I get cranky when I don’t get enough sleep. I also get cranky when I’m really hungry. To be fair I get cranky a lot. I think I might have been born to the wrong parents. I mean, if the tiara fits. I’m just saying, for someone who seems so down to earth and affable I sure am cranky a lot. Go ahead, put a pea under my mattress and see what happens.

The measure of love is only the distance between two hearts.

The party invitation was timely. With her newly single status came a stylish updated haircut, new wardrobe and a slight increase in confidence. She smiled as she walked to her closet.  Even with the new additions, there was plenty of empty space, a somewhat sad reminder of her past life with Bradley. She quickly erased him from her thoughts and pulled out something new, searching for a pair of heels that would complement the silhouette of the black and grey dress in her hands. A shiver of delight ran through her at the thought of just buying a new pair – something not practical, something Bradley would never approve of. She smiled. Yes, this new life would suit her very well.

It was slow to begin. A snide word here, an icy silence there. Soon there were excuses to be alone; running errands was faster, grocery shopping was easier, everything was better on my own. We found ourselves on different paths, mostly in the same direction, but never crossing. We so easily deceive ourselves into believing that harmony equals happiness. Slowly our life together began to unravel until what was left was the tiny threads that had once been the only thing holding us together.

She was more than my big sister. She was my best friend. When we were little she took care of me, watched out for me, as only a big sister could do. She was always there for me. She taught me about boys and sex. She showed me how to use make-up, how to walk in high heels, and how to be a girl. She stayed up with me when I cried all night after my first broken heart. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for her. I would follow her blindly into any battle without hesitation.

When she got her diagnosis, she was still the brave one, reassuring me. Telling me everything would be okay. We stayed up all night and cried together, knowing nothing would ever be the same. Gradually things shifted and I began to take care of her. I was always there for her. I made sure she took her meds and her sheets were clean. I drove her to her doctor’s appointments and chemo. I laid next to her in bed so she wouldn’t be alone. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for her. She was more than my big sister. She was my best friend.

Today I said good-bye to him, before we even had the chance to begin our life together. It only took a moment to shatter our world, in the blink of an eye everything changed. A red light. An inattentive driver. Crunching metal. Shattered glass. It happened in a second yet I saw it in slow motion. The wounds will heal with time but the grief remains, a haunting reminder of what might have been.

She learned that life is not a fairy tale. There are no happy ever afters. Too late she found that she would rather live in denial than risk the unknown.

I was born on the Cusp of Magic. Translation: I’m a Gemini born so close to Cancer that the lines sometimes get blurred. Is this a good thing? I guess that all depends on how much faith you place in astrology. Truth be told, I don’t want to admit I believe in that mumbo-jumbo but when it comes down to it, I want this cusp thingy to fit me to a T. Why? Have you ever read those zodiac descriptions? It’s your own personal P.R. campaign. I suppose anyone can twist them to fit their personality but don’t we all want to be exactly how they characterize these signs? They have so many positive qualities and even the negative ones get spun into something more desirable than they really are. Like this: “Geminis can be wishy-washy, readily changing mood or focus. This favorable quality makes them flexible and adaptable.” So, am I wishy-washy or am I adaptable? It’s all about perspective.

We are fighting again, it’s become a daily routine. He says something, I say something. I react, he reacts. He yells back, I yell back. It all blends together now. He says he’s through. It’s not the first time he’s said it and I doubt it’s the last. I roll my eyes and turn my back on him. He says he’s leaving and not coming back. I tell him not to let the door hit him on the way out. He stomps to the door. I regret my words. The door opens then slams shut. I pause, mouth open waiting to speak an apology that now need not be said.

We knew. When we decided to get married we knew what we wanted. A nice house, not too big, but just enough to fit a family without a huge mortgage. Two kids, preferably a boy and a girl, but we weren’t picky. Jobs that allowed us the ability to grow professionally and gave us flexibility in our personal lives. We saved every penny we could for the future. For our children, for the vacations we would take, for the college educations, for the weddings and the unexpected things that might pop up. It was the unexpected things that caught us off guard. We always planned for things that would happen later. We always said we would do it later. We never dreamed “later” might never come at all.

She collected relationships like stamps in a passport. Each represented a different place, some good and some bad. There were some that were fun and carefree, some brought out her wild side and she let herself loose. Some spawned a creative and thoughtful side and some made her pensive and aloof. Some just made her homesick and sad. She continued collecting them because, unlike a passport, she never became full.

She was a beautiful disaster. Always two steps behind in love, getting her heart broken at every turn. Still, she never lost hope. “Someday I’ll find him.” She wore her heart on her sleeve. Every love-torn slogan belonged to her. She was a true soldier in the fight for love. And I had the good fortune to know her. Trust me when I say that she would go down fighting for the cause. And the battle, oh . . . the battle was always love. The sacred of all vows . . . love. She was a warrior. In the end, a casualty of love. I will always remember.  She was a beautiful disaster.

