"If That's the Worst Thing I Do"

David and I have a “shtick” that keeps us in check. It started with my calling him out on various habits he has, like leaving trails of crumbs where he sits or empty wrappers around the house. About a year ago, he started to say, “If that’s the worst thing I do...” meaning to him that our essence as a couple should carry more weight than the living together minutia that can get in the way.      

Although I usually chuckle when he says that because I think it’s a genuinely funny way to get himself off the hook when I make a grievance or two, I am OK with his good-natured retort because I also know he’s heard me and will pay more attention going forward.  

What I appreciate most about the comment is that it reminds me quickly and in a gentle manner of the “big picture”: this relationship is something I cherish and want to preserve, so what I say and do – when I am paying attention – is in accordance with that.

While marriage and friendship are obviously different animals, I’ve come to view my friendships in much the same way: as living organisms that need to be nourished as best I can. I thank my lucky stars for the dear friends who are there for me – in spirit if not always in person – and am so appreciative for the guidance they have provided for me to be a better friend, just by being who they are.

There are situations when a time conflict gets in the way and leads to my missing a significant event in a friend’s life. I am saddened when I know I’ve disappointed someone important to me: if I couldn’t attend a wedding or baby shower or naming, or maybe I forgot to ask about a doctor’s appointment or unintentionally said something bothersome, and so on. I am grateful to the friends who did not hold these disappointments against me because they believed in the big picture of our friendship. Unknowingly, they taught me how I’d want to handle similar situations. 

We live in an enormous world filled with all kinds of people. When we find individuals who “get” us, and we in turn “get” them, we are given the greatest gift possible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Picture This

In an effort to clean house before our semi-annual visitors (a.k.a. Lauren and family) descend upon us for Thanksgiving and some extra time to boot 😊, I’ve spent the last couple of weeks going through a treasure trove of items I had put away when my mom passed in 2015.

One of the bags, which contained her photo albums, has provided hours of history, entertainment, and emotion. The earliest pictures, in which she is a young adult, were in stark contrast to my memories of her on the last Thanksgiving we shared with our whole family, when she was in her late 90s.   

She had agreed to make the trek to my house, which thrilled me. I was so excited she wanted to join David’s and my family and would happily be together with all her children – my siblings and spouses and kids – who were also coming. This was before the pandemic when our gatherings were well over 30-35 people. I told her I’d have warm apple cider waiting and that I’d make her favorite sweet potato casserole and this Ambrosia dessert she liked that my former mother-in-law used to bring for family get togethers.

When my sister and sister-in-law brought Mom over, I eagerly went to the door to greet her, but then we all quickly realized that since she was unable to walk, we’d have to carry her inside, while sitting in her wheelchair. Luckily my mom had always been a good sport and didn’t give up when challenges were presented, so the physically strong women and men at my house were able to bring her inside. This unpleasant feat – I would assume – for her was well worth it to me, at least when I was able to take my seat next to hers at our dining room table.

I wish I had a snapshot of us sitting side by side that night, because I would have framed it so that I could often be reminded of how happy I felt. Photos have a funny way of transporting us from wherever we are at the moment to another place and time that we may not have gone to otherwise.  

This was definitely the case when I sat down with my mom’s albums. The first one I pulled out was one where she looked to be in her 20s and was hanging out with her girlfriends and boyfriends. She’s having fun in the snow, lounging on the beach, swimming in the lake or ocean, playing baseball and having a grand old time. She was much more active than I ever was!

I was delighted to see the joy she was experiencing with her girlfriends, two of whom were her BFFs until they passed some years before she did. In mostly every photo taken of her as a young woman, her beautiful smile is front and center.   

Next, I started to see multiple shots of my dad and the two of them looking quite cozy, so I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be seeing more boyfriends. Just a few pages in, I began to see all the offspring: Children #1-#4 (yours truly) with Child #3 – Sherrie – reminding me most of our mom, as she was doing all kinds of athletic things too, like climbing up the trees and on the monkey bars and so on.   

Weeks after sifting through the photos, several thoughts keep replaying: 1 – My mom was an individual, not JUST my mom; 2 – I feel honored to have gotten a front row seat into her life when she was so young and vital; 3 – Seeing relatives and friends my mom held near and dear to her heart has been a pleasure; and 4 - Important photos need to be printed out if they are going to live on and keep the past alive.

