Any Given Sunday

I love the Cleveland Browns. As Terry Pluto points out in his recent book Things I’ve learned from watching the Browns, this love is “completely, utterly irrational! If you were born after 1960…being a Browns fan makes no sense. None. Zero.” But, despite that, as his book chronicles, anyone’s love affair with the Browns is far beyond what they do on the field. If you’re a Browns fan you know that. Despite the endless Sundays that you’ve waited, hoped, and believed, you know that alas...you will have your heartbroken. My 18^th birthday was 1/11/87—we’ll get to that in a moment.

According to my mother, my love affair with football started in the womb. My uncle, Ray Somerville, was a senior starter on Cleveland’s Notre Dame Cathedral Latin’s football team in the fall of 1968 and my mother attended and cheered on every game with me growing in her belly. She is right. There really can be no other explanation. I was raised by a single mom (who outside of cheering on these games, could care less about football) and beyond Ray, I had no older brothers who played the sport or anyone who took me to games as a child. Yet, somehow, I grew into this rabid football fan.

I really can’t pin-point the day, time or place that I decided that this was my sport. And, my friends from high school will testify to my love for college football (especially Doug Flutie and his amazing BU “Hail Mary” pass to defeat the Hurricanes quarterbacked by future Brown, Bernie Kosar). I followed every college team, watched all the bowl games and even the Heisman Trophy ceremonies—which I still do today.

Of course, my true love was the NFL but, I knew, even at a young age, that watching college games was important. These were the future stars of the NFL who were playing their hearts out for no other reason than to make it big someday. This was pure football in my eyes and I loved (and still do) every minute of it.

Nor can I really pin-point the day I became a Cleveland Browns fan. But considering I remember Red Right 88 (I was 11) and my devotion to the Kardiac Kids (junior high)--it was pretty early on.

My love was deep. Like college football on Saturday, every Sunday, I followed every NFL team in the league. The quarterback was always key to me. (chicks dig the long ball—I know baseball reference but it still applies! Really anyone who can throw a spiral down the field melts my heart) The quarterback, in my opinion, makes or breaks a team. Eventually, Joe Montana would become my absolute favorite player in the league. Ironic. How many quarterbacks have the Browns had? Especially since “The Move.”

Maybe it was just simply rooting for the home team that made me a Browns fan? Or it could be the fact that my mom was a barmaid and I spent a lot of my childhood in the bar owned by my Uncle Ray watching football. Or was it that he knew Tom Cousineau and other players in the league, including Browns players, who would sometimes visit the bar and eventually our house? Who knows? One thing I do know is that even when I picked “my team”—I knew the Browns were not very good; but nonetheless, I watched and cheered for them every week by my calculations for 30+ years.

Maybe it was just bad DNA? In that case, I have passed on this genetic defect of loving the Browns on to my daughter—taking her several Browns games, including a trip to the Browns-Steelers game (in the Dawg Pound) when she was 12! Her father was livid at first—but he, too, is a Browns fan so he understood. When my daughter selected colleges a few years ago, the quality of the football team was equally as important as the quality of the program. She chose OSU and she’s a pre-vet major, so I think she made a good choice on both fronts.

I enjoyed reading Pluto’s book on Christmas (which my daughter bought me and was my favorite gift) and identified with every chapter. But, I still wondered why? Why am I a Browns fan? And, why did I have plans to attend a December game, the day after Christmas no less? He was right...being a Browns fan made NO SENSE!

For starters, I hate any weather condition under 70 degrees (I actually wear a sweater when it is that cold out) and wouldn’t dream of going out of my house on a day like I was preparing. Cold as hell, 20+ degrees and snow!! And, the wind, wicked! I live on Lake Erie so when I went to pick up the newspaper in the morning and felt the piercing cold winds, which left me breathless, I knew what was in store and thought WTF am I thinking?

But I walked back in the house and still could NOT wait to head down to Cleveland Browns stadium with my daughter, in my new Browns Santa hat and our new matching Browns jackets to freeze my A** off and watch the Browns which I know would lose! Why?

Well a few reasons. For starters I was invited by the Cleveland Browns to be part of the gauntlet as the players entered the field. That’s right, on field at Cleveland Browns Stadium! Wild horses could have kept me from that opportunity—especially with my daughter! And, that might have been one of the coolest things I’ve ever been apart of—outside of being asked to participate in the coin toss earlier this year! Then something truly magical happened. And, I knew I was destined to be there that day.

Marty’s youngest son, Andy (aka A.J.) and his beautiful bride to be April were also at the game. I knew this because we had chatted about it earlier this week on Facebook. So we texted them and told them to come over to our seats which they did.

Marty and I attended so many Browns games together and shared a deep love of the Browns! Okay, maybe he didn’t love the Browns? But I know he knew I did. And, as we all complained about the cold, I recounted for AJ and April, the story of my 18^th birthday--1/11/87—coldest game I’ve ever been to! In Browns’ history, it’s known as “The Drive.” I was happy to realize that AJ and April needed no other explanation of”The Drive” and that I had some Browns fans on my hands.

I did explain, however, how his father waited for hours (perhaps overnight, I don’t recall) outside of Cleveland Browns Stadium in the freezing cold to get tickets for me because that is all I wanted for my birthday. (There was no online ordering then!).

And, how we planned the PERFECT day. Fates aligned, It was my 18^th birthday. We were going to go to the game and then come back to Allien to have a wonderful feast (prepared by those who couldn’t to brave the cold or weren’t lucky enough to get tickets) and celebrate the Browns victory and my birthday. And of course, plan our trip to the Super Bowl--we were all going!.

It didn’t go that way, of course. NO ONE came to celebrate. Everyone went home. We were all numb. And not from the cold. My birthday ruined. It was probably the biggest Cleveland Browns heartache I ever felt besides The Move!

I recounted to AJ that I never heard such COLD CRISP SILENCE walking out of the old Browns stadium. Really it was eerie...80,000+ people and DEAD SILENCE. We were all so stunned. One minute we were going to the Super Bowl...We were really going and then "The Drive". I told him it was like a funeral march—sadly something AJ knew firsthand about. I will never, ever forget it.

In fact, when I first met Brian Brennan many years ago, I walked up to him and said, “you were a great player and I enjoyed watching all those years, but you know, you and the Cleveland Browns ruined my 18^th birthday! But I’m still a die-hard fan” He said, “How did we do that?” I replied, “My 18^th birthday was 1/11/87.” His face went still and he replied, “I’m sorry. You’re right. That would have ruined your day.” True Story!

For years, like so many Browns fan, 1/11/87 IS my WORST Cleveland Browns memory. But, today, sharing that story with Marty’s son and knowing that he probably never got to share that story with his son, it was an awesome experience to re-live!

Today, I walked out Cleveland Browns stadium with AJ and April, after another Browns defeat. And, as I kissed AJ and April goodbye, I felt the warmth of an angel on my shoulder. The cold suddenly went away. I was there with Marty’s boy at a Browns game! It warmed my heart. And, suddenly being a Cleveland Browns fan did not seem irrational or utter nonsense. It all had meaning.

