I spent the last few mornings driving by her house to see if she had indeed left.  She hadn’t until just this weekend.  But, she’s gone.  I sensed her little car was not coming back and was bound for the home – the place that held her childhood horrors – to find some security.  The irony was not lost.

I also learned she has not quit drinking.  Nor has she truly hit bottom.  Having burned her realtionships of all types here, she turned to the very people she had turned her back on over a score of years ago and they will not turn her away.  Whether the bottom will ever be found is not for me to say.  I wouldn’t like to be her, not even for a minute.

But, it is good to finally stop worrying that she would find me again and finish what she’d started.

I placed an ad online to find friends who might show me around.  It had worked before, why not now?  I got the usual kind of replies and had made some appointments to go meet some people.  Then I got an email from a woman who had been straight to date, but thought she’d “try” women since the whole man thing didn’t seem to be working.  I basically thanked her very much but wasn’t looking for a relationship and especially not with someone who thought they might “try” me.  The images dancing in her mind were of the high-heels and long nails and lipstick male fantasy porn.

We got together a few times and it became clear she had a nice little plan of seduction and I let her have at it.  She was beautiful and smart and we shared a common Midwestern sensibility. She seemed to be everything I wanted and more.  And, on occasion, she could make me laugh.  It was lust at first sight for me.  But because of the place that lust usually stows my brain, I didn’t see what was coming.

All went well for the first few months of cohabitation.  We had the usual problems of adjustment – trying to integrate me into her place, make room for the kids, balancing our personal styles in household management.  Nothing too out of the ordinary.  One day I came home from work and realized I had thrown something into the garbage I actually needed.  I found at the bottom of the garbage can a pile of empty wine bottles.  She worked at home during the day in her own business and the first thing she did when I walked in the door was hand me a glass of wine, so I hadn’t noticed it on her breath, nor seen any real change in her behavior.  I just kind of put it all in the back of my mind.  I had no idea the drinking started after the first cup of coffee and went on until bedtime.

We domestic partnered at the bank one afternoon in front of the notary, drew wills, and trusts, and other such nonsense.

Time forged on and we moved to a shared place and ultimately bought a house together.  The sex tapered off pretty quickly, but I began to get the picture of the Michelin Man – a man with tires all around him.  Somewhere inside was a woman full of pain from an upbringing a few notches below “White Trash.” Sex was the manipulation tool of choice and once she had you and had what she needed, she parceled it out only as often as she needed to keep what you had that she wanted.  She’d morph into what she could see you needed or wanted.  The writing was all there.  All the stories of how she got involved with men who rescued her from one dire place to the next.  Each leaving because her hold was not strong enough and sex was available elsewhere without all the manipulation.  Somehow, I thought I was different or they had somehow done something heinous to deserve her wrath.

The alcoholism had started to take its toll though.  She lost her business because being available to drink was more important than selling her product.  She traveled nowhere without the tall glass of what purported to be clear soda, but always stealthily mixed with wine.  She showed up at her bankruptcy attorney’s office smelling like a drunk.  And finally, she showed up a a parent-teacher conference reeking of alcohol.  And there my firm state of denial buckled like the Bay Bridge during the earthquake of 1987.  Her ability to be the chameleon was fading with every empty bottle.

She did go into AA.  Got her 30 day chip but decided her sponsor and the rest of them were idiots.  Went dry and miserable drunk for the next nearly two years, tossing those dry days aside the day she quit the first office job she’d had in 20 years.  It was almost a relief since it somehow steadied her irrationality in moments. I still wasn’t going with my gut despite the continued wine-soaked dizzying circular conversations whenever we tried to discuss a problem.  Despite the withholding of sex and affection.  Despite the growing tendency to isolate herself from the rest of us.

One day, we all became the enemy.  Something snapped inside of her.  She’d bumped up against that place where she could no longer be the chameleon.  I wasn’t blameless, but I had long ago thought we were past those rough days.  She lashed out viciously at the children for their perceived maltreatment of her.  They were confused and avoided her whenever they could.  She ranted against one son one night with such vehemence so seriously out of balance with what had been done (he dared suggest that his sister didn’t like cabbage which was why she hadn’t eaten it) that I stepped in and insisted on an apology to the boy.  One day a friend stopped by our backyard to let her dog run across its vast expanse.  She glanced into the patio window to let it be known she was there and instead saw her screaming at my daughter, who was crying and cowering from the verbal assault.  That night, she said, “If I’d wanted kids, I would have had them.”