Girlfriends

Two close friends of mine decided to move from North Jersey to South Jersey around the same time last year, knowing few others in the area.

I was so impressed with their sense of adventure, as I viewed it, and their determination to work toward a fulfilling next chapter of their lives...plus I was excited, since I’d be able to see them more.     

I started to wonder how I’d fare if I were to move and would need to make new buddies. It would be hard – I know this about myself – given how spoiled I’ve been making friends organically just from going about my everyday business. But making attempts intentionally to expand my circle of go-to women? I could see this being a daunting task.   

Talking with these lovely ladies, I was aware of some of their efforts to socialize, both fruitful and disappointing. One told me she developed an instant rapport with her new dental hygienist when they discovered some similarities, all while getting her teeth cleaned (she’s an incredible multi-tasker)! The other had joined a couple of “Meet Up” groups and these gatherings produced a variety of characters including, most importantly, a potential good pal or two.

It occurred to me a few months ago that these two have a lot in common and that maybe, just maybe, they’d really like each other too. Although I wondered if I should just mind my own business (b-o-r-i-n-g), I decided against that and asked them if they would be interested in meeting each other. I was thrilled when they responded positively, and we set up a brunch date.

The three of us had a pleasant morning and, as we said our goodbyes, they so kindly thanked me for sharing my friends with each other. This, I noted, was yet another notch under commonalities: they appreciated this opportunity to make a curated acquaintance and, as an added bonus, break bread with yours truly 😊.

Not many years ago, I’d never have thought to do this. I made a lot of assumptions back then that I now know are incorrect: 1 – In middle age, people have outgrown the need or desire for companionship; 2 – “Fixing up” is for romantic – not platonic – relationships; and 3 – There may not be enough time left to create a long history with someone new – so why bother?

Getting to know such warm, compassionate, and fun women in recent years has been a true gift. I have had no expectations of making friends – as I mentioned above – and in this space of just enjoying the moment and not looking for more, casual connections have continued to build.

I’ve also experienced two new friendships from the loss of dear friends who passed away. One very sweet woman said something along these lines to me when our precious friend was sick last winter: “You are great friends with Karen; I am great friends with Karen, so I think this might mean you and I could be great friends with each other” – and that is what happened.

Girlfriends – old and new, and all those in-between – truly are the best!

Virginia's Story

This week’s blog post is different from all my others because I didn’t write it. Virginia Gutierrez did. She is my sister Sherrie's wife of 7+ years. I met her the day I married David, almost 20 years ago.

Below is an excerpt of Virginia’s memoir, which is included in a collection of pieces curated by artist and activist Susan DiPronio, titled “Out Loud.”

In all the years I’ve known and adored Virginia – she is a very warm, compassionate, fun and loving presence – the stories shared here were heard by my siblings and me for the first time this past weekend.

Malflora Cowgirl

I had issues with gender as a kid. I had a lot of conflicting moments because my mother would buy me dolls and dresses, but I did not like them. I would insist that she buy me cowboy gear, boots and pants.

When I played with the boys and the girls in the neighborhood, I wanted to be the cowboy and wear the guns. When we would play “House” with everyone, I wanted to be the dad or the doctor, but the girls were assigned mother and nurse. Finally, I said “No, we should take turns being the dad. I want to be the dad and the husband.” They told me “No, because you are a girl,” but I told them, “This is our story, and I can be.”

They started rotating me as the husband, which meant I would kiss the wife. I got to kiss my neighbor Jeanette, when I was 6 years old...my first little kiss. It was so cool that I got to switch my gender role. I had so many thoughts: This feels so good; This is what I want. This is who I am; I am not the little frilly girl with the frilly dress, and I do not play with little dolls and bake cookies and pretend that we have babies and feed the little babies. No, I do not want to do that. I liked the boys as friends, and I wanted to play sports with them and ride bikes and stuff like that, but I did not want a boy to hold my hand or to kiss me. No, I wanted to hold the hand of a little girl.

When I was 15, I had my first girlfriend, Sally. From 1965-1970, the two of us went to El Paso High School. Sally was the pitcher of my softball team, the star of the team. I felt good because I loved the star, and the star loved me. I played shortstop and third base. We also played basketball, volleyball, and track. We were both in the band; she played the French horn, and I played the clarinet. We were always together. I loved this time of my life. 

