Lemonade

I don’t believe in playing by the rules. That’s not entirely true…but sometimes the rules are stupid. For instance, did you know it's illegal for a store to sell toothpaste and a toothbrush to the same customer on a Sunday in the city of Providence? That’s not only a rule, it’s a law! Who the hell sat down and decided that a person shouldn’t be able to buy multiple oral hygiene products on a Sunday? Is this to shame people who had a one-night-stand a few hours earlier? No booty calls allowed in Providence! If you do, your punishment is…stinky breath?

It's ridiculous.

There are a lot of stupid societal rules such as children should live with their mother if/when the parents’ divorce. Why the mother? Are fathers unable to properly care for their offspring? Why do people assume that fathers automatically get their children every other weekend and for dinner on Wednesdays in a custody agreement? This setup is perfectly acceptable to society at large if you have a dick. Men aren’t judged for seeing their kids eight days a month. But if you’re a mother whose children aren’t under your constant care? People assume there must be something either psychologically or morally wrong with you. They conclude some court decided the children would be better off without you.

For the record, I have joint custody of my kids and a court gave me primary placement a million years ago (that’s for the judgmental buttinskis out there).

The same rules don’t apply to men and women and that’s spectacularly unfair. When my parents divorced back in the 80s, my brother and I lived with my father during our last few years of high school. People assumed the worst about my mom as well, especially back then! How could a mother leave her kids? The answer is, she didn’t. Looking back, my mother was just as present in our lives when she moved out as when she lived in the family home. Parenthood is about love and acceptance and she lavished us with both, despite having a different address.

The circumstances which led to my children living with their father during the week had nothing to do with my fitness as a mother and everything to do with employment and geography.

I’m a history teacher. You know…the dime-a-dozen variety educator, who, if you have a few years’ experience under your belt, is basically unemployable. Why hire an experienced history teacher (who took several years off to raise her children), over a new graduate a school can pay half as much? It took me two+ years to find a full-time, permanent, teaching gig after ten years of on the clock motherhood. The hitch? The job was on Block Island.

I know. Poor me, having to live and work on beautiful Block Island year round. Your heart is bleeding for me. But I had an extraordinarily difficult decision to make. Do I take my children out of one of the top three school districts in the state and bring them to a K-12 school with a sum total of 150 students, thirteen miles off the coast of mainland Rhode Island? A school that has virtually no after-school activities except sports (and my kids aren’t athletic)? What would they do for extracurricular activities that wouldn’t eventually devolve into an alcohol and/or drug problem?

It was a sucky position to be in, but I needed a job. So, my ex-husband and I had a serious sit down and decided it would be in the girls best interest to stay put, continue their orchestra, dance and theater activities, while I tried the island on for size.

(Painful, gut-wrenching) decision made.

I knew pretty quickly my new school wasn’t the right fit for my kids, but it was a good fit for me and there were no other jobs out there. So we’ve made it work. I can’t say it’s always been easy, but it is what it is. It’s an imperfect situation, but we’ve ‘made lemonade.’ I can’t always be physically present for concerts or back-to-school nights (why do they hold those mid-week?) but just as my mother did before me, I’ve made sure my children know they’re loved and accepted and if they need me, I’m just a phone call or boat ride away.

Since the pandemic, opportunities for history teachers have opened up on the mainland. Two years ago I told my girls I’d look for another job and move back to civilization and their visceral reaction to that news shocked me. My girls were emphatic. No! Absolutely not! We love Block Island! This is our home, you can’t leave!

So I stayed, because that’s what my daughters wanted.

Stupid rules are made to be broken. What’s best for my children isn’t necessarily what’s best for me. That doesn’t make me an unfit mother, it makes me a selfless one. I’m not tooting my own horn or placing myself on a pedestal by making that statement. Believe me, I would have preferred to live with my kids full time, but the gods had a different plan for us.

And now they’re almost adults, on the verge of leaving the nest. I can say with a great deal of pride, my children have grown into kind, sensitive humans. They see both sides of a situation and know nothing is black and white. They have empathy and curiosity. They value honesty and integrity. They dismiss those who are petty and narrow-minded. These are not virtues they absorbed from their father by osmosis (he’s not intimately acquainted with virtue as a concept). No, my daughters learned those values from me.

The moral of the story is this; when the rules are fucking archaic and stupid…make your own.

Between the Lines

People fascinate me. I mean this sincerely. I think reaching fifty and watching my twin pass away has given me a new perspective. Life is short. Don’t waste time worrying about things you can’t control. If someone is being shitty, call them out on it. Don’t be afraid to tell it like it is. Some might say I’ve never exhibited fear in that department, but that’s not true. I’ve kept a lot to myself over the years. Too much really. That’s why I write novels, so I can purge what I’ve repressed.