I knew I needed to do something and stop any more damage to those kids.  I started having panic attacks and jumped into therapy.  The outcome was that I was afraid she was going to die.  And, long before that she’d bring us all down in a pile of emotional wreckage.  So, I bucked up and left. For better or worse couldn’t mean this.  It was relatively amicable at first, but I was firm in my resolve not to carry her weight any more, something she hadn’t found a replacement body to take care of.  But, that came along in short order and before the ink was dry on the divorce, the next savior had moved in along with her money.  I was relieved.

She wanted to see the kids, who had ambivalent feelings at best about doing so.  I didn’t want her driving my kids around and knew she drank while driving.  I didn’t want the kids to see people could be replaced that quickly.  My sister dropped the kids off once and picked them up when her girlfriend wasn’t going to be around. I asked her to take the kids to an outside location to visit.  So she just didn’t visit.  For months we didn’t speak and then she asked to be allowed to visit with the kids at her house.  I relented and we made plans for that to happen starting after their Thanksgiving trip to their father’s.  She offered to drop the kids at the airport so I could depart on my own trip a few hours early, so I gave her the confirmation information.  Oddly, the day before the trip, I tried to get the boarding passes and the tickets had been canceled.  Southwest said by someone who claimed to be their stepmother.  Miraculously, their real stepmother got them reinstated.  It never occurred to me that anything was afoot, it must have been a mistake.

She took them to the airport and off they went.  She left a message they were safely airborne.  I got to my girlfriend’s house and things didn’t go well, so I decided to come home early.  I arrived to an open garage door to the house.  I stepped in to see utter decimation.  Paint thrown on the walls, countertops, pictures smashed by a foot on the floor, missing computers, CDs, stereo, tools, artwork.  The water was running in the bathroom in an atttempt to flood it.  My “toys” spread out across my bed. Key files missing from the closet.

When the police arrived we took inventory, but not before they said, “Wow, somebody must really hate you.”  I couldn’t figure out who. And strangely, though they took or damaged a lot of stuff, they did not touch anything belonging to the kids, including the labeled envelope in the drawer with $300 of the kids’ birthday money.

My sister and I were told not to touch anything and so we sat at the little table in the garage.  We dialed into her laptop and I started making the necessary calls.  We decided we were hungry so I asked her to run and get sandwiches.  The garage door was slightly cracked open so we got some air.  Off she went.  A few minutes later, a hand reached under the garage door from the outside and attempted to pull it up.  They were coming back for more.  I wasn’t expected back until the end of the week.  Startled, I yelled, “Hey,” and ran quickly to the front door to give chase.  And chase I did, but not quickly enough – I rounded the corner of the next block to find a car idling into which the figure leaped – a car still in my name, being driven by an unknown third party, probably her equally alcoholic girlfriend.  They raced off into the night and I called the police again.  By the time they got to her house, she was gone – along with all of my stuff.

The CSI was heartened because she was able to get fingerprints off the two beers they drank and smashed on the floor.  Perhaps the alcohol would be her undoing at that.

In the interim, there was a restraining order and I made plans to move.  I slept with one eye open the first two weeks and with a club under the bed, which I felt every night before shutting my eyes.

It took months to get the fingerprints back, but the detective called each of our attorney’s and let them know that he would compel them to give fingerprints the next day for comparison unless we settled.  I wanted it over and realized with certainty that she had done this terrible, hateful, vengeful thing to lash out one more time as if she didn’t play a role in the demise of what we once shared.  So, I provided her with a  dollar amount to avoid jail and it was over.

It shook me up pretty badly because I had really loved her at one time and she knew as well as I did that parting was necessary.  We both had a chance to rebuild and move on from a relatively good position.  But, she couldn’t let it rest.  I imaged this was very much like the hatred she carries around for her father.  She takes time out when visiting her hometown to piss on his grave, even in the middle of winter.  She pissed all over me and I’m sure blames me for the disaster her latest adventure had created.  She’s an alcoholic and that’s what they do.

The restraining order recently expired, now well over three years past the final court date.  I worry sometimes that she will find us.  It does still give me pause.  I’ve gone over nearly every moment of the relationship in my head a million times and know I could have done things differently or better.  I changed as a person in ways I did not like.   But, no matter what, I could never have had a true partnership.  She’d already given her heart elsewhere and forever.  The thing that tells her she has worth, warms her when her heart is cold, and lets her be anyone except the person she sees in the mirror every morning.

