TDHD, pt 2

***warning: If you are not in the mood for a disturbing post, you may want to skip this one. It enters into TMI territory.***

Fred insisted on taking Max for a walk. Max was his dog- half German Shepherd, half collie. He loved that dog more than anything.

I thought going for a walk was a good idea. Anything to keep Fred away from the alcohol, his mind off of morbid thoughts. I remember that we talked about some pretty intense stuff, but for the life of me, I don't remember what that was.

We didn't go far. We could have stopped at our friend Tony's house. In fact, I think we thought about it, but it appeared no one was home. Tony was an older guy that lived up the block from Fred, he lived with his wife and son. He was sometimes a good, mature, father influence on Fred.

I could have used his help that night.

We ended up back at the house, it was just getting dark outside and we were sitting out front with Max. A police patrol car pulled up in front of the house. A cop got out and greeted Fred by name (yeah, he had had enough incidents that he was actually friendly with some of the area cops.)

He informed us that he " just had a call from someone reporting that they had heard gunshots in the neighborhood. Did we know anything about it?"

Fred answered him in his drunken slurred voice that we had been walking the dog. We hadn't heard anything. We didn't know anything about it. We didn't even own a gun.

The cop turned to me and I confirmed it.

As the cop was leaving he said "You're staying home the rest of the night, right Fred?"

Yep. Was Fred's response.

In Fred's paranoid state, he was a bit more concerned about the cop's visit than I was. Why was someone saying that about him? He doesn't have a gun! What were they thinking?

At this point, Fred's personality began to change. He started to become Party Fred. Cracking jokes, flirting, acting like a happy drunk who just wanted to hear some great music. We went back inside the house while he cranked his stereo to his music of choice. (Candlebox, Nirvana, Bobby Brown, Great White, Soundgarden, The Smashing Pumpkins, Tool, Collective Soul.)

Fred's roommate Joe came home. A true southern-boy, redneck, party type. Joe was happy to come home to see the "party" had already begun.

I'm sure Fred was drinking again at this point, but I don't remember.

What I do remember was Fred telling Joe about the cop's visit and what the cop said. Joe said to Fred "You haven't been playing around with my gun, have you?"

Just typing those words makes me feel ill.

Fred was defensive. "No! Of course not!"

For the life of me, I don't know what possessed Joe to do what he did next. Maybe he didn't believe Fred? Clearly, he didn't know who he was dealing with. Clearly, he had never met drunk #3.

Joe went and got his gun out of his room. A 9mm.

Fred was mesmerized, he wanted to see it, to hold it. Joe removed the clip and tossed the gun to Fred. Fred proceeded to play around with the gun, and starting talking about how good it would be to just end it all.

He held the empty gun to his head. I grabbed the phone and threatened to call the cops. I yelled at Fred to cut it out. Joe thought he was joking and was sort of arguing back with him about how ridiculous he was. As I continued yelling, holding the phone, Fred pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. I threw the phone at him and hit him.

I was sitting on the couch. Fred was standing about four feet directly in front of me. Joe was sitting about 8 feet to my left.

I continued shouting and yelling, I wanted Joe to take the gun back and put it away. Joe was yelling back at me that the clip (cartridge? whatever) was empty and I was freaking out for no reason. I remember yelling that he didn't understand.

Fred was yelling at me to calm down.

Joe was telling Fred to be careful, not to drink anymore or he might hurt me.

This set Fred off. I'd never hurt her! I love her! Do you understand? I could never hurt her!

Oooooh how wrong he was.

What happened next probably took about less than 30 seconds. In my memory, it happens in slow motion. In my memory, I see the entire scene play out as if I had an out-of-body experience. My viewpoint is as if I was hovering overhead, looking down at what transpired.

Fred gave the gun back to Joe.

Joe held the gun, and nonchalantly put the clip back into it, saying something along the lines of "I think you're full of shit".

I turned to flick my cigarette in my ashtray that was all the way over to my right.

Just as Joe was handing the gun back to Fred.

