tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3853458450579170862024-03-13T03:55:08.058-07:00I Guess We're ThroughI Guess We're Throughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07400036587281579318noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-385345845057917086.post-38579381735232332932016-01-13T01:30:00.000-08:002016-01-13T01:30:19.204-08:00the old Janine in 2016<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">We’ve sailed into a brand new year, but not far enough that people are throwing their resolutions overboard. I can tell because there’s still a wait for treadmills and elliptical machines at the gym. Yet, for some reason, I haven’t been able to latch on to a resolution of my own. Of course, the tried and true are always there -- to tone up so that nothing jiggles and my collar bones protrude, and to give my house a colonic, meaning that I get rid of all the shit! Those are constant goals in my life and voices in my head, but trying to find a really good cause to strive for this year has eluded me… <i>until now</i>! <br /><br />It struck me that maybe the way to be the best <b>new</b> Janine is to go back to being the <b>old</b> Janine. I mean, she was pretty great! Here are a few reasons why:<br /><br /><b>The Old Janine...</b></span><br />
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<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Went to church more religiously</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Wrote thank you notes on stationary and mailed them with cute stamps -- she didn’t email or text a letter of thanks</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Helped keep Hallmark in business by sending greeting cards to family and friends, sometimes for no reason at all except to say, “thinking of you”</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Took classes at the local community college, such as photography, singing and Italian…</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Played tennis weekly with a group of friends she met from the tennis class she took at the local community college</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Signed up for 5 and 10K’s where she’d often be walking/running in a pool of tears because of how beautiful it was to see so many people committed to raising money for, calling attention to, and eradicating a common cause</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Tried new exercise classes at the gym -- sure, zumba looks like fun, but I don’t want to look like an idiot trying to figure it out, so I <i>just say NO</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Hosted theme parties, such as the “<i>Celebration of Love</i>” Valentine’s soiree where everything was heart-shaped, home made, and impossibly adorable… like the lines of poetry that I hand wrote on strips of paper, rolled up and put inside tulips that would open throughout the night and reveal what was inside. I basically Martha Stewart-ed the crap out of these events! They required an arduous amount of work, but were insanely fun!</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Went to the beach alone and wrote in her journal</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Kept a journal and wrote in it much more faithfully than she does today</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Volunteered and did charity work -- these days, often the most I can do is bake for school functions… or “fake bake.” “Fake bake” is when you buy baked goods at the store, then put them in your own cute wrapping (cellophane bags tied with twine and a sprig of lavender, or a cute gingham ribbon) and make it look like you really baked.</span></li>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Full disclosure -- some of the things on this list were the pre-marriage, pre-two kids, pre-divorce, pre-head of the household Janine. They’re from back in the day when the biggest decision I had to make was whether I’d get my nails done in baby pink or fire engine red. I’m not ridiculous enough to think I can go back and be the more responsibility-free me, but there are parts of the old young girl that I can still tap. <br /><br />So I resolve to be a little more like the old Janine in 2016! It’s my personal journey back to the future, back to when I had a little more gusto, a little more drive, a little more creativity, and a lot more energy, time, and patience… and maybe, just maybe I was a little more me. I raise a sugar-rimmed glass of a special cranberry martini I once made for a theme party, and I toast <i>to the new adventures of the old Janine</i>!</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Happy New Year, Everyone... and may we all be our best selves!</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><br /></span>I Guess We're Throughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07400036587281579318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-385345845057917086.post-33207034702429931332016-01-01T09:30:00.000-08:002016-01-01T09:33:03.217-08:00blue balls <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas 2015 with my brothers, Jerry and Jeffrey</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">A personalized metallic blue Christmas ball from Aunt Rose meant you were in! That ornament was my Godmother’s signature gift to those joining our family, either by marriage or birth. When my wasband* unwrapped his ball the first Christmas after our wedding, it was official… he was family! <br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;">*wasband : A former husband from whom a woman is now divorced.