About me…

So, there seems to be some confusion about me and rightly so. To set the record straight, I am an only child. And, so when I wrote my recent blog about my “brother” Marty there were many who said WTF? I thought you were an only child? And, technically you are right.

However, a bit about me. I was born to Donna Somerville, the 4^th oldest of Ruth and Ray Somerville of the legendary family from Westpark, Ohio with 13 kids. My mom was 21 years old when she had me. Unwed and NO plans what so ever to marry or even involve my father in my life. To this day, he knows nothing about me; we’ve never spoken; we’ve never met; and, in fact, to my knowledge he has NO idea I even exist—let alone that I’m a girl or that I have a beautiful and amazing 21 year-old-daughter, Meghanne, which I consider truly the greatest accomplishment of my life. He knows nothing about me and I don’t even have his name.

Instead, I’m a Somerville—through and through. I’m so proud of that fact that personally and professionally my name has ALWAYS been and always will be Sharon Somerville with an added last name—first McGuire and now Boyes.

In 1969, when I was born, being a single parent was not the norm and coupled with the fact that my mother—well… had issues and still does. My grandparents, Ruth & Ray, took me in and raised me as their own. At the time of my birth 10 of their 13 kids still lived under their roof and Marty was in kindergarten, Peggy 10 years old, Annie 11 and the remainder of the kids up Ray (7^th oldest) were under the age of 18. So yes, I was just another baby in the house and treated as such. I was number 14. There was no distinction. I was just another Somerville under the roof of Allien Ave.

My grandparents cared for me like their own and honestly, although I knew I had a different “mother,” since my mother was hospitalize for much of my early years for her mental illness which she still battles today, I don’t think I realized she was my “mom” until I was five years old when she took me out of the house to live with her, my “aunt” Patty and her daughter, my “sister” Michelle. Michelle was also another “niece” raised in the Somerville household. In fact, I know I didn’t fully realize this fact, until my grandparents both died in 1977 and 1978 respectively, and Michelle moved to Florida with her “parents.”

For the record. I LOVE my real mom, Donna, and will until the day she dies—and sadly, I know for a FACT that I will be the one to bury her given her fragile mental state. I am so fortunate to have had a few really good years with her and right now she is in a good place and we have a good relationship. I cherish that every day. But, I’m a realist.

My point is this. There is an old African saying that “it takes a village to raise a child.” And, I was so blessed to be born into the village of the Somervilles….they really did rally around me to raise me as a family—and that family cannot be defined by traditional words like “sister,” “brother,” “niece,” etc.”. I will always consider, Peggy, Annie, Ruthie, Marian, Karen and especially my beloved sweet Michelle to be my sisters. Patty & Jim to be my second parents, who took me in when I had terrible postpartum depression with Meg; Ray, Jerry and Timmy who were those father figures I never had. JoAnne, who took me in to her home, the oldest, pillar of strength, an amazing guiding force in my life. And, I will always & forever, to the day I die, consider Marty to be my brother—in the truest sense of the word.—because he was and always will be. For those of you who have read my blog…he was my everything and made me the person I’ve become…I am so grateful for my life thanks to him....and you don’t even know the half of the story.

Thanks for reading.

Flashes Before Your Eyes

They say before you die—your life flashes before your eyes. Every year leading up to the anniversary of Marty’s death….I experience Flashes of our life together before my eyes. Weird, it’s not memories because I think about him every day…a song comes on the radio, things Meg has told me, seeing what amazing men his boys have become, stupid things that happen to me, and even my life with Marc who he never met… these are things that I would love to pick up the phone and share with him. I’m pretty sure with all my years of study of the English language, that the emptiness of him not being here that pierces my heart—is called grief.

But this is different. And it happens to me every October. Flashes. A moment in time of the 27 years of memories I had with him. (That’s how old I was when he died.). Like I said it’s not a memory, it’s a Flash … Hard to describe—even for someone who is never at a loss for words. Perhaps my LOST friends will understand….but let me try…

Okay so it’s not the big things—graduations, births, birthdays, weddings, or sitting in the ICU saying goodbye to him. It’s little, subtle, it’s a feeling. Like tonight. I came home from work in a foul mood all day. And finally I just sat down and cried. Marc asked what’s wrong? I said “nothing” and he said “seriously, you’re crying”, and I said tomorrow’s the anniversary of Marty’s death…and he said “oh.” Like he didn’t even want to go there. But, he did give me a hug and say "I'm sorry. I know how much you loved him."

It was a similar look and reaction I got earlier today with my co-worker when she asked me if something was wrong because I had been melancholy all day and starting crying when we were shopping for the office in Wal-Mart. I really think she thought I was crazy. I mean who cries in Wal-Mart with all these low prices?!

When she questioned me about my state, I said “oh tomorrow is just the anniversary of my brother’s death.” She’s new…and from the expression her face, I don’t think she was prepared for that response, and she said, “I’m sorry. How long has it been?” I said, “13 years…(sigh and pause).” She gave me a puzzled look. I think she expected me to say a much sorter time.

Okay trust me, I know it’s been 13 years. And, I’m over it…I’ve spent many hours on a therapist’s couch and am definitely at the “acceptance stage.”

But, what she didn’t know was I had a “Flash” in Wal-Mart. Walking past the Halloween decorations and costumes. I saw a princess costume, had “Flash” which prompted my crying… What happened was I suddenly was Flashed to the two of us sitting in the living room of our house on Allien Ave. with our haul from Halloween candy and we were trading ..like we use to do when we were kids…me in my princess outfit…Marty in his superhero outfit (mom made him the cape!). But here is the FLASH part…

We weren’t kids…I was 41 (like I am now) and Marty was 48 (like he would be) and we were just normal…Having a conversation that adults have: “I will trade you a snickers bar for a reeses peanut butter cup”—our childhood favorite trade. (Okay laugh now at the two of us in those outfits at our age or even at 6 years old+!). Mundane. Like he was still a part of my life. A feeling …that he never has left me. It was real. We were there together today; trading candy!

The same thing happened tonight when I got home. Flashes! Marc was copying music on our I-Tunes because our computer recently crashed and we lost all our music…All of a sudden Tiny Dancer by Elton John played, I LOVED Elton John when I was a kid and so did Marty. I remember the one Christmas we both got Elton John Albums….I’m pretty sure it was Madman Across the Water…and we went wild!!! And I remember that Marty was mad because I got a poster too! And, while this is a strong memory in my life with Marty, at that moment, hearing that song….I was just sitting there, painting my nails….mundane…And, instead of Marc looking at me, it was Marty, saying "I love this song" as "Tiny Dancer”played in the background.

Make sense??

Next song Jamaica Jerk Off….

When she gets up in the morning

It's enough to wake the dead
Oh she turning on the radio
And dancing on my head

It's no good living in the sun
Playing guitar all day
Boogalooing with my friends
In that erotic way

Come on Jamaica
In Jamaica all day
Dancing with your darling
Do Jamaica jerk-off that way

Come on Jamaica
Everybody say
We're all happy in Jamaica
Do Jamaica Jerk-off that way

I was married in Jamaica. A "Flash" of Marty was there with me that day, too. Conscience?

I love you Marty. Always and Forever!

