Living Alone? You're Not Alone!

On today's CBS Sunday Morning, a segment aired on the phenomenon of 32.7 million Americans who are now living alone, up from just 4 million in 1950. New York University sociologist Eric Klinenberg called it "the greatest social change of the last 60 years that we have failed to name or identify."

Journalist Susan Spencer (from 48 Hours) anchored the piece, which ran about six and a half minutes. It started out with Greta Garbo in the 1932 movie Grand Hotel exclaiming, "I want to be alone. I just want to be alone." Spencer cites statistics: Of the nearly 33 million loners, nearly half (48.3%) are between ages 35 and 64, and a third (34.5%) are 65 and over. Women outnumber men 17.2 million to 13.9 million. Women do pretty well living alone, says Klinenberg, "...whereas for men, it's much more likely that they'll wind up feeling lonely or unhappy or isolated." (I can almost hear the women out there rolling their eyes and saying, "Oh yeah, big surprise.)

Well, I am one of the roughly one in seven Americans who live alone. And I love it!

One man in the piece does not love it. "There's nothing worse than being sick by yourself," lamented 40-year-old New Yorker Jeff Ragsdale. "You're lying in bed watching the world go by and wondering, you know, how did I get so alone." He actually put up flyers with his phone number on it inviting people to call "Jeff, one lonely guy." He claims to have received "close to 70,000" calls from all around the world. Must be fascinating, talking to all of those people. (Much as I love peeling the onion with people to uncover what's underneath, after a short time that would have me running around in small circles, wildly waving my arms and screaming.) And, how is he making money since that's virtually a full-time job? Well, he's writing a book, so there you have it.

I live in an age-55-plus active adult apartment building, and I'd guess that between one third and one half of the residents here live alone. Not surprising. What did surprise me were stats that roughly 40% of households in San Francisco, Seattle, Denver and Cleveland are made up of just one person. And in Manhattan, single-person households comprise nearly half of all households. Wow! I lived in Manhattan for 12 years, worked there for 16, and that even surprised me.

So what's so great about living alone? Klinenberg calls single household occupants "indispensable" because "they go out in the world like no one else does." Yep. I go to many places by myself that many people would be embarrassed or reticent to tackle alone. Restaurants. Movies. Concerts. Trips (I pay extra for my own hotel room or ship cabin, even when I'm traveling with a group.) Gatherings of all kinds where couples are the predominant attendees. No problem. I just take a book or my Kindle with me when appropriate (and sometimes when it isn't) and I'm good.

It does drive me a little nuts when the host/hostess at a restaurant greets me with "Just one?" But I also regluarly hear that when it is "Just two?" Sometimes, it's also "Just three?" and even, believe it or not, "Just four?" I think it's a rude question no matter what.

I know I'm not "normal," loving living alone. I revel in my independence. I've always lived near all of the highways, airports and train stations that can get me away. I delight in making my own decisions, deciding my own schedules, knowing that I alone am responsible for so many things. I love being able to do what I want whenever I want, including making the big life-changing decisions. I can change my life completely in 30 days if I choose to, with no one else to have to convince, argue with or betray. I don't have to ask anyone if I can do something, deceive or lie to anyone about what I spend, or work around their schedules on a regular basis. I never have to compromise unless I want to. I am a free spirit and I can live that way!

Children are another subject entirely, one I'm not going to tackle here. I have no children living at home, or anywhere else for that matter. I have a grown step-daughter but we haven't lived together for decades.

Yes, sometimes I envy some of my friends who have a man to take care of them, financially support them and fix things around the house. But I also have friends who are the main (if not the sole) breadwinner, who are the ones to fix things and who have to take care of their ailing or just grumpy husband. I like my life and I hope they like theirs. I just know that if we all threw our troubles into a pile, I don't know about them but I'd fight anyone to retrieve my own.

Meanwhile, I get to decide for myself how I want to spend my Sunday. The possibilities are endless....

Christmas Reds, Greens and Blues

It's Christmas Eve. I see reds and greens everywhere and my heart warms to joys of the holiday season. Since I was a little girl, Christmas has been the most special time of the year. My parents blew it out at Christmas, and I joined in when I became an adult. Our tree had more presents under it than that of most large families, and there were just the three of us, my mom and dad and me.

We had the presents part of Christmas figured out in a way that worked for all of us. We spent a lot of money every year, but we bought things for each other that we needed and/or wanted and probably would have bought anyway. It was all very practical, though we all tried to give one present that was a surprise, some fairly spectacular, some not. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day were times of closeness and laughter, and I treasure those memories.

Most of all, our Christmas present opening was a great, FUN experience every year. I usually played Santa Claus, i.e., handed everyone their presents in turn. My mom would get carried away with each gift, wanting to examine it or play with it or try it on, and we had to hurry her along. My dad and I were more like "thanks -- I'll look at this in depth later; what's next?" Our eyes were bright with anticipation, just like kids', even if we pretty much knew what we were getting. We opened presents in the old German tradition, on Christmas Eve -- my dad was German and that's the way his family did it. After he died in 1994, my mom and I shifted that to Christmas morning the first year but went right back to Christmas Eve the next year. It just felt right for us.

I used to like going to church on Christmas Eve but as my parents got older they wanted to open the packages earlier and were irritated at having to wait so long so I stopped going. It only felt like a sacrifice the first year or so; I saw how happy it made my folks to have our family time uninterrupted. We'd put on Christmas music and get our (non-alcoholic) drinks, stake out our places in the living room where we could pile up our goodies as we opened them, and we'd usually be finished by anywhere between 9:30 and 11:00. Every year we'd shake our heads in amazement and comment, "What a Christmas!" We knew we were blessed.

When my mom met the man who would be her companion for 11 years until she passed away in 2009, it only took one off-target Christmas and by the next one we had him trained. The three of us had a decade of pretty incredible Christmases, not just because of the presents but also because of being together and all of us pitching in to get our traditional turkey dinner on the table, thanks in part to the pre-prepped dinners from one of the local grocery stores, which were pretty darn good! Even doing the dishes together was a bonding holiday experience.

Such totally grand memories of Christmases all of my life! I spent every single Christmas of my life with both of my parents until my dad died and then with my mom until she died. So Christmas of 2009 was quite a shock. It was like going from 100 miles an hour to hitting a big, nasty, immovable Jersey barrier. My mom had passed away less then two months prior to that and it was sad and empty without her. Deeply, gut-level sad. I was also still in shock. I have great friends and that helped.

This year, however, I decided not to travel to see my good friends in Phoenix as I have in years past. (Phoenix is where my mom lived; I lived there myself for a decade, and I have fabulous friends there.) So on Christmas Eve, tonight, I went solo to the Cheesecake Factory, which is so close by that I walked to it. Dinner was delicious and the holiday din of fellow diners felt festive while I ate and read my Kindle.

Christmas Day I have no plans. I turned down invitations to some folks' homes, some in other states. I don't mind being alone. I'd rather be alone than be with somebody else's family -- it would make me miss mine even more. The exception has been my good, good friend in Phoenix where I've spent the last two Christmases, and I do miss her and her family, who all treat me like I am an honorary member. But, like I said, I am not traveling this Christmas.

So along with the reds and greens of Christmas, there are a few blues. As I was walking to dinner, I was grateful for all of the loving, blessed Christmases I've had with my family over the years (just two with a husband, and we were with my parents both of those Christmases). The memories of all those years together mute the blues. I feel like even though my incredible parents are gone and I miss them down to my toes, I am in the light. And, it's not blue. Merry Christmas, everybody.