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />Christmas presents aren’t the only things that get unwrapped this time of year. Those boxes in the garage that house the decorations also store a lifetime of memories. <br /><br />For one of my dear friends, 2015 was her first single Christmas. She dug out her boxes Thanksgiving weekend and realized that they held many shared treasures not accounted for in the divorce settlement. She asked me how we divvied our decor following my divorce.<br /><br />It was easy. I explained that once that time of year had rolled around and my ex had settled into a new home, I put his blue ball in a box. Along with it went the Peter Pan ornament I bought for him the year he declared “I won’t grow up” would be his mantra, and the Superman ornament I purchased because, all joshing aside, the man has always had superhuman physical strength. He demonstrated it a year or so before our wedding when I was moving apartments within the same complex. Rather than enlisting help, he strapped my refrigerator onto his back, carried it down a flight of stairs, across the courtyard, then up a small flight of stairs to my new place… all by himself. I gazed at him in awe, and found myself growing wildly turned OFF! In his head, I’m sure he was thinking “strong like bull,” but in my head I was thinking “dumb like dirt!” <br /><br />Now that Christmas is in the rearview mirror and it’s time to undecorate, do yourself a favor… only pack those storage boxes with good memories, ornaments, decorations, and mementos -- the one’s that bring joy and harken to a happy time. We all have unnecessary blue balls hanging around. Take a cue from Elsa and simply “let it go!”</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My babies!</td></tr>
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Cheers to a happy, healthy 2016!</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>I Guess We're Throughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07400036587281579318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-385345845057917086.post-41647019557954569962015-12-14T21:30:00.000-08:002015-12-14T21:30:23.970-08:00Oooh, Christmas Tree!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">December 2011</td></tr>
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Christmas trees are for the happy, for the safe and secure, for those tight knit, hot-chocolate-drinking, marshmallow-roasting families to sit around in their adorable flannel pajamas. They’re NOT for the hurting, the sad, the bitter, and the lonely... or so I thought. <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f1kAB70nzC4/Vm9gFXf12vI/AAAAAAAAAMg/0jFskVRh6lE/s1600/IMG_1074.JPG"></a>There were years before and after my separation and divorce where buying a tree seemed physically and emotionally arduous to me, more depressing than uplifting. The only reason I carried out the obligation was because I had two children who depended on me to make the season bright, to uphold the old and create the new traditions. <br />
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When my marriage first started to sour, the last thing I wanted was to celebrate Christmas, and I certainly wasn’t going to get a tree. My dear, sweet, super-Jewish friend, Shari, never had a tree growing up, but those Hallmark Channel Christmas Movie visions danced in her head and she wanted in. Shari begged me to let her come to the tree lot with us. At first I agreed, only to later confide in her that I wasn’t much in the mood for the season and we were going to skip out on a tree that year. The next night there was a knock at my door. I looked through the peep hole and saw only green. When I opened the door, there was the most perfect tree just standing there. Behind it was the most perfect friend, holding it up. I’ll never forget what Shari did for me that year, and how she knew that even if I didn’t want a tree, I needed a tree. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">December 2011 with my beautiful mother</td></tr>
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My mother said no one should ever shop for a Christmas tree alone. I’ve
done it. She’s right. She made it a priority to always meet me at the
lot, even surprising me one year when I’d completely had it! I turned around
and there she was... with a smile, open arms, and a piece of crumpled Kleenex from
her pocket to dry my tears. <br />
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In the years since she’s been gone, my aunt and my dad have been there
to help us find the straightest, plumpest, fullest, fattest Douglas fir
in town. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-98sazKG-mWc/Vm9gILzkuiI/AAAAAAAAANE/Xs5eIS-ZlEc/s1600/IMG_6557.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-98sazKG-mWc/Vm9gILzkuiI/AAAAAAAAANE/Xs5eIS-ZlEc/s200/IMG_6557.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">December 2014 with my Dad</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4eexvPhdlkY/Vm9gF0z8VDI/AAAAAAAAAMw/-BB976iMh7g/s1600/DSC01374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="111" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4eexvPhdlkY/Vm9gF0z8VDI/AAAAAAAAAMw/-BB976iMh7g/s200/DSC01374.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">December 2013 with my Aunt Shirley</td></tr>
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One thing that will never change is that once the tree is securely tied
to the top of the car, I play Kenny Loggins’ “Celebrate Me Home,” and
drive slowly down the street. It’s my favorite 12-minute ride of the
