Picasso And Paul

Deb: Today myself, Colin, and the boy spent the afternoon at the Picasso exhibit at the AGO (Art Gallery of Ontario). We had planned it specifically as a healing and inspiring thing to do the day after our friend Paul’s funeral. Beyond the imagery that dominated the afternoon, I was struck by a quote. It said, “Picasso was a genius and he knew it.” All I could think of as we walked painting to sculpture, canvas to board, was that I wish Paul had known his own genius.

Paul O'Sullivan

The tragedy of Paul’s sudden and untimely death is, of course, his death. But the heartbreak that will stay with me is the fact that he did not know his worth. Not really. Not the way he should have.

Paul was a genius. I know that word is grossly overused, but in the world of comedy both scripted and improv, he was considered a genius. He was someone that every single person in our group was not only happy to work with, but thrilled to work with. He simply did the work. Just did it without the fru fra and the fan fare and the signposts. Just did the funny funny smart smart. We always talk in the acting work about commitment to character. Paul’s commitment was so deep that you were actually shocked at the end of the scene to see him return to Paul. The other thing that makes an actor great is strong choices. Paul’s acting choices were “The Hulk”. He dared. He jumped off cliffs. He went places and took you with him. And he respected where you were taking him and delighted in following you, all the while ramping up each of your offers with a sweet, irreverent, silly, crass, meaningful or truthful choice. Or sometimes all of those choices at once. He was a proud actor on stage. He lived there and, when you watched him, you lived where he lived.

But offstage I fear that Paul did not grasp his brilliance. More than that, I fear he had no idea the esteem in which he was held by his peers. If he was watching us yesterday, the hundreds and hundreds of us who gathered to pay tribute to his sweet memory, I am sure he would have wrongly assumed that there must have also been a wedding going on, or even another funeral. Because Paul never ever would have surmised that this weeping laughing throng was all for him.

Paul, I wish I had said out loud to you that you were brilliant. I wish I had told you out loud that Colin and I revered you for your talent. I wish I had told you to your face that your passion for Linda and your deep devotion to your family made us fall madly in love with you. I wish I had told you that I loved you for the fact that you were so referenced and so hip and yet would respond sincerely to a shocking tale with the phrase, “My Word!” and mean it without irony. You were a gentleman of another time who we were lucky enough to love in our time. And now that your time with us has ended, I do have regrets. Deep regrets. And Paul I am generally not one for regrets.

But I regret that I didn’t see that you needed to hear it. I wish I had gleaned that you felt less than what you were. We assume when someone is brilliant they know it. Like Picasso. Not boasting of your talent was certainly part of your charm, Paul. But the fact that you did not believe in your brilliance is causing my regret.

In Paul’s memory I am going to start telling people what they are worth. I like to think that I am a compliment-giver to friends and strangers alike. But because of Paul I am going to start saying it out loud or in writing to those I care about and admire.

And, Paul, when I meet you again, I will tell you to your face. That is if I can get it out before you make me pee myself laughing. Dear God, Paul, you are missed. I pray that somewhere, somehow you finally know that.

Skating with Paul (on left, with Colin and Deb, and Luke up front).

Barbara: I didn’t know Paul like you did, Deb. I came to know him when I worked with him over those glorious weeks we spent filming Getting Along Famously so many years ago (if you don’t know the show, it was a brilliant 60s-styled show, conceived, produced, and written by Deb and Colin. They did 60s before Mad Men. It had style, it had grace, it was hilarious; I still can’t believe it didn’t last past the six episodes.).

As I worked with Paul, I bowed in reverence before the genius that was uniquely his. But he was also all those other things that a mensch ought to be: kind, attentive, straight-forward, honest, true. I remember being surprised when it seemed he didn’t know his own talent. It was unimaginable to me that someone with his gift didn’t see it, or feel it like a Superhero power suit. His funeral reflected the incredible legacy he left in the hearts of all who knew him: it was equal parts pain and joy, purging tears and cathartic laughter. 

I echo your wish, Deb. I wish I could have let him know just what a huge impression he made and left. I also like to believe he knows “now”.

I wish I knew him better in life. I wish it hadn’t stopped so short and so suddenly. But these wishes in reality are as delicate and evasive as butterflies: now here, now shining with iridescent beauty, and then gone.

Paul plays on the set of Getting Along Famously.

Italicized Love

Deb: When I write, I tend to lean on the emphasis devises. If you read our blog you will know this to be true. You will be hard-pressed to find more “!!!!!!!’s”  or more  “LOVE IT’s” or more “:-)‘s” if you searched the web 4EVER!!!!!

I guess I do this because it is the way I speak and the way I feel and I want this to come through in my writing.