RIP Marty A. Somerville. January 27, 1962-October 27, 1997.

Happy Father's Day

So father’s day, like mother’s day, is an awesome holiday. Celebrating your parents! The people who bore you, loved you and nurtured you. They rock! Or so I’ve been told. I’ve never had the joy of celebrating father’s day and sometimes mother’s day…I hate father’s day. Of course, I’m a mom, so I appreciate the day to be celebrated as a mom, but my mother…well issues. Don’t get me wrong. I love my mother. But, we have many, many issues. And, some years have been good and some not so good.

But, father’s day. It has ALWAYS sucked for me. It’s the day I’m reminded that I don’t have one. My father took off before I was born…didn’t even stick around to find out if I was a girl or a boy…We’ve never met. He knows nothing about me. He doesn’t even know my name. But I know his.

I’ve often thought about looking him up and with the internet, I know EXACTLY who he is and where he lives. But, I’ve never taken that step to contact him. Why? Because quite honestly I don’t think I could handle the rejection AGAIN. Clearly, he wants nothing to do with me…or he would have found me. I still go by the use the name Somerville. (initially hyphenated with my married name, and now it’s officially my middle name). I’m proud to be a Somerville and always will. And, I’ve never strayed from the Westpark area of Cleveland. Sure, I moved to River and then Avon Lake, but I’ve never left the area. His loss and worse, he lost out on the GREATEST thing I ever accomplished, his granddaughter, Meghanne.

But despite the fact that my father is a total asshole—no I’m not bitter. I’ve been lucky to have several wonderful “fathers” in my life. First my grandfather, (read my blog “I Named Him Marley Anyways” about my grandfather—more to come about him), my uncle Ray—who is AWESOME, my “brother” Marty, whose boys have grown into to amazing men, despite the fact that he left them way too early, my ex-husband Gordon, who is an great father to Meg, and of course, my husband, Marc, who adores his boys more than anything. One of the things I fell in love with Marc was what a great father he was. I love this quality in men, since my father was a total turd.

So happy Father’s Day to all those who have chosen to be a “FATHER” and a big F-U to the too many deadbeat dads that are out there.

Summer Vacation

It amazes me when I meet fellow Clevelanders who have NEVER been to Cedar Point. In fact, when I was dating my husband (also a native Clevelander) , we took our three children (at the time ages 10, 8 and 6 ) to Put-In-Bay for the day, and upon leaving, I suggested that we should stop at Cedar Point on the way home (it’s cheap after 5 p.m.). The end to the perfect day on Lake Erie. I was shocked to learn that he (nor his children) had NEVER been there! Upon hearing this news, of course, we made a stop at America’s Roller Coast and had a fabulous time.

Growing up I came from a family with a ton of kids (13+ plus including me) so “family vacations” to the places I took my kid, as a single mom, (Outer Banks, Virginia Beach, Disney World, Miami, Bahamas, Punta Cana,) were never in our future. Instead the annual trip to the Local 120 Pipefitters Picnic at Cedar Point was our summer vacation. And, despite the “local” venue, we were just as excited! We marked this day on our calendar, counted down the days until it got there and of course, like Christmas, didn’t sleep the night before.

The drive to Cedar Point was also one of the most thrilling parts of our “vacation.” Hard to believe but when I was young I-90 didn’t exist! So, it was like a 2-hour trip to get to Cedar Point and you had to take Route 6 (Lake Road) the whole way there.

Lake Road. The endless steam of beautiful homes on the LAKE (and not the kind you see now—which have been raised to build modern colossal mansions that “celebrity” athletes live in or people with a butt-load of cash; Big Z and Mo Williams of the CAVS are my neighbors now along with Indians Player, Travis Hafner). They were the “classic” homes, the kind you dreamed of living in and could envision your family actually calling “home”. They were within your reach. Something to aspire to if you decided to be a doctor, lawyer or mogul of industry. (some of these homes still exist, but sadly they are becoming a thing of the past)

So, in addition to “punch buggy”, the “license plate game” and singing “99 bottles of beer on the wall” (a classic children’s sing-a-long) picking out our house on Lake Road was a game we all played.

So imagine my excitement when I got my first Lake Road address. The first home I owned was in the “low rent district” on Lake Road in Rocky River (I like to call it my Baltic Ave/Lake Road House). I was so proud of that home and delighted in the fact that I while it wasn’t on THE LAKE, I had a Lake Road address and I could actually afford it. I arrived. Stupid really, petty and materialistic but nonetheless it meant a great deal to me at the time. (I was only 26).

All those years of living in River, and walking my dog every night along the shores of Lake Erie, I realized I was a water person and was bound and determined to someday get my “real” Lake House.

So my second home, that I bought three years ago, while not a Lake Road address, the address wasn’t important as it was for my first home, is actually on the Lake and I have a Lake view from 90% rooms of my house. No longer proud; I cherish every moment I live here. After 3 years, I still wake up every day and pinch myself that this is my home. Each day, I thank God that I’m fortunate enough to live here and say a pray for all those who helped me achieve my dream.

Of course one of those people is Marty. Fondly, one of the Best Memories I have of Marty is our annual summer vacation to Cedar Point the year I found out I was pregnant with Meg. It was days after I had the conversation with Marty about “adopting” my baby (see blog “raised by another”). At this point I hadn’t told anyone in our family or circle of friends that we would see about my “situation”. I almost didn’t go because of course, roller coasters were out of the question and how was I going to explain that I didn’t want to ride when EVERYONE knew I was the first in line?

So when I arrived Marty announced to our usual “group” of riders that him and I would catch up with them later, as both of us were out the night before and we were really hung-over and would need some time recover before we hit the big rides (everyone looked at us...what were they thinking the night before the Pipefitters Picnic!). A brilliant cover considering that several people witnessed the toll morning sickness was taking on me.

Marty hung -out and stayed behind with me the whole day. 12+ hours of just me & him—despite the fact that his wife and young children were there. We talked, and talked and talked, ate our way through the park (yum...chocolate covered bananas!), dodged the right people, and rode the appropriate rides. At the end of the day we finally caught-up with everyone for the last ride of the night: the “Iron Dragon”— thankfully a pregnant woman safe ride. As I lowered the shoulder harness, I looked over at Marty and said “if you promise me you will help me achieve all my dreams, I think I can do this, I’m going to keep my baby.” Of course, he said yes. And strapped in, we took off on the ride.

Raised by Another

I went to Marty’s the minute I got home from Dayton. Crap…what the hell were we going to do? But, he promised that he had the answer and that he would help me.

I was so nervous on the drive over there. How could I screw up like this? How could I have been so stupid? A smart, ambitious girl like me didn’t let something like this happen. I ruined everything! How was I going to tell everyone? What would they think of me? What the hell was I going to do?

But, despite my anxiety, I knew that Marty would have the answer. I trusted him. He loved me unconditionally and would never judge me. And, after all, the same thing happened to him and for that matter a few other people in my family. Actually, I was more concerned that that would give me the obvious answer, Gordon & I would get married, have the baby and life would go on. That plan worked for everyone else (Patty, Marian, Marty, and my mom (okay she missed a step). But, I was different and I wasn’t sure that was the best solution for me. Plus, everyone had hopes, dreams, and expectations of me. And, I had those for myself.

