BuffyW's Open Salon Blog

What Being Single Really Means.

Tue, 24 Nov 2009 11:11:48 -0500

Sunday I got hungry. I was all showered and dressed and it was 12:15. I decided I would drive to Ventura to poke around and discover a restaurant I hadn't eaten in before. It felt like a good time to call my friend Brett and be spontaneous...asking him to join me. I called his number only to hear he was already out with friends at a brunch, but that wasn’t going to deter me. I have no problem going out to eat alone fortunately.

By then I was driving past our local little auction house...”AUCTION TODAY” the sign beckoned to me. Huh...didn’t know today was an auction. So I did a quick bit of thinking. Hey, they have a really good and inexpensive catering company so I could get something to eat and amuse myself. I make a quick U-turn and immediately I was hunting for a parking space. This is how I ended up eating a pulled turkey sandwich and buying a strand of South Sea Pearls...inexpensively.

Today I went shopping for a dress to wear the strand of pearls with. Sounds easy enough, but as I discovered, it opened a whole bunch of doors I hadn’t even realized I closed.

It is the holiday season, Thanksgiving is just a few days away and I’m feeling like a pie in the bakery of life. I’m being sliced up and pieces are expected to grace several plates. Everyone wants a piece of me, and I am but one mere person. And I might have my own idea of how I would like to spend my Thanksgiving this year.

Yes, it is the first Thanksgiving without Lance. But it also is MY FIRST THANKSGIVING WITHOUT LANCE. It means something different to each person, including me.

I used to cook and everyone would come to my house, I have the photos to prove how wonderful it was. The past couple of years my brother-in-law took over, because for me it wasn’t the same once my mother died. Oh I did cook a couple of times, but it took on epic proportions. The new stepmom, the extended families of the children (not mine though) and it became a very sad day, a reminder that my own son was a) in rehab somewhere, b) out getting high, or c) was away physically because he was spending it with his “other” family.

The thing is, it is just another day. A really jam packed, not so fun day. I don’t need a day decreed to be thankful, I get the other 364...but on Thanksgiving, I’m not particularly thankful to be reminded of what I don’t have. It is my day of negativity. I think I am entitled to one...but no, because I am "the strong one", never mind how I might be feeling about this day ...nobody asks me. They basically tell me how the day is going to be, what time to be where...blah-blah.

Anyway, I don’t know if I’ll be joining the family or if I will just get in my car and head in the opposite direction as fast as I can.

Okay...I’m over being delusional, I’ll be going to some restaurant with both families and I will like it, crappy turkey dinner and all.

I’m on the countdown until I do get get to go on vacation, where I’ll have a month to be out of touch with all the demands that are made on me. I just need time to breath, time to not have to deal with other people and their problems. Maybe I can breathe in some salt air and begin to clear my head. I need a battery recharge, it's been some strange months.

This pretty much brings me back to where I shopping for a dress to wear on the cruise with those amazing pearls I bought yesterday at the auction. I found this adorable strapless black dress which was simple and a perfect style to let the pearls be the star. I tried it on.

It had a large, exposed metal zipper down the back as a featured design (usually back zippers are challenging when single and a good way to weed through dresses I want to buy), but the material was stretchy, meaning I could put it on backwards to zip it up and then turn it around on my body. That’s a necessity when you no longer have anyone to zip you up. No one to fasten the clasp my necklace for me at the base of my neck, or to close my bracelet as it encircles my wrist.

I have wasted a half an hour more than once lately, in extreme frustration trying to get a bracelet fastened, or trying to zip a dress up the back, as far as I could reach, with had nobody to ask to finish zipping it up for me. It’s these odd little things which are now making an appearance in my “single life”.

This is also how I got the blood blister on my stomach, zipping up the black dress and catching my stomach in the unforgiving metal teeth. Well, bite me... I am not taking you home!

I ended up buying a Kelly green dress with no zippers. Emeralds anyone?

Musings on Life.

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 09:11:28 -0500

I am not going to put on my victim coat, it’s way too heavy for the heat. How’s that for an entrance line?