AND for want of better vocabulary I must fall back on !!!!!!! LOVE :-)))))))))))) et al.

For today’s installation I have employed the “italicized” devise because I felt I needed to UNDERSCORE my joy.

MY HUSBAND IS HOME. :-)

We decided for career reasons that he should spend this past four weeks in L.A. I could not join him given my responsibilities at home with my Mom and Dad. We knew we could get through it and we did. And we are used to being apart. But not for a month. And what we found was this:

NO FUN.

Not a bit. Nope. Doesn’t work for us. During his away we would Skype and text and call and email and FB but it didn’t work for us.

We had to examine the why of it and in doing so discovered the reason.

DON’T WANNA.

Don’t wanna be apart. Marriage works in all sorts of ways for all sorts of people but for us people, our marriage, it doesn’t work apart.

Paul and Linda McCartney said they never spent a day apart. They were lucky. They had the means and the money to make that happen. We do not.

But what we do know is that after this away experiment we will not do it again. How many of us have to make these compromises?

What we have discovered through this period of away is the fact that despite what you have to do when you have to do it does not mean you have to do it the way you think it has to be done.

We cannot change what our life is right now. It is what it is.

We cannot change the needs of the many or the needs of the few. (special thanks for paraphrasing that quote goes to the Geek in me)

But we can change the effort. We can choose not to take the easy road and think it’s going to be livable.

Sometimes the shortest line between two points is the longest road.

From this point on we have decided that our marriage requires that we take one hundred hours to do a two hour drive.

With apologies to my husband I give you his nemesis—Sting. But in my defense, Sting nails it.

                                   

P.S. Video aside the words are the message here.

Barbara: First things first, Deb: I was under the (often embarrassed) impression that I far out-italicized/EMPHASIZED you here!! I’ve even admired your restraint for the most part for all words emphaSIZED. I hate to usurp you in any way, but I had to call it before someone else does. I mean, can I use any more question marks or exclamation marks in my stories, responses, and comments???!!! Anyway, I had to get that out of my system. I am a lover of speak-writing the italics, so clearly I hear you here.

As for the italicized love, I can only say that you made my heart pitter-patter with this post. You’ve been such a trouper this last month. If Colin is reading this: it’s true she has. This month defines Deb’s spirit. She never once complained, she filled her time, she did her thing, she had fun. Let me say that again: SHE NEVER ONCE COMPLAINED!!!! (you see what I did there—caps and italics and exclamation points) It’s only now that you are home, Colin, that she has let the damn burst and let her true feelings of missing you have their way with her. I am so happy you two are back together. The world is as it should be once again.

Perspective

Deb: Mom and I spent the night in the emergency ward. She lost control of her electric wheelchair and rammed into her chest of drawers, splitting her legs open. She required several stitches in both legs. The doctor was further concerned that infection would set in, given that they could not suture the whole thing due to large pieces of skin that had come away from the leg. This was a very serious concern given the fact that her leg was already compromised from her gangrene a few months ago and still on a slow mend.

A plastic surgeon was called in to see her and gave instructions to the nurse regards bathing and dressing the wound and gave us an appointment for follow-up in two days, at which point they would do a skin graft.

We had arrived in the emergency room at 8:30pm and finally left at 5:30am. The care was attentive and thorough and Mom was grateful and said so to each person who helped her. But as the hours wore on her patience wore out. She just wanted to go home and became increasingly frustrated. She had never had stitches in her life and was frightened. Add to that the fact that the doctor could not properly “freeze” the compromised leg and said that she would certainly feel the sutures as they were administered, which sadly she did. She was a trouper though, squeezing my hand and bearing up the best she could. When she cried or called out, she would apologize to the doctor who told her, “Mrs. McGrath you have every reason to express your pain and many people could not bear up what you are going through, so yell away.” Bless his heart.  

After she was stitched, they came to transfer her to another part of the emergency department as this one was closing down given the lateness of the hour and the fairly slow night in the waiting room.  The orderly who was wheeling her received an emergency call. He started to run down the hall and, turning to me over his shoulder, said, "Stay with your Mom, I will be right back." In seconds he came running back towards us toting a large white cooler marked “Human Blood” and ran through the large heavy doors right in front of us marked “Trauma”.

Strangely enough I had not even noticed we were in front of the trauma ward as I had been chatting with Mom, trying to keep her mind off the stitches, the possible infection, and her mounting panic around the even slight possibility that she should wind up back in the hospital for an extended stay as she had done in November.