But back to my fascination with humans. The last two posts I’ve written had absolutely nothing to do with one another. There’s not even a thread connecting them (unless you want to count two different groups of women who need to find a hobby) and yet people see what they want to see. They interpret my words in whatever way suits them. And…I’m okay with that.

The written word is a powerful tool, or weapon in some cases. I’ve always known that. Words start revolutions. In 1776, Thomas Paine poured a significant amount of fuel onto the bonfire of discontent in the American colonies with his pamphlet, Common Sense. BOOM! A powder keg moment in history! And here we are, almost two hundred and fifty years later, a country in our own right, independent of British rule. But Paine was very pointed and direct in his famous pamphlet. He wasn’t in the least bit discreet. He used names, he laid out a game plan. America doesn’t need Britain. Break free of the chains that shackle us to the mother country. Monarchy is tyranny. America should be an independent nation. Fight for your freedom, America! And the patriots lit the torch and kicked some ass in the name of freedom.

I’m more subtle. When I write something a reader may identify with, I like to give them space to connect their own dots. In doing so they invariably read between the lines (inaccurately for the most part) and create a narrative that fits into their version of reality. I prefer it that way. In every book I write, I leave the physical characteristics of one significant character up to the reader’s imagination. I purposely don’t describe their hair or eye color, height or build. Later, when I ask readers to describe the character to me, I’m amused by how completely different each person sees them. They’re basing the character’s looks on people they know, who exhibit similar behaviors. In their mind’s eye, they see the person the character reminds them of in real life.

It's the same with song lyrics. Lewis Capaldi wrote a song (I thought was) about a guy whose girlfriend broke up with him because he either treated her like shit or didn’t recognize the pain he’d put her through. I knew the song was about regret. “Was there something I could have said to make it all stop hurting. It kills me how your mind could make you feel so worthless. So before you go…” I felt those lyrics and am not ashamed to admit I’ve shed a few tears listening to this tune. Turns out? This ‘love’ song is actually about his aunt who committed suicide. Really? I thought for sure I understood his lyrics, they seemed pretty straight forward, but I was reading between the lines. He did write about regret, but I interpreted his words through the lens of my own experiences. I’ve been made to feel worthless by certain people at certain points, so of course the song was about me! Or the universal experience of loss. Take your pick.

Regarding my last two posts, I’ve kept ‘silent’ about certain events in my life that have no connection to the ‘other words’ I published yesterday. The first was written with restraint because I choose not to discuss the details of the situation. I was feeling helpless and writing those words was an expression of my vulnerability. Yesterday’s post? The one about how annoying and immature a group of older women can be? I wrote that missive with abandon, sharing examples of adolescent behavior, not giving a fuck if the intended audience read my post. Actually, that’s not true. Hoping the ladies read it (they did by the way).

Two different posts. Two completely separate situations in my life. Many interpretations and assumptions being made. Again, I’m okay with that. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t continue writing these entries.

I’d rather my words not be used as a weapon. I prefer to use words as an expression. But I’ll use them as both when the occasion calls for it. I read something about writers a while back. I don’t remember the exact words but it basically said, be careful, my book isn’t finished yet. Meaning, if you’re an asshole, I’ll create a character based on you and I won’t be kind. I haven’t made good on the threat…or have I? Hmmm…a story for another day.

My bottom line is this: you are free to read between the lines of anything I write. You can connect invisible dots and create an entirely new, make believe storyline. I’m putting it out there, so have at it. But if you write a diatribe full of nonsense in the comment section of my post? I’ll delete it.

I hope you have a lovely day.

Sincerely, Jayne

In Other Words...

Do people ever really grow up? Based on my experience? Some do. My friends, for example, are evolved and wise, whether they are thirty or sixty. But there’s a particular group of older women with whom I’m acquainted, who behave worse than high school teens. Believe me when I say, I know immature teenage behavior when I see it (having just spent my fourteenth year in high school). And these older ladies display it in abundance.

Oh, the intrigue, the drama, the rumors, the backstabbing! While it’s understandable behavior within the eighteen-and-younger demographic, it’s quite pathetic watching the Shakespearean dramas unfold amongst the AARP crowd.

Who cares who is dating whom? As long as they’re happy. Who gives a flying fuck who has been seen at a certain restaurant with (or without) a particular woman? A man has to eat. What difference does it make if he was seen buying groceries or shopping at Homegoods? Such inane nonsense! Who gives a rat’s ass if two consensual adults decide to think outside the box and eat fucking cake?