The trouble with going away on hiatus is that you feel like when you come back people expect some brilliant musings. I don’t honestly know if I have any, but I sure have learned more about loads of things, mostly honesty.

I learned, what I believed is honesty, might not be. I learned dealing in honesty is tiptoing through a very big field of eggshells. I learned not everyone wants honesty. I learned no matter how lightly you step either your heart gets broken or you break some. It is the nature of honesty...and dishonesty. I also learned there is no way to avoid hurt. You can lessen it somewhat, but you can’t avoid it. Don't bother wasting your time trying to. Deal with it.

You have to experience whatever is thrown your way. And if I say some of it is more unbelievable than any fiction I could have conceived of, then you have to know; this stuff I was tossed was so far out of left field I'm still air-clown bouncing back up and it has been two weeks.

Bear with me. When I asked the question, "When is it acceptable for a widow to have sex?" I was dead serious. The responses I received from all of your comments were thoughtful and full of encouragement for me to be who I am, or what I thought I wanted to be, sexual. (Well one pathetic person who hasn' known a day of happiness thought otherwise. The token troll.)

Okay, I gave it the good old college try. I threw my heart wide open twice, including my legs. In the process I discovered quite a bit about me...I honestly can say I am really not ready for meaningful, sex beyond a week. I can't forsee the future, and I can't make any informed decisions of any lasting nature about relationships involving mind, body and soul. It's too soon.

I want to have some fun. This is where the honesty thing comes in. I’m vulnerable, I’m still grieving, in fact I am re-grieving. One step forward, another two back. My husband died twice, once in body and another time two weeks ago, when I experienced the death of our life as I knew it. I’m not going to play out the hurt victim...anyone could do this role...my role is to try and make sense out of it without hurting people who have no need to be hurt beyond what they already feel.

Did I experience great pain? Yes, enough that I knew I needed a hiatus to deal with it. I finished my cartoon grieving book, and it wasn’t a pretty, tied in a bow neat ending. No, it was raw, messy and full of meanings beyond what I could share with more than one or two people...the hurt and pain was visible as only I could express it...so in-your-face painful. I drew two cartoons that night, the only time in the entire book from Sept. 22 ...it ended with the two cartoons on Nov. 3. Oddly enough I have only been able to do three cartoons since (except for a few hand done cards), and even those I could not finish.

At the same time I ended the grieving drawings, I wrote a couple of stream of consciousness pages and let it simmer. I looked at it this morning and saw it was a “reactive” piece, one which had served its purpose by letting me express what I needed to express, without denigrating anyone publicly. What a relief to know I didn’t need to make my entire anguish public...I dealt with it. I’m still dealing with it.

I made a huge mistake by being honest, I hurt someone I care for a great deal. Because I am in a place in my life where I have some freedom, and because I feel so very vulnerable in the playing field of hopes and dreams it seems I’m walking on eggshells...and I am bound to break some. I haven’t had a playing field in decades, I don’t know the rules. Be open, tell them what I am feeling, even if it is a moment of desire? What if the desire evaporates, do I say that? Share my ongoing life, the good and the bad? So, I did all of the above. I wasn’t out to hurt anyone, and had no desire to be hurt in the process, but it happened. I was hurt, and I hurt another. I am so sorry I could not follow through with what I believed I wanted, what I believed I needed at the time. I honestly thought I could.

And then there was another disappointment, or three. Heck, I could be the Queen of Disappointment during the last week alone. But why? I feel all of them, but should those lessons make me stop wanting to try to find some happiness? No. And they won’t, it’s just that now I am getting more familiar with this game of hearts we play. I sure didn’t ask to be put out as a rookie...but I am just a rookie, go easy on me. Know I am dipping my toes into the waters of the heart...my heart which has been shattered and put back together with a few bits of duct tape...not a foolproof repair, but a temporary holding it together while I try to get something more permanent...I’m so damn fragile, but here I am again...toe first.

