Okay, new topic.

I had an energy healing session yesterday.

I thought it might be like a “reading,” with auras, and questions like, “Where does the Q name come in?”  Don’t get me wrong; I love me an insightful reading.  I told her I have a lot of autoimmune issues.  She said she could sense that about me.

It turned out to be so much new, interesting information, that I’m practically speechless.  As she asked a little bit about why I was there, what I wanted to accomplish, I, for the first time, regarded my life through a certain filter.

That filter was fear.

th1BI6FWERI was surprised I said that.  I grew up in a small town in the middle of the US, went west after college, then east for more college, and lots of other places.  Sometimes alone.  I never thought of myself as fearful in light of the challenges that presented — new cities, new customs, new people, new jobs, new schools…

But, I started kindergarten in that small town where my family and I had just moved.  All the kids seemed to be friends — and largely related.

I remember thinking when I received a sort of an icy reception, that I had to ditch myself, no offense, and do what I had to do to fit in.

This worked pretty well as time went on.  On the outside.  I had friends.  I got good grades.  I was a cheerleader eventually, played in the band, sang in the auditioned choir, had many suitors, and even gave a speech at my graduation.

I married someone I thought I could sit back and watch manage control things for us.  He was VERY good at that, in a VERY bad way.  As you know, if you’ve been here before.

When that all fell apart, all the other issues I put aside, from 6-years-old on, have come back for a second chance.  Not all at once.  More at the pace of a smoothly running deli line.

After hiding my true feelings all those years, and wearing different masks for different people and situations, the energy healer and I agreed that I now had a mess of physical manifestations on my hands — psoriasis, IBS-C, migraines, reproductive problems, weight management issues, low self-esteem, recurring depression (beginning at 9), a crazy sister (sorry sis), an estranged brother (sorry bro), super religious parents who didn’t really know me (not their fault), anger management issues, and on and on.  She told me our cells “remember” how to be liver cells, or brain cells, but they also remember our emotional paths and behave accordingly.  I think.  The phrase “quantum mechanics” was used.  At least quantum something.  It was a lot to take in.  I looked some of the stuff I couldn’t remember up on line.  It’s there.  Where have I been?

The actual healing session was shorter than planned because we talked so long.

All my body did was lie there, but my internal experience was that I was having some creative, exciting ideas, and some new insights.

She asked me a few questions.  She jostled a few body parts around.  She told me a few things my body was saying to her.  She gave me her card.  I paid her, we hugged, she told me I did great work today, and to email or text her with any questions.  I went back to my unfulfilling work.  Another issue.

I was jazzed for a couple of hours after that.  I felt better.

I am hopeful that this tool, like talk therapy, and tai chi, could really help me decide that I’m okay.   I could be myself.  My authentic self, is the buzz phrase.  I’m so trendy.  But, who the F am I?

Turns out, a pretty scared 6-year-old, who is trying to manage my grown up world from under the bed.

I’m trying to help her take steps to grow up.  I’m  here.  I can strive to be helpful.

Because ditching yourself is more than offensive, it’s dishonoring.  It depletes the faith you should have in yourself.

I can do better than that now.






Middle Wife Syndrome

It’s such a kitchy, catchy phrase, I wish I had a whole blog post to back it up, but sometimes, you just get hit with the title.

I imagine the syndrome would include:

paranoia that the first wife will find you and throw a pie in your face,
low self esteem, trying to make up for the first wife, which is futile, and
jealousy of the less-than-worthy, heed-no-warning-signs, juvenile, third wife

Or, you could just say she’s FREE-AS-HELL!

Why all the hyphenated word strings?


Yeah, that about sums us up.


Anyone disagree?



A Divorce Change for You

You didn’t have to change:

Your Social Security card
Your bank account
Your credit card account
Your driver’s license
Your passport
Your address
Your credit rating
Your tax bracket
Your home to renters insurance
Your car insurance coverage
Your health insurance coverage
Your depression prescription
Your therapy schedule
Your ability to entertain
Your ability to travel
Your wardrobe size, twice
Your shame meter


You only had to change:
—  Your mind  —
To recite marriage vows
To wife #3

My “Plans” are to be “Plan-less”

The word “Plans” have kind of an 80s ring to it.  Maybe that’s because I was a young adult in the 80s and having “plans,” especially “weekend plans,” was a must.

What are your plans?
Do you have any plans for the weekend?
Any fun plans coming up?

