All By Myself...

I have never lived alone.

Never.

Not in my whole life.

I went from living with my parents to roommates to boyfriend/husband to child. And in less than 17 months, that child will graduate from high school, after which she will go off to college... leaving me...

Alone.

Well, alone plus a few fuzzy critters. But completely devoid of any human sharing my abode.

This freaks me out a little bit. I think it freaks the child out more, however. She simply cannot fathom the day when she no longer lives with me. And when her friends comment that they can't wait to leave home, she says, "Yeah, but I like my mom."

Aw.

I like her, too. I really do. I love living with her. Mostly because she cleans up after me.

Heh.

Not really. Well, OK, yes, really, but for other reasons, too. She's cool. She's interesting. She's funny. She can carry on a conversation about nearly anything for hours and hours.

And she cleans up after me.

Seriously. I finish a cup of tea, get up to go to the bathroom, come back, and the cup is in the dishwasher. I made her stop tidying my room because I couldn't find things ('put away' is confusing for me). If I could get her to clean the bathroom (ours and the cats'), she'd be pretty much perfect.

I'm cool with imperfect.

I'd be lying if I said I hadn't given any thought to what it will be like to live alone. I have. Part of me is pretty excited about it. Part of me is worried I'll turn into a lonely old spinster who never leaves the house and has more cats than is healthy.

Part of me is really worried about having to clean up after myself.

Seriously.

I figure I'll probably spend a fair amount of time stalking the child's Instagram and Twitter and Facebook and Pinterest (much like I do now). I'll likely binge-watch questionable television programs (but not Supernatural or Vampire Diaries [because I'll be all caught up by then, that's why]). I'm pretty sure I'll eat a lot of cereal for dinner.

But maybe, just maybe, I'll also make a list of fun, interesting, and cool things a middle-aged woman with an empty nest can do on her own... and then I'll actually do them.

Well, after I do the dishes.

Tea cups don't wash themselves, you know.

500th Post: Her Daddy

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who loved her daddy.

She was small and blonde, with blue eyes and his nose.

She called herself Di-I, so he did, too (and sometimes Bella... and sometimes Aggie).

And when she was very small, she would stand on his feet and he would dance her around the room to Frank Sinatra and Glenn Miller records on his stereo. She would hold his big, calloused hands to keep from falling, and look up at him, laughing, as they danced.

When one of her toys broke, she would hand it to him and say, "Daddy fix," and he would say, "Me fix, Di-I. Me fix."

And he always did.

When she said to him at breakfast one morning, "Me no ike eggs, Daddy," he told her that she was eating soufflé and not to worry because, "Di-I ikes soufflé."

And she did.

As the little girl grew, her daddy taught her Very Important Things.

He taught her how to put up a tent. And how to ride a bike. And how to fold the American flag properly. And how, if she got stuck at the top of the monkey bars at the playground, he would always come to rescue her.

When she got a bit older, he taught her how to shake hands "like a man." He taught her how to drive a stick-shift, to check her own oil, and to never let the gas go below a quarter of a tank (though she didn't always [and still doesn't] mind that last one).

He taught her how to tell a story, how to make everyone laugh, how to pour a beer properly, and how to swear with aplomb.

He taught her to stand up for what she believed in and about the importance of having her "ducks in a row."

He taught her about community service and giving back, and how, even if you have little, you still have more than someone else who needs your help. He taught her to always be kind and friendly to service personnel, to tip waiters and waitresses well, and to stack her dishes to make their jobs just a little bit easier.

And when the little girl had grown into a big girl, her daddy, reluctantly so, let her go her own way. He allowed her to choose her own path and think her own thoughts, even when she made big mistakes... even when he didn't agree (and he often didn't agree).

And when she came home with some broken thing, including her heart or her ego, he'd reach for it, saying, "Me fix, Di-I. Me fix."

And he always did.

When he got sick, he taught her that even when there is pain, there is humor, and that the best way to make people feel more comfortable when they are hurting is to make them laugh.

He made her laugh. He made her laugh so much.

And then he died.

And she realized there was one thing he didn't teach her.

He didn't teach her how to live without him.

She has had to learn that all on her own.

She is still learning how.

She will forever be learning how...

Writer's Workshop: The Thanksgiving I Almost Died

It's time for another Writer's Workshop post from Mama Kat's prompts...