Proud to Be a Broncos Fan - Floyd Little Enters the NFL Hall of Fame

Tonight as I watch Floyd Little's induction into the NFL Hall of Fame on ESPN, his acceptance speech brings me to tears. He delivers his message -- "No one travels this road alone" -- like he played football: with passion, humility and spirituality. He is the real deal.

Little is being inducted now, in 2010, in his 30th year of eligibility. If he was so great, why did it take so long? Because the teams he played on did not win. However, he filled the stands in Denver during the late 1960s and early 1970s. "He was the only reason to really even watch the team....He filled the stadium, packed it, because of No. 44," said the ESPN commentators prior to his induction.

I grew up in Denver and I remember oh so well when the Broncos lost and lost and lost and lost. But during those years Floyd Little shattered the rushing records of Jim Brown and Ernie Davis. When he retired in 1975 after nine seasons with the Broncos, he was the Broncos' all-time rusher and touchdown-maker; both records stood until 1998, commentator Len Berman told the crowd at the induction.

What I especially remember about him during that time was that he was aptly named -- he was considered "too little" to be a football player. Of course, he dispelled anyone of that notion in no time. He hung in there even when the Broncos weren't winning. (LeBron James, take note.) He helped ensure that the Broncos stayed in Denver, and John Elway and millions of Bronco fans thank him for that.

When Elway was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 2004 (his first year of eligiblity), I watched it live, as I also am tonight. He had his daughter introduce him (even though he also has a son), which was unprecedented. Tonight Little had his son Mark introduce him. I am so proud of both of these star Broncos for publicly cherishing their families. Little spent half of his allotted 10 minutes highlighting the accomplishments of and his gratitude for his family members -- parents, sisters and brothers, ex-wife ("mother of my two daughters"), wife, children. He thanked his Lord, Jesus Christ. He was a powerful man with a passionate delivery. His humility and gratitude, mixed with waiting 30 years for this honor, brought me to tears. I was so proud to be a Broncos fan.

Congratulations, Floyd Little! You did the Broncos proud 35 and 40 years ago, and you did the Broncos proud again tonight.

Inauspicious Beginning

Yesterday I had hoped to leave on my journey across country by noon. I finally made it out of the driveway of my mom's house at nearly 3:30 a.m. Whew!

After 5-1/2 months of intermittently working on my mom's house, contents, estate, etc., making Phoenix my base, I only had a few things to wrap up, pack for movers and then put whatever I could fit into my car to take on my 2,400-mile trip from Phoenix to Columbia, Maryland. Simple. Sure.

I got to her house early -- 6:30 a.m. -- and figured I'd be out of there by 10:00 a.m. if I was lucky, probably more likely noon. I kept running into papers, pictures, treasures of all kinds that I didn't know were there and had to go through one by one. Plus, I'd accumulated a lot of my own stuff, especially paper (bane of my existence, particularly in the electronic age), over 5-1/2 months! Aaargh!

About 11:00 p.m. I didn't think I could go on, but I kept going. Bleary-eyed and nearly staggering, I finally got everything wrapped up and shut the garage door at 3:21 a.m.

By then, my goal was simply to make it from south of Phoenix, where my mom lived, in Ahwatukee, north through Phoenix so I didn't have to deal with rush-hour traffic in the morning. I traveled -- carefully! -- 50 miles to a Hampton Inn at Anthem. Good choice. New, nice, clean, safe. And, best of all, it had a refrigerator!

After just a few hours of sleep and taking care of some business chores, I'm about to head out again. Hoping to make Albuquerque tonight. On not much sleep and a bit of a sore body from all of the exertion yesterday, my challenge will be to stay awake. Wish me luck! I'll check in here again tomorrow morning.

Happy Tears, Rough Tears

I'm a sap. I admit it. I tear up every time I hear the National Anthem. Same with Lee Greenwood's "I'm Proud to Be an American" and about 50 other songs. When I lived in New York City, I'd go down a few blocks to applaud and cheer as the New York City Marathon runners would come off the bridge from Queens into Manhattan, and those amazing athletes would bring tears to my eyes. I sob at movies when some wonderful person dies or when two lovers or family members reunite, especially the second time I see them when I know what's going to happen. Tonight's Olympics opening ceremonies and the debut of "We Are the World" are guaranteed to launch me into what Oprah calls "the ugly cry."

Commercials from Hallmark, Kodak, McDonald's and even Budweiser (that sweet Clydesdale that didn't make it onto the team and trained for a year with the dog and finally did) get the waterworks flowing. If I'm with someone else, I try to think about anything else as I dig my fingernails into my palms. In movies when I'm with someone else, I have to really concentrate to take myself out of the movie mindset and think about traffic, taxes or dinner so I don't blubber to the point of embarrassing my movie mate. If I'm alone I stay through the credits as much to compose myself as to see who did what.

As one person put it, I'm an "ocean of emotion."

And then there's the rough cry. Like when I'm walking through my mom's house and it hits me that she is forever gone, that I'm there to dismantle 25 years of her life -- and mine, since it's been my second home for that long as well. I am good at distracting myself with constant noise -- tv, radio, CDs, etc. -- and stuffing my emotions. But once in awhile they bubble to the surface anyway, sometimes at quite inconvenient times.

I think that crying in movies or books or during songs can be therapeutic and cathartic. I often am aware that a cry that starts out to be about the characters in a movie seeps over into a cry about my mom or dad (both deceased, my mom as of just a few weeks ago) or about those suffering in Haiti or even across town. I think that a good long cry, regardless of its origin, cleans out the tension and the sadness from a body much like driving for awhile at constant relatively high speeds cleans out the junk from an automobile.

I just wish I could schedule these teary sessions when I'm alone and when I don't have anywhere I have to be until I can recover and touch up my make-up. But life doesn't work that way. In fact, life doesn't work the way I want it to in many ways, such as when people suffer or loved ones die. That's what triggers the tears in the first place. Whether they are happy tears or rough tears, the biology is the same even if the psychology isn't. As long as I'm going to look ugly, when I can, I choose the happy tears.

Midnight Musings on New Year's Eve

Happy New Year, everybody!

Am I glad to see 2009 go from the current file to the archives? You bet! 2009 will forever be the year that my mom died and some other much more minor things happened that I'd rather not think about.

Many good things happened too. My book, Building for Boomers, got done (and will be out in February). My co-author, Mike Kephart, was wonderful and inspiring to work with. I had some really warm and wonderful visits with my mom before she passed. My good friends in several states kept me entertained, sane, and safe. My health improved following my total hip replacement. Over the year, I received many blessings.

Every New Year's Eve or shortly thereafter, I make a list of the things I want to happen in the new year. Not resolutions. Not a to-do list. Not a prayer list. Not a wish list. A list of the things I just want to happen, some of which I can control, some of which I really can't. It's amazing how many of them have come about when I go back and read them at the end of each year.

This year my list isn't just all about me. I'm including "get-well" thoughts for our country and, in fact, the world. We are still coughing and sputtering, and I'm hoping, wishing, praying, affirming and declaring that some cosmic Vitamin C gets injected into the world so we can all get well.

This year on New Year's Eve, there's a blue moon, they just said on the news. Last one was in 1990, next one won't be until 2028. Well, once in a blue moon true miracles happen. With that as a harbinger for 2010, I'm expecting miracles. Maybe the Denver Broncos will actually make the playoffs and even go on to play in the Super Bowl, for example. Or, maybe terrorism will end, we'll be able to take more than 3 ounces of liquid on airplanes again, and everyone will be at peace. Neither one are likely, but hey, they could happen....

Warning: Disabled Tags Go with the Person, Not the Vehicle

When I was visiting my mom in Phoenix last week, I took her car, a big boat of a thing, a 1993 Lincoln Town Car, to Wal-Mart. I parked close to the front door in a space for the disabled and went inside.

