Keep Calm, It’s Not Contagious

Recently someone expressed their concern over their children having been “exposed” to Jess.  Let that sink it.

notcontagious

I don’t know about you, but when I consider exposure and concern in the same sentence here’s what comes to my mind:

  1. The flu
  2. The chicken pox
  3. Ebola
  4. Tuberculosis
  5. Yellow Fever
  6. AIDS
  7. Stomach bugs
  8. Pertussis
  9. Syphilis
  10. Pink eye
  11. Legionnaires Disease
  12. Strep throat
  13. Meningitis
  14. A cold
  15. Rabies
  16. Hepatitis A, B, C, D and E
  17. MRSA
  18. Bubonic Plague
  19. Chlamydia
  20. Diptheria
  21. Malaria
  22. SARS
  23. Athlete’s Foot
  24. Typhoid Fever
  25. Herpes

Here’s what doesn’t:

  1. Anything, anything related to LGBTQ

Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree

There is a Christmas tree in my living room.  It is understated, with glowing white lights (which do me the favor of not blinking) and simple silver ornaments.  It is situated perfectly in the middle of the window, shining out in the darkness of night for everyone to enjoy.  I actually love that Christmas tree.  Only it is not my tree, nor is it my living room.

xmastree

I spent twenty years in that house.  I raised both of my sons, and then, three years ago, a daughter there.  During my tenure I lived through construction of a big addition,  various paint jobs,  rearranged furniture, new carpets, replacement of appliances that all decided to die at the same time, play structures being constructed and ultimately, outgrown, great times and, frankly, some pretty dark ones.  My children, in all their incarnations and phases (some more pleasant than others) spent the entirety of their lives there.  And now, there is a Christmas tree not far from where the Menorah was illuminated for all those twenty years.

The end of this year rests in stark contrast to the end of last.  Everything, it seems, feels different.  And, for the first time in longer than I feel ashamed to admit, I feel blessed.

My children are doing fine.  Better than fine, in fact.  They have their moments (oh, who am I kidding…it is never just a moment) but all in all, they are good.  Harrison, (begrudgingly) home for semester break continues to make me proud.  (Well, makes me proud when he isn’t forcing me to use words to describe him that are unbecoming of a mother.)  He, as a sophomore (warning: brag ahead) was elected president of his fraternity.  He’s always been a leader and despite the fact that I really do not quite get the whole frat thing, is (when not home) wildly happy at school having surrounded himself with a great group of friends. For that I feel blessed.

Jess continues to be work in progress, but, despite her “significant” learning disability, rocked this semester with all As and Bs.  She is finding her way and is content.  (Full disclosure: I still worry about her.  Always will, I suppose.) She is an artist to the core and I fully expect to see her one woman show at The Whitney some day.

I’ve established two wonderful relationships; one being with my former husband, Rich.  The process of the dissolution of our marriage was unpleasant, no fun, felt interminable and nearly crushed my spirit, but we’ve both moved on and twice (yes, twice) in the past week have broken bread with our children in celebration of Jess’s birthday and then Hannukah.  No tension, no anger, no animosity and a bill split down the middle.  That’s how it should be.  The other is with my guy Barry.  His support of every single one of the complications that come along with me has been unfailing.  He loves me, my children (and I, his) and, with his ringside seat to the changes of the past year, has kept me laughing.  That is a gift.

2014 is ending high.  On paper, I have always had so much to be thankful for: a wonderful family, amazing friends, a nice home and good food, but, if I am being honest (which you all know I always am): I was having a hard time feeling blessed.  I truly do now.

Other than my, gulp, 50th birthday and a trip to Chile, I haven’t a clue what 2015 will bring.  In contrast to years past, I enter it not with trepidation, but with happy anticipation.  My ducks are in a row straighter than they have been for, well, a decade or so and I intend to keep them that way.

There is a Christmas tree in my living room, shining on me.  May it shine on you and yours, too.

November 18

The alarm went off at the ungodly hour of 5:30 a.m.  but I need not have set it at all as I had been wide awake praying for sleep since ten o’clock the night before when I crawled into bed, Ambien on board.  It was the pre-Facebook, pre-Words With Friends, pre-iPhone era, so my options were limited.  I knew I needed to rest, to prepare, to go in strong, but there was just no damn way I was going to sleep.