PS...what the heck has been going on in my absence? The lack of respect, compassion and decency has been shocking.

Taking a hiatus.

Thu, 5 Nov 2009 18:11:35 -0500

To all of you who have been wondering where I am...I'm working through some recent problems...nothing I won't get through, but I have been unable to concentrate, so not being much of a participant on OS.

It has absolutely nothing to do with any of you, and no, I am not "flouncing". I am simply prioritizing, and making myself whole again. I am writing, but have chosen to let it simmer awhile before I bring it here.

I'll be coming in and reading and commenting some, I will try to do it fairly, but if I miss your postings, don't take it personally. I know you all are aware there are immense life changing experiences I am undergoing. I hope you know I will share as I can.

To those of you who are undergoing heavy burdens and difficult life choices, take time to take care of yourself, we are no good to others unless we are good to ourselves.

I'll be back soon. I'm off living life and feeling it all... the good, the bad and the ugly. But I AM just fine.

Save The Last Dance For Me.

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 11:10:47 -0400

Since I am on the topic of dancing, I was encouraged to tell you about the last dance I ever had with Lance. Yesterday happened to have been the two month anniversary since my love died, so it isn’t surprising between my dance post and the memories I would have this story in my mind.

It was during last year’s holiday cruise, we’ve been taking for years now, since the millennium actually. We discovered cruising over the holidays was the perfect antidote for the craziness which appears to cloak most normally sane people with some kind of driven madness compelling them to be rude, walk like zombies, and spend like drunken sailors.

It was a perfect way to escape; slow, elegant and seductive we found cruising was our ticket to sanity at the end of the year. We would each pack fabulous clothing, he packed up his tuxedoes and two velvet smoking jackets (no, he didn’t ever smoke) in dark green and black, and of course his three pair of velvet evening slippers, never once forgetting the “devil shoes” I made him buy, after Phyllis and I were enamored with a certain bon vivant's shoes, one who occupied the penthouse and invited us for cocktails one formal night during one of our recharge cruises.

Lance aways wore them once per cruise, on New Years Eve.

I always bought a new gown or three, carefully choosing colors I had jewelry to match. But I digress.

For a few weeks, Lance and I could suspend reality, living in a glamourous environment where all of our alter egos could be indulged. Yes, usually it was that good.

With Lance in his wheelchair we always made a grand entrance...everyone would look at the couple gliding in, or seeming to, as pushing a wheelchair on a moving floor while wearing a long gown and high heels was a delicate maneuver at best. This is exactly why I always had my gowns checked and hemmed a teeny bit shorter in front, to accommodate the extra length bending forward...and would also help to explain why I tried not to get too low of a plunging neckline...my breasts did not need any encouragement to fall out and distract me from the pushing job at hand, or the handsome man I was standing behind. (Besides, if I let go of the wheelchair to shove them back in, one good wave pushing the ship upwards could result in me being knocked off and splayed with tire tracks...and God knows where he would end up.) We made quite the dashing couple if I do say so myself.

On this particular cruise it was New Years Eve. As was our custom, our first stop was the cocktail lounge, where we were joined by a lovely, older Scottish/Canadian woman traveling alone. We saw her drink a martini each night, all alone in a corner table. Then she would go to see the show or go to dinner. We invited her to sit with us and she took us up on it.

She was traveling alone because her husband passed away last year, and they had always traveled during the holidays. This year she decided not to sit home, but honor him by continuing on their tradition. They were childless, thus able to be away during the holidays. This struck a chord with us, and after she excused herself, Lance and I both had tears in our eyes, knowing that some day, one of us would be the one sitting at the table, having a drink alone, continuing on the tradition. We made a vow to each other to carry on too. (Who knew it would be this year’s cruise we planned upon our return in early January this past year.)

After she left, we watched as couples took to the dance-floor, mostly older people, the ones measuring each step with the knowledge they are a step closer to the last dance called life. They seem to glide across the floor, some whose body language tells you they are completely in synch, while others' bodies say the distance between them in body and soul needs a tuneup.