I remember the loud "pop" and the sound of Fred hitting the floor. By the time I turned my head back, he was already on the floor.

I immediately ran to him and crouched beside him. I have absolutely no memory of what Joe did or where he was.

Fred's friend Billy who was sleeping in the guest bedroom the entire time, came out of his room, saw Fred on the floor and began to pace and yell, "Oh Fuck! Oh Fuck! Shit! Fuck!"

I was trying to clear Fred's mouth of the blood and stuff that was filling it. He was making gurgling sounds that made me think he was trying to breathe. I was only vaguely aware of all the blood and the bits of brain that looked like oatmeal all over his face, the floor, and then me.

I grabbed the phone and called 911. I have no idea what I said, but I remember begging.

I sat there, holding Fred, holding his hand, clearing his face and mouth. Talking to him, praying to God, telling Fred to hold on. The police arrived (including the cop from earlier in the evening), and they immediately pulled me off of Fred. They took me into the kitchen and started asking questions, but I could still see Fred. I could see the paramedics.

Max was going crazy. Barking and growling at the officers. Billy had to put him in the backyard to keep him away.

I didn't understand why the paramedics weren't doing anything. Why were they letting Fred just lay there? Why weren't they helping him?

I remember asking the cops "Is he dead?" They gave me a funny look (I guess they were surprised I didn't know). And someone said yes.

(Had I been thinking straight, I would have realized that Fred had blown away the entire side of his head. He died before he hit the ground. He died before I had even crushed my cigarette into the ashtray.)

I tried to run to Fred. I screamed. I howled. A gut wrenching, soul-crying scream. I ran to him. And I was intercepted by who-knows-how-many cops who then proceeded to carry me outside. They held me down for several minutes while I wailed.

I was questioned. The unanswered questions of the evening (and of my life) were Did he know the gun was loaded the second time Joe gave it to him? Was he too drunk to know what was going on? Was it an accident or suicide?


They swiped some stuff on my hands to see if I had handled the gun. One of the officers had drawn a diagram of the "scene" with a smiley face on Fred. I remember commenting on it. They wouldn't let me near Joe (who I wanted to kill) or Billy. They called a "victim's advocate" to come be with me, but she didn't do much. I was in this really weird state- I was being very coherent, very "together", even cracking jokes. They wanted to know if I had someone I could stay with, someone I could call.


A crowd had gathered outside the house. This was a quiet, suburban, middle-class family neighborhood. I had no idea who these people were.

Here's an example of how fucked up you can become during a tragedy like this: I called my boss, Cindy. To tell her I wouldn't be able to make it to work the next day. I don't think I even called my parents.

Billy and I called our friend Jeff to come get us. We slept at his apartment.

We left poor Max outside in the backyard that entire evening. I'll never forgive myself for that. I remember hearing his whimpers the entire time.


We left the house in the hands of the police.

I never saw Fred again. I never got to say goodbye.

The Day He Died, part 1

I've been itching to tell this story for quite some time. Not sure why. Especially not sure why now. It's not his birthday (that's in April) and it's not the anniversary of his death (that would be September).


I do know that I went to see The Dark Knight the other night and it was difficult to watch Heath Ledger. I kept thinking about the fact that he was dead. And young. And it kept making me think of Fred. I've often thought that if I write about him, maybe eventually all the details will leave my mind. For good.


I've written about Fred before. The good times. Pictures. Dreams I've had. How I still think of him sometimes.


It's hard to understand that I could have been so in love with someone so damaged. But I was. I had no doubt that I wanted to spend my life with him, and him with me.


The day he died was a Friday. I think it was the 28th or 29th of September. And I think it was 1994 or 1995. Or maybe 1996.


What's funny is that I'm the kind of girl that remembers dates of personally significant events. But I continuously forget this date. Occasionally I look it up to remind myself of the real date, but then I forget it soon afterwards.