Some of my classmates didn’t like Sally and me together. They would say, “Oh, you are one of those!” or “You’re a sports person and you don’t like boys, do you?” I would say, “I like them for friends, but I do not want to have a boyfriend.” I knew I was different; I knew that they knew and that some didn’t like it, but I didn’t care.

I can recall the first time I heard the word “lesbian.” I was 19 years old. I heard it in Spanish from my Aunt Mary. Looking back, it’s crazy that my family didn’t figure out I was a lesbian till then. That’s when Aunt Mary, my cousin Barbara, my sister Alicia and my mother all went to my boss, Dr. Disch, at the El Paso Health Department Dental Clinic, where I was working. I had just finished high school. Sally didn’t want to go to college, and she didn’t want me to go either. She had decided we’d go to a 6-week vocational program to be dental assistants. We then worked together, planned to get an apartment and hoped we would live happily ever after.

On this one particular day, I went into work and was shocked to see my mother, aunt, cousin and sister in my boss’ office at the clinic. Dr. Disch said to me, “Virginia, your family wants me to help them because they say you’ve come under the influence of some undesirable women, and they don’t want you to follow that path; they don’t want you to be like that. They want me to help get you away from these people.”

He said he was going to give me a medical leave of absence and I’d go to a psychiatric hospital where I would get treated and get this “gay” thing – they didn’t call it “gayness” or say the word homosexual either – out of me so that I wouldn’t have these feelings or desires anymore.

I stood up and said, “No, I am not going to a psychiatric hospital.” I told him he could fire me if he wanted to, but I wasn’t going. My mother was crying and didn’t say a word. Both my aunt and my sister insisted that I go, but I stood my ground. That night, home with my family, my sister told me that they didn’t want me hanging out with these women again and that I had to go to the hospital and be cured. Again, I said “No.” I called my friend Edith and she drove over and picked me up. I went to stay at her house for a few weeks.

When I came back home, I started packing my clothes in a suitcase. “You have to do what we say,” Aunt Mary said to me and, once again, I said "No." I’ll never forget what happened next. My sister, aunt, and cousin tried to grab me and cut my hair. I had long hair down to my waist. Aunt Mary said to me, “En nuestra cultural las lesbianas tienen cabello como los hombres.” Translated into English, that means: “In our culture, the only ones who have short hair like men are lesbians.” She said if I wanted to be a malflora, then I have to have short hair. That was the first time I had heard the words “lesbiana” and “malflora.”  In Spanish, “malflora” means lesbian, slang for “a bad flower.”

I remember freaking out, breaking away and walking out the door with whatever suitcase I had, and I went back to Edith’s house. It was 1973. I moved into an apartment building on Main Street in El Paso for lesbians and shared an apartment with four others. My life had changed so suddenly. I went from living with my family to being forced out and then living with others like me. While it was great to live with lesbians, it was a very traumatic time for me, as I felt betrayed by my family. I didn’t speak to them for years. After 40 years, my sister Alicia asked me to forgive her. I never resolved things with Aunt Mary, who is dead now. I should have, but never went to therapy.

Many years ago, I referred to myself as a “Dyke”; I called myself a sports dyke when I was young, because I played sports. The use of “femme” and “butch” were used within our community. The femmes dressed more feminine, and the dykes were butchy, dressing like men. I was always in-between; I liked dressing in different ways and didn’t fit into either category. I remember people wanting to date me and would ask, “Are you a femme or are you a butch?” I replied “I don’t know. I’m neither. I’m both.”

In the ‘90s and through the 2000s, I used "Gay" to refer to myself; before that, it was used for male homosexuals. Since then, I’ve identified as “Queer,” which was once a derogatory term, even in our own community. Now it is considered a perfect term for the spectrum of sexuality.

Today it is fine for someone to find out on their own where they fall on the spectrum, and it’s ok that it changes. It is up to the individual to dictate whatever they want to be, and it’s fluid. It’s not like it was when I was young, when you had to fall into certain categories and be labeled.

Virginia L. Gutierrez, Esquire

A Day at the Beach

With a little encouragement from my “beach coach” and a lot of talking to myself, I was able to spend a couple delightful days at the beach this summer, just like old times.  