I was due to arrive at 6:30 a.m., thirty minutes prior to my procedure.  I took a shower, washed and pulled through the curls of my hair, styling it to within an inch of its life, but (and this is notable) stopped short of applying any makeup…even my beloved mascara.  There would be no need for it where I was going, and, in fact, it would only become a smeared mess which could well have been the thing that put me over the edge.

My mother arrived promptly at 6:15 a.m.[i] to get the boys off to their respective schools – Georgie[ii]  to daycare, Harrison to his first grade classroom.   It felt sneaky leaving before they were awake, but I couldn’t bear to say goodbye, so we split as they were just starting to stir awake.  It was better for everyone.  Well, for me, anyway.

As we got in the car, I noted to myself that the fact that I had not slept for weeks did not seem to be impacting my energy level.  In fact, I felt as though jumping directly out of my skin was a very real possibility.  I popped a Xanax, took a deep breath and settled in for the ten minute drive to the hospital.  It was time for me to actually have the bi-lateral mastectomies that we had been discussing for weeks.

There are parts of the day and following weeks that are so vividly etched in my mind that they could have happened this morning: walking into the pre-op area, not nearly as looped from the Xanax as I would have like to be and being warmly welcomed by the team of nurses that were going to take care of me; my surgeon, marking my breasts and commenting that I had great tissue..but I was quite sure, positive in fact, that I heard him say “great tits”; and chatting with the orderlies about how my surgeon just told me I had great tits.  And then, not a single memory until nine hours later when I woke up, thrashing not from pain or anxiety, but from the cuffs around my ankles which were keeping my circulation going and, of note, driving me out of my fucking mind; sweating and not being able to lift my arms to secure a ponytail; wanting my glasses so I could see, but learning that they were already in the room that I would occupy once I was deemed stable enough to be transported from recovery.  And the little mounds that my doctor (yeah, the one who liked my tits[iii]) made sure to create so that when I awoke there would be something, anything where my breasts used to be.

The two days I spent in the hospital are a blur.  My one recollection is the walk I took around the hall with my father who was, at the time, dying of lung cancer.  It was the first time ever that I was actually walking more slowly than he.  We were shaky, tentative and scared.

That was ten years ago: November 18, 2004.  It was the Thursday before Thanksgiving which has become a holiday which threatens to knock me down every year, but has yet to succeed.  In that time so much has changed that it is nearly impossible to believe.  In 2004 my two sons were approaching respective birthdays: George would be three, Harrison ten.  I now have a nearly 13-year-old named Jessie and a soon-to-be 20 year-old who is far more man than boy.  My father is gone…for close to nine years now.  I am no longer married, no longer live in the home in which I raised my children and no longer have two sons.  Those ten years were my forties.  And now, with my, gulp, choke, egad, 50th birthday on the horizon I feel so many different things, but mostly grateful.

ten

Not only am I alive, but I have cancer in my rear view mirror and the scars to prove it.  I have met so many incredible people along the way – my team of doctors, the oncologist and the plastic surgeon (who I affectionately refer to as the one who took ‘em off and the one who put ‘em back on), my nurse who was considerate enough to go through a divorce at the exact same time as me and has become my friend and the people who have been with me through every single upheaval that has defined my forties.

Today is a big deal for me.  I never quite know how it is going to go down.  I have had November 18th s that have been marked by shopping sprees, crying jags, malaise and euphoria – and sometimes all of the above.  I do not know what today will bring.  I do know it is an anniversary I will never ignore, forget or not appreciate for what it has given me.

[i] If you know my mother, you know this is notable.  The “promptly” part, that is.

[ii] Name choice intended

[iii]  He did NOT say I had great tits (which I did) but to this day, every time I see him I remind him just so I can see him blush.

 

Nailed It

Anyone who knows me will attest to the fact that for the past twenty years, one would be hard pressed to find me without perfectly manicured nails.  Not long and never red, just clean, polished, perfectly filed and, even (especially) during the worst of times, flawless.  It has been the thing that made me feel in control and, I assumed, conveyed to the world a psychic unity that often eluded me.  I readily and frequently professed that I would give up food before I gave up my beloved bi-weekly manis.  And then last week happened.

I had put exactly zero thought to what I was about to do.  I had not, in fact, even entertained the idea.  Yet, as I sat in the familiar chair struggling with my aluminum foiled covered fingernails* to turn the pages of the most recent “People” magazine I felt not the comfort and calm that always came with manicures, rather I felt agitated and irritated by the process and a little ashamed of the time I was wasting while I should really have been packing up my house to move.