I was 28 years old, a few months shy of my 29th birthday. He was 28 also, having just turned a few months prior. This was one of those days that was life-altering. The "me" that I was before this day was profoundly different from the "me" that I became after. When I think back over my life thus far, it often feels like a "before/after" sort of layout.


Anyway- back to that day. At that point, Fred and I had been together about 16 months. We met in May, I moved in with him in July. And moved out 14 months later.


That "14 months later" phrase covers about a lifetime of experience for me.


So I had gotten up the strength to move out even though I couldn't completely leave him. He was supportive of me leaving, but when the time came, he held on very tightly. I think he knew more about the bigger picture than I did.


So on this Friday in September, I worked all day. I was working at a local weight loss center in Orlando, FL and it was "end of month" intense. So I didn't speak to him all day. I soon learned that he stayed home from work that day- apparently on one of his infamous drinking binges.


Up until the point that I met Fred, I was quite naive about alcoholism. I come from a family of social drinkers, but never seen first hand what the disease looks like. Fred would go weeks and weeks without drinking, then would go on a binge for several days. On the days leading up to these binges, he seemed to prepare for it. Getting the house in order, getting super caught up in work. And he happened to have a female boss in her 50's that had some weird intense crush on him, so she was extremely forgiving with his unexpected time off.


Fred had three distinct drunk personalities, and of course none of these was anything like his amazing sober personality. Drunk #1 was "Belligerent Fred", all macho, looking for a fight, looking for trouble, total alpha dog behavior in the worst way. Drunk #3 was "Party Fred", where he was funny, very flirtatious and magnetic, and always the center of attention. Drunk #3 was "Morbidly Sad Fred" when he became very childlike, confused, wanting to "be better" and sometimes wishing he would die.


His friends had learned to deal with #1, and they loved and encouraged #2. I was the only one that got to meet #3. This led to conflict between his friends and I. They would encourage him to drink, I would attempt to discourage him. It was during this time that I quit drinking, just in case I needed to get us home.


So I get home on this Friday in September at around 6 pm and there are multiple messages on my answer machine. At least six. Maybe more. And they were timed throughout the day. And each message was gradually more urgent. I heard each of the 3 drunk Fred's in these messages.


"Where are you? Why aren't you here?"


"You're supposed to be here!"


"Get here now!"


"Pleeeease...I need you. Come see me, OK?"


I often ask myself, what would have happened if I had ignored those messages? If I didn't get dressed and head right over there? If I had done the "right" thing at that moment, would there have been a different outcome?


So yeah, I drove over to his house, which had been my house too. The door to the attached garage was wide open, as was the inside door that led to the kitchen. The house was completely trashed, which was not unusual during his binges.


It was childlike, scared, drunk #3 Fred that greeted me. He confided in me that he was having thoughts of just ending it all. He told me he loved me and didn't want to continue to ruin my life. He claimed he tried to use a rope to hang himself in the garage but the rope was too flimsy. He showed it to me, it was basically string.


What if I had just called some authorities at this point? Or called someone that could help me, help him?


I didn't. I thought I had it under control. I held him, listened to him, talked to him, let him know how much I loved him. I hid the rest of the alcohol. I attempted to put the house in order.


Yes, I was the classic enabler before I really knew what that was.


Actually, I thought I knew exactly what to do with drunk #3 Fred. What usually worked was bringing him to bed, having sex with him, until he passed out. Believe me when I say I am not proud of this. Of how I was in this relationship. Or who I became.


But we never made it to bed. We got sidetracked.


Would it have been different if I had been more assertive about going to bed?

Ahhhhh! Testosterone.

I've been beating myself up for the past few weeks. Primarily because I've been having a really hard time with my man-free summer.

I mean, geesh. I know I have needs- emotional, sexual, companionship, etc. But certainly I can go a couple months getting those needs met without having a man in my life, right?

I said...right??????

It seemed to me I was being weak. Is it loneliness? Insecurity? Fear? Hormones?

Please don't tell me I'm one of those women that needs to have a man in my life?!

Anything but that!