Before I'd gotten 20 feet inside, I heard a male voice: "Excuse me, Ma'am." Couldn't be for me so I kept walking. Louder: "Excuse me, Ma'am!" I turned around and a policeman in uniform was talking to me. "I believe you are parked illegally," he said. Whaaaat?

I frowned and looked confused. "I don't think so," I said. He said I was parked in a spot for the disabled, without a proper tag. "It's on the license plates," I said. He said that the plates are assigned to a woman born in the 1920s, "and I don't think you were born in the 1920s." "No, that's my mom, but I have my own tag," I said, and rummaged through my purse and came up with my own disabled hang tag.

His attitude changed. The accusatory tone disappeared. He said he wanted to run it through his computer and would I come outside with him while he did that? Sure, I said, even though it was well over 100 degrees outside.

I stood by my mom's car while he did whatever he did. He came back a few minutes later and said Maryland's computers seemed to be down but he believed me and would not confiscate it. Confiscate it?!? I hope not! Though I didn't say anything.

He apologized for making me walk outside and explained why he was there. "There have been a lot of complaints about people parking in those spots who aren't supposed to," he said. "I just caught three people. One tag belonged to someone else, one was expired, and one belonged to someone who was deceased," he said. Wow.

Then he told me that the disabled tag was supposed to go with the person and not the vehicle. So I needed to hang my tag when parking in those spots, even though the license plate had the distinctive wheelchair logo.

Okay, point taken. The fine for a violation is $350. Friends, take note.

Hip Hip Hooray! -- 2-1/2 Weeks After Hip Replacement

First of all, apologies that this is so long. It's info that I wish I'd had before my surgery. So maybe it'l be helpful to someone else.

Every surgery is different. I read about others' before I had my own total hip replacement, I talked to people who'd had it, I talked to people whose friends and relatives had had it, I poured over web sites (the most helpful by far was Dr. Todd Swanson's hip replacement site and you can follow him on Twitter at @tvswanny), I asked questions of the right people. I thought I was prepared. I definitely was not. What I learned was that the only experience is experiencing it.

Night Before Surgery

The night before my surgery, I couldn't eat or drink anything, even water, after midnight. I ate a Dannon coffee yogurt about 11:45. Wasn't all that nervous, more excited to finally be getting this done. Slept okay.

Tuesday, Day of Surgery

The day of surgery, Tuesday, June 9, my friend Mary Ann drove me to the hospital and stayed with me the whole day. I knew I was in good hands -- think Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment -- and I knew she'd scream for whatever I really needed.

Beforehand, I'd asked my surgeon's nurse and the hospital nurse if I could 1) keep my rings on, 2) wear light eye make-up, and 3) keep my contact lenses in. In essence, I got mixed yes and no signals. Wasn't looking good for any of them, but as it turned out, I got to keep my eye make-up on and keep my contacts in. I had to surrender my rings to Mary Ann but I got them back later in the day.

My surgeon came in to the holding room about an hour before surgery and chatted with me. He asked what activity I missed. "Sex!" I declared. He and Mary Ann laughed. He said, "Usually we ask people to bring in pictures of them doing the activity [to help motivate them to heal], but in this case maybe that's not such a good idea."

My anaesthesiologist came in and told me what he would be doing as he led me into "twilight sleep" while I had my surgery with an epidural. I asked him if I could keep my contacts in and he said he thought it would be okay. I was thrilled! As anyone with 20/400 vision like me knows, it's a fuzzy, fuzzy world without contacts.

I was wheeled in to the operating room and I frankly can't remember much until I woke up on my side, looked around, realized I was in an operating room where things were relatively quiet, and I said, "Am I supposed to be awake?" to whomever might be in the vicinity. It's okay, I was assured; the surgery's over. Sigh of relief! The whole surgery took a little over an hour. Amazing!

Was rolled into the recovery room for an hour or so. I was the only one in there for most of the time. They covered my shivering body with wonderfully warmed blankets, and I felt a tiny bit of fear of the unknown but mostly just like it would all be okay.

Mary Ann was already in my room when I was wheeled in. I was awake, unlike the grogginess I'd experienced last time I had a general anaesthesia. But I was scared to move. I had a little pain pump, which they said to push even if I wasn't in pain to stave it off after the epidural wore completely off. So I pumped to keep ahead of the pain. I didn't move much.

I don't remember much about that first day except being glad I didn't have to get out of bed. I had a catheter, and the anaesthetic and pain medication are guaranteed to constipate you for days, I was told. (How right they were!) They also made me quite nauseous for awhile. Not as bad as general anaesthesia, but miserable nonetheless.

I wasn't very hungry but I was allowed to eat a normal dinner. I have no idea what I ate but it was pretty good.

The only BAD thing that happened was when my IV got clogged and I needed another one. But...their IV nurses -- yes, special IV nurses -- weren't available for a loooooong time! Three hours! Then one came and stuck me four times and couldn't find a vein. She was a bitch, besides, so I was mighty unhappy. Another long wait. Second IV nurse came and stuck me unsuccessfully another three times. I was going crazy. But at least this nurse was very nice, conscientious and empathetic. I just have tough-to-find veins, I guess. Feeling like a pin cushion, I called time out and phoned my spiritual advisor, who's sort of my minister. She did her prayerful magic, as I knew she would, and the very next stab was a success. It all took 4 hours. I asked for the nurse in charge and gave her an earful.

I was told that I wouldn't sleep much the first night because they'd keep waking me up to take my blood and my vitals. Not true. I slept very well and they were only mildly intrusive.

Wednesday, 1st Day After Surgery

Breakfast came. Who cares? But it tasted okay. Cookies came. When my mom and her significant other said they wanted to send me flowers, I asked if they'd send cookies from Cookies from Home instead so I could share them with the nurses and others who tended to me. Great move! They were such a hit with those great caregivers who get such little acknowledgement. Flowers came, too. They lit up the room. Very much appreciated!

The nurse took the catheter out and I admit that I panicked. There was noooooo waaaaay I could get out of bed. She assured me it wouldn't be necessary any time soon.

Two people from Physical Therapy came. They got me up and standing. Wooooo, a bit lightheaded. They had visions of me walking and going for PT. Didn't happen. My body just wasn't up for it yet. I saw the look pass between them, and they told me they'd be back the next day and would arrange for a bedside commode for me. I knew I'd failed.

Ooooooh, no, no bedside commode for me! It arrived and I couldn't fathom getting to it, getting down onto it and getting up from it, let alone in a room where people come barging in with no notice. Talk about incentive! A couple of hours later, I requested that a nurse help me walk to the bathroom, I made it there, and that was the end of the bedside commode! I was walking back and forth like a (fairly) old pro. I joked that the nurse would have to write a note for the PT folks verifying that it was really me, the same person who could hardly stand up in the morning.

Thursday, 2nd Day After Surgery

My surgeon came early to see how I was doing and he was pleased.

More flowers arrived, these from my dentist! How many people's dentists send them flowers? I was delighted! More walking. Bedside commode long gone. Caregivers were still loving the cookies.

PT people came and were delighted and relieved to see how I'd progressed. I walked with the walker to "Independence Square" on the same floor, where they have a whole setup of kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, stairs, curbs and a car. Probably spent half an hour there and they discharged me from PT and in essence said I could go home! What?!? I didn't feel at all ready to leave the hospital and, fortunately, my nurses agreed with me so I spent another night. Minimal intrusiveness, good sleep.