year. I’ll bet that whoever sees us thinks we’re on our way to a perfect
night, and they’re right. It’s OUR perfect!<br />
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Back when I was taller than my kids, the biggest pain was trying to figure out how to get the damn tree off the car and into the house. One year we flagged down an alarm company patrol guy. Other years, my brother, my prom date, and a buff neighbor rode to the rescue. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TatxLUUAurE/Vm9gGzZ0-OI/AAAAAAAAAM0/jQXkU3RqcsA/s1600/IMG_1192.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-TatxLUUAurE/Vm9gGzZ0-OI/AAAAAAAAAM0/jQXkU3RqcsA/s200/IMG_1192.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">December 2008 with my brother, Jeffrey</td></tr>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ehqwlwxT2nQ/Vm9gJlvsfsI/AAAAAAAAANY/khYqCadzIXs/s1600/photo%2B3.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ehqwlwxT2nQ/Vm9gJlvsfsI/AAAAAAAAANY/khYqCadzIXs/s200/photo%2B3.JPG" /></a><br />
Here’s a piece of advice for the single and anyone else who’s harried, frazzled, and stressed -- ask for help and accept help when it’s offered! Tis NOT the season to kill yourself trying to do it all! Now that my 15-year old son tips the scales at 180 and hovers near the 6-foot mark, he does the honors. <br />
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I’m glad I didn’t bah-humbug it, and thankful that my friends and family wouldn’t let me. Christmas trees aren’t just for the happy. They’re for the hopeful, for the grateful, for the loving, and the loved… and they can be a shining light when all else seems kind of dismal and dark.<br />
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<span style="color: #38761d;"><i>Oh Christmas tree, Oh Christmas tree,<br />Such pleasure do you bring me! </i></span></div>
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I Guess We're Throughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07400036587281579318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-385345845057917086.post-46661496390695784412015-04-01T00:00:00.000-07:002015-04-01T00:00:16.625-07:00horizontally speaking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Therapy is like bootcamp for the soul. It can kick your ass, but you know it’s good for you and that you’ll emerge stronger and healthier than before. When the thought of divorce was <i>just a thought</i>, I signed up for a <i>few</i> sessions with a nearby psychologist. That was a big move for a girl whose parents were from a generation that believed only the crazies saw <i>shrinks.</i> Nonetheless, even <i>they</i> were gung ho when I decided to go. Never did I dream that after those few sessions, the therapist and I would be seeing each other for a couple years. <br /><br />Every Tuesday morning, I’d plant myself on the worn out faux suede cushions of my doctor’s couch. His first name was Phil, so naturally I called him “Dr. Phil.” He wasn’t <b>THE</b> Dr. Phil, but he was <b>MY</b> Dr. Phil and he was one of the core people who spearheaded my journey from <b>WE</b> to <b>ME</b>. Dr. Phil was a no-nonsense kinda guy. Though he had the look and build of a giant teddy bear, he didn’t cuddle or coddle me. Dr. Phil called it like it was, made me be accountable for what I did or didn’t do, and was one of the wisest men I’ve ever known. My well honed passive-aggressive powers didn’t stand a chance with him. Dr. Phil was my life coach, my guru, and my sage adviser who didn’t dole out advice, but made me uncover it on my own.<br /><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oSwPCr0TcmQ/VRs0tQ-N79I/AAAAAAAAAKY/X6bIovz1ic8/s1600/photo%2B1-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oSwPCr0TcmQ/VRs0tQ-N79I/AAAAAAAAAKY/X6bIovz1ic8/s1600/photo%2B1-2.JPG" height="106" width="200" /></a> Many times, Dr. Phil would map out an assignment that was so completely
uncomfortable that my skin would crawl -- something like, call your
mother-in-law and ask for her help... or call your attorney and tell her to drop some charges on your bill. They were missions that required some major cojones!</div>
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I’d rather stick toothpicks in my eyes, but doing what he asked was akin to earning a Girl Scout badge, only this one was being sewn into my mental fiber, my backbone. <br />
<br />One day, when I felt like just a shell, a pale, gaunt, exhausted, hollow, emotionless shell, Dr. Phil and I locked eyes and he said, “you know, some of my patients tell me that being divorced has given them the best of both worlds.” <br />
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He explained that alternating weekends with their ex-husbands allowed his clients to have time with their children, and time to have or make a new life. My well thought out response was, “well, when the hell does <b>that </b>start?”<br />
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At the time, I thought, <b>jeez</b>, this guy can really be alouf and callous! Now I realize that Dr. Phil was a genius! He knew that while I thought I was sinking, I would one day swim, and he was right! I’m doing laps! Every other weekend I have my kids and every other weekend I don’t. This arrangement didn’t happen right away. It was <b>YEARS</b> in the making, and worth every baby step. <br />
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My kids are happy and I’m happy to say that I’m happy. But happy doesn’t just happen. Happy takes work and Kleenex and sweat and negotiating and compromising and trusting and some deep digging. <br /><br />My mornings with Dr. Phil were priceless, so when he told me he was retiring, I got that old feeling, the same one I had when my dad took his hand off the seat of my two-wheeler, leaving me to peddle on my own. <br />
