Dark Chocolate Kit Kat Bar

by Veronica

The title of this post has nothing to do with anything other than its my favorite candy bar.

So, I'm back in Hong Kong, my long-awaited visit home now a past event. I had lunch with my friend, H, and we talked about what its like to go home. She now holds the record among my HK friends of who has not been "home" in the longest time. She arrived in August and is scheduled in early June to go home for the summer. She can't wait. I told her that for me it was just what a vacation should be: relaxing, fun, hectic, sleepy, drinky, eaty, chatty, lots of shopping and a few times I asked myself if I really could go back to HK.

While I was home, Mr. Veronica asked me "What are you telling people when they ask you if you like living in Hong Kong?" And I answered him honestly, "I tell them I like it a lot more now, but if I had come home at Christmas, I probably would not have come back to HK." I mean, of course I would have come back, I would have needed to pack and collect my cats. But now I have a life to come back to and that makes for a cozy symmetric feeling for me. I have a life here, I have a life there, Old McDonald would be proud.

I loved driving our car while on vacation, but I missed all the walking we do here in HK.

Oddly, I was sort of creeped out by all the buildings and the lack of population. Yes, two vastly different "urban" areas - ours contains 1.2 million and Cleveland contains 300,000 - still, to run/walk for nearly 50 minutes and not see more than 3 people was bizarre - I should qualify that by saying - lots of cars drove by(!) so I "saw" more than 3 people. We walked on Bowen Road today and saw at least 30 people in less than 50 minutes.

My Dad clipped two articles about Hong Kong and was so excited to ask me about the locations that were mentioned and I was so proud to know where Pedder Building is and the difference between Causeway Bay and Mong Kok.

Because we have HK i.d. cards, when we come back into HK we skip Immigration - we insert our i.d. cards into a reader, step into a booth, place our thumb over the reader, the gate opens and we're on our way to Customs - which is several people in uniforms standing around two exits, "Declarations" and "No Declarations." Sometimes they pull people out of the crowds passing through "No Declarations" but mostly they just scan the incoming folks and chat among themselves.

My friend, H, says that she likes to look at every day as an adventure - its what has kept her going all these months. I'm going to call Year One my "learning-curve" year and anticipate that Year Two will be the Adventure Year. I'll keep you posted...

Panic Shmanic

By Veronica

Okay - so you might recall my discussion below about panic attacks. I think I have solved the mystery. There might be some other related issues, but the "attacks" are definitely hormonal. Here's how I know:

I had to fly to Minnesota for business a few weeks back. I arrive at the airport, park the car, check luggage, go through security, find a seat. I'm not the best flyer but after flying 15 hours at a time back and forth to HK, I'm able to be comfortable with the routine.  So, I pull out my book (One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez - and that choice was inspired by some list on FB. The kind of list where others have done/read/seen 85% more than you? As if anyone cares whether or not I read this book...but I want to be culturally relevant! For Lisa: UGH!)  Reading my book (strange with weird cover art), I check out other passengers - looking for the "ringer" as my friend, Mary Beth, puts it. The pregnant lady, the priest - the person we need on board to make sure we have a safe trip. Lots of business people and then viola! The pilot flying in uniform. Yay! The Ringer!

Doesn't matter. All of a sudden, I feel a little woozy thing and that's it - I'm on the roller coaster and taking up the whole front seat. No seatbelt, up the first hill I'm climbing, chink chink chink as the car jerks towards the top. I'm frantically pushing down on the imaginary break on the passenger's side of the car, scrambling to find the handbrake, but the car keeps heading for the top. I put my headphones on and listen to BelleRuth's soothing voice, I do deep breathing, I'm fighting as hard as I can....still climbing and now the plane is boarding. I should have been an actress. I'm calm! Look at me casually get my things together while my heart beats its way up my throat. No shaking when I hand the boarding agent my ticket - I even smile at her! Hi! So glad to be here! Walk down the hall to the plane - smile at the flight attendant while my knees start to buckle and everything inside says "RUN."  To my seat (6C- aisle seat), next to a middle-age guy, slim, on his phone. I tuck my backpack and purse under the seat in front of me and now I really am on the roller coaster ride and I'm not going to make it.

