbox on Monday when he returned from out of town. “How about tomorrow?” I suggested.

Then when push came to shove, and his grass had to be cut and laundry needed to be folded, I suggested we reschedule. “You’ve been traveling and have things to do.” Translation = take me out, damnit.

“But I want to see you and hang out. Come over and let’s have a beer.”

I literally sat there for twenty full minutes, starring at my cell’s screen, deciding what to do. Then it hit me. OK he isn’t a mind reader. He isn’t a douchebag either, taking advantage of spending time with me @ his convenience [a major red flag from my past].

Furthermore, the fundamental reason I’m paying to sit on a comfy chair across from a for-hire friend with a PhD is because I don’t want to sabotage future relationships with perfectly healthy men…by putting up walls in a lovely shade of jade[d] green. So I said to myself, “Just go over there and tell him what the deal is.”

That’s what I did.

And it was great. We chatted for over two hours, sitting on opposite sides of the sofa under a blanket with our feet at each other’s hips. I explained my hesitation on having a low-key, couch potato session and how I didn’t want to skip over the traditional courting part – simply because we’ve dated before and we’re so comfortable around each other. But that I also understand things are crazy right now and not having a formal Tuesday night on the town wasn’t necessarily a deal breaker.

Every single solitary time I see him, layers are peeled away and I learn more about how incredibly authentic he is. How he is a solid communicator. What his fears are. What matters to him. What his goals are.

Consequently, every single solitary time I walk away respecting him more. Appreciating his honesty. Gawking at his gigantic smile. And being surprised by unexpected, mature, and candid sentiments he shares. I’m still having a hard time swallowing how open he’s been with me as far as relationships are concerned. Dating Peter Pan previously, the “M” word was always so taboo. But with QB, the desire & readiness to be in a committed lifetime partnership practically drips from his pores.

It seems like I’ve spent years and years driving in cluster-filled circles behind a pace car, waiting for the crash to be cleared, so I could go on about my business. And now the romance-binging roadblock is out of the way. After all, they say some doors have to close in order for others to open…

I’m not in a race against time, but if it feels this good along the laps to love, I can’t imagine what it’ll feel like to finally cross the finish line.