After being traumatized by skin cancer on my face five years ago, I had been unable to get past my fear of the sun. It had, so sadly, become my arch enemy, with the message from my dermatologist to be extra vigilant echoing in my head until I decided no sun for me, maybe ever again. I had basically told myself to be grateful for all my beach-related memories of the past...and move on.  

This summer, however, I felt the powerful allure of the beach – or, as my mom would have said – I could hear it calling my name. I wanted so badly to join my friends who invited me for the day, so I made the decision that instead of saying “No” this time around, I would quickly say “Yes” and would NOT back out.   

Still, however, I was wracked with concern that I was being irresponsible while also realizing that people with skin cancer can still go to the beach...and enjoy themselves too. All this Should I? or Shouldn’t I? was making me nuts, yet what I really wanted deep down was to overcome my fear, figure out how to feel safe, and go.   

It was an odd position to be in, having to psyche myself up for something that I really wanted to do. While I’ve had to rev up for plenty of things I didn’t want to do – like hang out with someone who I didn’t care for, clean the bathroom, or weed in the garden – I can’t recall when I last had to push myself to do something that I really, really wanted to do.  

It’s not like I was talking about skydiving or something universally recognized as being risky. All I’d be doing was parking my behind on the chair for a few hours.

Enter my beach coach. She too has had facial skin cancer, and we’ve discussed many times the sad quandary that the forbidden love of the beach has presented. This summer with her desire to spend time playing in the sand with her grandkids, she was able to move past her uneasiness. She got out there with a full set of armor – a hat, umbrella, and everything else needed to protect herself – and with a mindset that she was going to 1 – savor the experience and 2 – NOT think about skin cancer.  

Ironically, I was texting with her the morning I was getting ready for my first beach date. She sensed my trepidation and gave me an inspirational pep talk, telling me to push my worries off to the side and Have A Blast!

I did just that.  I covered my body from head to toe, not even wearing a bathing suit but rather light beach-type clothing. I donned a wide-brimmed hat with a little tie underneath that came in quite handy with the wind. I reapplied sunscreen on the exposed areas multiple times. I basically looked like my mom the last time she was on the beach with my kids and me, when she was in her late 80s some 20 years ago, although I do think she wore a bathing suit, because my daughter still remembers walking in on her when she was putting it on.

The amazingly blue landscape of the Atlantic Ocean as it met the sky took my breath away; being up close and personal with it was thrilling. I had forgotten how amazing it was to behold the seas glistening beneath the sun and to hear the loud roars of the waves as they crashed into the shore. Great conversation filled the time, and I even got a snooze or two in. There is absolutely nothing like sleeping on the beach.

Worrisome thoughts did float around my brain from time to time, but I continued to push them away, telling myself that I can be careful and have fun at the same time...and that life isn’t going to be very interesting or rewarding if I get in the habit of saying NO more than YES.

Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

Where, oh where, has our favorite Pyrex gone?

Our coveted 8x6 Pyrex has disappeared. We are desperate to get it back into the rotation, stacked neatly once again like royalty along with the remainder of the set.

We have no clue where our favorite kitchen container is. We have looked e v e r y w h e r e: 2 refrigerators, 2 freezers, a pantry, other assorted shelves and cabinets – even our bedroom and bathroom.     

Thinking that maybe I had given it to one the kids with some food, we asked each of them if they had noticed a different Pyrex mixed in with their own stash, but each of them said NO. Not fully convinced, I even tried to sneak a peek when I was in their kitchens, just in case...no luck. A month later, we asked a second time, and still: “NO.” Then a third time. They’ve even said they are aware I’ve accused the others too. I’m aware they may think I’ve turned into a nutty old woman with nothing better to do than obsess over this Pyrex. At least they know they haven’t been singled out, so that’s a relief. If there’s a silver lining here...perhaps they can further bond over this.

For under $15 including shipping on Pryex.com (seems I’d have to buy a whole set on Amazon), I could purchase one that would enable me to move past this void and yearning for its return, but I’m not quite there yet. I need to solve the mystery of where that bad boy has been hiding for the past few months before the easy fix of buying its replacement.

That’s the funny thing about the search for a misplaced item: Generally when I do find it, I’m usually baffled that it isn’t in the location where it had been initially, yet it usually makes perfect sense in its new home.