I'm slow and deliberate in my movements. I can't have my headphones on during take-off so I must have some sort of distraction. I pull my purse out and start pawing through it - pretending there's something in there I need. Hmmm...what am I looking for? Ahhh...my sanity..is it in this pocket? Frown, hmmm, nope. How 'bout self control - did I pack that in here? What about this envelope - nope, not in there. And now - the flight attendant is shutting the door and its over. I am full on panic. I can't get control of my thoughts, my feelings, and I know I'm going to be the crazy lady on the plane that makes them go back. I think about calling Minnesota and saying my dad just went into the hospital or that inclement weather had us grounded (who cares if they check the Doplar Radar?) No! No! I am fighting in my head. Stay calm, the flight is short, don't give in! The flight attendant won't let you off unless you make  a real scene and then the passengers will tackle you and HATE you!

I pull out my small  notebook and a pen. I slide my purse (the picture of calm!) under the seat in front of me. I flip open my notebook and begin to casually write a to-do list for the next several days. Then the plane begins to taxi and I really think I can't do it! I can't! I start to write a little faster. Now we're speeding up (usually my favorite part!) and I know I'm trapped for the next 90 minutes. 90 MINUTES of psychological warfare with myself. Now my writing is just scribbling and I'm flipping pages as fast as I fill them and I'm sure the man next to me can tell something is wrong. I'm just short of moaning and drooling.

Here is the transcript of what I wrote. Please feel free to laugh as it really is funny:

I think this is what is making me nervous - in my mind the title of consultant - paying this person extra money to be an expert. (The plane wasn't moving when I wrote that part...here's what follows on the next line as the plane taxis) Panic attacks last 10 minutes. they are my flight/fight response over-responding. I can let go of that over-response because I am safe. I will not be sick. I will not have any physical problems. I will relax. I look forward to seeing K___ and A____ and all the others. When we land, I will (flip page) get my bag from the luggage area and find the taxi stand. The hotel is located in Roseville - maybe 30 minutes from the airport? Flying is easy. I like to watch the flight attendants - they know their job and enjoying flying. (flip page) Once I get the cab, I'll give him the address (I feel better already) and I'll relax on the ride to the hotel. I've already packed for Athens and mostly for Savannah - I still need a white bra and shoes for my dress. I'd also like a new jean skirt - something comfy and casual (flip page). I like the feeling of success - not giving into my fear. Flying is safe and relaxing. The flight attendant knows her job and so do the pilots. She is already up and busy. Soon, I'll listen to my iPod! Food and drink - coke and m&ms - I should drink water and save my snack for later(flip page) So, what happened today that had me so panicky? The take-off was smooth - we were at our altitude quickly. I felt worried but writing helped. Listening to BelleRuth - Relaxation - going to try napping.

Okay - so that's all my gibberish. The visual is key - me, writing as fast as the plane is going, not rocking but hunched over in my seat, scribble scribble scribble, page flip, scribble scribble scribble.  As the flight continues, I continue writing - trying to think of all the flying I will be doing in the next few months: back to HK, we're going to Guam in June and Australia in July and back to the U.S. in September! Then I tried to list all of the flights I'd already been on in my lifetime. Finally, I was able to get back to my To Do list, drink my Diet Coke, eat my m&m's and then we were there. The flight attendant knew something was up because she kept engaging me in conversation - eye contact, reassuring smile, she probably has a checklist in her head of Scary Passenger traits....

Back to the hormones - the next day I woke up to my period and guess what? I have felt fine ever since. No panic. No problems on the flight home. Completely calm and rational. Every day has been "normal" and balanced. I did find a replica vitamin, Stress Relief, that is akin to the Nutricalm recommended by Jamie (another poster on this blog) but haven't taken it regularly yet. I had a glass of wine last night that triggered a small bit of woozy/panic but I recovered quickly and was fine.

So, I've opted to get Xanax because despite my alternative methods, I can't go through that again. I'll continue to work on my guided imagery, affirmations, yoga, running, healthy eating, vitamins - but if all of that leaves me helpless in the face of full on panic - I'm gonna have to bring in the big guns. If chemicals are doing me in, then I'll fight back with chemicals. And you know what? Thank God for it - I think of all the women that didn't have the option of Xanax or Valium or whatever. No wonder they had fainting spells.