Tis a heavy burden to be a sad soul in a world so empty and dark. To be hidden so far in the depths that the light doesn’t extend adequately to give you hope. You desperately grasp, but everything good remains just out of reach. Oh, sweet elixir, release me from the pain. Unleash the cumbersome weight that holds me to this earth. Allow my faultless soul the respite it deserves from such a cruel and unforgiving life.

She wore a crown of daisies

Like a diamond tiara

And her striped cotton dress

Like a royal purple gown

She ruled over her teddy bears

As if they were her loyal subjects

She was fair and beautiful

A true maiden to behold

But when mommy said it was nap time

She turned back into just a little girl

We lived together, though our relationship was somewhat complicated. There was a certain symbiosis that existed between us that kept us connected to one another. Whether he benefitted or I, it was no matter. The fact remained that we knew deep inside that we had to remain together in order to survive.

She sat on her sofa and looked out the floor-to-ceiling glass windows at the city lit up below her. The view of L.A. from her perch high in the Hollywood Hills was breathtaking, yet to her it had become ordinary. She felt like a caged bird. Everywhere she went she was hunted by the paparazzi and eager fans, curious to watch how a celebrity lives. Lifting the glass of wine to her lips she sighed. If they saw her now; face free of make-up, wearing yoga pants and a tank top with her long dark hair pulled into a pony tail; there was no glamour in her life outside of the red-carpet appearances and media events that were part and parcel of the career she chose. She preferred the days when she could wander the grocery store aisles in her UCLA ball-cap and sweat pants and nobody recognized her. Although her closet held an array of dazzling couture gowns and designer heels, she was most comfortable in Levi’s, a t-shirt and a beanie. But she knew her life was far from ordinary. Deep down she knew when she signed her first movie contract, it was as if she had signed a deal with the devil himself. Sitting here now, in her castle on high, she wondered if the price was worth the sacrifice.

His love was a symptom of a bigger disease. An invasive infection with a catastrophic conclusion that had nearly destroyed my heart. Our passion was a supernova that burned so brightly, so quickly that it nearly consumed me.

Luke was gone. I couldn’t decide if I’d won or lost the fight. When he first approached me about moving to Nashville he hadn’t presented it as an option but a foregone conclusion that I would uproot and move with him. My stubborn independent side reacted by drawing a line in the sand. Why should I give up my home, my job, my life so that he could chase his dream? What about my dreams? It never occurred to me that we could share dreams. For weeks we talked in circles, neither willing to budge an inch. Then he gave up. “I love you Kara, but I can’t make you go with me. And I can’t stay here.” Just like that, our life together ended. Months later and I felt like I was going through the five stages of grief, but acceptance was so far out of sight I was hopeless. As it was, I bounced around between anger, bargaining and depression like a ping pong ball on a daily basis.

I made my way slowly up the walkway, recalling that night that seemed like a million years ago when we had started to unravel. I was in no rush to get inside the house. That’s what it was now, a house not a home. A place to lay my head and shed my tears in privacy. Turning the doorknob, I dropped my purse and satchel on the floor and wandered into the kitchen for a glass of wine. I was annoyed when my cell phone rang, I wasn’t expecting anyone to call me. And I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. I considered letting it go to voicemail but a nagging feeling drove me to the front door where my purse still sat on the floor. I dug into the depths of the satchel and reached the phone just in time to see the missed call. The ID read: Luke. My heart began to race and I thought of the possibilities that the call held. New beginnings, shared dreams, a life together. Maybe I wouldn’t need that last stage – acceptance.

We pushed through the doors of the bar and the cold night air filled my lungs, replacing the stale smell of cigarettes and liquor. His arm stayed firmly around my waist and I couldn’t protest since it was the only thing keeping me upright. We walked to the parking lot, his car I presumed since I was in no condition to drive. I hated to depend on him right now. I thought about turning and hailing a cab but he ushered me into the passenger’s seat before I had time to think.

I sat fuming while he slid into the driver’s seat and turned over the engine. Staring straight ahead, I refused to give him any recognition. We drove in silence, the air turning thicker with each mile that passed. When we finally reached home, was it really home anymore, I quickly opened the car door and rushed up the walkway, eager to reach the comfort of my bedroom where I could nest underneath the warm, cozy comforter and fend off the outside world.

He had other ideas. “Kara, we need to talk about this.” I brushed his hand off my shoulder, reaching for the doorknob before realizing I had no key. “Just let me inside.” My voice came out half indignant and half defeated. He opened the door and let me in. My mind, previously weighed down with inebriation was suddenly laser focused. I had to get out of this relationship with minimal heartbreak. If he wanted to leave, I was determined that my heart would be intact.