I don’t know if I’ve lost my mind or have way too much time on my hands – or both – but I hope I don’t find it in some really bizarre place. If I do, I’ll keep that info to myself...or, more likely, I’ll blame David.

 

 

 

 

Reflections of Light

It’s not every day that our thoughts go to all the fun we had in our younger years. Who has the time or focus to prioritize nostalgia when real life issues are clogging up the brain?   

Alas, I have discovered a most perfect way to slip these happy thoughts into my daily routine.

It all starts when I go to bed. I don’t have to pull out photo albums, listen to any kind of music, search through old mementos or have had conversations earlier in the day leading to a walk down memory lane that night.

All I need to do is to gaze at the string of lights that my neighbors installed to outline their backyard fence, which I can see when I lay my head on my pillow.

This view immediately takes me back some 30+ years to one particular summer when I brought my toddlers to Ocean City, New Jersey for a week at the beach with my girlfriends. A handful or more of us had rented a house and each mom had one bedroom, with her kids. My bed was by a window. That first evening, I realized that the window faced the Ferris wheel at the amusement park on the boardwalk, where we all had just left an hour or two before, and which was still lighting up the sky.  

I went from thinking I’ll never get to sleep in here; it’s way too bright...to somehow dozing off despite that...to I can’t wait till bedtime to savor the view once again.

That one short remembrance from the 1990s always sets into motion a stream of reflections of summers before and after, along with an endless supply of random moments. These flashbacks I allow in are joyous. They always make me smile, as I relive my experiences of motherhood when laughter and love for my babies provided the purest form of happiness and gratification imaginable. They also highlight those special peeps who have greatly enhanced my life.

Often it’s those fond memories that smooth out the rough times of the present. When I've had a frustrating day or my frame of mind is gloomy, a pleasant recollection can go a long way in helping me to reset.

 

 

Mother's Day 2023

I love Mother’s Day. I get to celebrate that I am a mom 😊- my favorite identity in the world, right up there with being David’s wife, of course – and am thrilled to have yet another occasion to indulge in reminiscence of my own mom.

She had lots of great qualities, with approachability high on the list. For a kid like me who ruminated excessively, I appreciated how willing she was to listen to whatever I was miffed about, view it from multiple perspectives and create some kind of plan to improve my situation.

There had always been something about her presence when I was conflicted that was, in a word, transformative, and when she passed, I wondered how difficult it’d be for me to get through life without it. However, as days became weeks which became months, I got used to the new reality, until I realized that I could still have her nearby, in one way or another.     

It just so happened that my mom had told me before she passed that she wanted to be cremated. My dad had been buried, and when I asked – without thinking about what was important to her – “Don’t you want to be with Dad?” she said she would like some of her ashes sprinkled around his grave but that she also wanted to be spread in her favorite place in the world – the outdoors – on a mountain and/or in the ocean.

When it came time to talk with the funeral home about her wishes and we told them what she had said, the question was asked, “What about the rest of her ashes? Do any of you want an urn to have at home?”

This was a surreal conversation obviously; just a couple of days before, I was visiting with a very alive albeit unhealthy mom, and now we were talking about my bringing her ashes home in an urn. The thought of her stationed in my house in this manner was at first bizarre, then it was more bizarre, and then it was...amazing...too good to be true even given that that was the only way I could still be close to her. I jumped at the chance.

I said “Sure, I’ll take some,” as if I was talking about leftover cake, and my sister said the same thing. Next, we picked out our urns and then waited several weeks for our mom to be mailed to us.

When we received the package, I was too weirded out to take the urn out of the box. When I finally did, I wasn’t sure where to put it. I decided to place it on the piano, because she loved to play and was terrific at it too, and I was always excited when I saw her walking toward the bench in my childhood home. Her fingers were fast and powerful and would belt out “Mother’s Prayer” like nobody’s business. She inspired me to play too, but I never developed the finesse that she displayed naturally.

Mom has now been sitting on the piano for over 8 years. On a side note, I just realized that my iPhone wallpaper is a photo of her sitting at a piano.

