As I return to the land of the living, I sometimes like Rip Van Winkle. You know, that guy who fell asleep for 50 years and then woke up to find his beard had grown a foot long, his wife had died, and that his close friends had fallen in a war or moved away.

Unlike Rip Van Winkle who resumed his usual idleness once he returned to daily life, I feel motivated to work hard and love hard and play hard.

You know, YOLO.

I want to live like every day is a holiday.

And guess what? I found out every day is a holiday.

Did you know today is National Ding-a-Ling Day.

Yes, it is. And I’m not talking about the Salvation Army Bell ringers. Nope. Today is the day where we’re supposed to cut loose and act a little weird.

What am I doing to celebrate Ding-a-Ling day? I’m connecting with folks who are slightly off their rockers writers and artists whose words & images I love!

To that end, today is my first “Fill Me Up” Friday. I’m asking you to leave a comment for me in which you share ONE of your more recent blog posts and paste the link in my comment section.

Wait, How Does This Work?

• Leave a short comment and then share a link to ONE of your posts. Remember, I’ve been out of the loop for a while, and I’m trying to figure out what’s going on in your world, so tell me about you, yourself and… you!

• Click on a few links left by others. When you show up at someone’s blog, be sure tell that person, “Renée sent me.” Oh, and remind him/her to visit you at your place.

• If you like each other, you might decide to do crazy things together follow each other!

Do me a favor and celebrate today and every day! I’m so grateful for each one of you. Here’s a link of me doing something a little out of the ordinary. Enjoy:

Oh, and if you haven’t entered the giveaway to win one of my 4×4 canvases, you might want to click HERE. There’s still time to win.

tweet me @rasjacobson

So thrilled to have Amber West here today. Amber is not only one of my favorite blogger friends, but she is also the author of The Ruth Valley Missing, which is a real thriller! Today, Amber shares a less heinously embarrassing moment than, perhaps, some of the other bloggers in this series, but hers is a poignant story just the same. If you don’t know Amber — omigosh — why not? Super-talented, super kind, super sensible and just… super, check out her blog and follow her on Twitter @amberwest.

• • •

Jerry Springer & Other Omens by Amber West

My tale of first love starts shortly after high school.

What can I say? I was a late bloomer.

Not to say that I didn’t have crushes in school. There was the crazy smart, somewhat eccentric guy from the crew team with steely blue eyes who looked like a young Mel Gibson. (You know, the pre-crazy days.) And the guy I knew since I was 12, who grew into a charming, adorable flirt, who looked like a young Tom Cruise. (Also, pre-crazy.)

Maybe my affinity for boys who resembled nutso celebrities should have been a clue as to how first love would go for me.

Apparently, I was not good at reading signs in my teen years.

Joe* was five years older than I was. We met through mutual friends and got along great. Funny and very sweet, he was the type of guy who opened doors for you, who asked you how you were and paid attention to the answer. He looked like a young Matthew Broderick. (You know, pre-cheating).

He moved to Florida from Maine, giving him a cute Northern boy accent, and a way about him that reminded me of home. Being around him was fun and cozy.

And he paid attention to me.

Being a middle-child with poor self-esteem and pretty naïve in the boy department, I thought we were just friends.

One day, he showed up at my office with roses. Not the roadside bouquet wrapped in cheap plastic and a paper towel. A dozen, long-stemmed, perfectly deep red roses, wrapped in fancy paper and cellophane.

The reason?

“You said once no one’s ever bought you flowers. And that’s just wrong.”

I may have swooned a tiny bit in that Florida office park. And then he added, “I haven’t bought flowers for anyone in X years, Y months, and Z days.”

From previous conversations, I knew what this meant.

He hadn’t bought flowers for anyone since the last time he had his heartbroken by his last girlfriend.

Girlfriend.

Is that what he thought of me?

I mean, guy friends bring you flowers, right? And they give you extra long hugs and tell you you’re pretty and keep a photo of you in their apartment…

Girlfriend?

No. Couldn’t possibly.