Friday, 3rd Day After Surgery

Nurse showed me how to inject myself with Lovenox, an anticoagulant to prevent deep vein thrombosis, once a day in my belly for the next eight days. Didn't bother me, did it without flinching. Mary Ann came to pick me up and I was outa there. Felt shaky walking slowly to the car with the walker. Gingerly got into the car with a plastic bag on the seat for easy swiveling.

Home looked good! People brought food and cards. Too exhausted and woozy and a bit nauseous to fully appreciate it, but it was so good to be home.

Several people told me I wouldn't have much pain post-surgery, especially since I'd had so much pain beforehand. They either lied or I'm super sensitive. There was definitely pain! I took Dilaudid, a narcotic painkiller, which made me mentally cloudy but it did take the edge off the pain. Put ice on my hip to help the swelling and pain. Was surprised and not happy about the pain!

Slept half-sitting, half-lying down. Uncomfortable but I was mocus enough to sleep anyway.

Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Days 4, 5, 6, 7 After Surgery

Home physical therapy was supposed to come Saturday, Sunday or Monday, but by Tuesday afternoon I still hadn't heard from anyone, despite calling the home care service twice. Geez, can't get good help! I did the exercises the hospital had taught me and was careful not to violate the 3 rules they beat into my head: 1) Don't cross your legs, 2) Don't turn your leg inward, 3) Don't bend over more than 90 degrees. I'm so glad I did the exercises every day; it really helped since the home PT person didn't come. Very discouraged when I weighed myself and saw that I'd gained 10 pounds since last week. Surely my new ceramic/titanium hip doesn't weigh 10 pounds!

People where I live brought me more cards, flowers, books, and more food, including complete dinners! I love where I live!!

Didn't feel much like walking outside my apartment, slept a lot, and fought swelling in both legs. Friend who'd had the surgery the year before said he'd been swollen more than he thought he should be and it lasted longer than he thought it should, so I didn't worry about it. It sure was ugly, though.

Still having pain, took Dilaudid only when I needed it, soon switched to Tramadol, another painkiller, but this one didn't fog my head. Took the edge off of the pain but didn't give me any other side effects (that I felt).

Worst part was dealing with the TEDS, high-compression stockings that go to the knee. They are a bitch to put on, like trying to move a size 6 stocking up a size 10 leg. Can't do it myself, so Mary Ann volunteered to put them on each morning, take them off each night, wash them and bring them back to put on again the next morning. She and I both hated them! They aren't uncomfortable to wear, just to put on. Torture! And I'm supposed to wear these for six weeks? No freakin' way! But for now, on every morning and off every night.

Walking better wih the walker, doing my exercises, can feel myself healing a tiny bit more each day. Still feeling the pain, though. Grabber (found in hip kits) very helpful for picking up dropped objects and putting on underwear and jeans. I'm getting good with it!

Tuesday night was invited to a neighbor's apartment just down the hall for dinner. My first big outing. Good, real food. But didn't last long, really pooped. No stamina. Ugh.

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Days 8, 9, 10, 11, 12 After Surgery

Off all of the pain meds, walking with a cane inside the apartment for the first time on Wednesday, pain minimal, mostly waking me up at night. Permission to sleep on either side, though the side with the incision was too sore to really work. When sleeping on the non-incision side, had to put a pillow between my legs to make sure I didnt cross my legs or turn leg inward. Such a relief to sleep on my side again that the pillow didn't bother me much.

Still doing my exercises, still wearing the TEDS, still no stamina, still sitting and standing and moving gingerly. No energy, not completely clear-headed, still swollen in both legs and both feet.

Home PT person arrived on Wednesday and was shocked that I answered the door with a cane instead of a walker. Led me through exercises, was pleased at my progress. Very glad I'd been doing the exercises. But hurting Wednesday night and Thursday, probably muscles rather than incision, so went back to the walker on Thursday. By Friday felt okay again, went back to the cane and that was the end of the walker.

Friday evening went to a social event where I live. Lasted about an hour and that was sitting with people bringing me food! Just no stamina, still, and no interest in socializing. Just not up for any of it yet.

Sunday I started peeing every 2 hours, sometimes every hour, once in awhile every half hour. What is going on? Infection? No pain, just insane frequency, including all night long.

Sunday went to dinner at my neighbor's, had to go back to my place once to pee (on my toilet with the 5-inch-higher riser). Not only no stamina, also no patience for small talk. Just wanted to go home, so left early for the sanctuary of my quiet place.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Days 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18 After Surgery

Getting better by leaps and bounds! Definitely have turned a corner. Zipping around on my cane, exercises are getting easier and I'm feeling my muscles getting stronger as I coax them out of the hibernation they've been in for the last year when I've been in such pain. Home PT person came and took me up and down an entire flight of stairs. Up with the good leg, down with the bad one. Cane on the current step when going up, cane on the step you're moving to when going down. And hold on to the rail.

Peeing every hour continued for three days, Sunday through Tuesday. Then ceased as quickly as it had begun. And I'd lost all of the 10 extra pounds, plus my swelling was gone. Ah, that explains it! Very relieved.

Still moving, sitting, standing with great care. Began washing my own clothes/sheets/towels again, retrieving my clothes from the dryer by raising my left leg behind me so I don't bend more than 90 degrees. Simple cooking and food prep appeal to me again. More energy, though still low on stamina. Still aware that I'm not back 100% -- maybe 75% at this point. Better than 20% I had when I came home.

Okay, confessions. No more TEDS for the last couple of days. Swelling is gone and I'm more active so I figure...I'll try it this way. And I'm supposed to be able to drive at four weeks. It's been two weeks and four days. I had cabin fever today and the weather was beautiful, so I very carefully got into and out of the car, drove to the grocery store, used the grocery cart as a makeshift walker, gleefully walked up and down the aisles. It was such fun! Don't realize what we take for granted until it's gone. So glad to get it back! Drove very carefully -- don't want any accidents. Was so good for my morale! The trip zapped my energy, am still working on my stamina.

Next is swimming, which I can do at four weeks. I may push it a day or two but respect that they want no infection and neither do I. Can't wait to do exercises in the pool! And can't wait til my stamina is back. I am looking to get my life back, and I can feel that it's close.

Remembering and Smiling, Not Crying, on Father's Day

I will be glad when Father's Day is over, and the ads for all the things men love or are supposed to love end for another 11-1/2 months. My wonderful dad passed away 15 years ago, two months after Father's Day. I miss him every day but, of course, especially on Father's Day.

We (my mom and I) had him on borrowed time for many years. In the early 1970s he was shot with a .45 at close range in a robbery attempt at his business. He conked the guy over the head with a little quart can of paint he had in his hand, which made the guy's second shot miss my dad entirely. Fortunately, the one that hit him was a through-and-through in his shoulder, and he spent the night at the hospital that best treated gunshot wounds because they got so many. We all got lucky.

Then in he early 1980s he got diagnosed with prostate cancer. He treated it and eventually was deemed to be cancer-free. But a decade later it came back, wreaked incredible havoc with him as it spread, and his last year or two were hard on him and very hard on my mom, who took care of him.

But on that Father's Day in 1994, we had no idea that two months later he'd be gone.

I came out from New York to see him in Phoenix for Father's Day. I can't remember what I gave him for Father's Day but I wrote him about 100 "thank-you" items for every big and little thing I could think of, and that touched him greatly. I am so glad now that I got to express to him how I felt about the many things that made him special to me.

My mom and dad were married for nearly 47 years. Happily. They were a great example to me of what a marriage and a happy family should be. My dad wrote my mom creative little notes several times a week and gave her many, many cards. My favorite card that I still remember was (front) "I like you more than I like chunklit covered grab crackers." (inside) "And I really like chunklit covered grab crackers."