My mom has been on a journey these past couple of years.  Sifting through photographs and newspaper archives, talking to long lost shirt-tail relatives about days gone by and listening to their own family stories.  Piecing together a history of a people.  The people who came before me.  The people who helped shape me both physically and psychologically into who I am without ever having known their own reach.

Back on my old blog, I told a couple of stories about my great grandfather.  He seemed the most upright and moral guy I’d ever not met.  He seemed like the kind of guy I would have loved to have been raised by.  I got lucky and was raised by my stepdad.  Mom has fond memories of Great Grandpa.  As Mom sifted patiently through piles of papers in Great Grandpa’s eldest daughter’s attic, she found letters to his children offering advice on how to best raise corn or how their thoughtlessness had hurt their mother’s feelings.  She found newspaper articles and photographs.  Lots of photographs.

I remember my great grandmother as a frail, old woman who wore a hair net, sturdy shoes, and a common-sense day dress.  She was hunched over from osteoporosis and never seemed to find my presence very scintillating.  She died when I was 11.

Something I never considered is that my great grandparents were once young.  They probably thought, as my own children believe, that life is infinite.  But, their time together was too short – he died too young of a heart ailment that these days wouldn’t have been a death sentence.  Their time was only a moment in an endless line of human moments.  Without those photographs and letters, they might well be forgotten.

When I saw this photograph today for the first time, she suddenly became human.  I saw my mother in her face. I felt the love she had for my great grandpa and all of her hopefulness and optimism and sheer joy of being her in that one simple moment, caught somehow on camera, given to me as a gift to my past.

Though a somewhat intimidating presence to the boys, you had the same curiosities about the birds and the bees the rest of us had.  You met a 24-year-old guy who worked at the gas station down the road from where you worked. You never even told me about your new fascination. Somewhere around the middle of summer between our junior and senior years, you started showing.

One night, just before curfew, we made it to my house, went downstairs to my bachelor pad at my dad’s and turned the music down low.  The image of you, now just over 9-months pregnant, working your way into the beige bean bag chair is one that will always stay with me.  We sat and talked and giggled like we always did.

Soon enough, perhaps from too fervent laughter, my dad descended the stairs and started yelling at me about my rudeness, my inferior intellect, and the certainty of my fated future as one of life’s biggest losers.  Then he said the most insulting thing he could pull from his extensive inventory of self-esteem battering terminology; something so egregious it wouldn’t be forgiven for years.  All sound in the room dissolved, I was blinded by red hot anger as my entire being focused on the words he spewed next, “You two are always together.  What’s wrong with you?  What, are you lesbians?”

* Name changed

One day, I remember you coming out of the woods behind your house with a mess of dead critters that you skinned for their pelts wearing your coonskin cap.  Who taught you to trap I’ll never know.  Your parents seemed to have no influence in your life.  In fact, the only time I ever saw your parents was when your mom would have cocktails with Paula’s mom – most afternoons – they in their psychedelic 60s caftans sitting in the living room with the deep plush white shag carpeting.

Paula, you and I spent most of the summer between 3^rd and 4^th grade together.  We plotted various mischief and went fishing or swimming in the sand pits or chased down snapping turtles in the murky water.  You had a mule to ride.  His name was Eli.  Paula’s pony was named Sparky.  We’d ride all over town, me on the back of one or the other.  You were nice to have along because you would deal with the road apples.  And, somewhere along the way, you and I found ourselves falling into easy conversation whenever we met.

At the beginning of 4^th grade you declared me your girlfriend, kissed me full on the mouth, then put me on the back of your bike and rode me the long way home.  Two days later, Jenny Ball caught your eye and I was history.

I could never understand what you saw in me for even those couple of days.  But, it made me realize I must not be as weird as I thought if I had caught the eye of the coolest kid in the class.

We’d play Doctor and House at family gatherings.  I was always the doctor and you the nurse to our patients, our younger sibs.  I was the Dad and you were the Mom.  We’d sneak through the old, dank basement and see if there were any treasures to find.  We’d argue and bicker when sharing was harder.  We’d yell at each other, “You aren’t my cousin anymore!” and sulk for five minutes or so then race out the screen door at Ma’s forgetting in an instant whatever slight had come between us.

