Sunday, May 31, 2015

For The Birds



Every year, around Mother's day, orioles appear. They are magnificient. If I'm lucky, they will nest in an old birch tree that is rooted just beyond my deck. 

May is a difficult month and the birds comfort me. May is all about Mother's Day and Memorial Day. Memorial Day is the holiday that coincided with the death of my son in 2002.

This Memorial Day, I received a call from David. David is Tinder date number #3. David and I had been canoodling since February of this year. David and I did fun things together. David liked electronic dance music, bar food, and New Orleans. David introduced me to his family, friends and coworkers. I really liked David's family, friends, and coworkers. David was well respected by his peers and appeared to be a kind, nurturing father to his three daughters.

David, despite his uncanny resemblance to a toucan (and believe me, you can't judge a bird by his beak), was the perfect Mr. Right Now.


Until he dumped me, on Memorial Day, for "someone better."

David did this knowing it was the anniversary of my son's death. In David's well rehearsed break-up speech, he insisted on telling me how wonderful she made him feel.

And I couldn't help but wonder... how long have I been attracted to selfish men? 

Two weeks before Memorial Day, my soon-to-be-X-husband agreed to stay at my home and watch our dogs while I went to Newport with Toucan David. I came home to find his idiot brother, perched in a lawn chair in the driveway, eating pizza and drinking beer. There was no sign of my soon-to-be-X-husband and the house was trashed.

When I told my idiot, soon-to-be-X-brother-in-law, to leave and he refused, I picked up the garden hose that he had just used to wash his Porsche, and hosed him down. When he yelled in protest, I aimed for his mouth. It was like one of those carnival games, where you aim your water pistol at the clowns mouth.


When I offered to wash the inside of his Porsche, he agreed to leave. The next day, I changed my locks and had an alarm system installed.

On Memorial Day, I set out for a walk and spotted a dead barn sparrow stuck in a glue trap along the neighboring carport rafters where they nest.

I first noticed the traps a few weeks back, but thought they were cardboard cut-outs set to discourage the sparrows from nesting. What a horrific death that must have been (I will not post that picture).


Earlier in May, I was told that the swallows swooped one of the building owners who is handicapped and uses a motorized scooter to get from his car to the building.

I have to assume he approved, if not initiated the trapping, and I find it ironic that a physically disabled person would subject an animal to such barbaric restraints.

On Memorial Day, I called PETA and learned that barn swallows are protected under the "Migratory Bird Act of 1918" and that it is illegal to intentionally kill, injure, or destroy them, their nest, or their eggs.

On Memorial Day, I watched the on-call building maintenance man remove the glue traps.

On Memorial Day, I waited for a call, text, or email from my soon-to-be-X-husband. Thinking surely he would reach out knowing how difficult this day is for me - how difficult this day was for US.

The call never came. But the awakening did.

On Memorial Day, I realized that I have been attracted to selfish men for a very long time.

I have always admired the barn swallows. They are loyal. They are fearless. They are resilient.

And so am I.

xo, Monkey Me 



Tuesday, April 21, 2015

WHAT I SEE



I am alone, blissfully alone. My home is filled with fresh cut flowers - gifts to myself. I write from an empty, oversized bed. It is plush, and cozy, and lovely here.

My bedroom is my favorite room in the house. It is spacious, and whimsical, and oh so inspiring. Tall ceilings and a spiral staircase lead to an open loft accentuated in skylights. This is my creative space. My sewing machine is here and mounds and mounds of faux fur. And fabric that stretches and bounces and sparkles. And paintbrushes and paints, and books on painting, and sketching, and etching. And beads! Tiny, grains of honed, semi-precious stones. And baubles that only make sense to me.

In front of me is a deck dotted in pansies, and tulips, and ivy, and all things spring. I have a new, turquoise blue, patio umbrella. My old one was brown. Now, no matter what the forecast, I am guaranteed a brilliant, blue sky.

Just beyond my deck is a willowy old riverbed and thanks to April showers, it is fed, at full force, by a magnificent waterfall - a steady source of relaxation and rejuvenation.

For the first time in my life I am without a man - without my father, without my son, and without a husband.

I am untethered.

I am fueled by three little words... I am done

From the moment I released those words, nothing else mattered. Not what he did or didn't do, not the pain, or the disappointment, or the rage, or the regrets.

I am no longer the victim. I am the victor.

There are a few things missing. Things that had nothing to do with me. Things that were gently used - golf clubs, tennis rackets, guitars, mounds of baseball caps and unscuffed sneakers.

Weird stuff is missing too. Gone are all the secrets, those dirty little secrets.

I gave away my television and the desktop computer that was the catalyst for much of our demise. My noise of choice is now music. Today it's a funky, jazz, techno beat that syncs with the sizzle of a gentle rain.

I am focused on me - on me being healthy and happy.

I like pulp in fresh squeezed orange juice.
I like lime green vases bursting with white hydrangeas.
I like wearing bedroom slippers.
I like who I choose to spend time with.
I like where I live.
I like what I do.
I really like my new, turquoise blue umbrella.

I like me.



xo, MonkeyME



Monday, February 9, 2015

Clown Down

"There is nothing special about dying. We all do it. It's how we live that counts."

Caught in a Hope Floats moment, what I told my Tinder date after delivering the crib note version of my cancer crusade and witnessing his pathetic, clown down face.


The End

I am dating again. Which means that my on again, off again, marriage has reached it's final chapter.

It took me a long time to get to this point but in the end, I made the choice to let it go and it is a relief. I no longer feel hurt, disappointed, or angry. I don't blame anyone, especially not myself. We are now at the beginning of a civil separation which I am certain will lead to a happy divorce.