Suddenly the trauma doors swung open and my heart jumped into my mouth. There were people on stretchers, blood everywhere, police rushing about, doctors suiting up, nurses running in, voices calling out and the flash of metal, sharp against the bright overhead lights. My mouth was dry and open, my eyes wide. My heart was beating like it wanted to escape me. Suddenly a nurse, shocked that we were standing there, pulled a bloody gloved hand across a curtain. All that was left were the sounds. Sounds like I had never heard in my life.  And it seemed ... well, it seemed like TV. I had never been that close to anything like that and I was overwhelmed with the reality of it.

As our orderly returned, rushing us away from what we should not have seen,  I sputtered out, "Is ... everyone ... okay?” He said with sadness, "It's not good.” “Was it a car accident?” “Yes ... it’s bad." As we rounded the corner, I began to wonder if I had even seen what I know I had seen. It happened so fast. Maybe it wasn't real. After all I had horrible insomnia the night before and after all it was well after 2am at this point and I was punchy. But I was reminded that it was all too real as people were still running by us towards the trauma room and I could still hear the ching of their I.D. tags which were opening the heavy doors, admitting them to that horrific scene.

As we walked quickly on, the pounding in my ears was abating and it was just starting to seem like a bad dream when we came upon the "Family Quiet Room", which was filled with crying frantic family and friends who were waiting for word about the accident.

The accident that was bad.

They were waiting to find out about their loved ones who were receiving all that care from the people with the chinging I.D. tags. They were waiting and praying for good news from the event our orderly had described  as...

It doesn’t look good.

We walked by them in what seemed like slow-motion, offering weak smiles and glances of hope. Some of them looked back and my eyes locked with their visible panic. As our silence thickened, our orderly Gregory stopped abruptly and turned to us. He looked my Mom in the face, smiled a broad smile and said, “Mrs. McGrath, aren’t you lucky!” My mother, kind of shocked by this odd chirpy statement amidst this scene, faltered a little but said, “Yes ... yes, I am ... I know I am.” He continued, “I work here every day and I see all sorts of horrible things. But what stays with me is the kindness, the humanness. I don’t know exactly what is going to happen to the people in that room, but I know they are receiving the strength of skill and the best of the human spirit and that is all any of us can do. That is why we are here, Mrs. McGrath. You are here having your own trauma and I am not belittling that one bit. But you are here with your daughter who loves you and who you love. Terrible things happen. But it’s love. To love and be loved and to know it. That is what I am grateful for every day I wake up, every day I get to work here, and every night I lay my head on the pillow.”

He wheeled us into my Mom’s E.R. room, “You are lucky. Good luck, Mrs. McGrath,” and he left.

All the way home that morning I thought of those people we had seen. I don’t know what happened to them and I pray that they pulled through.  But thanks to Gregory I was reminded that they were loved. That they too were lucky.

Barbara: What a story, Deb. My heart was pounding the whole time I was reading it. We haven’t had a chance yet to talk about that night with any real detail and I thank you for sharing this.

There’s nothing so soul-shifting as sudden accident. How everyone is forced to stop in their tracks and cling to the pulsing heart of things, which is the heart of everything: love love love. My heart goes out to those people and the shock they faced that awful night and must probably continue to face now. I also hope and wish for a healthy recovery for your dear Mom, Deb. Love. 

Our Taj Mahal

Deb: It’s the last thing I would have expected. My husband and I checked into a hotel in a small town for business. The company we were working for apologized up and down about the level of accommodation explaining that at this particular location it was the only game in town. They assured us the other locations would be better and it turns out they are. Mind you, the other hotels would not have far to come to top our current address.

Those of you who know and read me, are fully aware that I am a stuff snob. I like nice things. Sue me. I do not like to stay for business in a place that I would not stay in for pleasure. I know what you are thinking right now, but I have chosen to be honest rather than admired.


I will state categorically that I am NOT a people snob. Not even close. Don’t care who you are, where you’re from, what you make, or how you lace your shoes. I will take you at face value. Things? Not so much.

Our hotel room had scary bedspreads, a shower drain that plugged up when you showered so that you are standing in water up to your ankles, a channel changer that changed the volume but not the channel, mold on the bathtub and floor, and a toilet handle that was so corroded that when you pulled it down you could see right through the tank. Add to that the fact that after I took my first shower (in flip flops, oh yes!) the noise from the drain was so loud and continuous for the rest of the week that we had to close the bathroom door in order to sleep. Okay, so I had to shut the door.  My husband could sleep soundly if he was laying in the shower, lucky bastard.


But the piece de resistance was the smell that started slowly day two and built through the week into what can only be described as dead rotting critter.  The only other room available was filled with smoke and so we chose to stick with Rotty The Reeking Rodent, rather than move. On the last day they managed to move us when a room came up and we slept one night reek-free.