By the end of my freshman year at Dayton, I had gotten anorexic-like skinny (no freshman 15 for me!). Instead the stress of losing my step-father to suicide a month before I left for school and my mother’s legal troubles (subject for another blog) began my lifelong stomach and digestion issues which didn’t allow me to eat much of anything without getting violently ill. (sadly in my 30s and 40s this totally screwed my metabolism and despite hitting the gym several times a week…well.) Plus, I was 19 and benefited from a youthful metabolism that was fueled by 7 months of not drinking, eating right, and exercising daily. Then add to that, two solid months of morning sickness (okay given my stomach issues, all day sickness) and more stress of being pregnant. I’m 5’8 ½ and by the end of my freshman year, at two months pregnant, I only weighed 110 lbs.

By the time I got to Marty’s, he said, “are you sure you’re pregnant? You look like shit! When was the last time you ate?” I said “months” and then with tearing streaming down my face; he swallowed my skeletal frame into his teddy bear body and all I could say was “I’m so sorry. I totally fucked-up!”

He let go and said, “well what are you going to do?” I stood there; I didn’t expect a question! I expected an answer or at the very least advice. I waited. Nothing. So, finally I broke the stare and silence and said, “for the first time in my life, I have NO idea.” “Well, what do you want to do?” he said. Again, I said “for the first time in my life, I have NO idea.” I’m pretty sure I added, “I have no fucking idea.”

We went inside. And, much to my surprise he didn’t have the answers. We talked for hours, about my beliefs, my thoughts, my fears, my dreams, etc. He questioned my beliefs, (were they genuine? after all I had a good Catholic upbringing and I was taught abortion was the most evil word in the English language) and reviewed my ambitions and my vision for the future (are you 100% sure a baby couldn’t fit in?) He also asked me who else in the family knew. Of course, he was the only one I told. And, at the end of the day, we still didn’t have any answers or any plans, he stuck firmly to his guns that this was my decision, not his; He wasn’t’ going to tell me what to do—but wasn’t that why I was here???? What we did have was an understanding. That we would work this out together. And, that he would love me, support me…no matter what.

Over the next few weeks, my thoughts and decisions vacillated. We all know what those options are…so I won’t elaborate.

And, then one day, I thought I had finally and ultimately made my decision. So, I called Marty, it was late, but never too late to call him, and said “I’ve decided. I’ll be over first thing in the morning.”

When I arrived I did all the talking. I was resolute and determined. In a way that only I could be. I told him that I decided that I was going to give the baby up for adoption. It was the best option. I wasn’t ready to be a mom, I wasn’t ready to be wife to a man I wasn’t 100% sure I wanted to marry and I wasn’t able to terminate the pregnancy—I couldn’t live with myself. And yes I truly felt that to my core, it wasn’t the years of catholic brainwashing. Adoption was the best option. I would carry this baby to term, give it to hopefully a good family and then I would go on with my life. It was the best and only alternative as far as I could see.

And, then after sitting there silent, listening to me, for what felt like an eternity. Marty said, “After you called last night, I kinda knew this was going to be your decision. So, I talked to Diane (his wife), and we decided, we can’t let that happen. This baby is a Somerville, our family, our blood, and we’ve lost so much already (referring to “our” parents”) to let that happen. We can’t let this baby be raised by some stranger. But, if that (adoption) is what you really want to do, then Diane and I are going to adopt the baby.”

Now to this day, I don’t know for certain if this indeed was what he had discussed with his wife or it was a split second reaction to my decision; but, I do know one thing for certain, that at that moment he had totally made his mind up and there was no going back. Marty was committed to raising my baby.

To be continued.

Really? Stalkers Suck!

Honestly. I'm amazed by the idiocy of people some time. I was recently sent a "love letter" from someone who obviously has no life and has spent way too much time and brain power thinking about what I should and shouldn't think. What I shouldn't or shouldn't feel. Or what I should or shouldn't feel grateful for. They called me an idiot more than once but in fact, they are the idiot. They were in my life a short while and barely knew me...but after they wrote me off as a "cold hearted nasty bitch"--their words--and then obviously, based on the content of their "love letter" spend hours researching me....this blog, my Facebook page, my LinkedIn profile, my divorce/ marriage records, property records and where I grew up and the friends I have. In the end, they concluded they had me all figured out. And, even took it upon themselves to offer me some advice. (one correction...no congrats in order...the stuff I wrote about finding out I was pregnant was 21 years ago!)

Okay I don't mean to pass judgment but until you've walked a mile in my shoes...well you just don't know me. My thoughts, actions, feelings and passions shape my reality--just like everyone else. I've had a tough life, a shitty childhood, experienced great loss (my father [before I was born], my grandparents, my step-father [to suicide], in many ways my mother, a baby I planned after Meg [only to learn after that, I could never have any more kids], and of course, Marty) and have seen and experienced things that I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy and yes...they have scarred me for life, I have dealt with things that most people have been fortunate enough not to have had to deal with. But, make no mistake, I don't pretend to think for one second that I'm better than anyone. Or even think that I've had it harder than anyone else. Everyone has their own "pizza" (inside joke).

And I believe that is true for anyone. If your rich or poor, loved or abused, happy or miserable, we all have problems. And, regardless of the situation the are your problems. And, yes someone always has it worse than you. No matter how small or insignificant your problems may seem to someone else, on a daily basis, they are your problems and people are people and problems are problems.

It's all in how you deal with them. Am I perfect? God NO! I've made a TONS of mistakes. But, I've had a choice. I could blame everyone else for my problems and use that as an excuse and be a loser for the rest of my life....or deal with them...I choose to deal with them. And, I have no room in my life for people who are going to blame others or worse judge me for how I deal with mine Are my issues, still issues?...Hell yes! Does my ability to cope make me better than anyone. Hell NO! Does this make me a cold-hearted nasty bitch? Well yes....if you pass judgment on me.

Happy Mother’s Day Part II

So, I had the best mother’s day EVER this year!!! It was my husband’s 52^nd birthday. Wow as I write that, it sounds old to me, of course it’s not—but, considering that my early marker of what was “old” is my Grandparents, that’s not an odd statement. My grandfather was 50 when I was born and my grandmother 49 and growing up they were the oldest people I knew.

We spent the day with Marc’s family and grandkids who probably also view their grandfather and his wife, “Mimi”, as old. This alone would have been a great day. Spending time with family is everything, especially on mother’s day. But, it got better!