While it can be unnerving to know she’s hanging out in my living room, I have caught myself looking for her when I’m passing by. I always smile to myself thinking she’d be so happy to know that she’s where her great-grandchildren are, as they often bang away on the piano and sing loudly and have lots of fun until someone shuts the top onto someone else’s little fingers.  

It may sound creepy to have my mom’s ashes in my home, in such a prime location too, but the truth of the matter is that I’ve learned to find joy in this rather unconventional scenario. I appreciate the ease with which I can communicate with her; I don’t have to drive an hour to get together or call her on the phone. She really is more accessible this way.  

I’ve gotten so accustomed to it that it feels like old times when I ramble on about the craziness of life with her sitting there quietly. While I find her as patient as ever, she’s surely quieter than ever too, so now I really have to don my thinking cap to speak intelligently to myself. 

Even in this different form, she continues to comfort me.  

It's My Anniversary!

It’s not a typical one that people generally brag about, but I’m going to today.

Seven years ago this month I was fired from my job at the pediatric office where I dutifully went for 17 years. I know I’ve referred to this experience multiple times in my blog posts...please allow me to do it just one more time 😊.

For months, I kept asking myself – and still do at times – WTF ?!?!?

A couple of years before that, unfortunately, the local newspaper for which I had been a freelancer for 15 years was gobbled up by a much larger one, thereby ending my association with them. Missing the writing, however, did get me to launch my own personal blog in 2014, that you guys are still kind enough to read when I’m motivated enough to write.

When I was sent home that morning back in April 2016, I was panic-stricken and so very sad. Even though I no longer liked the job at that time, I was comfortable with my routine there, had some wonderful co-workers/friends and felt good about helping the parents of the little ones.     

I was worried, albeit realistic: at 56, how likely would it be that I could slide into a similar situation?

With no commitments for the first couple of months of my being at home during the day other than to participate in a training program as required to get unemployment benefits, I began to realize that my efforts might be misdirected: instead of looking to replace the kind of job I had, perhaps this could be a time to explore other possibilities.   

One day as I was online looking at volunteer opportunities as a grant writer, I saw that some guy on Facebook Messenger tried to contact me. He asked if I’d want to freelance for his Pine Barrens community newspaper start-up.

I called him back not knowing if it was SPAM and my first thought was Yikes! He has a very young voice. But you know the power of youth...he was so revved up about his new venture...I couldn’t resist...I went to his office the next day. He was indeed young – even younger than 2 of my kids – but after he told me I could focus on feature writing and not have to take on a school district or municipal beat too, I was all in.

I stayed in this position for several years and am thrilled for how it enriched my life. It opened my eyes to the wonderful people of the Pine Barrens communities. Many interviews and time spent with my subjects were so meaningful at the time and remain in my thoughts today.

For example, I love my nighttime shower routine with fabulous smelling goat soap (“The Grazing Goat”), thanks to the woman I highlighted in my feature story who has created an enormous line of goat soap products. 

Based on another woman I interviewed, I am equipped with the knowledge that if a VIP in my life gets sick, I am going to contact the “Hug Wraps” creator, a cancer survivor herself, for a custom-made item that will feel like a big, warm hug. 

I could go on and on.

Since this freelance gig still left me with lots of time, I also took a second position to write and edit for a startup women’s health website and app. I had the pleasure of spending time and brainstorming with one of the co-founders and worked closely with my special friend Beth who so tragically passed away from ALS about 18 months ago.

I also had the opportunity to work with my dear friend Susan, a CPA, who brought me in to her office to help out during tax season, where I stayed for over a year, until the pandemic started.  

I am much obliged to those who invited me in, who were open to giving me a place with them at a time when I was desperately trying to find my way.

One day I’ll have to tell my grandbabies how thankful I am for them for so many reasons, a very important one being that their births caused a welcome rebirth in me.

The first two grandchildren provided me with a weekly babysitting responsibility; during the pandemic I got to travel to Florida 3 times with my daughter’s mother-in-law to visit our kids and granddaughter, and in-between these trips I was able to spend concentrated time with the youngest of the grandchildren. None of this would have been possible had I still worked at the doctors’ office.

Often in life stuff happens to us which we have no control over; in this case, it was my termination. While I should have taken matters into my own hands, I didn’t, and instead my life took a different course...and played out so much better than I could have imagined.

Getting fired truly was addition by subtraction, and for that I am grateful.