But the biggest shock of that week in the Bates Motel came not in the form of mold or stink or stains or scum or one TV channel. It came in the form of romance. I cannot explain it. Neither of us can. But it became one of the loveliest romantic fun-filled weeks we have ever spent.


To offset the Eau de Roadkill, I lit a scented candle that I brought with me. I cannot begin to describe to you what the scent of lavender does to rot ... well, I can actually: lavender rot. And yet romance prevailed. Oh yes. The motel gods were trying to tear us asunder but we defied their damnation that week. We clicked rhythmically, exactly like the sound of the 6-dollar bottles of spring water dropping into the slot in the third floor vending machine.


If you had seen us laughing, walking hand in hand along the quaint streets, you would have thought that it was because we still had the sweet taste of our pillow chocolate melting in our mouths. If you had witnessed us holding hands at dinner you would have been certain that a champagne and strawberry tray awaited us back at the inn instead of the sickly sweet scent of rodent CSI.

It wasn’t this romantic when we were in Paris for the love of mike. Okay, twelve-year-old boy was in a cot at the end of our bed. Still. Relationships don’t always have as much surprise value as the years go on, so the silly shocking surprise of this week made us feel like newlyweds again.

Now I just have to figure out how to convince my husband that the romance was a one time only deal in such a place as this! Back to the 5-star we go. After all, a snob is just a person who has made a commitment to her high standards. And I for one pride myself on honouring my commitments!


But dumpy digs notwithstanding, I learned this week, especially since the nest is empty, that wherever my husband is, is home.


Barbara: Well, I’m not so much of a stuff snob. Deb knows this. I’m often as happy just admiring from a distance as getting to have it. But here’s where the wheels come off: dirt and smells. This Bates Motel you describe brings out every shudder that I have in my body. Dead critter smell? Noooooooooo! The worst. Mold in the shower? Arrrrrrgggggghhhh! Shiver, shudder, gag, and faint. And then not being able to go somewhere else? This is maybe my worst nightmare.


All this to say that I admire your romantic time that much more. It seems that when little things can so often get in the way of romance, it’s a downright miracle that this didn’t waylay even the best laid plans. So impressed with you guys. But also not gonna be searching for love in all the wrong places. 

Deb and Barb Have A Four-Way (really handsome men might be involved)

Deb and Barb Have a 4-Way With Their Husbands

Colin: When I was approached by Deb and Barb about starting a four-way––and after the original misconception was dealt with––my mind reeled with what I should write about. It is easy to go the “aren’t men and women different” route, or the “why do women always...” tack, or even the “ isn’t that cute, she said whiffy instead of Wi-Fi”, but here’s where I want to go.

Phil, you and I have been extremely lucky with the women that we have pledged our lives to. Women who love and accept us for who we are and have eyes only for us (I’m not counting the time Deb accidentally grabbed your penis, Phil. Have to say, Barb has yet to reciprocate. In fact, she actually slammed her fingers in the car door to stop herself.) (…yup, for full story, click here and scroll down to Barbara's response...)

Here’s the thing: I love being married. Now, being married to Deb probably has a lot to do with it, but still. Since I was a young man, I have always wanted to get married and have a family. You might be surprised to learn that this was not an attractive trait in the dating world in the late 70ʼs early 80ʼs. I kept it suppressed, but it was always there. The only smart thing I did as a young man dating was to follow my instincts in this arena. I trusted that my DNA knew what I wanted. I had been in relationships with women I loved deeply, with women I kinda liked, and with women who apparently had day passes. Yet, no matter the depth of my feeling, I was never close to proposing or even entertaining the thought.

One week with Deb and I knew she was the one. It didn’t hit me like a thunderclap, I didn’t have a Eureka moment, I just knew. Like you know you are breathing. It felt right then and it certainly does now, 22 years later. Marriage was the making of me. I matured. I learned how to pull my weight in a relationship. I learned to cook and to clean (okay, how to “boy” clean. “Girl” clean involves making things sparkle … I mean, come on). I learned about the true meaning of husband and wife. It’s not intense passion every minute of every day, emotional turmoil, suffocating jealousy, wild sex everywhere (though I’m still willing to test that last part). It’s doing the crappy, mundane things in life without question because it helps out your partner or because it just has to be done. It’s sitting together watching So You Think You Can Dance and crying, not just because of the artistry, but also because you understand the passion and dedication needed to make something beautiful. It’s watching a little being you created grow into a person you admire and want to be with because of the right choices you made and in spite of the mistakes. It’s dealing with the tragedies and triumphs of life as a unit, not always saying the right things but always trying. It’s learning about being unselfish, or, at the very least, learning the right time to be selfish.