I rushed up the stairs and slammed the bedroom door shut, clicking the lock in place. Juvenile, yes. He had followed me up the stairs. I heard a knocking at the door. “Kara, let me in.” I went to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. Looking at my reflection in the mirror was like staring at a stranger. I felt disjointed and fractured from myself. A single tear escaped my eye. Dammit. I was a strong woman. How could he make me feel so needy and dependent? More knocking at the door. “Go away Luke!” I yelled as loud as I could, feeling a little release. The knocking stopped and his footsteps retreated down the stairs. I had won the fight. For now.

I sat at the bar peeling the label off the beer bottle in between my hands. I didn’t want to think so I focused on the task in front of me. The trick was to let the bottle sit about fifteen minutes and as the liquid warmed inside the cold glass, a sheen of liquid formed on the bottle, softening the paper enough to peel it away in a sheet – if you were deft enough. It was a game we played in college and I usually won. I wasn’t having much luck tonight; my focus being pulled elsewhere. I struggled to lose myself in the moment and not let his words haunt me.

Feeling a warmth next to me, I saw him out of the corner of my eye but made no move to acknowledge him, just continued to peel at my bottle. His arm raised and the bartender placed a bottle identical to mine in front of him. His fingers immediately began to pick at the label. I rolled my eyes even though I knew he couldn’t see them. “You have to let it sit a while. It’ll never come off in one piece if you start right away.” His fingers stopped and he lifted the bottle to his lips and drank. Nodding to the four labels stuck to the bar in front of me he asked, “How long have you been here?” I shrugged my shoulders but didn’t say anything. We sat in a long silence, him slowly drinking his beer, me slowly peeling back the label from my bottle.

When I got the last edge free I slapped it on the bar and downed the remaining liquid in one long swallow then motioned for the bartender. He shooed the man away. “I think you’ve had enough.” Turning on my stool I finally looked at him. “I thought I made it clear. You don’t get to make decisions for me.” I hopped off the stool and turned to go but the five beers had taken their toll and my brain was a little too fuzzy to react quickly enough. He caught me before I fell flat on my face. “I think I should get you home.” I glared at him. “You mean the home we made together that you’re abandoning? The home you decided to leave without even talking to me first? The home I’m supposed to walk away from to follow you and your dreams and just abandon mine? That home?” He sighed and put his arm around my waist as he led me out the door of the bar. It was obvious this discussion was far from over.

She was eighteen years old with dreams and ideals and enough enthusiasm to lead an army. She thought she could conquer the world. She spent eight years in college having one idea after another shot down by professor after professor who she was certain had an axe to grind with society. No matter, she gave them no thought and continued on her way. She spent another ten years climbing the corporate ladder, pushing aside her morals and principles, rationalizing that it was for the greater good, there was a higher purpose. She sacrificed her personal life, spent all of her time working, dreaming of a better life. After another eight years, she made partner and was welcomed into the inner circle, the elite few. She was forty-four years old when she reached the top. She felt triumphant as she looked down at her accomplishments only to realize that the world hadn’t changed, only she had.

Trouble was her forte. She liked to cause controversy wherever she went. Like a tempest in a teapot she could take the slightest event and create a dramatic three-act Shakespearian tragedy. Then, with a hint of a smile, she would stroll away, leaving chaos and destruction in her wake.

When I was a teenager I had a massive crush on the drummer and bassist for Duran Duran.

Now that I’m in my 40’s, I still have a massive crush on the drummer and bassist for Duran Duran.

The more things change, the more they stay the same. And some things do get better with age. This concludes my laziness post.

I immerse myself fully in my daydreams, a welcome escape from the pain that daily life provides. Although I want for nothing, my God has allowed me a gift to feel everything. Most days I curse him; feelings unwanted, unexpected, a constant onslaught are no gift, but a penance. And I wonder what sin I have committed, what grievance so severe could demand repayment of such agony and torment.

I told him it was over. He promised he would change if only I would stay. He loved me and couldn’t stand the thought of losing me. He said he would do anything, change anything, whatever it took. As long as I stayed. It took me a week to decide. Our relationship hadn’t broken down overnight and it sure as hell couldn’t be fixed with a few words or empty promises. But his demeanor was different. He was attentive, he listened to what I had to say. He even asked me questions, thoughtful and insightful questions. I thought he really did want to change, that he wanted to save our relationship. So, I stayed. And it was good – for a while. Then he fell into his old ways. It began slowly, almost imperceptibly. A little late from work to have a drink with the guys. Asking me to repeat my question because he was watching the television instead of listening to me. Talking me out of tickets to the art gallery opening in lieu of tickets to the ball game. He was taking me for granted, ignoring me, not willing to share my interests. We were leading separate lives but somehow together. And it was killing me. So, I told him it was over. He promised he would change if only I would stay. I didn’t know how many times I could repeat this pattern.