This past week my mom came upon a huge bag of all of those cards and notes that she'd kept, and she spent a couple of hours laughing and crying and remembering. Her significant other of the last decade was encouraging and understanding. (How rare!)

I miss my dad's wisdom. "Nothing is free." "The only thing constant in life is change." "Everything works out for the best." I miss his humor. He was big on puns, he teased about everything, and he lived to make my mother laugh. I miss his heart. He could be crusty on the outside but was a mushheart inside. I miss the great example that he was. He only finished high school but was self-educated and I could never stump him with my questions. He knew something about everything. He could make, fix or build anything. (He must have hated that throughout my brief marriage, my husband paid people to do nearly everything, nearly up to changing the lightbulbs.) My dad was my problem-solver, my entertainer and my inspiration.

Rather than focusing on the fact that he's gone, I'm trying to be grateful for the extra years we had with him that could easily have been denied us. My dad -- and my mom's husband -- was a man we love to remember...so as I do today, I will not cry. I will smile.

Thank You, Mom

Thank you, Mom, and I appreciate you so much for...

...always being there for me, no matter what (and I've certainly tested that).
...loving me even when I'm not lovable.
...marrying my wonderful dad, and making it a happy marriage until the day he died.
...giving me your values through example. It was never "do as I say, not as I do" with you.
...making it safe for me to tell you the truth.
...respecting my privacy.
...being a good person through and through. You do the right thing because it's the right thing. I do the right thing because I see that it always pays off.
...having the capacity to truly love two wonderful men: my dad and Lloyd.
...showing me by example how to treat a man: adore him, don't nag him, respect him, have fun with him, flirt with him, dress nicely and put on make-up every day, be someone he always wants to come home to.
...teaching me how to shuffle cards when I was young. I still do it your way.
...giving me 7-Up and Campbell's chicken noodle soup when I was sick. Those comfort foods still soothe and heal me.
...crying when I give you greeting cards that touch you. It makes me feel like I am giving you a gift.
...analyzing the handwriting of my friends and boyfriends when I was growing up. You probably saved me from some bad situations, correction, many bad situations.
...being the mom that my friends always wanted to talk to.
...greeting my friends at the door with a loud, happy "Hello Dere!" It embarrassed me at the time but my friends always laughed and I grew to love it.
...taking me 1,000 places a year before I could drive.
...paying me an allowance.
...teaching me to save no matter what.
...bailing me out in thousands of ways from birth to now.
...doing the horoscopes for me and whatever friend I asked you to. Very enlightening!
...learning the computer and getting e-mail years before your contemporaries. You've fixed your own computer glitches for years, something I can't even always do.
...playing a zillion games of ping pong in our basement with Dad and me.
...teaching Dad how to dance and having those great dance parties in our basement. You had the greatest dance friends and you shared your love for dancing with me.
...going shopping and to lunch with me whenever I visit you. And paying!
...your sense of humor. Your humor is never cruel, and you can laugh at yourself. And when you crack up, it's contagious!
...so many pet phrases I heard over and over. Some are incriminating to either you or me so I won't post them here. :-)
...cooking wonderful dinners for us every night, even though I know that cooking wasn't your favorite thing to do.
...jerking me out of the car when I was choking on a jawbreaker, turning me upside down and slapping my back til it dislodged and I could breathe again.
...teaching me how to roller skate and ride a bike.
...making our home always warm, comfortable, clean, well appointed and a place everyone wanted to spend time in.
...your artistic talent in ceramics (nobody painted those tiny little eyelashes like you did - incredible detail) and oil painting (such lovely scenes you painted).
...giving me piano lessons, even though I fought you over practicing.
...your love of all things blue.
...surviving a near-fatal heart attack, lung cancer, polio and post-polio syndrome, and a myriad of ailments that limit you and give you pain every day.
...your grit, your nerve, your determination to soldier on despite relentless pain and the aftereffects of polio. I don't know how you've done it, how you still do it, and I just hope you know what a great inspiration you are to me.
...trusting me to help you throughout the years and especially now.
...forgiving me, usually before I asked.
...disciplining me. Being a mom when I needed it.
...being a great friend, pal, playmate and mentor, as well as my mom.

I could fill pages and pages and pages of things I appreciate you for. I love you, Mom. I am the most fortunate daughter in the world! Happy Mother's Day!

Things I Want to Get Off My Chest

It's late at night. I'm awake, stewing. So I'm thinking that maybe if I vent and get these things off my chest, I can sleep. Thanks for bearing with me here.

1) Carry-on bags

When I went to Phoenix to see my mom at Christmas, a uniformed woman at the security line at BWI airport stopped me and said my carry-on bag was too big to go through. What?!? It's the same carry-on I've been flying with for the past three years.

I'd gone online and looked up the acceptable dimensions for the various airlines and got a bag the exact maximum size allowed for United Airlines, the one I fly the most. Then it kept tipping over when it was packed. My mom's boyfriend, a fixer-builder-inventor type, put little extensions onto the little feet, which solved the problem but added another inch or so to the length. I've taken that bag, which holds a TON of stuff, on trips all over the U.S. on several different airlines over the past three years. No problems. But all of a sudden it's too big. I was only allowed to continue through security with it at BWI when I got a United supervisor to come with me, who said I'd rearranged some things to make it thinner -- I took out a 1-inch-thick book and put it in my purse -- and I got to keep going.

I had no problems on the way back from Phoenix to BWI. But it's just a different world now (again!) and I could tell it was time to get a smaller bag. Damn! I love my bag. So I went onine and found a little smaller bag, paid for it with PayPal, and it arrived today. It's well-built, it's light, it's the right color (anonymous gray and black) and it's got all of the right handles and pockets. But even though it's an inch or so smaller on all sides, it seems tiny. It will obviously hold MUCH less than my other one. Damn. But I'm going to keep it because I think I have to. I can't risk having my bag snatched away and stuffed into checked baggage. So I'll take less. I won't like it but I'll do it.

I hate the security procedures that I feel are more for show than truly effective at airports. I resent not being able to take more than 3 oz. of liquids or gels just because some ass**** did it once and had evil intentions. Geez. How bizarre. People say, yes, but we've been safe! Well, we don't go through the same check-in trauma on trains, and we've been safe there too. Knock on wood. I'll play the game, as I always have, because I want to fly. And I'll try not to make a big deal out of it. I'll save indulging my inner drama queen for more important things.

2. Pain

All of a sudden, I've got pain in my left hip. All the time. It's supposedly arthritis, so says my rheumatologist. I didn't know what a rheumatologist was six months ago, and now I have my own. My little tiny pain gradually increased over the past couple or three years and now it's rudely intruding on my life. It hurts! It hurts when I sit, when I stand, when I lie down, when I get up from a chair, when I get into or out of a car, when I walk, when I change positions in bed. It hurts to put a sock on my left foot, the pain in my hip is so intense. I can hardly reach to wash that foot or clip or paint my toenails. I hate it. Celebrex helps but maybe 30% compared to what I had hoped.

But my paltry little pain is nothing compared to what my mom suffers from every day. It's anywhere from intense to excrutiating. And it's relentless. I admire her so much for soldiering on, going places, doing things, smiling, and living her life, despite the pain for all these years. The list of causes is longer than my arm. My mom won't take drugs, doesn't want to live life anaesthetized. It's her choice and I respect it.

Pain is a thief of energy. It makes simple tasks a challenge. It is sneaky and cunning and insolent. It's smarter than I am. But, learning a lesson from my mom, my great example in life, I will keep trying to conquer it and I will not let it stop me from living my best life.