Sometimes it’s work and sometimes it’s nothing but play. It’s the little moments that surprise you like doing spring cleaning, dirty and sore, glancing at your mate in old clothes, sweating and swearing, and feeling your heart pound so hard you can’t think straight. Marriage never stifled me, or had me feeling trapped, or limited what I could do…. You know, those misconceptions that clueless singles throw out as truths. It freed me.

So thank you, Ms McGrath, for making “I do” the richest, most satisfying sentence I ever uttered. Dinner will be waiting for you when you get home.

Phil: You broke the bro code! Colin, I thought it was implicitly outlined in the code that we must never reveal our true feelings about married life under threat of having our man-cards suspended, or worse, revoked! What have you done, my friend?! What chaos will follow?... An admission that cuddling while watching The Devil Wears Prada for the umpteenth time has its merits? That his and hers mani-pedis are moments to be cherished? That spending hours perfecting a French manicure on your lady is challenging yet strangely enjoyable? That having the place to yourself isn't all that it's cracked up to be if she's not around?

All right, this could get us in deep trouble with the brotherhood, but here goes.

From the earliest age, I always wanted to have a girlfriend. Even before being ruled by raging teenage hormones, I liked the idea of a female in my life for the camaraderie, different insights, and maturity ... my own personal girl if you like. So unlike you, when I met Barbara, I didn't dawdle for a week figuring out that she was the one, I took a well-measured fifteen minutes to decide! Yup, a quarter of an hour is all it took to go from saying, “We should take it slow, keep it casual,” to declaring that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. While quite young at the time, I can assure you that it wasn't related to any kind of "premature" incident that one might succumb to at 18. It was a genuine and deeply committed, damn-the-consequences statement with no taking it back. Good thing she has felt the same way since.

I admit that it took me another 9 years to propose, but it wasn’t due to any sense of apprehension, but rather a belief that we would just progress naturally to marriage with nary a discussion, proposal, or planning; Barb set me straight on that pretty quickly and I stepped up. Luckily she said yes and I am the richer for it.

There are so many qualities I admire about Barbara from her beauty to her amazing empathy for strangers, but it's her knack for making lists that has made me who I am. She's a planner and an organizer and I'm not. She knows how to make lists and stick to an agenda. Her ability to bring things to the forefront and discuss important life issues has given us a beautiful home, two amazing daughters who can speak two languages, swim, dance, paint, ski and play instruments. Without her, my kids would be illiterate, talentless couch potatoes living in an overpriced rental condo.... Actually, without her there would be no kids and all those fine traits would apply to me!

But married life isn't always perfect and we all endure our share of disappointments. Which brings up another point. When Barb met me so long ago in my angst-ridden teens, I was quite the prolific songwriter having penned many tortured ballads about my many failed relationships. She's often asked me over the years for her own song and has been disappointed that none has been written. My answer has always been the same: those songs were unhappy tunes about healing or pleading to save a failed relationship. Since there is nothing broken or in need of healing in our lives the songs are unnecessary and would just ring hollow. Besides, I got the girl this time!

Yup, I like being married to Barb. And waking up everyday and seeing my own personal girl next to me never gets old. 

Okay, that's enough. The damage is done, Colin. The cease and desist orders will be coming shortly asking us to burn our man-cards. But when I see you around the ceremonial bonfire, we'll be in good company with the rest of the happily married real men.

Deb: First of all, I will say after reading both my husband and Phil’s contribution, that we are two lucky women, Barb. But I think the key to our happy marriages lays not only in their love for us or our love for them, but in our mutual love. I know this because I see this in both our marriages all the time. But more than love, I think it is respect that wins the day in a marriage. I will not speak for you, Barb, from this point as you will have your own individual lovely point of view.

But I will speak for Colin and myself and our love.

People often say that it is the little things that break up a marriage and I would tend to agree. But in our case it is the little things that make our marriage soar. I will not sing my own praises here regards our marriage, as this is my love letter to Colin.

My husband does for me. As he spends his day doing all the many things he does, there is never a time where he fails to ask what he can do for me. And I will tell you that he has saved many a stressful day for me in doing so. Besides the fact that he makes me laugh all day long, thus lengthening my already happy life, he constantly reminds me that I am essential, not only in his world, but my own.

Ultimately, it is his love for my Mom and Dad and his Mom and their needs that has made me know what a person of selfless quality he is. He loves my Mom and Dad and cares for them as if he shares their history. And he loves his Mom more and more as he grows older knowing and appreciating the things she has done and sacrificed for him.

That is true love for me. That and his love for the boy.

His love for the boy would take us into an arena that I would not have time for here. As they say ... that’s another story.  