And because I am impatient, I leaped back into the dating pool. Date number one made me cry. Date number two got a black eye.

Intrigued?

From the get go Radish (not his real name) was cocky, overbearing, and dismissive - ego based qualities that I typically loath, but in my raw, newly single state, found appealing.

Physically, he is mildly attractive with a big bear stance, HUGE paws, and warm eyes.

In his mind he is successful, strong, sexy... a player and a great catch.

In my mind, he is highly amusing, uncouth, and ambitious.

I was surprised when he asked me to dinner because of our significant age difference (he is 10 years my junior). When I questioned him about it he said, with a broken Central European accent,"This not problem for me. This problem for you?"

Typically, my choice of men would be one that is totally smitten by me. A man that I could control and manipulate. This cantankerous, cocky man, would be a challenge.


We had numerous arguments (via text) and two breakups in the days leading up to our date.

The first came when he sent me a scandalous selfie taken in a public locker-room and the second when I engaged my PI side and searched public court documents to determine if his wife was aware of his pending divorce (she is).

Determined to let him lead, when he chose a sushi restaurant that I had dined at the night before with my daughter, I said nothing.

Uber escorted, I arrived fashionably late and visibly nervous in new, black stretch straight-legged jeans, an elegant cashmere sweater, and kick-ass Tory Burch boots. Not knowing what his idea of dress-to-impress might be, and half expecting a sea of gold chains across an over-exposed, bushy chest,  I was pleasantly surprised by his classic, conservative attire.

He immediately took charge, ordering a boat load of sushi (an actual three foot long boat full of food) and I passively drank what he ordered (a blood orange margarita).

Avoiding the squid and focused on the tuna, I ate not out of hunger but to steady my nerves and tequila infused sea legs.

On the advice of my daughter, I avoided conversations involving my three failed marriages or my three rounds of cancer and instead let him expose his underbelly.

And so he talked and I listened. But mostly we laughed. We laughed about the simplicities of everyday life. We laughed about ourselves and the comical situations we had wiggled our way into. We laughed until we were the only patrons in the restaurant and the staff grew impatient. We laughed until he leaned over our corner table for four, looked me straight in the eyes and said, "We can be lovers but there can be no love. You are too old."

This is when the laughter stopped. This is when I broke into tears. Not just a few, well-timed teardrops, but I openly sobbed. Because my white cloth table napkin was not absorbent, it took me two trips to the ladies room to compose myself enough to leave the restaurant.

Our effort to salvage the evening with "dance" failed when JHouse, the local "disco," was empty. Instead he drove erratically to the harsh, repetitive beat of Polish house music while I rambled on, and on, and on, about my cancer.

By the time he dropped off me at my front door, we agreed never to see each other again.

This is why people take a self-imposed, time-out between relationships. This is why women give up on men all together. This is painful.

Because you can't keep a good clown down, I got home and immediate reactivated my Tinder account. Determined to find a man who did not think I was "too old," I skimmed through countless profiles while my eyes were still swollen from tears.

Silly Shannon...

After tweaking my five, put-your-best-face-forward photo's, I was convinced that this Shannon was not "too old" for anyone between the ages of 46 to 60.






Like fishing in a well-stocked trout pond, my late night Tinder trolling sparked several bites. The first was Johnny Manicotti (not his real name), a fit, stable (by his own definition), 52 year old, newly divorced bachelor currently residing in North Carolina but visiting family less than a mile away.

PERFECT - no strings and no time for tears.

His best-face-forward picture was of a trim, well-toned, topless man, lounging on a sun-drenched beach chair, so I suggested our first date be a walk at the beach.

After juggling the complexities of our desperately single schedules, we agreed to meet the next day at 10:00 am.

I armed myself with a double layer of down, sensible, waterproof boots, shades to conceal my still swollen eyes, faux fur hat, gloves, and my 95 pound Bernese Mountain dog.

He, avoiding the advice of his mother, arrived underdressed in pearl white sneakers, a light-weight wool baseball jacket, bare head and hands.

I offered him my hat, a desperate attempt to avoid the glare of his newly dyed (scalp still stained), pitch black, deeply receding clown hair, but he declined my offer.

So, with the wind at our faces, we set out for an uncomfortable stroll on the beach.

Winter weekends at the beach are all about the dog. Dogs off leash. Dogs of all sizes. So if you say, "you like dogs," you'd better mean it.

After a quick recount of my failed marriages and my cancer crusade, we coincidentally bumped into Boris (not his real name) - my faithful, freakishly tall friend.

"Look, there are the other two dogs from my Tinder photo, and LOOK, there is my friend Boris!" I jubilantly announced.

Johnny, who is no fool, was cordial but not amused.

It became apparent that Johnny's idea of "likes dogs" was from a distance, when he found himself surrounded by a menagerie of furry's that included a cluster of Bernese Mountain dogs who insisted on sitting on his feet and burrowing themselves between his legs (typical Berner behavior), and he was visibly shaken.

And then, as if the date wasn't awkward enough, corralled in a cluster of canines who, like a school of sharks, sensed his fear, Johnny tripped on a ripple of wet sand and fell forward.

Boris, reacting with the instinct of a prize fighter, extending both arms in an attempt to steady Johnny but instead, Boris's left hand connected with Johnny's right eye.

Later at Starbucks, it wasn't until his second trip to the mens room (nerves or enlarged prostate?) that he noticed his visible bruise.

Later that day I received a text from Johnny stating, "Mom thinks you abused me, LOL."

This time, I didn't bite. Besides, Mom was right.



xo, Monkey ME



Thank You For Encouraging My Joy of Writing

Thank You For Encouraging My Joy of Writing
greenmonkeytales@live.com

Shannon E. Kennedy

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Photo by Joan Harrison