My daughter, Meg, who lives in Columbus where she is pursuing her undergraduate studies at The Ohio State University in animal sciences and chemistry, and will go on to Veterinary School, came up to spend the afternoon with us and then go with us to the Pearl Jam show. My love of PJ is subject for another blog, but for her entire 21 years, Meg has been subjected at nauseam to every prolific, soulful word Eddie has ever written. Oh and that voice! She actually came to resent my incessant obsession with all things PJ….and, as a result, they became her least favorite band. But this mother’s day she couldn’t think of a better thing to do with her mother than go, on mother’s day, to a PJ show. Why? Because when she was 16 we went to Disney World for our birthdays (Meg’s birthday is the day after mine). She had to keep up with me running from ride to ride and collecting autographs. And, when we returned she said to my husband, that the best part of the trip was seeing a smile of pure joy of her mother’s face for an entire week straight. She knew she would see that smile on my face again at the PJ show. (ironically PJ took an audience fan request that night…a song called “smile”)

One thing I didn’t do this mother’s day, was visit my own mother. For once, in a long time, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to, but rather because it just didn’t fit into the day I had been planning for months. That might sound selfish but one thing that I’ve learned after years of trying to do it all to the point of my own mental and physical health, is you have to learn to say no. Given the physical toll the day was going to take on my handicapped husband, and myself assisting him, I knew our limits to the days’ activities. So something, the visit with my mom, had to give.

Quite honestly, a few months ago, when I made these plans, I couldn’t even imagine that I would want to see her on this day. I have a very strained and complex relationship with my mother. My early childhood memories of her consist of her buying me pretty things--fancy dresses, shoes and accessories and styling my long straight auburn hair—basically making me up like a baby doll. But, damn do I look good in my baby pictures!

Essentially, during this period, I was a plaything to her and for the most part, I don’t recall her being there. Might be because she really wasn’t. She was institutionalized for a better part of my early childhood and in retrospect, those “baby doll” memories were special occasions—Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving or rather, days she was allowed to participate in “home visits.” And, even when she was home for extended periods of time, she was more a babysitter. Most of my “mother” memories from this period are of my grandmother.

My grandparents obviously knew that my mother was sick. Seriously sick. Not her fault. She had serious emotional problems that in her young adulthood, she tried to escape through alcohol; then adding a baby to the mix, with no father in sight, when she was just 22 years old, certainly didn’t help matters. As luck would have it, my mother was diagnosed with MS when I was a year old. Needless to say in her fragile emotional state, she didn’t handle it well and made her first of many attempts to take her life.

Tough choices. My grandparents took me in as their own, but they still did try to do what was best for their daughter, get her the help she needed, and as a result gave her the space and autonomy they felt she could handle. After 13 kids, I can’t imagine they were particularly interested in adding one more to the bunch. They had good hearts, faith in God, and like most parents tried to nurture, guide and support their daughter as she struggled to recover and make a stable life for herself and their granddaughter.

So, when I was around four-years old, after they felt that she was stable enough, they let take that step toward autonomy. They let her take me out of the house and move out with their daughter Patty, who by that time also had an infant daughter, Michelle. My grandmother continued to watch both babies during the day and on weekends, as her daughter’s worked and partied like 20-something year-olds should. The best thing I can say about this “experiment” was that Michelle & I grew up sisters.

When I was eight, everything changed. On February, 13, 1977, during one of the worst blizzards on Cleveland record, my grandfather’s second stroke, at the age of 57, claimed his life. In October, eight short months later, my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer and lost her life on April 5, 1978, also at age 57. And, from that point on, I was left solely to the care of my mother.

All the Best Princesses have Mommy Issues

Fittingly, on the heels of Mother’s Day, LOST devoted an entire episode to the relationship a mother has with her children. The LOST community of believers was as divided about this episode as the pitting between good and evil which has played this season. Some called this episode an epic failure…jumped the shark….too many unanswered questions. Or more succinctly, too many new questions raised without any answers and we’re only a few episodes away from the SERIES finale!

“Others” like me, were mesmerized by this episode and ranked it among the best ever. Although I will agree that the casting was horrible, the acting flat (I mean seriously if Terry O’Quinn doesn’t win the Emmy this year—they should just cancel that award show), and the dialogue at times was forced. However, the very “fabric” of the piece intrigued me and I spent the 45+ minutes watching absolutely glued to screen and the donkey wheel in my head was spinning.

Maybe it’s because I have a TON of mother issues. But, for a very long time I’ve had a fascination with the mother figure or more pointedly, the absence of strong mothers, in popular culture.

In fact, my first published and public work as a Shakespearean academic scholar was on this very subject. Hard to believe given his status and influence in English Literature, but Shakespeare, in his time, was considered a low base “artist” and rose to the status of a “pop icon.” Oh what People and US Magazine would do today to the Bard. His barroom brawls, mistresses, subject matter and cross-dressing at the theater!

One common theme in his works is the conspicuous absence of “mother.” There are only few “mothers” in his works, most notably Gertrude (Hamlet) and Hermione (not the Harry Potter character, the mother in the Winter’s Tale). Not very flattering characters.

More than a century or two or three later (okay I’m into words not math!), another low-base artist (animator) named Walt Disney rose to “pop culture” icon status…Is Disney not the GREATEST pop icon brand ever! In all of his works the mother is conspicuously absent as well. Bambi’s mom dies. the evil “step-mother” looms in Snow White and Cinderella, and where the hell is Ariel’s mother to warn her of the dangers of falling in love with a human in the Little Mermaid? And, those mothers who do exist, Aurora’s mom in Sleeping Beauty for example, are marginalized.

And, then there is LOST. Arguably the best show in today’s popular culture whose writers certainly don’t occupy the status of a JK Rowlings, Stephan King, or Dan Brown (the best sellers of our times). In the first episode there is the pregnant Claire who was warned about her having a baby raised by another, Rousseau who had her baby stolen from her and then went crazy, Eloise Hawking, a mother who seriously has some f-ed up motives, and the mystery of why woman can’t carry to term on the Island, etc.

Ironically, LOST devoted an entire episode (and a series to, Christian Shephard, Ben Linus, Anthony Cooper, Pierre Chang, and Charles Widmore) to “all the best cowboys have daddy issues” but it seems to me that all the best “princesses”—yes that is what all us daughters have been conditioned to believe we should become—have mommy issues.

Happy Belated Mother’s Day. Can’t wait for the finale.

Writing

When my mom was a teenager her father read her diary. I don’t recall her exact age or the consequences of that reading, but let’s just say it didn’t turn out too well for her and scarred her for life. So, when my mother discovered I had a gift for writing, she had this advice: “Don’t write down anything that you don’t want someone else to read.”

In college I took an essay writing class. My professor, Dr. Klooster, the toaster—that is how it is pronounced, after reading my first essay, which sucked, offered me this advice: “Sharon, write about what you know.” I’m not a JK Rowling, a Dan Brown, or a Stephan King---I can’t make up stories.

My next essay was about a sick visit I took my 18-month-old daughter that still to this day is one of my favorite essays. (I’ll publish that someday).

For many years, I have written—reams upon reams, journals upon journals and of course, as an English major, paper upon paper. Much of what I’ve written, I’ve thrown away, in fact burned, because I never wanted anyone to read it for a variety of reasons---fear that I would hurt someone, fear that I would be ridiculed, fear that I would be judged, and fear that it wasn’t really that good. And, as a result, I didn’t write for a very, very long time.

I wish I had all those words back. But the past is the past. And, as I’ve started writing again, and most importantly publishing those words, I’ve tried not to let fear filter those words and have written from the heart.

