I’m so sorry. These words sound hollow…even to me. How
can something I adore so much (this place…and by association, each and every
one of you) be so difficult to lovingly maintain?
Anyone??
*crickets chirping…*
So here’s the poop, peeps. This is by no means an excuse
for my absence…let’s just call it a defense,
if we may.
Judge Judy: “Sure, Kathryn. I’m just so damned glad to
see you. I will allow it.”
Kathryn: “Oh. Wow. Thanks, Jude…I mean, your honor. Do you have any peppermint
candies in that secret pocket in your robe? My mouth’s a little dry.”
Judge Judy: “Sorry. They’re in the robe I use for real hearings. Proceed.”
Ouch.
Anyway. You know I’m a single mom with three sons. You know my eldest has
autism and needs a stable environment to live and work, requiring a full-time
advocate to figure out how to facilitate improvement in his less-than-ideal
living conditions. Evidently, that “full-time advocate” is….well, me. Unless
someone’s volunteering?
Anyone?
**More crickets
chirping…**
That’s okay. My life, my issues. I know we’ve all got something.
My middle son (Taylor) has just finished his 2nd
year of college, is now officially home with all of his crap stuff and
is just now learning to drive, got
his license yesterday and plans to drive himself the 5 hours north to his new school
in September to get his bachelors degree. Why he is so against the idea of my
wrapping him in a little bubble wrap for added protection and
accompanying him on the drive so he’ll have backup in case he sneezes and gets snot all over
the steering wheel, I’ll never know. He knows I always have Kleenex
tucked somewhere.
You’re dismissed, Judge. I hope that robe can double as a
tissue ‘cause mine is now officially unavailable.
My youngest (the infamous Connor) is finishing up 9th
grade and can tend to be more than a little crabby. He’s in the midst of finals
and he keeps calling everyone a “nord”, which I’m thinking is a cross between a
nerd and a Nordic person. The connection is lost on me...evidently making me
even more of a nord.
I’m working full-time, toggling between our DCH auto
group’s Toyota and now our Acura location. Double the Twitter, double
the Facebook, double the compliance/website maintenance/feeds/reputation
management/meetings, meetings and meetings about the meetings. When I finally arrive
home, I hit the computer and split my evenings between one part-time job and
two freelance gigs. It’s busy…it’s challenging…it’s downright intimidating. I
feel blessed to have the work when I know so many don’t. I feel guilty that I’m
not a better cook/housekeeper for the boys but according to them, the most
important thing that I can give them is the internet.
Score!
I have 716 unopened emails presently in my inbox. Many
are garbage…just as many are not. I know what needs to be done…but until then, my Band-Aid
is to create sub-folders with the stuff that simply cannot be ignored, i.e.:
Taylor’s college tuition paperwork or Connor’s required physical in order to
enter 10th grade. I chip away at the rest…but as fast as I hit "delete"...well, you know. And, I don't want to miss anything.
Lest you think that I’m this disorganized, stressed-out hot
mess every single freakin’ day (I secretly am), know this: Recently, (the beginning of April is
still considered recent, right?) my two sisters persuaded me to take a 3-day
weekend and head to the Cape for a mini getaway to celebrate my birthday, life
and sisterhood. But mainly my birthday.
We stayed with our longtime and dear family friends, Mr. and Mrs. Copp,
at their incredible oceanfront home. In my humble opinion, nothing restores the
spirit better than the gentle roar of the surf and I am once again reminded why
oceanfront real estate deserves that hefty price tag.
The only negative to staying with the Copps is the steep
staircase that stands between you and digging your toes into the sand of that luscious
beach.
Their staircase consists of 77 steps, I believe…and comes complete with three landings, to allow one to drop your beach stuff and take a moment to drink in the view.
And so it came to pass on our first night there that one of the
three sisters decides to turn in early…as does our most gracious hosts. This
leaves my sister Kerry and I to fend for ourselves. It is a moonless night and
after several cocktails, we decide to go for a walk. Realizing we may not have
the full capacity to walk down 77
stairs to the beach, we responsibly head out the door that leads to the street.
After walking at a brisk pace for what felt like half a mile (in reality, it
was more like 100 feet), we boldly announced, "Those stairs are totally doable!" and we gleefully stumble, stagger, tiptoed through
the front door, up the stairs, across the living room and slipped through the French
doors that lead to the back deck…finding our way to the gated
landing at the very tippity top of those stairs. The illumination from the deck
was extremely dim from this vantage point…and looking down, it was a big black
hole. Kerry chose this moment to solemnly remind me that she’s deathly afraid
of heights and that this staircase has been the cause of many a terrifying
nightmare going back as far as her early childhood.
Really? Now you tell me this?
But she doesn’t want to turn back…and she’s holding my
hand and my arm in a death grip as she takes a deep breath and tells me to open
the gate and says, “let’s do this”
which is already becoming a challenge because it’s difficult to open the clasp
on the gate with only one hand and I’m thinking I’m losing the feeling in my
arm from her vise-like grip.
Slowly…step by cautious step, we find our way to the
first landing, where Kerry has taken on some breathing technique that reminds
me of childbirth (“hee-hee-hee-hee”) and
I’m wondering if I could leave her there and run back up for one more martini
before we hit the beach.
By the time we hit the second landing, we were in the
midst of a heated debate, with Kerry insisting there was a definitive
sway to the stairs…and me spouting some bullshit about the
psychologically-proven “sway factor” (as it’s known in the industry) whereas
someone who’s consumed several shots of tequila, coupled with acrophobia, married
with a pitch-black evening and 77 steps will produce the essence of swaying, whereby none actually exists. I’m not sure she
could even hear my b.s. explanation over her “hee-hee-hee-hee”
breathing…and by the time we hit the next (and final) landing area, it occurred
to me that we were still going to have to climb back up these stairs,
unless we slept on the beach…which was starting to look like a stellar option.
After pausing again, we stand up and prepare for the
final leg of our mission and as I extend my hand toward the latch on the
gate, Kerry asks me how much further I think it’ll be. I can hear the roar of
the waves below us…but I can’t see much of anything. I imagine myself as a
raccoon…or maybe a sloth?…in a vain attempt to create some kind of night vision
as I slowly rotate my head first to the left, then to the right…back to the
left and then to the right…trying to differentiate between light and shadow…or in
this case, pitch-black from…not so much. I’m sensing a span of white from the
beach below…but shouldn’t I be picking up on something dark as well? Something
like maybe, I don’t know…the stairs
directly below me, for instance? Kerry can just make out my head-cocking,
head-swaying movement and she starts to laugh as she simultaneously swings open
the gate and prepares to step down…into NOTHING. That’s the moment I realize
that the stairs…literally…aren’t there. With a shriek, I lunge towards her,
grab a handful of her jacket and jerk her backward, sending both of us toppling
to the floor of the deck.
She’s like, “WTF?!”
I’m laughing this maniacal laugh and I gasp, “No stairs. There’s
no freakin’ stairs. OhmyGod…they didn’t
tell us they haven’t put in the #&*%@ stairs.”
Here’s the view the next morning from the beach. Every
house on this strip pulls up the very bottom portion of their stairs for the winter;
otherwise the ocean at high tide just sweeps it all away. Evidently, we would have
known this had we thought to ask…our hosts also felt it would have been fairly
obvious had we attempted our descent during (reasonable) daylight hours.
So, we survived…and took the longer, windy way down to the
beach for the remainder of our stay. It was positively beautiful.
I hope everyone is well.
From my heart to yours, I wish you health, prosperity and
love…and some much-needed time to appreciate it all-
xo
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