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I knew I could do it, but I also knew I could fall. That’s the thing with divorce, you look around, know you can make it, but also know you just might fall. I fell a few times, dusted myself off, steadied, centered and climbed back on, peddling down roads that are rocky and others that are smooth as silk. I learned that by horizontally speaking, I could become my very best. <br />
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<br />I Guess We're Throughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07400036587281579318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-385345845057917086.post-33394266878541854262015-02-04T03:00:00.000-08:002015-02-04T03:00:12.869-08:00my affairs<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />I have had three affairs in my life. The first time I initiated it, the next two I was lured by a phone call and a little card in the mail saying they missed me and wanted me back. Sometimes that’s all a girl needs to hear. They seemed to come knocking whenever I was in the thick of it, or feeling down in the frumps. I’d then remember how good it was when we were together, how my body felt, how I’d leave our weekly rendezvous feeling energized, alive, sexy, motivated, happy... Whenever we met, they’d greet me with a smile, throw their arms around me and my overly curvy curves, and even shower me with gifts (like a coupon holder, a chip clip, or tester sized granola bar). <i><b>They </b></i>were the sweet, smiling staff at <a href="https://welcome.weightwatchers.com/" target="_blank">Weight Watchers</a>. No matter what that scale of shame read, they were happy to see me. It always started out the same. I’d drop a pound or 3 and feel exhilarated, a little cocky, and excited for our future. But things between us would eventually sour. I would cheat on them, get tired of their ways and stop showing up, never to return phone calls or respond to emails. <br /><br />Trying to rid myself of a solid 8-12 pounds has been a lifelong ambition/struggle/pain in the ass, so you can imagine how elated I was when, little by little, I started effortlessly shedding weight, just as my life began to unravel. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Here’s how it went down: My kids were one and four when my husband and I called it quits. My son was in preschool and my daughter had just learned how to walk, at a time when I could barely put one foot in front of the other. I didn’t want my children to know that I was dying inside, so I saved my crying for the four walls of my bathroom. It was there one day, while the tears were gushing and I was wondering how I’d ever make it through, that I glanced in the mirror. What I saw made me gasp! I froze and the waterworks abruptly stopped. All I could think was, “<b>my ass looks incredible in these boy shorts!</b>” My body had morphed in a way that was probably completely unhealthy, but who cares? <b>My husband was gone and so was my appetite!</b> Even though my life was falling apart, I looked <b>HOT! </b> Yes, it’s shallow. No, it didn’t last, and I am in no way suggesting or advocating a daily diet consisting of the crust from the toast your kid doesn’t eat, coffee, and a 5PM glass (<i>or 2</i>) of Chardonnay. All I’m saying is, for a girl who’s always wanted a slimmer silhouette, this was a temporary blessing from the heavens… and I was euphoric! My lifelong friend, Mary, said my butt looked like Jennifer Aniston’s. <b>Can you imagine?</b> I hugged her with all my might. Again, I cried… big, fat tears of pure <b>JOY!</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><b> </b><br />The early months of my separation were gloomy and dark, but when I least expected it, a rainbow appeared. Mine happened to be in the form of a thigh gap and a cheap pair of size 2 jeans I bought at Target, knowing they would soon wind up in the Goodwill pile. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I tell all my friends who are going through their own torrential storms to look for the rainbows. They’re sometimes hard to spot, but they’re out there. They’re in a killer blow dry, a Facebook friend request from the biggest babe in high school, or a weekend girls’ getaway. Rainbows are pretty. Sure, they don’t last forever, but the good part is, neither does the rain!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><br /></span>I Guess We're Throughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07400036587281579318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-385345845057917086.post-11066308386478555132015-01-07T09:00:00.000-08:002015-01-07T09:00:01.102-08:00we go together...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I’m just a girl who can’t say no… <i>to a support group!</i> There’s comfort in a crowd and it’s there for the taking. Not to capitalize on anyone’s misery, but there’s a certain consolation that comes in knowing you’re not alone... and that other people have it way worse than you. When breast feeding caused excruciating pain, when it made me wince and cry, when my nipples looked like beet-red raspberries, I joined a breast feeding support group and left every meeting feeling like maybe I didn’t have it so bad. <br /><br />When my ex and I went from “It Had To Be You,” to <b><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><i>I guess we’re through</i></span></b>, I didn’t just join one divorce support group… I joined <b>three</b>! The first was at my church… the same church I’ve attended since I was six years old. We were a band of about five men and five women. At the helm, measuring 4’9” on a good day, stood Sister Pat, a sweet-hearted nun in her 80’s who no doubt spent the duration of the hour-plus meeting thanking God that she listened to His calling. We were a precious bunch of broken hearts, each wanting to vent, to ask why, to be understood, and ultimately, to heal. While I did do a bit of all of those things, I wanted a leader who had walked the walk.