What’s More Important Than to Love and Be Loved?

My ex-husband Eric and I met 17 years ago at an airport bar in Lewiston, Idaho. He was the cutest man I had ever seen in my life. He asked me to dance to “Summer Lovin'” from Grease, and I said “No,” three times before I finally gave in. While we danced he kept smiling, wide and earnest, with a gap between his front teeth. Later he told me he kept falling out of his flip-flops.
While we chatted later that evening, we learned that I was 29 and Eric was 19. His fake I.D. said his name was Steve Williams (AKA Stone Cold Steve Austin) and his address was 316 Austin Street in Clarkston, Washington. Even though we kissed, and I saw skyrockets, I refused to give Eric my phone number or let him take me home, because I was sure he was going to be some immature “dude” who would use me, toss me aside and break my heart.
Long story short for the sake of the blog, I called Eric ten days later because I couldn’t stop thinking about that smile. We started dating, fell in love and got married in 2001. I already had two daughters from two previous marriages–one ended in divorce, and the other in widowhood.
After seven years together, Eric and I had a son. I can say without hesitation Eric was born to be a “Dad.” He was a pretty good husband, too, although my being an extreme extrovert and his being an extreme introvert may have helped lead to our demise, along with my fear of getting too close to anyone.
We have been divorced for three years, and I still think he’s the only guy for me. The older I get, the more I learn, is there anything better in the world than L-O-V-E?


May Was the Cruellest Month (So Far)

May Day is my brother Tony’s birthday. He was born in 1966. He died on May 3, 1987, in a motorcycle wreck. So every year at about mid April, I get the blues. On his birthday, I usually post a collage on Facebook with the message, “Miss ya, Tony.”

My brother-in-law Wes was born on May 12, 1970. He died in August of 1997 during a car accident. So every year, on his birthday, I post a photo and message on Facebook saying, “Miss ya, buddy.”

My husband Harly was born on May 17, 1969. He died in October of 1997 from a genetic liver disorder. So every year, I post a collage on Facebook with the message, “Miss ya, Har.”

Once I am passed those three rough days, I feel better. But this year, on Harly’s birthday, I got a bonus. While I was pulling weeds in my backyard, my 95 pound black lab/Newfoundland Gus was chasing my pitbull Ginger and I got in the way. Gus came running at me top speed and hit me just about head-on. It felt like a flying brick. I yelled, “Ow, ow, ow,” and wobbled into the house to get some ice.

After looking up concussion symptoms on the web and seeing that I was going to be OK, I took it easy the rest of the night. But the next morning, when I looked in the mirror my jaw hung open: I had two black eyes. I worked from home the entire week. On May 22, I took the skills test for my Certified Nursing Assistant with two black eyes. The rater, who was a nurse, raised her eyebrows and said, “Your dog did that?”

I can’t ignore the looks I’ve been getting for the last three weeks. I wonder how many people think I am in a domestically abusive relationship. Part of me feels like a movie star, skulking around my small town in sunglasses all the time. Even today, I have two thin marks left, two purple reminders of Gus’s faux pas.

Boy, am I glad June has arrived. May, you can kiss my *ss.