Tin Cans

by Veronica

One of my favorite songs is "Love is in the Air" (listen here).  I'm thinking about my trip home this month and how much love has surrounded it, filled it, and defined it.

When I first arrived, as I shared earlier, my beautiful daughter and my dad greeted me at the airport. Big smiles, lots of hugging, dragging suitcases, talking about the flight and what to do first (eat at Bob Evans then sleep).

The next day I followed my dad into his room so he could show me where to turn on the internet. As I stepped over the threshold he said, "Don't say anything about the room."  Which was my cue to stop and really look around. The bed was the first thing I noticed and did anything about. The white pillow case was nearly black with dirt, the sheets in nearly the same state. My dad is not a slob or unclean; my dad is a widower fighting loneliness and depression. I did not say a word, as promised. That afternoon I went to Target and purchased new sheets (maroon) and five new pillow cases (maroon). I washed the new bedding and then the old bedding (now donated). I made his bed, turning down one corner and left for the evening. In the morning I threw the sheets from my bed into the wash. Dad came into the kitchen and said, "I called your brother last night and told him you disapproved of my lifestyle." I laughed and said, "I don't disapprove, Dad. I think if you walked into your parents' home and saw something mookie going on, you'd do something about as well." He didn't respond. I left for a time and when I returned in the afternoon, he had not only put my bedding in the dryer, but walked it upstairs, made my bed, and turned down one corner.

I shared food and girl talk with my dearest friends. Each time I greeted on of them for the first time, our hugs felt so real and important. Not the "pat pat, good to see you" or "pat pat see you soon" kind of hugs we generally distribute because we know the next time is just a week or two away. I felt myself staring at them, trying to fill my memory with the light in their eyes, the emotion in their voices, the passing of time written on their faces.

Driving in the blossoming greenery of late spring in Ohio has revived me. Although we have plenty of plants, trees and flowers in Hong Kong, it is the familiar pink blossoms of dogwoods, the deepening purple of the lilac and the delicate bursting of tulips that tell me I'm home. I am a creature of the defined season; the murky indecisiveness of Hong Kong's fall, winter and spring leave me flat. I'm not enthusiastic about the subtropical summers that boast highs of 95 and lows of 85. But accept that it might induce me to focus on my writing projects while hiding from the heat.

My brother married the mother of his two small children this past weekend. I could write a thousand pages about the road that led him to this moment - its stomach-clenching twists, fist-crunching turns and fear-inducing loops. I doubted he would actually make it to the alter. But there they stood, with all of my family at his side as groomsmen and audience members, promising to love and support each other, all the days of their lives. He deserves nothing less than a woman who will believe in him, love him and cherish him.

My sister is planning her wedding for the fall. We spent time looking at reception sites, talking with a florist and discussing how to handle cranky in-laws-to-be. I wondered at her future - at 33 there is so much ahead. As I look forward at 48, I have a future too, though less crowded with decisions and dreams and questions. I know the answer to how many children I'll have and what their names will be. I know divorce, single-parenting and remarriage. I know the arc of my career and my mid-life interests. I know to slow down, relax and enjoy because I can! I'm not chasing two small children or helping my husband build his career.

Finally, I have been apart from my husband for nearly 25 days. We are meeting on Thursday in Michigan, prior to a weekend trip to visit his family. He wrote me an email giving me three options. Option One: arrive on Thursday and entertain myself on Friday while he finished up his meetings. Option Two: arrive on Friday after the meetings were over. Option Three: he would quit his job, we would move to the country and he would sell tin cans in our driveway so he could spend all of this time with me.

I chose Option Three.

Love is in the air...

Jet Lag

I'm home in the U.S. for a "home visit." A  home visit is when the company pays for the round trip airfare; we get two tickets each year - one per person. Mr. Veronica is scheduled for a week long seminar in Michigan in early May, because his company paid for that trip, we used one of our home visit tickets for me to come visit. And why wait? So, I arrived on Wednesday, April 21st and will see Mr. Veronica on May 13th.