And, then this week panic struck. My mother, who has spent the last six +weeks in physical and mental recovery, after her last suicide attempt, is being released from the hospital. Much to my surprise, due to her willingness to work on her issues, is returning home. Six weeks ago I didn’t even think this was possible! I thought I was going to have to probate her, send her away and throw away the key. But, that is not the case. Although I am still skeptical about her ability to take care of herself—I’m willing to give her one more chance—make no mistakes though, it is her last.

I started thinking about her coming home. She talked about coming home googling something and getting on Facebook. And, my immediate thought was—“OMG, what if she reads my Blog?” Certainly, I haven’t painted my mother in a particularly good light. But, the fact of the matter is, while she might take issue with me or have a different version of my memories; it is what I know. And, I’m not ashamed and I don’t feel any guilt. And, yes, mom, despite it all—I do love you.

Unlucky 13-more to the story

Prior to Marty’s death in 1997, every single significant and insignificant moment of my life was shared with him.

First some insignificant ones. In our large family, it was understood that the older kids looked after the younger kids. And, even though Marty was the baby of the family and enjoyed 6 years of everyone looking after him, when I came along he, too, despite his young age, was charged with looking after me. He was no longer the baby, I was.

So every time I came home crying (I skinned my knee, someone was mean to me or excluded me, or I lost at kick-the-can—girls do cry over that), Marty got in trouble for not looking after his “sister.” Of course there were more serious incidents—kids will be kids—like the time he coaxed me to jump on the bed and I fell and hit my head and I required stitches; or the time he dared me to put my hand in the flywheel of the exercise bike which chewed my middle finger up so badly that all they could do was let it heal into a nasty lumpy scare that I still bare to this day. Sadly, Marty was physically abused for these more serious transgressions, not me; but never held it against me and throughout my life was always was my biggest cheerleader. He cheered the loudest at my grade-school graduation as I received the Benny Bonano resolution (Hev, you’ll remember that one), at my high school graduation and sobbed with pride and joy the day I graduated top of my English class at John Carroll University (JCU).

I have so, so many memories of our bond….But the one that sticks with me the most, was the day that I got the life-changing news that I was pregnant with Meghanne. Crap! How did a smart girl like this let this happen? 19 my whole life ahead me and I had a plan.

I always excelled at school—okay I spent those 4 years in high school partying, not living up to my potential, but I made up for it when I went to the University of Dayton. Two months into my college experience I totally quit partying and directed 100% of my energies into school. After all, I was determined, I had a promising law career in my future. A party girl couldn’t achieve that. So one drunken night in my friend Katie’s room I took a hard look in the mirror and didn’t like the reflection. I quit cold turkey, and didn’t touch a drop of alcohol until four ½ years later, the day of my last final senior year at JCU—that night is a whole other story.

Back to CRAP! Positive. I’m pregnant! After I told Meg’s dad, my next phone call was to Marty. CRAP! Fortunately it happened at the end of the semester and I’d be home in a week. Marty's reaction… don’t worry “Sha”—pronouced Shea, my family nickname, we’ll figure this out together. Always looking out for his sister.

So I came home and Marty lived up to his promise…we’ll figure this out together…and we did.

To be continued.

Unlucky 13

2007…the year my daughter graduated from High School…the first time I felt true pride and joy; but also experienced the loneliness of an empty nest.

1997…the year that changed everything…the first time I felt genuine anguish and pain.

1987…the year my step-father died….the first time I felt the sting of suicide and substance abuse.

1977…the year my grandfather died…the first time I experienced death and questioned my existence.

1967…fortunately, I wasn’t born yet.

Lucky 7? I think not. Unlucky 13? Absolutely!!

I was born January 11, 1969 at 9:53 p.m. My mother was 22 years-old and an unwed, single mother by “choice.” My father, as my mother tells it, I have no firsthand knowledge at all, claims she told him that if he couldn’t be a full-time father, than he shouldn’t be my father at all. She didn’t want me waiting on the doorstep for him to show up for weekly visits and then to see the disappointment in my eyes when he didn’t show. Apparently, he knew he wouldn’t live up to his part of the bargain. So he chose to walk away forever. We’ve never had any contact, ever, and I’m not sure he even knows he had a daughter. He’s never known the daughter who would grow up to be someone who was amazing. And, I’m not being conceited, boastful or proud, but given everything in my life, I am amazing. I have an amazing ability to think, to reason, to write, to love, to imagine, to cope and most important…to survive. But, maybe if he hadn’t walked out on my, I wouldn’t be these things? So, maybe if he stuck around, he wouldn’t have missed a thing?

It might seem like a noble choice to protect her child on my mother’s part, but considering that she drank through her entire pregnancy and often loves to tell the story about how drunk she was on NYE, just 12 days before my birth, I don’t think so! Plus, who knows if that is even the real story.

But, whatever the case, as a consequence, I became a Somerville true and true.

My grandparents, Ruth and Ray Somerville, took me in and raised me as their own. Knowing that their unwed daughter (a taboo in 1969) couldn’t adequately care for me of her own. And, their children (JoAnne, Jerry, Karen, Patty, Jack, Ray, Tim, Marian, Ruthie, Annie, Peggy, Marty) embraced me as their “sister” and I became the 14^th Somerville.

Most of the older kids were grown and out of the house. But, I thank Ray for my love of football. A senior in high school, he was one of the stars of the NDCL football team and my mom attended every game when she was pregnant with me. Marian & Ruthie, also both in high school, greeted me each day as a child they were here to babysit. They made sure I was fed, had fresh diapers and clean clothes. Annie and Peggy, the two youngest girls, as I would learn years later, harbored jealousy toward me for the attention that I received, especially from their father. And, then there was Marty. The youngest, a kindergartener, a mere 6 years older than me. Number 13. Who from the day I was born was my kindred spirit.

When Marty was born, my mother the fourth oldest, was the oldest girl in the house. JoAnne and Karen left the home at a young age to join the convent. Marty and my mother also shared a deep bond and she always treated him special. She was 16 when he was born and like Marian and Ruthie did with me, she made sure he was fed, had fresh diapers and clean clothes. The difference was my mom was a working girl at the time. Instead of high school, she opted to attend “beauty school,” as they called it then, and became a teenage working cosmetologist. With the money she earned, she dotted on Marty and the younger kids, showering them with gifts, buying them clothes, shoes, soda, candy and toys that were luxuries outside of holidays in a family of our size.

Although living at home, mother was able to hide her pregnancy from the family until she was 8 months pregnant. The large smocks she wore for work and her larger size allowed her to conceal her growing belling. She also wore an old school girdle everyday which may explain why I was born with my forehead smashed in. When she finally told the family, she told Marty she was bringing him home a “big surprise.” He thought I was going to be a new football, but instead he got me. I’m sure he was initially disappointed, but little did he know, I would turn out to be one of the best gifts he’d ever been given. And, unlike my father, he choose to unwrap it, embrace it unconditionally love it, play with it, and nurture it until the day he died, October, 27, 1997.

To be continued.

Richard...an ode to guyliner

I’ve been writing about a lot of heavy stuff lately. Primarily because, as life would have it, I’ve been dealing with some heavy stuff! But that is not entirely what this Blog is all about.