The guy who has been doing my nails for years sat silently scraping the remaining “Dizzy Feet” (which, incidentally, is the perfect shade of pink)(I know because I spent an embarrassing amount of time over these past 20 years seeking just that: the perfect shade of pink)(it’s Essie for those who are going to go looking for it) off my nails, preparing to paint them yet again.  “Wait” I nearly shouted, “No polish…just buff them and throw on a shiny clear coat.”

He literally stopped and stared at me.  I think he jaw might have dropped open a little.  It was then that I knew that I was done with this whole ritual, habit, commitment.

photo (18)

The symbolism is not lost on me.  This has been a (ten year) period of all sorts of crap coming at me from left, front and center.  It all began in November, 2004 when I was diagnosed with breast cancer and has been a steady stream of stress, change, upheaval, mishegas**, anxiety, transition and general shit-storminess.  Yes, there have been some wonderful things thrown in there, too, but, all in all…it’s been a rough patch.  Through it all, my nails were always perfect.  In fact, the day before my surgery I made sure to have my nails done so that when I woke up I would feel like at least a shadow of myself.  Same with the day before my father’s funeral, the day George told me she was a girl, when my husband and I decided to separate…

Now that we are approaching year three of Jess’s transition, my house is sold, I’ve found a place to live, I have a wonderful man in my life and the world is continuing to spin on its axis I realized I don’t need perfect nails any more.  To be clear, they are well groomed and will remain so.  I actually kinda like the way they look and found myself (almost) getting a little judgey (that’s my made up word for being judgmental) when I see a woman with nails that resemble the way mine used to look.  But, rest assured, it has been a fleeting thought as I, perhaps more than most, deeply appreciate the value of a perfect manicure.

Pathetic as it may sound, I consider this a victory, a success, a milestone.  I feel liberated on many levels.  I do, however, reserve the right to relapse and return to the perfect pink someday…

 

*Gel manicures changed my life…but in order to prepare the nails for a new coat, one has to wrap the nail in foil and acetone to melt the crap out of them.  As noted, it makes for very difficult trashy magazine page turning which, I realized, was a good 75 percent of what I actually needed when I walked into the nail salon.

** That’s “Jewish” for craziness.

The Power Of An (Eskimo) Kiss

It happened so quickly as to be almost imperceptible and could more easily have been missed than been caught.  It was as quick as it was gentle, organic, sweet and utterly heartwarming.  I’ve not been able to stop thinking about it.

We’d just eaten a delicious Indian dinner and had taken our place in a long line at the ice cream shop; me seeking to cleanse my pallet with a tart yogurt.  They had declined the opportunity to order anything for themselves, but would willingly sample my dessert when offered a spoonful (or two as the case may be).  Married for a mere fifty-seven years,  they stood in comfortable, well-fed silence waiting for the rest of us to indulge when, with no fanfare or trace of contrivance, they exchanged a warm glance, their eyes sparkled and they  gently touched noses.  I felt goosebumps erupt on my arms and warmth run through me.  It was a moment that I felt lucky to have witnessed, although admittedly, the intimacy of it forced me to reflexively turn away, allowing them a modicum of privacy among the waffle cones.

Just an Eskimo kiss…and one, I am willing to bet, was not the first or one they will even recall.

eskimo

I have thought a lot about why this moment was so powerful to me.  I’ve considered the fact that their relationship began exactly when my own parents’ did and how both unions are/were so solid.  I’ve noted the ease with which they maneuver together and apart.  There is, too, such a profound, unspoken understanding of strengths, weaknesses, quirks, foibles and neuroses that their dance is seamless and secure.  Isn’t that what everyone ultimately wants?

Through these past few years of seemingly endless transitions, I am acutely aware of the comfort of sameness and the human need for a degree of consistency.  Two people touching noses are two people who are in sync and, while they are well aware of the guaranteed certainty of uncertainty, they got this.  It is that ease, that comfort, that even slim semblance of certainty which has eluded me .  Observing it in others, however, brought me comfort and peace knowing that it still exists.

My son is my daughter.  My marriage is no longer.  I’m nearing the time when I enter a new decade.   My home of twenty years is on the market, kept in a permanent state of immaculateness (sterility??) should someone be interested in traipsing through, judging every nook and cranny of the place that worked just fine for its four most recent inhabitants.  I’m working on a (fuzzy, at best) plan for the next two years which, if history is worth a damn, are sure to be as irresolute as the last two.