The flight home is about fifteen hours. We fly out of HK directly to Detroit, and then a connecting flight to Cleveland, which is a whopping fifteen minutes. About hour number nine of the first flight I wonder if I can really be on the plane another six hours. HOURS. But, of course, no option to leave, so I focused on watching another movie. On this flight I saw "The Kids Are Alright" with Annette Bening and Julieanne Moore. They play a lesbian couple who's children decide to find the man who was the sperm donor, played by Mark Ruffalo. The movie is interesting but let me warn you: there are some very explicit sex scenes (non-lesbian) and the only reason I warn you is in case you are sitting on a plane, with 200 other people, several in your own row, who can see what's on your screen.

HK is twelve hours ahead of the East Coast, thus I flew back in time as I left Hong Kong at 9am on Wednesday morning, flew 15 hours and arrived in Detroit at noon on Wednesday. My dad and Veronica, Jr. (surprise! I thought she was away at school!) met me at the airport with three dozen roses. My daughter later remarked it should have been Diet Coke, but I let the indiscretion pass.

And so the dance with jetlag began. One piece of advice I heard seems to have worked: stay up until your normal bedtime and get up at your usual waking time. I've also heard its one day for every 2 hours, so about day 6, one should be on schedule. Days 1 - 5 are anybody's guess. Mostly I feel a little wave of disorientation and then I know I need to eat something light and get a nap.

On day 2 (Friday), I had dinner with my darling dearest life-long friend. I took over a pizza and some ice cream (may I recommend the Lavender/Honey from Mitchell's?). I stepped into her back hall, and called out, "Hello? Hong Kong calling!" and I heard her call back, "Hello?" and then she screamed and I screamed and we were hugging and kissing and clutching each other. And that's when it really hit me how much I've missed my family and friends, Cleveland, Ohio, and the United States in general. More about that in another post.

I arrived at 6pm and we talked continuously until 11pm. And let me say, there are more hours of conversation left to be had! The evening came to an end when jetlag had its way with me:

Veronica: So, we went to watch the Super Bowl at Dan Ryan's - a local western-style restaurant. Mr. Veronica wore his (and here my mind starts to whirl and dip a bit) he wore his West Virgi- West Virgini- wait, his West Virginity - Virginity?-Virginity (and now I'm stuck on repeat and looking at my dearest with pleading eyes) Virginity Virginity?

Dearest: University? West Virginia University?

Oh, Mr. Jetlag - you do dance divinely!

Fixer Upper

Posted by Jamie

I certainly identify with our beloved Veronica’s post on relationships with “fixer-uppers.” Though some of the men in my past drank too much or drugged a bit, I seem to have a history of attracting men with mental/emotional illness. From the deepest of self-esteem issues to full-blown manic-depression (as it was called in those days) if they had a little crazy goin’ on, I was crazy about them.

Most of them, for the most part, were all good guys, intelligent, with potential. “With potential,” was always my weakness. I’m an artist, an organizer, a fixer. I see a bunch of trash and make a collage. I see a tangle of veggies and make soup. I see a guy with all sorts of diamonds in the rough of severe emotional morass and think: “I know with a little time and love he will be whole and THEN we can live happily ever after.”

In the late 90s when my personal life had hit yet another low, a friend mentioned that one usually attracted the type of person with the approximate level of crazy that you had. As I had been a practicing Buddhist for a few years at that point, I stopped and thought about how that fit in with my spiritual life: Everything in your environment is a perfect reflection of what is inside of you. To change the world you have to change yourself.

Now I’m the kind of girl who wants to help everyone. . .and time got away from me and taking care of myself, learning to love and respect myself, and discovering what makes me happy somehow went to simmer on the backburner as I took sword in hand to vanquish the enemies of friends, family and fellow employees.

 At 44 years old I was destined to be alone and figured I better make myself that special someone in my life. I put a lot of work and struggle into the fixing-up of me, the hardest thing I’ve ever done: Putting myself first. Asking myself what I really want. Quite the challenge for a person who has believed from birth she was put here to “help” people.

Then I cut myself some slack about five years ago when a teacher friend of mine said: “The world is not broken and we are not here to fix it. You are not broken and you do not need to be fixed. You are worthy. We are here to be joyful.” Pivotal life moment!