All I know is that whenever he walks in the door, with groceries, with our dogs, home from a trip, or up in the morning, he rises from our bed with my heart in his hand, and I look at him and melt. And he looks at me as if he is seeing me for the first time. To be almost 57 and have your husband look at you like you are 21 and HOT is a feeling that frankly defies description. And the gorgeous part of it is that Cupid’s arrow strikes out of the blue for us, from the bad breath moments to the dressed to the nines. We still get that feeling. Mostly it can happen on any rainy Tuesday morning. And I feel it. With each passing year. More and more and more. God bless him, he loves me, and lordie do I love him.

Annie Lennox has said it for me many a night when I have danced alone in our living room missing him:

Cold is the color of crystal, the snow light

that falls from the heavenly skies.

Catch me and let me dive under

for I want to swim in the pools of your eyes.

I want to be with you

baby oh oh slip me inside of your heart.

And I do. And he does. But the two of us share a feeling and it comes from our mutual favourite film:

You are my lucky star

I saw you from afar

Two lovely eyes at me

They where gleaming

Beaming

I was starstruck

You are my lucky charm

I'm lucky in your arms

You've opened Heaven's portal

Here on earth for this poor mortal

You are my lucky star...

... as I read this to my husband tonight, he came to me and kissed me huge. And I said through piles of tears, “Is it too corny, too much? ... Oh fuck it, I don’t care.”

They say that there is nothing more irresistible than a person who loves you … oh baby.

Barbara: Dear readers, I hope this isn’t all too much for you! I swear, when we asked the guys to 4-way with us, we weren’t expecting THIS!! We thought we’d get something funny, glib, a little cheeky, even subversive. Instead, we’ve been handed a gift so huge, I want to ask every long-term couple to write one letter to each other—just one real love letter.

I get it. Love is the most fraught of our emotions: so easy to fall into, so painful to lose, so beautiful when appreciated, so lonely when unreciprocated, so complicated when you start adding personal disappointments, ambition, needs, illness, ego, ego, EGO!

Here’s the thing surveys on marriages don’t tell you: if you’ve been through the wringer with someone––the good, the bad, the tragic, the ugly, the sublime––and come out of it on the other side, the depth of that love––as each of these stories illustrates so well––is positively epic. It’s not just the chemical connection, the romantic loveliness, the sex (wild or otherwise, Colin), the dinner mate, it’s something deep, relaxed, essential. It takes a loooong, circuitous journey to get to this point. And not everyone is up for it. And not everyone is into it. And certainly both of you have to want it; one can’t want it for both of you.

And after much consideration, I can honestly say that if I had to choose to live with a partner just for the sake of having someone there with whom to weather any and all storms, honestly, I’d rather go it alone. Alone is how I discovered who I really am, is how I found who I was meant to be, is how I learned to grow and bloom and think with clarity. If my partner was just a role-filler living here to get me through tough times or help me raise my kids, then he might as well be a leech sucking up my light and energy.

I’m not with Phil because he props my life up. No. I choose him. I choose him every day. And he chooses me every day. And he knows it, and I know it, and we both love that both of us knows it. Day after day after day.

Phil isn’t just my helpful partner (which he is in spades), he isn’t just my ear, my shoulder, my rock, my love … he lets me be who I need to be. He’s given me room to grow and explore and expand to fill my rightful space. Without all of that, I would certainly be half the woman I am today. With him, am I twice the woman I would otherwise be? Of course not. But I’m eternally grateful that I don’t have to test that theory.

Oh, and his story about telling me within fifteen minutes that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me? I was so smitten, so intoxicated with love, I never heard it. It wasn’t until our teenage daughter bugged him not that long ago for stories of our early relationship that he repeated it out loud. I was floored. Not only was I still waiting for that love song, but those romantic little stories from our past had gone MIA too. He’s not exactly the strong, silent type, but he definitely prefers to show his love for me through gesture, action, and physical affection. And that’s just the way I like it. But, as a lover of words, I’m also taking this blog-post and filing it under: Break Open in Case of Emergency. 

Does Love Complete You (or is it just a nice bonus)?

Barbara: I might be opening a kettle of fish with this question (and I guess I want to), but if you come along for the ride, you could end up helping me a lot.

Here’s the scoop. I’m currently working on a screenplay (it’s an adaptation of a novel) where the heroine enjoys a lot of personal accomplishments, but finds that she is missing true love. Because of this void, she feels somehow less whole.

The reason I’m throwing this question out to you is because I want to fully commit to the truth of my character’s emotional arc. And if you share your own stories and thoughts with me here, you could get me closer to an essential and universal truth. In other words, my personal experience is not necessarily enough to answer such a big question!