3. The Economy

This seemingly sudden poverty mentality is tedious and discouraging. It's destructive and scary. I believe it was the fear of a recession that caused the recession. Yes, the housing situation started things off. We (let's not get into specifically who) caused it ourselves, by creating conditions of false prosperity, much as we did during the dot-com boom when people paid outrageous sums for fantasies that couldn't possibly come true. In both cases, we were bound to get caught.

But then a few people got scared. Then the media seized upon it, blew it up to ginormous proportions, and people bought into it, got scared, and backed off from even normal spending, even many of those who had nothing to worry about. Pretty soon, the whole economy was in the tank. Fear is a powerful beast, and we not only invited him in, but we set up a whole wing in our house for him.

I believe very strongly in the power of positive thinking, to use familiar vernacular. I believe we create our own reality with our mind. I believe the poverty mentality has created more of the poverty mentality. More creates more. But I believe we can think differently and achieve a different result. I believe we don't have to get swept along and sucked into the negative mindset of our society. I am picturing our nation and everyone in it, including me, as prosperous, healthy, happy, free to do what we want, and grateful for our blessings.

So I refuse to let the fear beast into my house. It is not welcome. There is no room for him here. Right now he dominates many homes in our land. But eventually people will tire of the novelty of whining and being afraid, and this beast will lumber away and the whole country will adopt a prosperity mentality again. I can't wait!

Shock Waves

Yesterday more astounding news about people I know came to me than in the last few months combined.

McGraw-Hill, my alma mater of 16 years, is going through their annual Thanksgiving/Christmas holiday layoffs. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to who-knows-how-many people, many of them 25-year-plus veterans. I've only heard about a few of them, so far, with more supposedly coming (or, should I say, going), but a couple of them absolutely shocked me. There are always a couple or so in that category each year. I hope they can quickly get to the point of feeling like they have a whole brand new future in front of them. They do. Even in this recession. I have a couple of friends who started their businesses in recessions and they are thriving. Others went on to really wonderful jobs, whether right away or somewhat later. I wish the same for my M-H friends.

Then last night my ex-cousin-in-law called me. DeAnne married my cousin when I was 10 or 11, and we bonded instantly. She (very wisely) dumped my cousin after awhile, he died of heart problems in his 30s after refusing to heed doctor's orders to change his lifestyle, and she went on to marry a wonderful man and has been married to him for the last 35 years. She and I have kept in touch all these years. She is one of my favorite people in the entire world. She's got a fabulous, self-deprecating sense of humor and a laugh that sounds like pealing bells. She is adventuresome, independent, and wise. She runs headlong into life. She's always been able to finish my sentences -- she understands me scarily well, and she's never been judgemental at all. (With me that's got to have been a challenge.) We talk or see each other every two to four years, but every time, it's like we are picking up our conversation from the day before.

My step-daughter Carey and I have that same kind of relationship. In fact, DeAnne was such a gift to me and was so important to me especially in my teens and twenties, and I aspired to be that for someone else. Carey was the answer to that prayer.

It has been a couple of years since DeAnne and I last spoke, and maybe a couple of years before that when she and her husband Jim came to New York City and we had dinner at the Grand Hyatt at Grand Central Station. Jim sat there in amazement as DeAnne and I prattled on about every subject in the world, neither of us holding back in his presence. He certainly got an earful or two, and we all laughed a lot.

DeAnne told me that Jim died in May. Shocking enough. But he died of Lou Gehrig's Disease. He was always so healthy! Just like my dad. My dad was always totally healthy, and then he got prostate cancer, got it treated and it went away, and then it came back and got him. DeAnne is a strong woman, positive, spiritual, and always searching. She and I share one attitude these days: we both feel like the longer we live, the less we know. Things we were sure about when we were younger have been challenged, if not disproven altogether. So she asks what, how, why...and she is willing to let the questions lie there unanswered.

G*d, it was good to talk to her. We covered about 50 subjects in the hour and a half that we were on the phone. Great nourishment for our souls! She's missing Jim mightily but is doing well. I hope it's not another two or three years before we talk again. We always vow to phone or visit "soon" but...well, you know how that goes.

Then late last night I checked my Facebook page, and some good friends who recently got married are having a baby! Great news! Part of me was disappointed for them that they won't have more time to just be newlyweds and get to know each other and have fun. But I suspect this is what they want and I know they'll be great parents, and their families will be joyous at the news.

So the night ended well. I wonder what today will hold.

One of Those Birthdays

Saturday is my birthday. (We will not speak of age; I'll just say it isn't one of those significant decade changes.) There are only two holidays each year that I personally go bonkers over: Christmas and my birthday. What? My birthday isn't a holiday, you say? Well, kind of. It's one day off from Columbus Day -- does that count? Anyway it's a holiday to me when I get presents.

I'm a logical, practical woman (no, that isn't an oxymoron). I know that my birthday is just another day. So then why do I -- every year -- get squirrely on my birthday? If I don't get calls from the right people -- at the right time, even -- I'm as sulky as an adolescent. If I don't get a present that I feel is expressive enough of the emotions I think my significant other should be feeling, I get quiet, and not in a good way. If I don't have plans on my day, even if I've lived it up for five days before and have celebrations with friends scheduled for each of the following five days, I get restless and jittery. It's quite juvenile and I'm not proud of it but that's the way it's been and probably the way it will be (despite extensive Landmark Education training that would encourage me to react otherwise).

Usually I make sure I'm taken care of on my birthday. On that very day. Who cares about the day before or the day after. One year when I was convinced that nobody would acknowledge my birthday because it was just one of those dry spells, I went on a trip to Mexico. That worked. One year I whined to a good friend that I wasn't looking forward to my birthday and he surprised me by sending a soft, cuddly bear and either chocolate or balloons. I still have the bear on display in my bedroom.

Every year one of my birthday highlights is a phone call -- or voice mail if he doesn't get a hold of me -- from longtime business friend Tom Bulatewicz. He sings happy birthday to me and always ends with "Make a great day." Thanks, Tom, your call is always special to me.

Last week I visited my mom in Phoenix, and she and her boyfriend Lloyd treated me like a celebrity a week in advance. Dinner at my favorite Arizona steakhouse, Black Angus. Lovely cards. Wonderful presents. Shopping and lunch with my mom. Really wonderful! And another longtime friend took me to dinner on Sunday at the wonderful Macayo's Mexican food restaurant. Fabulous chile rellenos!!

On Saturday, my birthday, I have brunch plans with a special friend. And I have an evening outing to look forward to with friends and neighbors. Two or maybe three of them. A movie of my choice, dinner at a restaurant I choose and a trip to Baskin-Robbins. I always get Pralines 'n Cream. I may have two scoops. It's shaping up to be a very good birthday.

Important Men and their Peckers

So...After months of saying it ain't so, John Edwards has admitted that he lied all that time as he repeatedly disputed the National Enquirer's claim that he had an affair with Rielle Hunter, a video producer he worked with in 2006 prior to launching his campaign for president. The Enquirer contends that Edwards is the father of Hunter's 5-1/2-month-old daughter, though Edwards maintains that he's not.

Hey, I don't begrudge men their libidos. Au contraire! Men over 40 who have good libidos should, in fact, be congratulated, and the ones over 50 who still do should get a standing ovation as far as I'm concerned. Over 60ers who've still got it should have a monument built to them. I am probably in the minority in that sentiment, but I have found that men with healthy libidos are generally high achievers, greatly energized and hugely interesting.

I frankly don't care about Edwards' sex life -- who he has it with or doesn't. It's his words in the AP story prior to the airing of a story on him tonight on Nightline that really make me shake my head in wonder, and not in a good way.