“Honey, let’s dance.” I say to him. I know full well he is thinking...What is she thinking?

“Come on, we can do this.” He smiles as I stand and pull his chair away from the table. All eyes are on us as I push him down the ramp to the beautiful, proper wood dance-floor. The band smiles as we take our place and the music begins...”The Lady in Red...” I stand in front of Lance in my long red gown, taking his outstretched hand and begin to sway in front of him...a mesmerizing moment where all other dancers stop and ring the floor. I take his other hand and move in closer, finally sitting on his lap, turning my face to him and placing it next to his warm cheek. We sway together to the sounds of the music, lost in each others arms, oblivious to the spectacle we create...his Devil Shoes now seem to move on their own, making the gliding noise that soothes my dancing heart. Time stands still for us. Even if time didn’t, this moment will always be frozen in my memory.

When the song ended spontaneous applause embarrassed us back into the reality of being in the spotlight. He beamed with his broad smile, as I stood and curtsied before taking my place behind him, moving us off of the center stage. As we left some women were quietly crying, many stopping us as I pushed him to our dinner saying things like, "I wish my husband would have had the courage to do this with me.” Or, “This was absolutely heart touching, thank you.” And my favorite, “You two danced beautifully together.”

I felt and still do feel like the luckiest woman in the world to have had that last dance on what turned out to be our last cruise together. You just never know.

In memory of our last dance.

Samba 101-Not for the Meek.

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 12:10:15 -0400

It was 2004, aboard the Crystal Harmony, cruising on the way to Acapulco.

“OK, I’ll meet you for lunch at noon.” With that, Phyllis took off in a dead run, she was off to her next dance lesson. That woman has more energy than I can muster up, playing tennis, and now off to a dance lesson.

For those who have never had the experience of going on a cruise, every day at sea there are tons of scheduled events; ballroom dance lessons, lectures, painting classes, even computer classes and Bingo. I’m usually not into doing any of them, except maybe a trivia challenge now and then, but on this cruise I decided to branch out, do some things besides just people watch. I’d signed up for a watercolor class, but it would not begin until two. What to do with that hour Phyllis was taking the lesson? Well, maybe I’d just go watch her dance lesson. Off I went to the large ballroom to slip into a seat and observe. Once there, I saw quite a group of men and women, all juggling to find space. I made a quick decision. What the heck, I’ll just go up there with the group, nobody will take that much notice of me. Though this was going to be difficult for me since I dance only once a year when cruising with my gal pal, I was feeling very rusty.

One of the things which made Phyllis and I such great friends and traveling partners is a deep understanding of each other’s circumstances. So, we would go on a cruise once a year to recharge our caretaker batteries, and frankly to unleash our inner child, both of whom have a wicked sense of humor. On our last cruise one of the “dance hosts” ( who we nearly danced into an retirement) paid us the ultimate compliment, “You two could have fun in a broom closet”. He’s right, we have no shortage of things to laugh about, and we are usually at the top of our list. (Some day I’ll tell you about our day as assistant dolphin trainers...think Lucy and Ethel on the candy line.)

We gave our inner children the names Phyllis and Sybil after one night of slightly too much to drink and a hysterically funny monologue/rant I unleashed. She told me she had never heard that side of me thus was born my “Sybil” alter ego...I forget why she was Phyllis, though she did tack on a last name, Smirnoff, which speaks volumes about the night these characters were born.

Here we are on some cruise we have taken, it was the last night, so we pretty much had packed away our alter egos.

“Hi Sybil!” It was Phyllis, waving both arms and smiling widely. So much for slipping in unnoticed. I meekly waved back.

Suddenly the gorgeous male half of the World Champion Ballroom dancers was speaking into a microphone, “Everybody grab their partner and give room for another couple on each side of you.”

Great, I see everyone had been paired up before I arrived, so there I am, standing alone, partnerless and no men standing without one. Oh well, I knew I would feel out of place here, so I turned to leave.

“Young lady.” The British voice pleaded. “You... Blondie.” said the voice over the microphone.