Later, Dad would load up our bikes and send us to your place for a week every once in a while during summer.  We’d ride the trails, our little sisters clinging to us like the Velcro that would someday be invented, until we’d see a chance at losing them and hide out like silent, unbreathing commandos, amid the thick forest, just waiting for them to pass by and give up finding us and ride home.  We’d sit in the woods and talk.  Maybe take an innocent puff on a cigarette if we could steal one.  Feel as though we had gotten away with the biggest con ever until we returned to your house.  Freedom.  You never got to experience much of it.

Then it was time to teach me The Hustle.  We both know how that went.

But time would tell.  The very things that strict control was intended to avert became a certainty.  The tighter you pulled the more they tried to reel you in.  You dropped out of school and got involved with someone who wasn’t so good for you.  Eventually, you came to your senses, after having experienced some of life’s harder knocks.

Now, 30 years later, 25 of those married to your guy.  Three kids launched successfully, your story belies your upbringing. I bet you can still do The Hustle.

You are me with rougher edges.  Same passion, same anger, same feelings of responsibility for the world, same blood.  And, you are still my favorite cousin.

When I was done, I was butchered, too short on top and standing straight up like Spanky. I immediately began calling around to places in my area to fix it somehow, any way – immediately and when I heard your voice, I found immediate comfort.

I made my appointment for that very afternoon. I walked in, with big sunglasses and a Berka on so no one would recognize me going in. I looked like a very butch Hollywood Muslim, but nonetheless, I slithered into the chair.

Up and down you looked. You shook your head. Put your finger on your chin in deep thought. Touched the hair. Stood back and looked at it again. Sighed heavily. Then, you said, “I’ll do what I can at no charge, then come back in three weeks.”

It was the start of a beautiful relationship.

But what do I do now? Like any of the transitory relationships in my life, now it is time for you to go. I have to go somewhere else. I can’t even remember how we got to this place in our relationship. I need less Dorothy Hamill and more Rachel Maddow.

Do I just disappear like a Flock of Seagulls haircut or (wo)man-up and tell you I need to find someone who can satisfy my needs. I know, I know, you think I’m going through a mid-life crisis, but I’m not. We’ve just grown apart and I think it’s best for us both if we see other people.

In the words of my son, “It’s not me, it’s you.”

Yours in Barbering,

Al the Letter Writing Lesbian

Your specialty was creating drama.  Pitting one against the other, spreading gossip and lies, making poor judgment calls and destroying anything in your path.  You were a terrible judge of horseflesh and picked the most unlikely minions to abet your evil work.  You did this all systematically and viciously in order to build your empire—such as it was in our small, small office.  It’s too bad you didn’t put all your evil genius into getting and keeping clients.  Your evil spells eventually included me.  I stood in the way of your desire to displace the King.

Within the span of months you had undermined me to such a degree my effectiveness was moot.  I saw the train coming and made plans for my escape.  My life after the leap was far, far better than anything I could have imagined.  It was a blessing for which I still count among the most amazing in my life.

You wouldn’t last much longer.  People eventually caught on that you were a paper tiger.  Then, you were out on your ass.  Along with your minion. In the worst economy since The Depression.  You’d believed your own PR a little too much.  The King kept his throne because the King liked the gamesmanship more than the outcome.  You miscalculated seriously.

Though I never felt the need for revenge, the dish was served nice and cold by Karma, and that would do.

I received a call the other day from my pal who tells me that my ex-ex (two ex’s ago) is dating this woman here whom I had my absolute worst online experience with.  She was rude and pretentious.  Needless to say, we did not meet, but I hear about her as some of my friends have gone out with her and well, lucky me!  Apparently my ex-ex is importing though, being a dweller out of area, which means we’re now in contention in the same dating pool.

Then we come to my ex.  She immediately placed an ad on both Match and Yahoo after we broke up.  So much for grieving the loss of great love.  I’ve decided I’ll just wait it out until she finds her next soulmate.  I can wait, I’m patient.  Now I’m just waiting to find out that the ex-ex and the ex are going to get together.  Yikes!

But, I did look again today.  And I liked one particular profile.  For a while anyway.  Then, I realized it was the ex’s major ex.  It might be fun, but probably not.

I’m fucked and not in a good way.

So, Eros, what are you trying to tell me, my little pain-in-the-ass cherub?  Is it my cue to move, become celibate, or import from the Midwest states – winter is coming, perhaps they could use a change of weather?