So today, as I fought off the desire to call/email/text a man, I had an "aha" moment: I am not longing for a romantic relationship. Or even a sexual relationship.

I simply need male energy in my life.

And if I don't get it- I feel like something's missing.

Suddenly, it was clear. I was raised surrounded by boys. Brothers, cousins. I was the only girl. It is in male company that I feel the most "safe", "connected", "home". Of course!

Though I have worked the last few years at connecting with women, appreciating women etc., it's still doesn't give me the same "home sweet home" feeling that I get when I'm with men.

Now, I can give myself permission to have more male friends. Just because I'm spending time with someone doesn't mean I have to date them. Yeah- I realize how obvious that sounds. But when you are a single woman, who is ultimately looking for a life partner, it is difficult to foster male friendships. I mean- if he's a great guy, and I enjoy spending time with him, shouldn't I be dating him? It has just occurred to me that the answer to that question is- Not necessarily.

I feel so much better now!

Do You Think I'm Sexy? I hope so! You better not!

What do you get when you mix a very sexual, very adventurous, free-spirited woman with a strict Catholic upbringing, a prudish mother, and a dash of insecurity?

Well. You get me.

And probably some (many?) of you.

But what happens to me as a result of this interesting mix is that I'm a little schizophrenic at times. A bit of the Madonna / whore syndrome.

Who do I want to be? How do I want to be treated? Depends on the day. Depends on the person.

In my dating experience, men have always wanted to put me in a category, a box: the buddy/friend box, the exciting risque sex partner box, the girlfriend box, the potential wife/mother of his kids box.

I have been placed firmly in each box at one time or another. But never more than one box at the same time by the same man. And yet, I want to be in all of those boxes at once, damnit!

When I'm in a dating relationship, I am rarely satisfied with the box I've been placed in. For example, if the man comes on too strong sexually, if our physical relationship advances quickly and becomes hot and nasty, I get extremely uncomfortable. I start to think that's all he wants. And I resent it, of course. So I usually end up resisting every step of the way making sure I don't make it all the way into the sex whore box.

What has happened in this scenario is that I'm often successful at making it clear that I'm "not that kind of girl". So then I'm in the girlfriend box. And he cheats on me with some freaky chick from work.

On the flip side, if it moves too slowly, if it takes a long time for the physical relationship to develop and I'm not "fighting him off" every time we're alone, I get equally uncomfortable! I worry that he's not feeling enough "spark" or that we will get bored quickly. And I worry that we may not be sexually compatible. If we miss our window of opportunity for passion, doesn't that mean the passion will never come?

To "fix" this scenario, I've been known to pull out all the stops. All my vixen tricks. Apparently, I can be quite good at this because I've turned many a nice guy into a kinky perv. And I never find my way back into the girlfriend box.

Soooo...I've been thinking back through my history and trying to come up with a man / relationship that had the perfect balance of girlfriend vs. adventurous slut. Can't think of one. Perhaps that's why I haven't married yet?

If I could create the perfect scenario, it would look like this: The man makes it very clear he wants me in bed. Badly. Like he can barely control himself. I can feel the urgent hunger in his kisses. Meanwhile, he treats me well, we become great friends, have a great time together. And I fend off his sexual advances. At least until I know I want a committed relationship with him, and I'm sure he feels the same.

Then as the relationship continues, there's a consistent balance between girlfriend and adventurous slut. Until we ultimately achieve potential wife/mother of his kids status.

Ah. How nice!

What Happens in PG County, Stays in PG County

I am a proud member of the GNOC (Girls' Night Out Club). In an effort to save money, the 2008 GNOC Annual Convention was held at the Gaylord National Resort, instead of it's usual location, Vegas.

For years, I have heard stories about this infamous event, but this is the first one I have attended. If this group can party this hard in PG county, I can only imagine what their Vegas trips look like.

So twenty women from various walks of life came together and took over the Gaylord. And we pretended we were far away, on vacation, and using the time to be someone else. (My name was Jessica for the purpose of this trip.)