I chose: A Thanksgiving Memory

When I was a kid, Thanksgivings were so much fun. We usually spent them with the New Jersey leg of our family. We would drive there from Virginia or they would come to us -- my Aunt Maisie and Uncle Jimmy (they were like my grandparents), Aunt Jean and Uncle Ernie, and the three boys – Michael, Stephen, and Richard. The boys were basically the same ages as my brothers and I, so we were sort of stair-step kids – oldest (Michael) to youngest (Richard) – all towheads, with me, the only girl, in the middle.

I loved being the only girl. I really did. We had a lot of fun, the six of us – we’d all crowd into the same bedroom to sleep in sleeping bags; we’d play games (and cheat); and oh, how we’d all laugh!

But the most memorable Thanksgiving I can recall with my cousins didn’t involve a whole lot of laughing. Not at first, anyway.

I was 10-years-old.

And it was the Thanksgiving I almost died.

 

It was the Thanksgiving I got shot.

That’s right.

Shot.

OK, so it was with a pellet gun. And OK, so I didn't really almost die. But it was a gun. And I got shot, people. Right in the chest.

I happened less than an hour after the whole NJ crew arrived. We were outside, down by the creek, and my brothers were showing off their pellet guns to our cousins. Stephen, the middle cousin (and the one closest to my age – just 6 months older), was handling one of them. My younger brother showed him how to load the pellets, how to ‘pump’ the rifle (10 times for maximum distance and power), and he demonstrated the ‘safety’…

And then Stephen hoisted the gun to his shoulder…

And, standing about four feet from me, pointed it right at me.

“I’m going to shoot you.”

I wasn’t askeerd of him.

“Pffftttt. You are not.”

“Oh, yes I am.”

“Yeah, well, you’d better not.”

You know what I learned that day?

I learned that boys? Never listen.

I heard the click of the trigger and the puff of air, as the bullet… er… pellet was released from the gun, right about the same time I felt the impact of the bullet… er… pellet in my chest, just below my collarbone.

“YOU SHOT ME!! OH MY GOD, YOU SHOT ME!”

I think Stephen was as shocked as I was. He thought the safety was on.

For the record? ‘Thought’ was the operative word in that sentence.

He dropped the gun like it was on fire and ran to help me, but I was half-way to the house by then. I cleared a 4-foot chain-link fence like it was 6-inches tall and barreled into the kitchen, screaming about having been shot.

The adults?

Were not happy.

All the boys came flying in behind me… and let me tell you, how they managed to concoct the biggest, fattest, lyingest lie that ever was, to save their behinds, in less than 60 seconds, is beyond me.

As my dad checked me out to see if any real damage had been done, and my Uncle Ernie was hollering about packing up and heading back to NJ, my brother stepped up to explain.

(And by ‘explain,’ I totally mean ‘lie through his 9-year-old too-big-for-his-face teeth.')

He said they’d only pumped the rifle 3 or 4 times… and that Stephen had been pointing the gun toward the creek… and that the pellet (bullet!) had ricocheted off a tree… and accidentally hit me… because I was standing in the wrong place.

It ricocheted off a tree and accidentally hit me because I was standing in the wrong place!

As I stood there with my mouth hanging open, incredulous, stunned at the enormity of the lie and the fact that he made it my fault, every one of those Fibber McGees nodded in agreement.

And then my Uncle Ernie looked at me.

“Diane, honey, is that true?”

I could smell the sweat and the fear from those five delinquents. See, my Uncle Ernie adores me and all I had to do was tell the truth and… and…

And he’d have loaded them all into the car and driven the six hours back to NJ.

Well, he might not have… but at that moment, I believed he would have. And that would have been awful.

So I glared at those boys and, through clenched teeth, I confirmed their story.

And they stayed. And our Thanksgiving was, as always, wonderfully fun and funny.

Except for, you know, the gaping hole in my chest.

And that bullet… er… pellet? It came to the surface (sort of) about a week later. But we couldn’t get it out, not even with tweezers. So I had to go to the doctor and have it dug out of my chest with a big needle and pliers. I kid you not. It hurt like hell.

I nearly 40 years later, I still have a scar.

Oh, and Stephen? The cousin who shot me?

Guess what he does for a living?

Yeah. He’s a police officer.