In a flash I realized there is no one I can “fix” because they are not broken. I’m not a savior or a saint, and a loving relationship is not about “saving” someone or them “saving” you. Attempting to change someone, fix them or please them is an eternal, merciless, and thankless impossible task. People get sane and sober because it is something THEY have a deep desire for, not because I  happen to think they need fixing.

I had confused encouragement and support with (the hint of arrogant) hope that if I carried everything on my shoulders, the payoff would be a guy noticing what a good girl am I. . .and THAT would lead to true love! I began laughing at myself and have continued to ever since when the urge to “fix” becomes confused with offering encouragement.

My life has changed profoundly and in miraculous and happy ways ever since. In fact, a couple years later, after getting into a fulfilling and joyful relationship with myself, the love of my life found me. He’s an amazing person who has his own tools to overcome the demons and dangers of his life. No fixing or heavy lifting needed from me. We just fell in love and continue to love ourselves first, and then each other, happily ever after.

This Is How I Know... (Veronica)

I read a website called The Hairpin. I found it through someone's link on Facebook. The writing is clever, edge-y, hip (if I was 28). One woman wrote a blarticle about why she chose to become an abortion provider. Quite provocative! There are some insider jokes in the comments section ( or maybe you just have to live in NYC and be under 30....) Its mostly women, but guys visit this site and post as well. In fact, Jane Feltes, producer of This American Life on NPR posts regular videos on how to... apply eye makeup, curl your hair, decorate your nails, etc. So, its lively, funny, and entertaining.

There are also advice columns - Ask a Dude, Ask a Lady, and something like Ask a Lady about a Lady. I actually read these columns as, you know, at 47 I don't pretend to have it all figured out. Or do I? Not pretend to, just actually have some stuff figured out. Maybe I'm reading them now so I can snarf at the screen, roll my eyes and think about what I would say, if I was asked. If I wasn't old enough to be their mother. OMG. hahahah - freaky. I'm old enough to be at least their mom's younger sister. So, I'm lurking around some young, hipster website feeling superior because you know, some of their questions are STUPID. And I'm going to give you an example that will have you shaking your head...and if doesn't cause you to shake your head, then you should be reading that website and not this one.

Routinely, and I mean every time one of these advice columns goes up, someone asks about why her boyfriend won't perform (sex alert) cunnilingus on her. And she asks about whether or not she should get a Brazilian, or whatever, if its not enough to just tidy up "down there." Perhaps she is malformed in some way - she's too big, too small, what can she do? And, routinely, people (men and women) respond with: if he won't do it, dump him. That's right! Dump his sorry, selfish, rude ass. Just get rid of that guy! Get another one! Find one who will do IT. Doesn't matter what else is going on this relationship - if he's caring, honest, patient, funny, forthright, industrious...no, no. If he won't, then you won't, and he should just know to do it and there are no alternatives.  If the sex isn't good now, it won't be later and you'll be sorry to have wasted years on such a loser.

And this is how I know that I am older. I've thought about this advice column nonsense for the last few weeks. I was standing at the sink, doing the dishes (I've had a dishwasher for a total of 5 months in the last 24 years), and thinking about the latest advice column and the usual nonsense about sex and getting rid of the guy who wouldn't/couldn't engage in oral sex. I realized I was sad for that woman who wrote asking for advice, sad for the people who said to break up with him, and sad for the man who was about to get dumped despite "lots of other good qualities."  When I was 28, I was married with a 5 year old daughter and a husband who had just lost his job because of a recession. That's real life, friends. Imagine him and I at the dining room table, talking about what we'll do to meet the mortgage in 30 days, pay the day care and keep the heat on. Then, I say, "You know, there's something else I'd like to talk to you about. I'm tired of you not meeting all of my sexual needs. There's this one thing, that lasts about 5 or 10 minutes and it could happen once or twice a month, but it doesn't happen at all and its ruining my life."

Washing the dishes, thinking about what has transpired since I was 28. So many years, so many layers, so many grooves in my record. I don't begrudge anyone being twenty-something. But this shallow, self-centered, egotistical notion that the world revolves around sexual satisfaction of self above all else is disturbing. I think they should have an advice column over there called Ask A Mother. No one would read it, of course, or they'd read it, roll their eyes and then run their forefinger in circles near their temple because old people are crazy. Old people just don't get it, how difficult and confusing this world is and how uncertain the future is. Nope, we have no idea.