At some point in our lives, we’re all exposed to the literary or idealistic conceit that a significant other is our “other half”. “The two shall become one,” “You complete me,” “My better half,” “The yin to my yang,” etc, etc. I don’t think anyone will argue that love is wonderful and beautiful and enriching. That our lives are more abundant if we are fortunate enough to have any form of reciprocal love in it, preferably in many different forms. I certainly believe that. But would I feel less complete if I was working and creating and socializing, loving and living a rich life, if I didn’t also have my “other half” along for the ride?

My husband and I have been together for 31 years, since I was 16 (I know!). In that time, we have gone through an incredible amount of personal and relationship change and growth. We have mined depths of love that I feel incredibly blessed to have experienced (and depths of pain I feel incredibly lucky to have survived). I also know that as a result of such a long-term connection, we both had to go through times where we desperately needed to find ourselves—not as a new-age expression, but as a truthful part of our personal development. Where does he end and I begin? What do I love because I LOVE it or because he loves it? What are my dreams, what are his dreams. what are our dreams?

I know my situation is very rare. And some of you will find it wonderful and sweet and some of you will shudder in your shoes at the very thought. I, of course, couldn’t be happier that my life has worked out this way. But if (god forbid) my situation were to change, would I feel less complete?

I want to say, No. Absolutely, no-holds-barred No. I am my own person, I follow my own dreams, I make my own decisions. I love my life. I don’t need another person to fulfill me. Instead, I am lucky that I have a loving partner. But that said, I speak from the viewpoint of someone who is lucky enough to have a loving partner. If he were to walk out the door tomorrow (again, god forbid), I might not need another experience of this kind because I have known it already. But if I had never EVER known it, would I always be wondering what it was like, feeling the void of it, desperately wanting to have it? Even if I had all the other things I currently have?

I know I’m asking a lot because there are so many variables (kids, economic security, emotional needs, etc), but all things considered, surely you all must have an opinion on this question. And if you do, I would be deeply, eternally grateful if you shared it with me. xo

Deb: This triggered thoughts that have been hiding in the broom closet of my brain. Thoughts that have arisen from my dear friend losing her husband recently at a young age. Through her loss and pain, I could see what she was facing and it raised many questions in my soul.

I guess speaking for myself, I would safely say that I am totally my own person with my own likes and dislikes and my own sense of self. I do not need someone else to complete me. I have worked very hard over the years on self-improvement and plan on staying that course until my time to die. And yes, it will keep me busy!

But––and here’s the thing––I want to share it with my husband. Over time I couldn’t even tell you which of us liked what first, or if something was his idea or mine, or even where the line was drawn. I love that the line is murky. That is what a good partnership is for me. The fact is, we have influenced each other because the respect for each other’s opinion is so strong in each of us. I respect his taste and he respects mine. And maybe without his valued opinion I would not have tried something new and foreign to me. But I did and I do. And I am so much richer for it. I hope he is too. I am lucky enough to have another set of very loving eyes from which to view the world. I take what I like and the rest falls under “agree to disagree” category.

But that is the crux of it for me––his and my point of view melding together to make the marriage the multi-faceted union that it is. And it is a union. And there are all sorts of wonderful types of unions. But ours is a legal union that we needed to make. The instant our wedding was over, we instantly felt like family. It was one of the nicest feelings I have ever had.

I have always felt in my heart, and especially lately, that I would not seek out a new love if Colin died (God forbid). I feel secure in the knowledge that I am such a strong person, such a lover of life, that I would go on in new and different directions alone, having had something special that I could never top. The love that we have now would carry with me alone into the world and I would be happy for its company. 

A Blog Slut On Women’s Day

Barbara: Being a blog slut and a proud woman are not mutually exclusive, are they? You see, I discovered I was a blog slut coincidentally on the same day as I was celebrating International Women’s Day (yesterday). How did this happen, you might ask. Well, let me tell you…

First there is the blog. This has become such a wonderful place to “hang out” for me. You are such an amazing bunch of people: passionate, empathetic, thoughtful. Through you I have developed a whole online life that a short year ago I would never have thought possible. Where once I protected my privacy with a vengeance, now I can’t wait to throw off my clothes and walk bare amongst you. (Okay, not literally. Haven’t crossed that line yet. Although next Monday’s 3-way guest, Hart, may challenge that :-) ) I look forward to your take on things, your positive twist when dealing with the worst, your stories. Yesterday, I was on Facebook and found myself surrounded by a group of online friends––many of whom are regular readers of the blog––when an interesting discussion turned into a blatant display of mutual respect and love from one “virtual” friend to another. It just spiraled around each one of us like a feminine dervish. It was generous and abundant. It was uplifting. It was intoxicating.

I really did feel myself get all slutty with love.