With so much up in the air it can feel as though the chance of landing on something absolute will permanently evade you.  And then you catch a nose rub in an ice cream shop…

Take *That*, Elephant

We were having an important conversation about an emotionally charged subject.  The banter was easy and agreeable, the tone respectful.  The subject matter had nothing whatsoever to do with me or my kid, yet when it morphed into the organic moment I had been waiting (um, praying) for, I (um) pounced.   It was that moment that I chose to share that my daughter, whom the person I was speaking with has met on more than one occasion, was born a boy.

It had been eating at me.  I had felt as though my lack of sharing was somehow duplicitous and had become the elephant in the room which only I noticed.  It was equal parts anxiety and the desire to be wholly honest which allowed the words to tumble out of my mouth with no fanfare (unless one could consider my gently resting my hand on my listener’s knee somehow fanfare-ish) direct eye contact and a kind-of-a-little-bit feigned bravado.  But the moment I said it, I felt my shoulders drop ever so slightly and my breath catch just a smidge as I awaited a response.

elephant

 

I do not know what I expected really.  I certainly did not anticipate hysteria or anger, nor did I get it. I had built up the details and played out the scene of this interaction many times in my mind. I had allowed myself to perseverate over how and when to say something, fretted over the reaction I would receive, rehearsed the monologue (which, when the time arrived for recitation, fully escaped me) to the point of sudden sweats and aborted sleep. And it was all for naught.  The response was nearly as matter-of-fact as my delivery.  Compassion for the challenges we faced were shared.  Respect was evident in both directions.  Inset huge sigh here.

Perhaps it was selfish of me to blurt it out amid discussion of another child’s issue.  This wasn’t about me.  But as we were chatting, my mind feverishly darted back and forth between “not now, Julie” and “since we are getting down and dirty into kid issues, bring it on”.  You know which option won out.

And, while I never worried about the response I would receive, I obsessed over finding the right time, the right place and the right words.  I think I did okay.

I am appreciative of the acceptance.  I am cognizant of the fact that I lobbed a fastball.  I am grateful to have been listened to so respectfully.  Note to self: the anticipation is always the hardest part.

 

 

Here’s A Story*

I love a good story.  Even more, I love re-telling the story and collecting reactions.  My favorites are those that have an “OMG” or “can you believe it” factor.[1]  I prefer a happy ending but will never shy from the truth.  When I hear a great story for the first time, I immediately repeat it in my head, knowing that I will share it some time, somewhere.  That is how this blog came to be: telling our story which other people seemed to be interested in hearing.  There are times that my (our) story is either too big, too small, too scary, too boring or too private to share.  But I still love to tell a story.

Here’s one I heard just over a year ago, but love it as much now as I did the first time I heard it.

I used to work (until she left – insert sad face here) with a very cool lady whom I will call O.  She is eighteen years my senior and from (what I thought was) a different world.  She’d worked for many years at an ultra Waspy prep school which never saw the likes of someone like me.  I knew that her children were grown, she was a grandmother and she always adorned the t-shirts we wear to work with a pretty scarf tied neatly at her throat.  I curbed my sailor’s mouth around her (need not have done that, I learned) and thought she was a lovely lady who had been married for eons and been living a nice, albeit unscandalous life.  Well…I was wrong.  Turns out that she had not only divorced her husband of forty years but had then gone on to marry her college sweetheart.  But wait…there’s more!  Her former husband not only divorced her, but then he married his college sweetheart!  And, just to make things more interesting, they all get along famously. 

As she told me and watched, not for the first time, I am sure, my reaction of shock, she smiled and said, “Yep, you can’t make this shit up.”

Everybody has a story.

And another all time favorite:

A friend whose children were, at the time, probably somewhere around nine and eleven were all sitting in the bleachers at a Red Sox game.  There was a lull in the action and the nine-year old asked a question she’d been asking for a few weeks prior: “Where do babies come from?” The mom, who had been waiting for just the right time to answer the question, decided that then was as good a time as any.  Seated between her two children, the older of which already knew the answer, she proceeded to (artfully, I am sure) answer her daughter’s query.  The conversation lasted a few moments and the mom dropped her shoulders, relieved that it was over.  A beat later, her son, all eleven years of him, leaned across his mother, looked at his sister and said, “Now ask her what a blow job is.”  Simultaneously horrified and amused, the mother shared it with me…ten years ago.

Everybody has a story.