I turned, to see who he was speaking to. He was staring at me. Gulp. “Me?” I asked.

“Yes you,” he said in a sexy British accent.

Blushing, I said, “I’m sorry, I am in the wrong room.” Oops, my face turned beet red.

“Oh, come on, join us. I’ll be your partner.” Mr. Ballroom Champ said.

“Yeah, come on Sybil.” My good old pal Phyllis can always be depended on to back me up. She was paired up with Mr. Has-been, the comedy part of the entertainment aboard, hired to perform nights in the main showroom. A salt and pepper haired Italian stud somewhat reminiscent of Dean Martin and other great Italians popular in the sixties. I’m sure his career was as an opening act in the Poconos in his day, but on this day he was on the downside of the career, still good looking, some singing ability and ladies just swooned when he was onstage in his tuxedo. Not us of course.

“Oh, ok, but I have on flip flops, obviously not the greatest for dancing.” My voice trailed off into a whisper.

A great chorus started up, “Take them off, take them off.” How embarrassing. I took off my flip flops and now stood barefoot, singled out.

“Sybil is it?” The just two-inch taller, five-foot-four inch Englishman asked.

I smiled, “Sort of.” How do I tell him I'm really not named Sybil? Oh heck, "What a mess you have gotten me in Phyllis." I mutter under my breath as I pass her.

“Well, come over here by me...” he said with a smile, “...we’re learning the Samba today. It will be just one fast hour."

Just the way he said Samba made me want to dance (against my better judgment) and that bit about the class being just a fast hour had me doubting, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. I slap-footed it up to the front of the class where he stood, smiling, waiting for me to join him. I sure was glad I had worn more than a bikini today.

“Ps-s-s-ssssst.” I heard as I was walking by Mr. Has-been.

“What?” I stage whispered back.

He whispered back in his Italian stage whisper, “Samba is the MOST difficult of all the dances, you know.” His great big white smile was a billboard of his delight at imparting this knowledge to me.

“Yeah, I know.“ I glared at him as I passed him by. Mr. Ballroom Champ’s hand was outstretched to me, so I slid my hand into his, clamminess and all.

“Sorry.” I said, genuinely so.

“No problem.” Then he proceeded to give instructions over the loudspeaker.

“Ladies , you’ll learn first, it’s far more difficult for you. Begin with arms at your side, feet together, just lift and bounce on your right foot, then take three steps forward, then three steps back, lightly bouncing. Ready... one, two, three...”

The sound of 25 women in high heels, tennis shoes, dance shoes, socks and bare feet stepping and bouncing in unison made me laugh. I tried to be light of foot, after all, in my younger days I had taken ballet and tap lessons, and had even done some singing and dancing on stage during my acting years. Amazing how ungraceful I had become. The truth is that what I felt was nothing more than a pure lack of confidence. Usually dancing comes back to me after a few days, but this was a whole new arena, so I felt doubly insecure.

“Sybil, just relax, you’re doing fine. One, two and three...just follow me.” He gripped my hand and practically forced me into submission, one-two-three. “Okay couples, try it together.” The canned music started.

Mr. World Champ and I had not missed a beat, so I looked around to find Phyllis, all the while bouncing and counting. I spotted her, conspicuous in her tennis clothing, but laughing and seemingly enjoying her one-two-three’s with Mr. Has-been. Good.

We had one-two-three’d our way forward, sideways and into open turns with our respective partners by the end of the hour, and I was positively sure I’d never remember any of it on a real dance floor later that night.

Did I care? Not really. I had to admit it was great fun, though Mr. World Champ was probably happy I was just a wee little thing, if you get my gist. I thanked him for his patience and told him I would be back for more lessons. After all, I’d just passed Samba 101 and we both had survived. He smiled and thanked me, probably for not injuring his feet.

Have I ever gotten to Samba? No, but I watch it on "Dancing with the Stars"...hardly recognizing it to be the same dance I learned though. Whew! I would have had trouble explaining some of those moves to my husband.