I’m not a plans kind of person.  Not in the way this is meant, anyway.  What are my plans?  You mean to get an education, raise a family?  No?  I don’t know about plans for “fun.”  I only have life plans and resolutions, which are almost always not fun-related, but require steady work.

Do I have any plans for the weekend?  Not yet, and I’m hoping to keep it that way.  Plans are “to dos.”  Getting up later than a weekday, lazing around with a pot of coffee and a cat, and puttering around have to happen first.  I may check for happenings in my area after that, but usually it’s too late to make them, which is just fine with me.

I’m not competitive with anyone about their plans.  I don’t want my plans to outshine your plans or win a prize.  Plans on my part does not mean I am more popular, or more needed than anyone else.  I don’t have a list of mountains to hike or river rapids to conquer.

Are people who run around amassing constant “plans” running FROM something?  Keeping busy?  Or are they just exuberate about life?th

Doesn’t matter, I guess.  My plan is to be blissfully plan-less.






The Magic of Words, or a Tale of Emergency and Forgettery

Words are the most powerful drugI was coming out of a dream when the word “emergency” came to mind.  Specifically, whether its root word is “emerge.”  This was sort of like when you realize you’ve stumbled upon the meaning of life in a dream, but by the time you wake up fully, it’s left the tip of your tongue and is traveling through the universe to the place where you’ll die, which is the next most likely opportunity to know the meaning of life.   Like I said —  sort of like that.  Not that dramatic, actually, but the magic of getting a solution in an altered, calm state was the same.

I went to ask the internet about my emergency/emerge question, but by the time I read an article about three things never to eat for breakfast, and checked my horoscope, I couldn’t remember why I was there.

It’s like the kitchen.  I walk in there and think, “What was it I going to do in here again?”

I did, eventually, make it to Dictionary.com a few days later.  After I looked up the word of the day, “forgettery,” which I admit I had never seen before, and which means “a faculty or facility for forgetting; faulty memory:  a witness with a very convenient forgettery,” and for which Spell Check says, “Go ahead and type it all you want…I’m not ever going to recognize it as a word.” 

And, look at that…emergency’s root is from, “Medieval Latin ēmergentia, equivalent to ēmerg- (see emerge ) + -entia -ency. See emergent.”

So, yes, I was right about it’s root being emerge or emergent.  Why had this never come to me before?  When I think “emergency,” I usually think “Emergency Room” and focus on the trauma, not that the trauma suddenly emerged.

Tomorrow, when I go to the internet for answers, but stop to read about how I can lose 5 pounds in 4 days, will my forgettery force me to look up emergency again?  Or, will I remember its magical property of coming from the root word emerge?

Yes, it is magic.  At least to me.




Jasmine Eloise — Escape Artist

jazzyI’m $65 into cat harnesses.

Cat. Harnesses.

$65 is what I spend on food per week.

My cat is so much a part of my life, I want to take her places with me and give her some much-needed stimulation.  (We share four rooms, counting the bathroom and storage alcove).

Cat harnesses are not very good.

Or, my little Houdini is very good.

She can wiggle out of nearly anything and I end up chasing after her with grocery store cooked chicken saying, “Jazz-E…chicken.  Chicken.  Jazz-E, chicken.”

She immediately dropped in the dirt wearing the harness above and scrunched her shoulders up and out of that collar.

Disclosure:  This harness is made for a dog, but look at it.  You’d think it would container her, but no.

She has also sprung herself from a harness of straps and buckles made for cats, but not before she caught a mouse after 15 seconds outside.  Did she spot it from the window?!

But, I think I have found a good one.  It’s called a Kitty Holster.  I don’t have a picture of it, but it’s more like a vest and has Velcro fasteners.  My cat does not have the patience for buckles looking for their docks and my fussing with the snugness of the straps.  She says so by biting me.

One of my Facebook friends says I post way too much about my cat.  If everything I post is about my cat, then yes, I post way too much about my cat.  I was telling another friend about this and I concluded, “I guess I’ve turned into a cat lady.”  She said, “So?  What’s wrong with that?”

Yeah, other Facebook friend — what’s wrong with that?

If I want to buy cat harnesses I can use just once instead of food, I can.  Besides, you post way too much about baseball.




Gut Checked

isHe gave me a card, as he does once in a while out of the blue, about how I see him happy, and grumpy, and sick, and silly, and thank you, for still choosing to love him.

He let me take custody of his grandmother’s rocking chair indefinitely because I said I missed having one.

He told me to take my time getting over my divorce — to be true to my own timetable.

He called me a “lovely woman.”

It was a good weekend.