I have been negligent in keeping y’all up with my story.  I have gotten innumerable texts, emails and messages asking if I am okay or is my silence something to be concerned about.  Yes, I am fine and no, my lack of writing is nothing more than that – a lack of writing.  I’ve been asked how Jess is doing.  She, too, is doing fine.  As fine as any human being can be, that is, while in the throes of puberty, middle school, divorcing parents and navigating the transgender waters.   Ours, like everyone else’s, is a story that is unfolding each day.  There are days that come and go without incident.  Others, not so much.   There are times that I would rather tell you the story of my friend O or that of my friend and the blow job. Telling those stories (which are often more interesting than mine) is joyful and, frankly, sometimes easier.  I gather them up and try to find the time to share them with you.

I hope you will allow me that indulgence…to tell a story, which might not always be my own.

Because, you know what? : Everybody has a story.

 

[1] Transgender, anyone?

*Does anyone else have the urge to continue this title with:…”of a lovely lady?”

Here’s a Link to My Blog…

download

Last year, before meeting someone for the first time, I shared a link to this blog along with this note:

This will tell you a lot about me and your reaction will, in turn, tell me a lot about you…”

And then, I will admit, I held my breath. I might have even turned a little blue (all interpretations intended) awaiting a response. As it happened, the response (which, thankfully, came just twenty minutes later) was intensely benign, little more than a shrug of the shoulders. Here I was, freaking out about sharing the story with yet another unsuspecting soul and the reaction was so matter-of-fact as to be almost disconcerting. It was, however, genuine and, with the notable exception of my hair color (okay, and my nose) I am – and likewise appreciate others who are – nothing if not genuine.

Why did I share such a personal disclosure so early in the game? That’s easy: I wanted it out in the open and not hanging over me, knowing that it would, in all likelihood, need to be shared eventually; and, I suppose, I subscribed to a “the earlier the better” plan. Perhaps I jumped the gun, but that, to me, was preferential to waiting too long. It felt dishonest to withhold something which I consider a large part of who I am, all in the name of not making someone else uncomfortable. And, further, not only did I did not want to enter into any kind of relationship in a way that felt disingenuous, I also wanted to know, frankly, that someone I was going to let into my life would have a similar acceptance of the reality of my life. For better or worse, I am all about full disclosure, honesty, and what-you-see-is-what-you-get. I know that I am the exception and that many (okay, most) people would have let it happen more organically, if at all. That is simply not who I am and I have to be true to myself1 and, more importantly, my kid.

Interestingly, I have yet to come across a single person who has reacted negatively (in my presence, anyway) to the “announcement.” In fact, more often than not I wind up learning about their kid’s this, that or the other thing; mostly because all kids have some degree of this, that or the other thing. Those same folks who are more buttoned up than I (I know, I know…that is most people) find comfort in knowing that they are not the only ones who have a “secret” that might not play well in Peoria. It actually gives me great joy that I have been blessed with many friendships which were sown from this very honest exchange.

Upon meeting anyone with whom I suspect I will be spending more than just one parcel of time with, I have to suppress the urge to hand them a link to my blog and/or tell them all about how totally normal Jess is, despite her unusual path. How she is complicated but also wildly talented, ridiculously funny, disarmingly creative and crazy smart. That she inherited my left-handedness and blue eyes and the streak of pink in her shoulder length hair is reminiscent of one I had back in the day. That she can draw and sew and metal-smith so skillfully that you would not believe her work is that of a 12-year-old2. How she made an art form of making a mess of her newly cleaned bedroom in fifteen seconds flat despite swearing up, down and sideways that she will keep it neat. How she and I listen to “Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me” in the car most Saturdays and have a (mostly) friendly competition to see who can finish the sentences and guess which is the true story first.3 That she he tries to get away with swiping my makeup and hairbands and clips and brushes but always gets busted. And how, yes, her path is not going to be an easy one. But perhaps most importantly, she is truer to herself and has the courage of her convictions more than most people I know…myself included.

I have some new people in my life who do not yet know the story of Jess. I am, for the first time, really struggling with how, when and where to tell them. My trepidation is not for me, but for them being caught unaware. My disquietude is out of respect for the ripple effect it may, unfortunately, have on people I care about. I worry not about acceptance, but understanding. My anxiety is over my having waited too long and the potential sense of dishonesty that they may feel, although it was never intended. And, in true Julie form, I am likely (um, make that hopefully) pre-worrying about something that could (just maybe) go off without a hitch.