I was lucky enough to have a room adjoining the Party Suite. So I was steps away from food, drinks, music, and cavorting for the past 72 hours. I had never met my roommate, Sherry, before this event, but we turned out to be a perfect pairing. She's several years younger than I am, has a serious job, is married, and apparently has a lot of party in her! She was also my physical opposite. While I am blonde, on the tall side, with a curvy build, Sherry is an exotic brunette, petite, lean and probably a size 0.

Friday night, we tried the rooftop dance club, Pose. Weird crowd- they were only allowing hotel guests in. But we had a great time dancing and taking fun pics. The club itself is pretty fantastic; it has a Vegas feel, and an awesome view of DC.

We ended the evening back in the Party Suite, where husbands, boyfriends, and a few random guys joined us. The party continued until 4 am. Seriously.

Am I 41? Or 21? This past weekend, I was unsure.

Some of truths I have about myself became myths:

I don't drink.
I certainly don't get drunk and crazy.
I don't do night clubs.
I don't stay up / out all night.
I don't smoke.
I don't have pictures taken of me that I regret later.

And a few others that are better left unmentioned.

Saturday I was feeling surprisingly good, considering the fact that I'm not used to crazy nights (anymore). We spent the day at the spa, and by the pool, and then got ready for happy hour in the Party Suite. Then we had plans to go to Lotus-we had vip room and bottle service. I had mixed feelings about going since I had heard bad reviews about the club. But I figured- what the heck?

I should have known things were going to get crazy when the limo got pulled over on the way to club.

Oh- did I mention it was wig night for the GNOC? Oh yeah. 20 women, in wigs and trashy dresses. I wore my super-long Jessica Simpson locks, and spent the evening enjoying the role of blonde bimbo.

The most interesting observation I had for the weekend was concerning the secret lives of married women. Only about 4 of us are single. These women were so dying to live vicariously through us, I found it amusing. My roommate was even making plans for alternative sleeping arrangements so I could "get some". Don't they know about my man free summer? :)

This morning, at brunch (the theme was fancy hats), it was hard to believe this crowd had partied so hard all weekend. We looked oh-so-refined and sophisticated. But we were passing around our pics from the night before. Oh my. Flashes of memories came rushing back as I was faced with the evidence.

Thank God this is only an annual event. It's going to take days for me to recover.

Just Another Day in NYC

• I got about a dozen fashion ideas. And that's just during a three-block walk in mid-town Manhattan.
• Over the course of three days, I probably received 4 or 5 kissy noises, crude comments, or whistles from men on the street. Fifteen years ago, that used to infuriate me. Today, it just makes me laugh.
• I walked into the middle of an ESPN live broadcast in Grand Central. I was so oblivious, I couldn't understand why the young guy was saying "Move over there! Please!"
• During dinner with a friend, I was able to hear three different languages other than English being spoken around us.
• I shared a ride to work with about 1,000 other people. Yet we still were able to avoid eye contact and stay completely silent.
• Drinks at a new, hip, rooftop lounge in Manhattan is more than an outing. It's an experience.
• I must congratulate the women of NY. They are looking simply stunning this summer (I'm loving the current summer fashions). The men, however...c'mon now! Getting a bit too sloppy.
• I walked down the same street as John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. A female colleague and I were meeting with some local business managers. I was shocked to experience the blatant, Brooklyn-style flirting the men laid on us.
• I saw NYC's latest art installation- the Waterfalls, near the Brooklyn Bridge. No offense, New York, but it was kinda like a giant fire hydrant that was left on.
• Never know what to expect here. That's why I love it.

A Man-Free Summer

This past spring, I focused on cleaning house. Not literally, of course. But clearing my life of the crap, emotionally. Straightening up my friendships, my relationships. Facing my feelings, desires, needs, etc. full on.

And when I cleared my life of the now-infamous three doors, it was my intent to have a restorative man-free summer. I was just going to be. So many other areas of my life required my attention.

I wanted to have a summer of joy.