I recently explained on my Blog profile: “So what is this blog all about? Just about anything and everything. I’m an ordinary girl with an extraordinary amount of interests and thoughts. I tell it like it is…and have always been told my big mouth would get me in trouble some day. Some of the subjects you’re likely to see me make remarks about: my life struggles, my weight loss struggles, beauty product reviews, music, sports, movies, LOST, literature, video games, art, procrastination, marriage, children, Harry Potter, shoes, fashion, celebrity gossip…..basically anything pop culture. I don’t watch reality t.v. (except for project runway) so you won’t hear about American Idol, the Bachelor, the Bachelorette, The Biggest Loser, Survivor, etc. Some remarks that I like to keep to myself include politics and religion.”

So, in honor of the Richard centric LOST episode last night—the man with guyliner. I thought I would write about something light and do a beauty product review of mascara. Before I begin, a little background on my penchant for beauty products. My mother was a hairdresser so all things related to style and beauty is my birthright. In fact, ALL of my baby/toddler/grade school pictures either have me with beautiful locks or with sponge rollers in my hair. Please note, I have NOT an ounce of body in my hair. My mother finally gave up and gave me my first perm at age 7.

Okay, so I’m constantly trying new products. And, in terms of mascara I’m seduced by their claims: Bigger, bolder lashes, with more vibrant color. I could look like Richard!!! So I’ve tried Cover Girl “eyelights” and other products that claim to bring out the color in your eyes. No difference, they still look the same blue/green. The volumizing products, like Mabelline Colossal or Shocking Volume which just leave you looking clumpy. Want a good product? Go for L’Oreal’s Voluminous Waterproof mascara—my mainstay. It’s awesome. The right amount of volume, long lasting, noticeable difference and good price. I always go back to it when I try something new. Oh and here's another tip, L’Oreal is the store brand version of Lancome…don’t waste your cash on Definicils or any of their other high end product lines. And, don’t be seduced by the Lancome “bonus time” like I often am! Go for the buy one get one free L’Oreal sales that happen quite frequently at drug stores…It’s like getting a “bonus”

PS…I hate that my blogs are often filled with typos that I do go back and correct. I was blessed with the gift of writing but not the gift of spelling…more on that someday.

I named him Marley anyways….

I first read John Grogan’s book in the winter of 2007. Although the book had been on the best sellers list more than two years ago, I had heard so many good things about it and so I picked it up as a good “beach read” for our annual trip to Jamaica. I typically go to half-priced books before our trip to purchase 4-5 good “light reading” paperback books for our trip. Yes I can read that many books in one week.

After pursuing a master’s degree in English, I pride myself on reading the “classics” in my field of Medieval and Renaissance Literature—Shakespeare, Milton, Dante—or anything else from the “cannon.” (And, I am quite fond of revisiting my old friends in Hemingway, Faulkner, and Poe). However, I allow myself one week a year—when we travel to the Caribbean to indulge my secret passion of reading books that I don’t’ have to think about, analyze, or study plot, character development or narrative style. In my mind, the Harry Potter books I purchase and read voraciously on the day of their release, don’t count as they will find their rightful place in the cannon and my weekly reads of People, US Weekly and InStyle, don’t count either because they are just magazine. Actually, the truth is I just like to read! It’s a skill I picked up at a very early age—age 3 in fact. Okay, you’re saying to yourself—age three? You’re thinking, no one learns to read at age three, but it is true.

I was born to an unwed mother with an 8^th grade education in 1969—not common or acceptable in those days. In my early years, I lived with my grandparents, two depression era kids, who bore thirteen children. Typical of their generation, my grandmother stayed home and reared the children while my grandfather work long hours as a Pipefitter in Cleveland, Ohio. Surprisingly, with one income and that many kids, we were not poor. We were lower middle-class. We lived in a beautiful home—built by my great-grandfather—attended the same private catholic school my grandparents met at and always had a home cooked meal on the table.

My grandfather had his first stoke at the age of 50—the year I turned one. The stroke left him without the ability to speak, read or reason. Skills he needed to learn all over again to return to the workforce and support his family. He spent grueling hours of physical and speech to learn his ABCs, to read and communicate with the world again. A proud man, the only person who didn’t judge him for his stutters, his inability to comprehend or even speak simple sentences was me. I was learning it all for the first time, too. And, as a result my grandfather would spend countless hours speaking and reading to me. And, so by the time I was three-years-old, I could read and speak at a level far beyond anyone’s expectations. It fully credit my passion and gift for reading, writing and learning to my grandfather who would have his second, and fatal stoke, seven years later. My grandmother, who I truly believed died of a broken heart, passed just one short year later, also at the age of 57. Leaving me in the care of my mother, who to this day at age of 62, is still not capable of taking care of herself, let alone a young, gifted, precocious child.

When I picked up Marley and Me, I was immediately drawn to the book. First, I love dogs. Who can’t relate to the unconditional love of or for an animal? Especially a dog. And, after being “abandoned” by the two loves of my life—my grandparents—I clung to my dogs’ affections. And, I’ve had a lot of them. Being raised by a single mom with emotional and substance abuse problems, we move a lot. And, our dogs always seemed to be a casualty of the move. But we always had one. There was Buster, Saddie, Shultz, Sonny, Mogul, and Crockett. And, they were always some kind of Lab or Lab mix. Sonny (Ray’s and eventually Marty’s dog) and Crockett were the dogs I had the longest—both yellow Labs—and both of the highly intelligent kind. Both chewers and destructors in their puppy stages but my memories of them are of the “best dogs” in the world. Since I was a child when I had these dogs, I didn’t fully comprehend or appreciate the training, feeding, or sheer responsibility that comes with owning a dog. It’s just the family dog. And all I knew was that I unconditionally loved these creatures and they unconditionally loved me. No matter what the dog, I was devastated when I had to say goodbye to them for whatever reason.

Then there was Bailey. Bailey was the first dog I truly ever owned and was the pet I had when I pick-up up a copy of Marley and Me. Bailey came into my life to ease my daughter’s pain of losing her father to divorce. Bailey, a black lab, was a rescue dog who had been abuse as a puppy (they home clipped his tail!). The adoption process was intense. As I read the tale of the “world worst dog”on the beaches of Jamaica, I couldn’t imagine having a dog who was headstrong, disobedient, and a menace. Bailey was sheepish, afraid of his own shadow but loved us, Marc especially, unconditionally. He was a daily joy in our life. Meggie even had her senior pictures taken with the gentle Bailey. Little did I know that in a few short days after we returned home from Jamaica, we would be forced to say good-bye to Bailey forever. It was awful for all of us.

Just three days after Bailey’s death, I arrived home for the first time to an empty house. Meg was at diving practice, Marc at work and no Bailey to greet me at the door. I had just sat down, and cried and then doorbell rang. I assumed that Marc had either misplaced his keys between the car and the front door (Men do that), had an armful of groceries or something else, or wanted to enter through the garage (we didn’t have a garage door opener). Instead I was greeted to a 6-week-old Black Lab puppy. Marc said: “meet Marley.” I immediately embraced him, held him close to my heart, and the heartache I felt lessened.

Read future blogs about how my Marley, while he certainly hasn't earned the title of the worlds worst dog, he is quite a challenge.