I grapple with keeping things as they are versus wearing my heart on my sleeve. I waver between making an “announcement” and not saying anything all all. And, I have considered taking a page my from my own playbook and simply forward a link to this post with the same message that served me well once before:

This will tell you a lot about me and your reaction will, in turn, tell me a lot about you…”

1My father always told my brothers and me to be true to ourselves and to have the courage of our convictions. I have passed that edict on to my children, but not always been able to live it myself. This one’s for you, dad.

2There has been jockeying for position on her friends and family pricing list since she was in Kindergarten. True.

3She is a formidable opponent. Sometimes it is embarrassing.

Love The Kid Whose Name is Left Out for Privacy

The following arrived in my in blog comments this morning.  I saw it when I first woke up, have been thinking about ever since and am thrilled to finally have a second to share it.

Hi! I go to (name of school left out for privacy) school and in Jessie’s grade. She is an amazing girl with a true heart! I know some people are mean to her, but let her know that (name left out for privacy) really does like her.

heart

Wow.  Just wow.

I showed it to Jess and it is safe to say she is pretty much the happiest kid on the planet right now.

She has told me that she is going to give (name left out for privacy) a hug when she sees her.  So, too, am I.

Not so happy about the people being mean to her, however…

Unsubscribe

Who doesn’t have an email inbox overflowing with crap that we neither care about nor bother reading?  I know that mine is inundated with notices from American Eagle, LLBean, The Vitamin Shoppe, Old Navy, LivingSocial, Groupon and Goldstar[1] and, admittedly, I have managed to miss “important” emails amongst the clutter just like everybody else.  Periodically I will spend some time “unsubscribing” (which, incidentally, doesn’t always work but is remarkably easy to do) and experience, if even temporarily, a little bit of accord in my inbox.  I, along with throngs of other people, do so without fanfare, malice or the need to draw attention.

Well, apparently unsubscribing is meant to be shared as last week I received, in the comment section of this blog , a note that simply said:

Please delete my email address

 Upon initial glance I thought it was spam until I looked further down the page and noticed that it was from someone whom I have known for better than thirty years.  I wasn’t entirely surprised by the request (although I had necessarily anticipated it) but I was surprised by the fact that this someone would take the time to submit a comment as opposed to just, well, unsubscribing.  And, of course, it made me wonder why.[2]

My blog can be unsubscribed to quite simply.  At the bottom of the email it states, as clearly as humanly possible, to click here and voila, you are done.[3]  Frankly, unless I am terribly bored and have scads of time on my hands, I will never scour or even peruse the subscriber list[4] and, therefore, will not even know that you have taken your leave.  (No offense.)  By now (as in 2014) I know of no one who does not know this little trick.  Why, then, did my former subscriber choose to not just click the button but instead made sure to let me know that she[5] could no longer tolerate seeing my posts arrive in her inbox?  Hmmmm.

passiveaggressive

So I, ever the over-thinker, have been contemplating this for days.  (To be clear, my ruminations are less a function of caring much about this particular person, more about the human condition.) My conclusions:

  1. This person (or anyone who opts to draw attention to an unsubscribing) doesn’t like/enjoy/appreciate/understand/have time for/give a shit about/know how to read what I write;
  2.  Wants me to know that she feels all of the above;
  3. Doesn’t understand how to click on a button that says unsubscribe;
  4. Cannot “tolerate the ambiguity” of the story;
  5. Is sending me a thinly veiled message of her disinterest/discomfort/disdain/discomfort.
  6. She wants me to know how she feels about me…nothing to do with the blog at all.

Contrary to how it might appear (given my dedication of an entire blog post to this transaction) I truly (and proudly) do not care that she is over the blog.  A few years ago (oh, who am I kidding?  A few months ago) it may have upset, angered or concerned me.  I might have even shot back a snippy email.  But no, all I did was send a very friendly email with instructions how to unsubscribe[6] along with well wishes to her and her’s which was only slightly irreverent.

Now I am off to covertly unsubscribe to the emails taunting me in my inbox.

p.s. I just checked to see if she had, indeed, “deleted her email address”…and, in fact, she has.


[1] If you do not know about Goldstar.com you should.  Go check it out.  You’re welcome.

[2] Um, have you met me?

[3] I am telling you this as part of the story and, to be clear, not as a suggestion.

[4] Although, to be honest, I have.

[5] That is the most I am going to let on who this person is.

[6] Note: I cannot “delete” a subscriber; it has to be done from their end.  So, armed with that information, you are free to do so.  Although I hope you won’t.