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.divorcedialogue.com/divorce-dialogue-home.htm" target="_blank">Rob Kaufman’s Divorce Dialogue </a>was a bigger, badder, bolder group. We were the pissed off, the cynical, the cheated on, the bitter, the fooled -- men, women, all ages, all professions, all stories. Admission cost $35, plus an appetizer or dessert. In return, we got to spew. Each week was a potluck potpourri and we never knew what would be brought to the table, literally or figuratively. I listened, I learned, I shared, and I grew to accept that my once perfect pathway had irreparably cracked and would wind in ways I never dreamed imaginable.<br /><br />The third group, <a href="http://divorcedetox.com/" target="_blank">Divorce Detox</a>, was more of a class, an 8-week course covered by my health insurance, complete with a text book and homework assignments. Six to eight of us would gather in a Shabby Chic-esque, comfy white-couched office. We listened to the leaders’ stories, and absorbed their advice on how to pull out of the muck. For me, it was a respite. It was a time where I was on lockdown, forced to deal with my myriad of emotions, forced to get over it, stop stewing, invent a game plan, and start singing a new tune.<br /><br />Each group worked. I left every meeting standing a little taller, feeling a little more hopeful, and knowing that I wasn’t alone. Even during times when I felt like I was floating down the “<i>river of despair</i>,” I knew I was squished in a really big boat with a lot of people doing the exact same thing… and the best part was, we were all still afloat!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><br /><br /></span>I Guess We're Throughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07400036587281579318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-385345845057917086.post-4373003345749716942014-12-24T09:30:00.000-08:002014-12-24T09:30:00.026-08:00the most wonderful time?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />Happiest Holidays to all of you who have read <b>I Guess We’re Through</b> since we launched it last month. I’m blown away by the support, the sweet comments, the private, heartfelt messages, and the Facebook “likes” and “shares.” <br /><br />This new venture, a collaboration with my fellow <a href="http://www.eonline.com/shows/fashion_police" target="_blank">Fashion Police</a> colleage, <a href="http://iguessido.com/" target="_blank">Raquel Kelley</a>, moved from the back burner to the front after we lost our fearless, fierce, off-the-charts funny, huge-hearted leader, <a href="http://joanrivers.com/" target="_blank">Joan Rivers</a>. Being abruptly unemployed allowed me the time to make this blog happen. It’s the window that opened after the door sadly closed. <br />I firmly believe that there’s always going to be a window. Sometimes you’ll need to chip off the paint to pry it open, but it’ll be there. Joan knew that all too well and as you can see, she’s up there looking over us as we practice what she preached!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />So if the “hap-happiest season of all” seems like the “crap-crappiest season of all,” just know that this too shall pass. Hold your head up high, celebrate what you have, and toast to all the love in your life. That’s what I’ll be doing!<br /><br />Warm wishes from my family and me for a happy, healthy holiday, filled with lots of love!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>I Guess We're Throughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07400036587281579318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-385345845057917086.post-1080074976070193802014-12-17T00:00:00.000-08:002014-12-17T00:00:07.765-08:00my rock<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><br />What a <b>rock</b> I had! It was absolutely gorgeous, shiny, brilliantly bright and larger than life! I was constantly complimented on it and I could tell some people even envied what I had. My rock made me feel good. All I had to do was glance at it and I knew just how much I was loved. Lest anyone think I’m referring to the dazzling sparkler that once adorned my ring finger, I’m not! <b>My rock was my mother. </b><br /><br />Every girl (and probably every guy) needs a rock, regardless of how tough you think you are, or how amicable and smooth you think the divorce process will be. Whether it’s a mother, aunt, sister, or friend, find someone to hold you up when you’re about to plummet... and someone who’ll pick you up when you do. <br /><br />Here’s what a rock does:</span><br />