Then I met LPS and that kinda shook things up for bit. I didn't want to meet a new man. But he was fun, attractive, with a pretty joyful outlook on life. I was intrigued by his intellect, his talent and wit, and his boyish exhuberance. So I figured you can't always stick to a scheduled plan, and we began dating. He made me laugh, we had a unique connection, and we enjoyed the time we spent together. It was refreshing.

After about half a dozen dates and many long late night phone calls spread out over the course of several weeks, he said some stuff that freaked me out. So then I said some stuff that pissed him off. And our dalliance wasn't strong enough to withstand conflict at that point, so *poof*...done. Finished before it began. Hasty? Reactive? Or just wisely cutting our losses? Who knows? I do miss him,though. I guess these things happen.

The point is, this coincides with two events that are somewhat symbolic to me, and reminds me what my original intent was. I just returned from a conference focused on women business owners. Lots of feminine energy and celebration. Next week, I'm attending a purely fun girls weekend with about 20 women at the new Gaylord resort. Eating, drinking, shopping, spa visits, dancing, etc. Very, very, girly.

I consider this the launching of my real man-free summer. Time to travel, play, see my friends and fam. Just be. Glorious.

Oh. Wait a minute. Does man-free mean I have to cut my maintenance man loose?

I may need to rethink this. Or continue to break my own rules!

My Latest Crush

I met this guy last night in Dallas. He is hysterical and I am smitten! Check this out to see why.

Reality Dating TV: A Sociological Experiment?

I'm glad to hear I'm not the only one with an embarrassing interest in reality TV. (Thanks Washwords!) I won't even try to justify it. It is what it is.

This is the first season of the Bachelor/Bachelorette series that I've watched in a long time. Not sure why I got into this time except that it has corresponded with the times that I need some background noise for some work I'm doing. (There- I justified myself anyway!)

What interests me about this franchise is some of the things it seems to suggest about the genders and their pursuit for love. A few things I've noticed over the years:

* When a Bachelor chooses a woman after "dating" 24 other women, he rarely stays with her very long after the show. (Or in the case of Brad Womack, he decides he's done with all of them by the last episode.)

*When a woman is doing the choosing amongst 25 men, the relationship more often results in an engagement, long term relationship and/or marriage.

What conclusions could we possibly draw from this? That once men have a taste for multiple women, it's a hard habit to break? That whenever men are knowingly competing for the attentions of one woman, they tend to "fall" harder?

Ick. Hope not.

Yet as I watched this season, it was hard not to think that was the case. The men get to spend very little one on one time with the Bachelorette, and not only do they know she's dating others, they know exactly who, what, when and where it's happening!

Deanna, an attractive, nice-enough girl, actually had four men fall pretty deeply in love with her during the course of this show. Which takes place over a matter of weeks. Weeks. Deeply in love. Declaring their love on national TV. Crying over the prospect of losing her.

Three of the men wanted to marry her. Were practically begging to marry her.

So which one(s) did she fall for?

Hmmmm...first it was the super hot, sexy Graham who was emotionally distant and had trouble with commitment. Somehow, Deanna got up the courage to cut him loose, but everyone could see she was WAY into him.

Of course, Jeremy never stood a chance. He was declaring his feelings for her from the get-go. He was uber-attentive, extra romantic, very vulnerable. Supposedly everything Deanna wanted on paper, yet "something" was missing.

Poor single-dad Jason actually went as far as getting on his knee to propose, before Deanna said "wait! I can't!" The words she used to describe him? "A great father, stable, comfortable, loving, safe."

So she goes with Jesse, the wild snow boarder, who had no intentions of getting married when he started the show. But after getting caught up in the pursuit, the competition, or whatever it is, he walks away engaged to his "soul mate".

I thought love was a magical, chemical, indescribable thing that happens only rarely and in the right conditions? Because it seems to me that in this case, the love was manufactured and generated by the circumstances. Master manipulation. Tell me, does that mean the love wasn't real?