We are goddesses. Lori said so. But Amy says it too. And Melody and Hollye and Cheryl and Kathleen. So many of you feel that we can turn the tide of hate and apathy and destruction if we choose to focus on the good and true and positive. And women, as Melody said, are the perfect vessels to push that tide. Who wouldn’t be seduced by that idea? By any idea that brings with it the hope of redemption and joyful living?

I remember when I was a new parent and utterly committed to raising my kids the best way I knew how. I loved that time in my life. But I also remember viscerally the sense of loneliness that pervaded the everyday. It wasn’t all-consuming, but it was … depleting. It was like I was hopscotching from one island of relief or joy or happiness to another, with stretches of indefinable abyss looming between them. I am a people person, no question, and not being surrounded by them regularly impacted the quality of my life. I have discovered that having daily access to people either here or elsewhere within the online community buoys me incredibly.

And then I celebrated International Women’s Day, which brings with it the stories of the many extraordinary women who have changed our world and changed our place within that world. We are still a long ways away from that change being universal, but when I consider how much has been accomplished in such a relatively short time, I can’t help but imagine that great things are still going to happen. And if women’s issues can be tackled with so much courage and grace and determination, well then why not world hunger, poverty and peace?

I am a proud and hopeful woman, slutty for the love you show not just me but each other and our world. 

Deb: Oh dear, do I have to be a downer? You know I’m not a downer. I am never with the downing down of something. And I agree that we have come a long way, baby. But I also see sooooooooooooooooooooooooooo much room for growth, change and respect for women. We are still the bottom feeders as far as the planet reaches and as close as our next-door neighbour. I saw it first hand in the Congo. But I do have hope. Always hope. And I love being a girl, but please watch the attached for some startling statistics. Barb, your bloggy joy was palpable and I pray we rise on its wings. 

Valentine's Memories

Yes, Deb is still at it

Deb: There is so much written about this day. Newspapers, magazines and television are filled with the highs and the lows of this beautiful/stupid/ romantic/commercial/ depressing/useless/sweet day.

Everyone loves a lover, right? But what if you have no lover, or have just lost your lover, or are still searching for a lover or are in a loveless relationship. I have read endless spewings about the ugliness of Valentine’s Day and how the pressure to love and be loved on February 14th is rammed down our throats.

Valentine’s Day when you are a child is so sweet. I have such lovely memories of paper lace doilies, cardboard cupids, scissors and paste. I remember to this day when I was in grade one. We had all spent the day before making our little Cupid pouches to collect all our cards the next day. I went home that night with my list of friends and my Mom said, “We are giving to each child in your class or to no one at all”. I know that this is standard practice today, but I assure you it was not in the 50’s. My Mom, bless her heart, taught me a lesson that day of what grace and love is. I was so excited by this concept and rushed to school with a full heart.

There was a little girl in my class: Wendy. She was not popular and some of the kids made fun of her. I remember her sitting there, eyes downcast through the whole process, trying not to see the teacher repeatedly walking past her desk. As my pocket began to burst at the seams, I became so focused on her, staring in disbelief at her empty cupid pocket. Suddenly her face lit up and she looked over at me, smiling a shy grateful smile. It is one of those photographs the mind snaps and keeps forever.

So Wendy, this Valentine’s Day, I send my love to you. I hope you are having a full rich life with a Cupid pocket that is spilling out onto the floor.

Barbara: This story is so sweet, it may have made my Valentine’s Day, Deb. I do remember the cards and excitement of the day when I was little, and while I’m sure my pocket would NOT have been bursting at the seams, I actually don’t associate any ill feelings with that classroom tradition.

Today, I guess I’m conflicted about Valentine’s Day. All those sentiments you hyphenated above? I go through all of them on an hourly basis on the days surrounding Valentine’s Day. For my husband and I, one year it feels like a forced holiday, the next like a welcome celebration. Some years we’re all about the little presents and the dinners out, and others we hardly notice the date, never mind acknowledging it with any kind of pomp and circumstance. And this doesn’t have anything to do with our affections for each other. This year we’ve had an exceptionally affectionate year and neither of us are really into the Day at all. He may get a little something in the spirit of love (you can use your imagination if you want), but I’m still not exactly sure how we’re going to spend the evening. We didn’t make a dinner reservation (last year we did), but we will still probably make an especially nice dinner and watch a movie. Mmmm.

Bottom line, as much as I may not get all wrapped up in it, what’s wrong with a little romantic to-do? And if it includes sending out love to the friends in our “class”, I can’t sign off until I’ve sent you each, dear readers, a little candy heart and my Valentine hugs and kisses. 


And click here for a Valentine's card for you from us!