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<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">She makes you meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas and delivers them to your house in time for dinner so you don’t have to lift a finger.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">She takes your kids for an afternoon or a sleepover so you can have a little break.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">She goes with you to interview attorneys.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">She calms your raw nerves while sitting shotgun as you drive to the courthouse.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">She tells you to meet her at her nail shop and surprises you with a spa pedicure.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">She bellies up to the bar with you to toast your triumphs or drown your sorrows.</span></li>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />My rock did that and so much more. My victories were hers. My defeats cut her to the core. Divorce hurts, but your rock helps you heal. Mine certainly did.<br /><br />Today is my mother’s birthday. Under normal circumstances, we’d be eating popovers with strawberry butter, and drinking Champagne at our favorite department store cafe. But things aren’t normal anymore because she’s not here. My mother passed away in July of 2012, one month after my divorce was <i>finally</i> final. She was strong for me and taught me how to be a fighter. Even though she could be as tough as nails, she was no match for breast cancer. I wouldn’t say it got the best of her, because <b>I</b> got the best of her. <b> I</b> got her time. <b>I</b> got her devotion. <b> I</b> got her strength and <b>I</b> got her love, and not even the cancer could take that away. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />My best advice is to find a rock! Take it from someone who doesn’t accept help comfortably, you <i>don’t</i> want to go at this alone! Let someone in. Let someone love you, take care of you, feed you, comfort you, hold you, laugh with you, drink with you, and cry with you. If no one’s knocking on your door, go out and knock on theirs! Find your diamond when times are rough, and when you do you will have the most precious gem of all... just like I did! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Happy Birthday, Mom! <i>I love you more! </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>I Guess We're Throughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07400036587281579318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-385345845057917086.post-33111620575821374272014-12-10T12:00:00.000-08:002014-12-10T12:00:00.356-08:00worth a thousand words<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><br />Long before malls were dotted with the <a href="http://www.picturepeople.com/" target="_blank">Picture People</a>, before families dressed in jeans and white button-down shirts and said “cheese” on the beach, before <a href="http://www.tinyprints.com/" target="_blank">Tiny Prints</a>, there was the Sharell Family Christmas card.<br /><br />It all started when I was four. My mom and I were twins, dressed like real-life cameo brooches. Over the years, my brothers donned Mickey Mouse sweaters, and we paid homage to movies like <b>Urban Cowboy</b>, and my all-time favorite, <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0088847/" target="_blank"><b>The Breakfast Club</b></a>. That’s me above, striking Molly Ringwald’s pose from the movie’s poster. Epic!<br /><br />It was no easy feat. My mother left no rack unturned as she scoured department stores for the perfect outfits. Armed with bottles of hairspray, brushes, makeup, and wardrobe changes, we’d head to Hollywood for our photo shoots. These were arduous sessions that lasted for hours with my mother shouting “big eyes, BIG EYES” so we wouldn’t squint. <br /><br />It didn’t stop there. Next came the proofs, the graphic design, and finding the perfect saying for <i>inside</i> the card. My mother found it impersonal not to include a note, so she’d be up till all hours writing. Envelopes were addressed by hand and given the right stamp -- the Madonna and Child for our Catholic friends, and a holiday stamp for all others. Finally, they’d be on their way! <br /><br />Did I want to deal with this massive aggravation, ridiculous stress, the meticulous detail, the expense, and added work when I had a family of my own? <b>HELL YES!!!</b><br /><br />My <i>family’s</i> card said we were happy. It showed how much we’d grown, how cute my youngest brother had gotten, and how <b>big</b> we could make our hair! But <b>MY</b> card would pull <i>double duty</i>. It would say Happy Holidays <u><b>AND</b></u> “We’re Married,” “There’s a Bun in the Oven,” and “Baby Makes Four!” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">There would be only <b>one</b> card, though, with <i>both</i> my children <i>and </i>their parents. By the time Christmas rolled around the following year, I had already been separated for two months. Though I was in <b>no mood</b> for Christmas, I sent a card with pictures of the kids and signed it from both my <i>soon-to-be ex</i> and me. That bought me time -- time to figure out what was going on in my marriage, time to avoid having anyone speculate or ask. My inner circle was privy to what was going on and that was enough. <br /><br />The following year, I sent a card with a picture of my kids, but I only signed their names and mine. Tricky, right? That was my <i>subtle</i> way of saying <i>it's over</i>. Only those who paid attention to detail would get it. <br /><br />Then one year I decided <i>that's it!</i> I was ready to let my world know, loud and clear, that we were a party of three. Full disclosure -- my friend happened to have taken a killer shot of the kids and me at a party! Nonetheless, it was a brave move that said so many things -- it said he’s <i>literally</i> no longer in the picture. It said we had nothing to hide or be ashamed of, that we’re still happy, and that we’re moving on. Did tongues start wagging? You bet your ass, but <i>that </i>happens when <span style="color: #3d85c6;"><i>split happens</i></span>, regardless! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />These days I <i>Nancy Reagan it</i> and “just say no.”<b> No</b> to the hassle, <b>no</b> to the photo shoots, the design, the special stamps, the post office. It’s freeing, really -- the pressure of creating a card worthy of my family’s legacy is gone. I have too much on my plate right now to worry about what this year’s Christmas card will really be saying, so I’m done. Now, if we happen to take an off-the-charts, <i>super-cute</i> picture… well, that’s another story!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><br /><br /></span>I Guess We're Throughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07400036587281579318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-385345845057917086.post-82780354133557959982014-12-03T00:00:00.000-08:002014-12-03T00:00:16.685-08:00got gas?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br />My ex-husband loved himself a good fire in the fireplace -- the kind that crackles, warms the cockles, and makes the house smell all log-cabiney... the kind that’s a pain in the ass to build and maintain. He always did the dirty work and I appreciated the fruits of his labor. At the same time, I also wanted to be able to walk through the door, flip a switch, and (<b>poof!</b>) have a roaring fire at my fingertips. Gas logs were out of the question… <i>until</i> he moved out. One call to my handyman and I was in business. <br /><br />It was a home improvement laden with symbolism. Getting gas logs meant <b>I </b>was calling the shots, <b>I</b> was in control and could do with <b>my</b> house what <b>I</b> wanted. It meant that I no longer had to compromise, and that while I was losing many things, I was also gaining a different kind of independence. <br /><br />On a cool fall night, I poured myself a glass of Cabernet, lit my fake fire, and got out a legal pad of paper. At the top I wrote, “What I Hate About You,” and proceeded to write down all those things that bugged... the stuff I put up with and wouldn’t miss, things like:</span><br />
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<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">What your lower lip looks like when it’s stuffed with chewing tobacco</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">How you insisted on buzz cuts when I loved your hair long</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The Reyn Spooner Hawaiian shirts that you <i>still</i> wear even though 1988 is OVER! </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">How you’re still involved with your fraternity, thought you graduated decades ago</span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">That you sleep naked! Hello? What if there's an earthquake?</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">That you own and proudly wear a Speedo… in PUBLIC!</span></li>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I ripped each item off in strips, rolled it in a ball, thought about how much it annoyed the hell out of me, then tossed it in the fire and watched it burn. That lacked a little of the drama I was going for since I was dealing with a gas fire, but nonetheless, it eventually burned. And with it, a piece of my pent up anger went, as well.<br /><br />Each time I turn the key to light my fireplace, I feel empowered. “My Way” plays in my head because that’s how I can do things now. Regrets? I’ve had a few, but then again, too few to mention… but mention them I will, <span style="color: #3d85c6;">because <i>split</i> happens.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;"> </span></span>I Guess We're Throughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07400036587281579318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-385345845057917086.post-62668454124460777302014-11-26T00:00:00.001-08:002014-11-26T00:00:18.961-08:00we're those people<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SD3bnwhwGzQ/VHOC9HMo9JI/AAAAAAAAADk/87Mgjtfz1Es/s1600/Thanksgiving.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SD3bnwhwGzQ/VHOC9HMo9JI/AAAAAAAAADk/87Mgjtfz1Es/s1600/Thanksgiving.png" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Thanks a lot, divorce! You’ve thrown a crimp into one of my most time honored traditions! When it came to Thanksgiving, my ex-husband and I had always alternated years with each other’s families. It worked so well when we were married that we kept it going after we separated. But just when it appeared that I’d orchestrated a seamless transition, my mother announced that she wasn’t cooking dinner on the years that I didn’t have the kids. <br /><br />There would be no <i>over the river and through the woods</i>. There would be no brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends gathered round the long dining room table. The over-sized ceramic platter with the turkey on it would stay buried in the back of the cabinet for yet another year because we were now going to be one of <b><i>those</i></b> families, the kind that go to a restaurant for Thanksgiving -- the kind I always felt sorry for because they didn’t get to have a home-cooked meal, because they didn’t get to break a loaf of white bread into little pieces for stuffing while watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in their pajamas, because the crevices of their homes wouldn’t smell of turkey and the myriad of trimmings, because they couldn’t wear slippers at the dinner table and linger over dessert and watch TV in the family room and have leftovers. <br /><br />It was weird not to wake up early and start cooking, so I went for a run… my own personal turkey trot. I ran past houses where there were lots of cars parked in driveways, and I convinced myself that they were all having the Rockwell Thanksgiving that I was being deprived of.