Here's an example. When the Enquirer story first broke in October 2007, he said, "The story is....completely untrue, ridiculous." Last month, the Enquirer ran a story accusing Edwards of having a "love child" and reported that he had met with Hunter at the Beverly Hills Hilton Hotel in Los Angeles. Edwards at the time called the story "tabloid trash," but since has admitted that he did meet with her at the hotel, unbeknownst to his wife. But...he still maintains that he didn't really lie. The AP story says:

"He said in his statement Friday he had 'used the fact that the story contained many falsities to deny it,' and he called that 'being 99 percent honest.'"

Oh, brother! Talk about Clintonesque sex logic!

Another example from the AP story:

"He denied fathering a daughter, born to the woman with whom he had the affair, and offered to be tested to prove it. A former Edwards campaign staff member professes to be the father."

A former Edwards campaign staff member? What did they do, pass her around? I don't think so! Not credible.

Maybe this is the most believable thing Edwards has said regarding the affair:

"In the course of several campaigns, I started to believe that I was special and became increasingly egocentric and narcissistic. If you want to beat me up feel free. You cannot beat me up more than I have already beaten up myself."

I personally think the French have it right. French President Nicolas Sarkozy's rather intriguing sex life hasn't seemed to affect his political popularity. He was allegedly unfaithful to his second wife and went on to marry former model Carla Bruni, who's had a rather colorful past herself.

A word about Clinton's relationship with Monica Lewinsky. I read her book, Monica's Story. The relationship she described with then-President Clinton was not all about sex, in my opinion. He was getting something from her that transcended the physical. Something that seemingly filled a hole in his life that aides, friends and his wife were not filling. According to her account in her book -- and I found her very credible -- Clinton really talked to her in their many phone calls, about things that mattered to him. That isn't sex. It isn't foreplay and it isn't afterglow. It's a man with a void in his life and a friend who's filling it. A friend with benefits, perhaps, but a friend nonetheless.

In fact, I think many times affairs may start out being all about a guy's pecker making the decision to "go there." But a man of substance -- and most important men are men of substance -- isn't all about his love muscle. He wants to talk to the woman he's intimate with. If not, he's a hit-and-runner, not a returner.

Important men do have a skewed vision of their place in the world. They get treated differently from most men. Men and women both pander to them. They get upgraded to first class on airplanes. They get invited to private boxes at athletic events and concerts. They get fed shrimp and lobster so regularly that they get tired of it. Their jokes get laughed at, their expensive clothes get replaced often, their wishes, desires and orders get fulfilled, usually nearly instantaneously. So they see themselves as powerful and important.

Yet, most important men aren't totally sure they deserve to be as important as they are. They need assurance that they are from someone they really trust. They also find that it can be lonely at the top. They can't be pals with the people lower down on the totem pole at work -- that doesn't usually work well. They often have outgrown their wives or they've grown in different directions, especially if they've been married for many years and he's traveled a lot and she's learned to live her own life largely without him. So along comes someone who looks at him adoringly, hangs on his every word, can't wait to hear his stories, is impressed by the accomplishments that his wife and staffers roll their eyes at, is a sweet, discreet, caring and trustworthy person...and she desires him. If there's a spark between them, the temptation can be overwhelming.

Men being men, they think it's all about sex. They think their pecker led them there. But it's about so much more. That's why men have continued to have affairs all these many centuries. That's what makes them risk it all to drink that ambrosia. That's what makes them lie to their families, their colleagues, their friends and everyone else to keep it quiet, so nobody will find out and make them end it.

So for important men, their affairs are often born out of a combination of a naturally high energy level (in all areas), a big void that has been unrecognized or ignored for years, and a false sense of immunity and invincibility that will keep them from getting caught. When the affairs are exposed, the men first deny them, then (if forced to admit the truth) downplay them ("It only happened once" or "I didn't love her" or "It's been over for a long time"), then express shame and regret over their "mistake." It's more like regret at getting caught and it being over.

Interestingly, even though Edwards denies fathering Hunter's child, Hunter somehow has been receiving financial help for many months. Edwards says he didn't pay her a cent and had no knowledge of anyone on his staff giving her financial help. Ah, but after the Nightline interview tonight, they reported that one of his staffers admitted to providing her with some financial aid but claimed it was solely his idea and said Edwards had no idea he was doing it.

Yeah, right.

Well, one thing about important men is that they often have henchmen to do their dirty work for them. And protect them. Well, it didn't work too well for Edwards this time. I bet he keeps his pecker in his pants now (other than at home) for a long time.

Divorce - The gift that keeps on giving

I just got back from dinner with one of my neighbors and a friend of hers who's visiting from a nearby state. I'll change the names to protect the innocent as well as the guilty.

Jane, my neighbor (and friend), I knew had been married for 38 years when her husband one day pretty much out of the blue said he was leaving. And he did. Jennifer, Jane's friend, had been married for 34 years when her husband totally out of the blue said he was leaving. And he did. This happened to both of them about the same time, about two years ago.

Neither Jane nor Jennifer have remarried. Both of their exes have, both to women they were seeing before they left. Both ex-spouses denied that there was anyone else when they left. In both cases, the grown kids dislike their dad's new wife. Jane's kids go with gritted teeth to events that include their dad's new wife (whom they wouldn't ever even consider calling their stepmother). Jennifer's kids aren't too receptive to going much of anywhere with their dad and his -- until today -- fiance.

Yes, Jennifer's ex got remarried today. Jennifer has a boyfriend of over a year so it wasn't as tough as it could have been. But her daughter -- we'll call her Jill -- had a rough day. Jill refused to go to dinner with them awhile ago -- I don't know the details -- and apparently the new wife-to-be (who is only a few years older than Jill) didn't take it very well. Jill didn't get an invitation to the wedding. Her brother did. Not cool.

It gets worse.

Daddy asked Jill if she was coming to the wedding. Jill said not if she didn't get an invitation, though privately she had already decided she wasn't going. Thursday, two days before the wedding, Jill's invitation came in the mail -- torn in two inside the envelope. That prompted Jill to decide to go -- wearing black. So she did. Must've been a fun day for all.

One of my male friends years ago got divorced and married the love of his life whom he'd met years before when he and his wife had been separated for a time. They never got over each other and finally he got out of his unhappy marriage and was free to marry her. I remember him telling me that he felt like he was in the corner in his living room watching the rest of the family live their lives. I said to him, "How sad for everyone," and he told me later that my comment had gotten him thinking and helped him to realize that he wasn't doing his family any favors by staying when he was so unhappy. His high-school-and-college-age kids had a problem with that. It got pretty bad. His daughter stepped in front of his car in the street to stop him one afternoon when he was on the way to her soccer game and screamed at him not to ever come to another of her games again. The good news is that a year later, she chose to go live with them. And, the jilted wife found someone she loved and also remarried.

I think the worst story I know of first hand came from a woman with an unusual name -- let's call her LaDonna. Her brothers also had fairly unusual names -- let's say Damian and Oscar. All were over 35. When it came out that their dad had been having an affair with a woman for some 20 years, it also came out that he had had three kids with her, one girl and two boys. Guess what their names were. Yep, LaDonna, Damian and Oscar. Can you imagine?!? All six kids were at that wedding. I lost touch with LaDonna so I don't know if that story had a happy ending or not, but I vividly remember the look of grim resolve covering up a soul-deep sorrow the day before the wedding.

I thought my divorce was bad, and it was, in its own way. Aren't they all? But it was 26 years ago so I'm long over it. People who get divorced from people with whom they have children have an especially challenging road. Like my friend Jennifer said tonight, "Divorce -- the gift that keeps on giving."

Passing in the Night

My ex-husband was found dead this week and even though I hadn't seen him in probably 15 years, he's the only ex-husband I had so I thought it was worth commemorating. I'm just not sure how to do it.