Camp Crazee

Three years ago, my family went camping during the July 4th week. Apparently, it went well since my parents immediately dubbed it an "annual tradition". (My family is BIG on tradition, though sometimes I think it's just a way for my parents to designate yet another holiday that requires a visit to them.)

Now, before you get all impressed with our collective adventurous spirit, and our "roughing it" attitude, let me clarify.

This is the oddest camping scenario I have experienced. Or heard about. And I love to camp!

The first part of the tradition begins with my father gathering all the appropriate equipment days, or maybe even weeks, before the actual date. Each year, the inventory of gear seems to grow: tents, canopies, grills, lanterns, chairs, tables, outdoor games, fishing poles, sleeping bags, air mattresses, etc. etc.

Next, my father requires the site to be set up several hours before the rest of the family arrives. Check in at the site is 3 pm. We were all planning to get there around 5 or 6. Dad called to see if he could check in early, dragging my brother out of bed at 8 am to begin preparations. My brother, GS, said the previous party hadn't even left yet- they were literally hanging around waiting for them to pack up.

Another important note to this wacky tradition: the camp site is fifteen minutes from my parents' house.

Why is this important? Because the back and forth between my parents' house and the campsite continues throughout the duration of the "camping trip".

The women do not sleep at the camp. That "privilege" is reserved for my Dad, my brothers, and all six kids. The women sleep in their nice, warm, comfy beds at my parents' house. But don't think their role is all cushy. Their other job is to coordinate all behind the scenes planning, preparation, and cooking.

In other words, in the morning the women pack up all the food and cooking supplies needed for that day. (Many of the items require some preparation before transport.) Then they coordinate the all day eating fest when we arrive at the camp. (With the exception of all grilling and anything that has to do with the campfire.) At the end of the day, they pack up all the perishables to bring back home (usually around 11 pm). Upon arrival at home, they wash dishes in preparation for the next day.

Then they start all over again in the morning.

The men are in charge of the campsite itself: making it functional, making arrangements if it rains, keeping the fire going. They are also in charge of entertaining the children: hiking, swimming, fishing, playing soccer, etc.

Now the way I've described this it's sounds kind of organized. It isn't. At all. When you get a bunch of related adults together for a gathering like this, each person seems to have his/her idea about how things need to be done. There is very little consensus. So arguments and bickering sprinkle throughout our holiday festivities.

At Camp Crazee, I struggle to find my role. I would never in a million years make the menu issue so complicated, therefore I refuse to participate in the preparation of the potato salad. And while I quite enjoy sleeping in the wilderness, doing so with 6 small children is another adventure completely. So I stick with the women and do my best to stay out of the way. I keep my opinions to myself, and decide that my contribution to this celebration is my presence.

Of course, when I said this to my mother, she responded "Presents? You brought presents?"

Blood Before Boys

I made two separate attempts to have impromptu debriefing sessions with my girlfriends yesterday. I was particularly looking for some input regarding my dating conflama.

Yes- I wanted to talk about a boy. So sue me!

Anyway, my first attempt was made pretty early in the morning. Before 9. Which is an ungodly hour for me on a Sunday, but not for my friend Jessica. So I called her, got her voice mail, and left a message.

Hours later, she called me back. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long to call you back, I've been at the emergency room all morning."

Oh my! She fills me in on the details of her troubles. Lots of pain involved, healing needed, interruptions to her life for at least the next several days. And she was on some sort of pain medication as she spoke to me.

"So what did you need to talk to me about?"

Um. Never mind. For some reason, it didn't really seem like the right time to talk about my silly issues.

My next attempt for a debriefing session came much later, in the early evening. I called my friend Marlene. She answers on the first ring "Oh! I thought you were my friend the nurse calling me back. I just dropped a huge knife on my foot and it has a really deep cut that won't stop bleeding. Do you think I should go to the emergency room?"

"OMG- yeah! Of course! Go take care of your injury!"

"By the way, what were you calling about?"

"Well...I think your drama trumps mine. Just go take care of yourself!"

So as I said in the title: blood before boys. Every time.