<br /><br />That evening, I reluctantly slipped on a fancy dress and heels, and climbed into the backseat of my dad’s car. Even though I was in my 30‘s, I felt like I was 15. I sat in the middle, scooted up to the edge, and leaned my elbows on the front seats so I wouldn’t miss anything. But I was missing something -- my kids and my parents’ bustling house. It’s funny though, once we got to the restaurant and the waiter popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, I started to warm to the idea of being served, of not having to make sure the turkey, gravy, and 42 side dishes were ready at the same time and still piping hot, of not having to get up from the table 20 times to run to the kitchen for something someone wanted, of not eating to the brink of explosion, and of not having to wash a single plate!<br /><br />It wasn’t what we wanted, but it’s what we made work. And now, it’s a tradition. Every other year, we’re <b><i>those</i></b> people -- those people who order from a menu, and you know what… I’m thankful for that! I’m thankful for the people still gathered at that table. I’m thankful that my ex and I hatched a plan that works for our kids. I’m thankful for the memories of my childhood Thanksgivings, and I’m thankful that every <i>other</i> year I don’t have to wash dishes... and that every <i>other</i> year, I do!</span><br />
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I Guess We're Throughhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07400036587281579318noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-385345845057917086.post-44920256173869670252014-11-25T00:00:00.000-08:002014-11-26T07:09:58.782-08:00Plug Problems<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Because misery loves company, and because other people’s stories often make us feel as if our own aren’t as horrible or unique as we think, there’s “Uncoupling Confessions.” Share your stories, vent your frustrations, air your piles of dirty laundry, because we’re in this boat together... and because split happens! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Check out our first anonymous confession to kick it all off...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3lxst6Wj3LA/VGZlB0_5K8I/AAAAAAAAACg/gnuOdOSaqWk/s1600/UnCoupling%2BConfessions.png"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3lxst6Wj3LA/VGZlB0_5K8I/AAAAAAAAACg/gnuOdOSaqWk/s1600/UnCoupling%2BConfessions.png" /></a>There had been several small signs that my husband’s priorities were shifting. We had been married over 20 years, and had three children. He had been living in a different state for several months, due to a job relocation, while I remained in our family home waiting for our oldest child to graduate high school. At that time we were to join him, and live together as a family again.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I was the one who received all the bills, including the credit card bills. When I saw that he had purchased a $250 leather jacket, a few alarm bells rang in my head. That was completely out of character for him, because I typically bought all of his clothing since he hated shopping. In any case, I chalked it up to a mid-life crisis need on his part to feel more hip as a 50 year old man. There were other, minor purchases that I questioned, but again nothing terribly out of the ordinary.<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Then the day came when I opened the Visa bill like usual, and I truly couldn’t believe my eyes…..there was a charge for over $10,000, (that’s right $10k!!!!!) for a hair replacement, yes a <i>hair replacement</i>!!! Mind you, at this point we already had approximately $40,000 in credit card debt, due to his unemployment for a year prior to his moving. You can only imagine the phone call that transpired when I fully grasped what I had seen on the bill<br /> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">His reaction was not at all what I expected; he actually wanted me to feel sorry for him as “he was in so much pain” because they had put “hundreds of needles” into his scalp!!! Really now, I had always been an extremely patient and understanding person but obviously this was too much! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">As you can imagine, it wasn’t too long before I filed for divorce as it became crystal clear he was no longer interested in being a husband and father, and quite enjoyed being a bachelor once again. By the way, on the infrequent occasions when I do see him, I can’t help but secretly smile, because you can clearly see the small dark plugs in his scalp that caused him so much pain!</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Have any Uncoupling Confessions of your own? Share it on <span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">I Guess We're Through</span> </b></span>anonymously! Email your stories to <a href="mailto:janine@iguesswerethrough.com">janine@iguesswerethrough.com</a></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Coming soon, we welcome <i><b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">I Guess We're Through</span></b></i> to our blog family!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Stay tuned everybody!</span><br />
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