A Yahoo! search of his name, Walter Choate Sweet, turns up nothing. "Walter Sweet" nets several listings -- a professor emeritus in geology at the University of Iowa, a painter born in 1889, a philanthropist in New York (sorry, took me awhile to stop laughing at the prospect of that being him) and an auto mechanic who went on to own that dealership who just died this week also -- none of them my ex. "Walt Sweet" on both Yahoo! and Google turns up a musician and designer of a keyless Irish flute, hardly my ex. He (my ex) wasn't particularly musical himself -- in fact his sense of rhythm was so off that it drove me crazy to dance with him -- though he did buy me a stunning Yamaha upright grand piano, which I still have. I keep it at my stable mom's house because if it had gone with me on all of my moves since I trekked east nearly 19 years ago, it would've been jostled and moved some nine times. Reminds me, I need to get it tuned again.

Well, at least the Walter Choate Sweet that I knew and loved at one time will be on the Web, even if it's just here. Actually, I need to do the same thing for my wonderful father, John Walter Schriener, whom everyone knew as Jack Schriener, who died in 1994. He wanted to be cremated, which we did, and although as a World War II veteran, he was eligible to be buried in one of the military cemeteries, there is no place to go to see his grave, no marker or tombstone to even let people know he existed. So I will do that at some point, just not here and now. This is for Walt, or at least about Walt.

Walt and I were married for just two years. It was incredibly tumultuous. We didn't even know if we'd make it to our first anniversary, let alone our second. In fact, we were not together on our second and our divorce was final later that month. He swore when we got divorced that he'd never be friends with me, but, fortunately, that didn't hold. He came to visit me after I moved to New York -- well, he was there anyway for something else and stopped by to visit me, let me buy him a pizza and put him up for the night (platonically, not that it matters). At that time, we looked at each other and both marveled that we couldn't imagine that we'd ever even really known each other, let alone been married. Time heals all, I guess -- by that time, we'd been divorced for eight or so years.

But let me talk about the good stuff. He was smart and always interesting -- one of the reasons I married him was that I knew I'd never be bored. He was affectionate and loving and took great care of me throughout our marriage. He was creative -- I still have (somewhere) a huge envelope of all of the inventive cards he gave me, most of which were originals. He had a sense of humor and wasn't afraid to look silly. I have a great picture of him in a lawn chair with his "horny hat" on, a maroon baseball cap with silver horns. He had great respect for skill and accomplishment, even if it was at his expense. He was a judo player, and in one tournament, his opponent felled him with a stunning move that prompted Walt to applaud him along with everyone else. I always admired that about him.

The saga of our divorce could fill a book. It was traumatic, as all divorces are, and about that I'll only relate one little story. He was the consummate list maker. We took our property division list to the one lawyer that we were going to share (bad idea! don't do it) and as the lawyer perused the list, he said, "I've never seen a swingtop wastebasket on a property settlement list." I said, "Wait til you get to the lightbulbs." True story.

The best thing about our marriage, it turns out, was his daughter, Carey, who was 12 when I met her and 15 when we got divorced. Thank God, she and I have kept in touch all these years and even though we don't talk or see each other all that often (we are on opposite coasts), every time we do, it's like we are finishing a sentence we started the day before. She used to tell people about us and the fact that I used to be married to her dad, "We dumped him and kept each other." It wasn't true, of course, but it made me feel great. I'll have to do a blog item on her too. She's been the true gift from my marriage to Walt.

The second best thing, believe it or not, is his first ex-wife, Sheila (pronounced "SHY-la"). Of course, we didn't start out being friendly, even though I came along awhile after they had separated. But before Walt and I got divorced, she and I had grown to be quite friendly, and then we got friendlier after the split (yes, somewhat hilariously at his expense). One of the highlights of a couple of my trips to Phoenix a year or two ago was having lunch and dinner with Carey and Sheila -- and, at one of them, also Carey's half-sister Elizabeth. So those are great gifts from a marriage gone bad.

See, I'm having trouble keeping to the subject of Walt. Well, for one thing, the "bad" stories about him are far more entertaining, incredible, amazing and, for some of them, far sadder than the good ones, but I really don't want to do that in a commemoration (I wouldn't call it a tribute, as such). He seemed to isolate himself and have a fair amount of fear or even paranoia, I'm told, in the last few years. So I'll just say that I hope he finds the peace in his passing that he didn't seem to be able to find on earth. And, for a variety of reasons, I'm grateful he was in my life.

Sharing Sadness and Laughter with My Favorite Fergie

How do you handle the crumple-to-the-knees pain of losing your father when you are the comedian-host of The Late, Late Show on CBS and you're supposed to be funny, light and entertaining? If you're Craig Ferguson, you go on with the show but devote the next program to your father, and you pull it off by fearlessly letting your pain show, digging deep to find the humor in the memories and, to top it off, joining the bagpipe group that's to play in tribute at the wake later that night.

I was already a fan of Craig Ferguson. Now I'm a complete devotee. (Photo of him "borrowed" from The Late Late Show Web site.)

Whether it's that I'm a night owl or an insomniac, I watch The Late, Late Show more nights during the week than not. Now I've also taken to recording it on my precious ReplayTV (better than rival TiVo, from what people tell me) so I don't keep myself from falling asleep for fear of missing anything. After all, I do have a full-time job that starts early in the morning.

The host, Craig Ferguson, is one of my favorites on tv right now. Or ever. The Scotsman consistently makes me laugh out loud. His outlook on American culture from an outsider's point of view is insightful -- we do have our quirks -- and his material is funny and his ad-libs with the guests are even better! I love his kind of isn't-this-amazing-but-it's-true approach to humor, and he delivers the punch lines cutely with that sexy accent, slightly mussed hair and an almost little-boy mischievous demeanor. He isn't mean like Letterman can be. His approach is more like Ellen DeGeneris than Jay Leno -- he is timely but mostly he talks about everyday things and finds the irony and humor in them.

But when a father you were close to dies, the laughter inside you hides and you have no desire to seek it out. My own dad, whom I worshipped and adored, died of prostate cancer 11-1/2 years ago and I remember those first few weeks and months so painfully well. My mom and I were zombies for awhile. How in the world Craig could have the presence of mind to do a show is amazing. A month after my dad died, I couldn't even keep it together when I spoke at the memorial service. (When he died on a very hot August day in Phoenix, everybody was out of town, even the minister, so we put off the service -- a very good decision.)

Craig on his Jan. 30 show talked about not knowing how to handle his show under these circumstances. No pretense, no "show biz," just the real Craig man. How refreshing!

He talked about that his father used to put his hand on the top of young Craig's head as a gesture of affection, and that he did that in the hospital again. Harkens back to childhood, something long left there. When my dad got very ill, I started calling him "Daddy" again, which I hadn't done in decades. It just felt right.

Craig said he had a hard time seeing his father well in his mind since his last memories had been of him so ill. I had the same challenge -- it took a long, long time to get the images out of my head of my dad on the day I realized the cancer had taken his sight or of him being insensitively poked while barely conscious by a young, unknowning hospital aide or of him helpless and comatose. Now, thank God, I see him more often as the young, healthy, vital, inspirational and fun dad I knew for all but the last few months.

Craig said something about that his father didn't specify what he wanted for his funeral. I asked my dad some questions about his preferences for a service for him and he said, "I won't care -- I'll be dead."

Craig's very touching tribute to Robert Ferguson (1930-2006) revived my best and also my most painful memories of Jack Schriener (1921-1994). Thank you, Craig, for sharing your father's life and passing with us. You brought me to tears and you made me laugh through the tears. Your humanity is the best thing about you -- please don't hide it. Even when you let it out, you're also still very funny!