They do. These sad women who know their best years are behind them. Who look on with envy at anyone who has a spark of life left inside their aging bodies (I include myself in this category. There’s a lot of life left in these old bones).

Is it because their own lives are pitifully boring? That’s a safe yes. Do they meddle just to make themselves feel more important? Without a doubt. Did they flush their collective self-esteem down the metaphorical toilet many years ago? I’m running to OTB to put money on it.

My advice, ladies? Get a life and stop pushing your agenda onto others. Do you want to support your friend or turn his life into an episode of General Hospital, Geriatric Unit?

My lord! The drama, drama, drama they stir up, for no other reason than to make their own lives more interesting.

I’ll be honest, I have no appetite for their brand of friendship and recognize them for the women they are; fake, egocentric, meddlesome, immature and sad.

It appears they would like to see him with another certain someone. A woman with whom he has history, who is conveniently part of their friend group. She’s also a woman who used him in the past, mislead him in the present and could never give him the life he deserves; one in which he’s free to travel and explore without an anchor tied around his neck. I feel for her on some level. Her path isn’t easy and there’s no off ramp.

But don’t assume I’m part of the equation. He didn’t leave her for me. He left her to save himself, all on his own. Hardly a day went by over the past few months without us communicating; long, introspective messages. But he kept me completely in the dark regarding his relapse in judgment, until it was over.

All I want for him is to be happy. I wanted him to be free of my limitations, whether emotional or logistical. I loved him enough to let him go in the hopes he’d meet the ‘right’ woman. A woman who lives close by and could be there for him. A kind person he could travel with. Someone with whom he could share meals and listen to true crime podcasts, maybe watch Breaking Bad for the tenth time. Take rides on his boat, go kayaking to Lavender Island and look for purple sea glass.

He is who he is. Some men just can’t be alone and he picked the low hanging fruit. A relationship he didn’t have to pursue. One that required no effort at all to reestablish. When he eventually told me about their brief interlude, he paraphrased something I wrote back to me, “I didn’t love her; she was just easy.” Not easy in the slutty way. Easy, meaning convenient, eager and willing.

But they would never have freedom to roam and he saw the writing on the wall. I’m so proud of him for doing what he felt was best for his well-being, his future happiness and fulfillment. For standing up and saying, this isn’t enough for me.

If I was seeing him again (and I’m not saying I am), I wouldn’t share this information with the ladies. Why? Because it’s none of their fucking business! Whatever is or isn’t happening between us is nobody’s business but our own.

He won’t say it because he’s far too nice (and I think enjoys a little drama himself), but I have no problem relaying the message here and now.

Either support your friend, whatever his life choices, or get the fuck out of the way. 

Those are your options. He’s not a doormat and I couldn’t care less what you think of me. I know who my friends are and they are fabulous, loyal and kind. They have my back.

In other words, they are nothing like you.

Silence

The hardest thing to do is stay silent and do nothing when every fiber of your being wants to react. Stories take on a life of their own in a small community and once they gain momentum, the truth simply doesn’t matter. Sharing ‘your side of the story’ is futile because social media gives ignorant people a platform for their toxicity.

We live in a world where facts don’t matter. They matter to me, but to a growing majority? No. When it comes to politics, I don’t give a fuck. I brandish facts like a scalpel, slicing away at falsehoods with surgical precision. But when it’s personal? When people fuck with something that cuts to the core of who I am? Facts add oxygen to a fire that’ll eventually smolder and die. It’s not worth correcting people who hold onto their version of reality with all the righteous indignation they can muster.

So, silence it is. There is power and dignity in silence.

Silence requires patience and strategy. Be on guard, observe, wait, never lose control when silence is the strongest card in the deck. The desire to set people straight is strong, a growing tumor of white hot festering rage that wants to explode. The inability to take control of the narrative…soul crushing at times.

But this too shall pass.

I continue to take deep cleansing breaths, absorbing the abundance of loving support provided by my friends and family. The kind of love some will never have. One might feel an inkling of pity for the lonely lives of others…sorry for all the misdirected outrage and self-loathing they likely experience whenever they cross paths with a mirror. Numbing their pain, losing a grip on reality, hoping against hope to give their lives meaning. It’s sad in a way.

For now, I write with restraint and wait for the smoke to clear.

When it does, clothed in the tattered remnants of their spite and ignorance, I’ll do what I do best. Hold my head up high, rip off the noxious scraps of their decaying insecurities and continue living my life with clarity, purpose and love in my heart. As for forgiveness? That’s a whole other ballgame. I may forgive, but I’ll never forget.

In the meantime, I surrender to the silence.