And this is how I know I'm old because I'm complaining about kids these days and how back in my day there was no Internet or email or texting or sexting.

And that's how I know how much I've grown. I realize how much less complicated some parts of my life have become. Other parts continue on in their shadowy, what-to-do fashion, and I've learned that ambiguity is my friend. There are still questions to be answered and unknowns to be solved. For example, what is a Brazilian, exactly?

Balancing- Veronica

*****I preface this entry with the notion that I can't write everything I'm thinking otherwise posts would be three miles long. For this blog you should know: I am married. I am insanely happy. I love my life. I love my work. I feel this way 98% of the time. What you are reading is the other 2% of stuff that I reflect on and life questions I ask myself. *******

Before Mr Veronica, I had a light switch relationship (on/off/on/off) with a guy I'll call Sam. Our relationship developed over several months. I can't say we were ever a "couple," although I think many people saw us that way. Sometimes, I wanted us to be a couple. I loved talking with him about a million different things. He would cook us dinner and we'd smoke and drink long into the night. On one occasion he said he had considered asking me to marry him but didn't ask for fear of what the answer would be...and I told him he was right to be worried. Sam was an alcoholic and drug addict, and despite some very strong feelings for him, I wouldn't marry a known disaster.

Here would be a good place to note my first husband also had drug/alcohol issues that he eventually overcame; underlying those issues were the reasons he was self-medicating, and those he could not overcome. During one of our post-divorce arguments he screamed down the phone line that I had abandoned a sick spouse. He said, "That's the kind of woman you are - you abandoned me when I needed you most."

I think about that accusation, about Sam, and I think: where are those boundaries?

I used to think I was the Florence Nightingale of dating. The guys I attracted were the underdogs in some way. Drugs, alcohol, abuse, loneliness, despair, so many broken hearts and lives...all mine for the fixing. And, I thought I could do it! Then they'd be so happy and then I'd be so happy and then we'd be loving partners and dance off into the sunshiney rainbow world drinking 7 UP and flowers would bloom under our bare feet.

Then I got married and as previewed in the above paragraph, it ended in divorce about 12 years later. By the end, I was an emotional disaster. Exhausted, fragile and turned inside out, I didn't know anything other than I felt like I escaped with my life. Nine years later the Universe checked in to see if I had learned anything about myself. And I had! I learned to recognize lecherous men within the first three or four sentences they spoke. I learned to say no when I needed to and I was still tempted by the good-but-troubled man. I like to feel needed, necessary, motherly.

Eventually Sam's life came crashing down around him. I know he's sober now, day by day, via Facebook. There is a part of me that wants to reach out to him, to tell him I still care about him, that I worry about him, that I wish I could be a part of his world in which he feels my support and love. This is where I wonder: what is anyone's role in another person's mental health care and does one do more good or damage by fulfilling their own needs when contemplating a relationship with someone with serious addiction issues?

I would have liked the chance to meet the real Sam, not Sam the addict, Sam the manipulator, Sam the liar. I would have, maybe not married him, but certainly explored a committed relationship with him. It might have led to marriage. There are people that get sober and stay sober. But that seems like a crap shoot. But don't addicts have a right to happiness, love, ...I'm arguing in my head. My other voice, the one that kept me from making this leap says, "They do have rights! But those rights - to be in a romantic relationship, to be intimate with someone's feelings - come when they can prove they can take care of themselves." (Am I just trying to make myself feel better?) Is it right to want a friendship with someone because that's the best I can do? Sam has the same right I do to say "no" to someone or something. I can offer friendship, he can say no, and there we are. I go my way, he goes his way, and I learn a little more about recognizing when things are finished, no tags attached, just finished.

I didn't abandon my spouse. I left because I couldn't take care of myself. I didn't marry Sam because I knew he couldn't take care of himself. People need to be loved and cared for, and it takes a person with a different kind of strength to marry a known addict. I think of a couple I know, not well, and both are recovering addicts. They've been married for many years, now. I often wonder how they keep their balance.