The Girl with the Raspberry Lips

In 4^th grade I transferred to Our Lady of Angels (OLA) following the death of my grandparents who were OLA alum along with their 13 children. I arrived to Miss Moyer’s classroom clad in my custom made uniform (my great-aunt owns Schoolbelles, the catholic school uniform company) and my long chestnut brown hair professionally done (my mother was a hairdresser and yes, in case you were wondering, I’m not a natural blonde). Nervous about being the new girl, I was delighted to be seated next to Margaret Nagle who quickly informed me that my older Somerville “siblings” were friends with her older siblings and thus, we should be friends, too. We’ve been friends ever since.

At some point during the day, Margaret asked me, “Why do you have lipstick on?” I said, “I didn’t. That was the natural color of my lips.” To this day, Margaret often refers to me as the girl with the “raspberry lips.”

Fast forward to 6^th grade. Enter Heather O’Donnell. Finally I could pass on the moniker of the “new girl.” Heather and her family recently moved to Westpark from Avon. Basically she was a foreign exchange student at OLA as most of us dated back generations. Heather was anxious to become part of our group but Pam Muha stood in her way. We didn’t have room for one more. As good fortune would have it, Pam quickly moved to Texas. So, Heather called me and concocted some lame story about a broken curling iron—a serious crisis for a young girls in the early 8Os on their way to cheerleading try-outs. I was happy to help her out. We’ve been friends ever since. I did come to learn that Heather’s mom was a hairdresser and actually had a beauty salon in their basement!

The three of us (+Barb, Cheryl and Alicia), along with friends we met along the way, Lisa, Jennifer, Chrissie, Carol, Annie, Kathy, Sara, Suzy, and many more ,and WAY too many boys to name (but you know who you are), partied our way through four years of high school and forged friendships to last a lifetime.

And, our friendships went way deep. In part because in Westpark our families are all intertwined. In fact, Heather is now Heather Nagle as she married Margaret’s older brother Donald. For 20+ years, we’ve stood by each other as we married (divorced and re-married), as we tragically buried some of our loved ones at a young age, and as we gave birth to our children. We’re family.

Sadly, we’ve reached the point in life that my many our friend’s parents are dying. This has been particularly hard for me because I’ve had a strained relationship with my parents my whole life. (Okay just my mom as my dad walked out on me before I was born.) But, it sucks for all of us. And, we take comfort in the fact that we’re still here for each other. And of course, the girl with the “raspberry lips” will be right there as we march down that long aisle at OLA once again.

OSU Shooting

Today started like any other day. I awoke to four beautiful brown eyes anxiously awaiting the start of their day. So after I petted their furry little heads for a moment, I climbed out of bed and started my routine. Let the boys out, make the coffee, feed the fish, retrieve the paper and check my BlackBerry (showering and getting ready to work comes well after I’ve been up for a while). Much to my dismay, there was a “Buckeye Emergency Alert” and this time the word “TEST” didn’t follow. It said “OSU police. Shooting near McCracken Power Plant. Suspect in Custody. Avoid area. Details to follow.” Now there is a wake up call.

My daughter is a student at OSU. Panic struck. But, I was comforted in the fact that she lives off campus and at 6:30 a.m. she was nowhere NEAR campus. She was at home safe in her bed. But, was she?

Just two days ago at OSU, my daughter was the subject of a break-in while she was sleeping in the house.

Funny thing about the sleep cycle of parents and their kids. For the first few months of their lives, all you want them to do is sleep. Seriously having a newborn is like taking part in a sleep depravation study (except there is no end in sight and your not being compensated). Then they hit those pre-teen years and you’re knocking on their bedroom door at 2 p.m. asking if they are going to sleep their life away. Then they start driving, and you anxiously await to hear the most beautiful sound in the world; The car pulling into the driveway. And, if they are even five minutes late, those are the longest five minutes of your life and the worst goes through your head. And, then college hits. You send them off. The first few months are just weird. But, you get use to it. After 18+ years, you rediscover a good nights sleep.

But, do you? When the phone rings too late or the BlackBerry buzzes you wonder and for a moment panic.

Parenting is a lifelong commitment. And, the cost, sleep…good night.

Little Women

I’ve always been a planner. I’ve always known what I wanted and set a course to achieve it. And, then life happened.

In Sr. Leonette’s 5^th grade class—who by the way was the meanest, most intimidating nun I’ve ever met—we were asked to stand up in front of the class and espouse our hopes and dreams for the future. A determined young lady, I confidently stood up and proclaimed that I was either going to be the first woman supreme course justice (there wasn’t one at the time) or the first woman of the United States (there still isn’t one…so I still have a shot). I had BIG dreams. An Ivy League law degree, followed by a famous successful career. Sr. Leonette of course scoffed at my ambitions, said a couple derogatory comments about my family that she had schooled for years and sent a foolish girl to her seat. Instead of being crushed, I took the John Locke approach…“don’t tell me what I can’t do!!!” and set a course for my life to achieve greatness.

I did go on to college at the University of Dayton, certainly not at an ivy league school, and proudly registered my first day as an English Major and a pre-law student. And, then towards the end of my freshman year found myself pregnant. Not in the plan. Of course, my family, who was so proud of my determination and shared my hopes and dreams, freaked-out! But again, the “don’t tell me what I can’t do” mantra kicked-in. I moved home to Cleveland, enrolled at John Carroll University and married (in that order). It was just a bump in the road but I was still on the right course. I went to school until I was 9 months pregnant, took the winter semester off to have my baby and returned that fall to finish my degree and graduate top of my class.

As I approached graduation with hopes still to go to law school, I was invited to pursue the opportunity to complete my master’s degree in English as a graduate teaching assistant. Free tuition and a stipend to boot! After years of living in poverty, the chance to earn a paycheck was enticing; So I took it. Plus, I thought having a teaching assistantship and master’s degree would only increase my chances at a scholarship to law school.

So instead, here is what happened. I finished grad school (the BEST two years of my life!) . But, in the end, the demands of motherhood, my failing marriage and the desire to make a home for my daughter (i.e. buying a home) put my dreams on hold. So instead of pursing a law degree I made the choice to begin working. At the time, I thought, okay another bump in the road. I’m young, I’ll be 38 when Meg goes off to college. There is still plenty of time.

Now I’m 41. Meg is in her 3^rd year of college and I have yet to pursue my dreams. What am I waiting for? Well, as life would have it, I have pretty good career in non-profit and as an event planner (all that partying actually paid off!) and a handicapped husband who demands much of my time. But, these are the choices I’ve made. And I love my life—although I always wonder….

Obviously, as an English major, reading always has been and always will be my passion. One of my favorite books is Little Women. Of course my favorite character is the determined, writer, Jo. But, my daughter is named after the sister Meg because I thought it was the most beautiful name for a girl.

I recently watched the movie with Wiona Ryder. One of my favorite scenes is when Jo takes on a group of young men in the boarding house arguing about why women should be allowed the privilege to vote (yes there was a time when women couldn’t vote!) and she was told “you should have been a lawyer”. Her response “I should have been a great many things.”

That sentiment resonates with me. I should have been a great many things. But, what I am is pretty darn good! And there is still time. Right?