But, well, just maybe…

Our “friendship” had the added pressure of disapproving parents (mine, not his), so we never said we were dating. We spent time together with mutual friends, stealing moments here and there for deep conversation, smiles across the room, and lingering hugs goodbye.

One day, he came by my office to take me to lunch.

Sitting in a TGIFridays, waiting to order, he nodded his head to indicate there was something behind me.

“Look over there. Jerry Springer just sat down.”

I rolled my eyes and looked back down at my menu, deciding between something fried with something fried on the side, or something fried on a bed of greens.

“Seriously, look.”

“Do you really think I’m that gullible?” I smiled.

Not smiling back, he replied, “Why would I lie?”

Giving in, I turned my head to see that Jerry Springer was indeed perusing the menu a few tables away from me. I laughed and turned back to Joe. “Oops.”

“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t look,” he said.

I quietly sipped my drink, unsure of what to say. What did I do? I thought we were joking around, but apparently, I’d committed some major sin.

It took a bit before moods lightened again, but I spent the rest of lunch picking at my salad, not sure what had happened.

As time passed, we had more of these moments.

Moments where he questioned our “friendship”.

And finally, there was the phone call.

Apparently, someone told him I’d been spreading rumors about him.

About him and a girl.

At first, I was apologetic. I didn’t know why anyone would say that, given the fact that I would never utter a bad word about him, but I was horrified that someone made him feel that I did.

He pressed. “Why would someone tell me that if you weren’t saying anything?”

And I snapped.

Well, for me it was snapping. It should be noted that I was never much of a snapper.

“I don’t know, Joe. All I know is that I’ve heard the rumors and the only thing I might have said is that you wouldn’t be stupid enough to be involved with her.”

We didn’t talk after that.

Some months later, I got the news.

He’d run off** and married the girl from the rumors.

I’m not the type to embarrass easily, or at least my brain does an excellent job of blocking out those moments.

But that moment? I felt that flush of humiliation.

This guy who once made me feel important and pretty and wanted managed to make me feel like nothing.

I’d been silly enough to fall for him. It was all my fault.

Or at least that’s what I told myself.

Older and wiser, I don’t kick myself for falling in love anymore.

But if any of you know if Adam Arkin has done anything crazy, let me know.

*name changed to protect the not so innocent

**when I say “run off”, I mean it – she was young enough that they needed to head to a different state to get married.

• • •

tweet us @amberwest & @rasjacobson

At the end of the flight, two boys sitting one row apart stood up and discovered each other. Neither of them could have been more than 7-years-old. One little guy held a Buzz Lightyear action figure; the other gripped a pile of Pokémon cards in his hands. While waiting for people on the plane to file out, they boys introduced themselves and chattered about their love for Minecraft and Legos.

“We have lots in common!” Jesse announced.

For a few minutes, the boys lived without fear of loving or not being loved. Neither was afraid of being rejected. They stood with their hearts open, unafraid of being hurt. And they were actually doing a pretty good job of it.

“Also, we both have something wrong with us.” Mason pointed to his mouth. Anyone could see the brackets and rubber bands on his tiny teeth. “I have braces, and you have those things on your ears.”

Jesse’s mother pressed her son against her hip. “Are you talking about Jesse’s Super Special Auditory Amplification System?” she asked. I could practically hear her inner monologue. Stay calm. He’s just a child. He’s not trying to be cruel.

“No,” Mason shook his head. “I’m talking about his hearing aids.

The plane was emptying quickly and Jesse’s mother asked her son to take one last look around to make sure he had all his belongings. As Jesse bent down, she leaned in to say something.

“Work with me here, Mason,” she whispered. “One day, your teeth will be straight. This hearing loss thing is forever.”

Jesse popped up like a meerkat. He handed his mother some candy wrappers, which she pushed into her pocket. Grabbing her suitcase from out of the overhead bin, she guided her son out of the row so he could walk down the narrow aisle in front of her.

“Jesse!” Mason waved his plastic Buzz Lightyear in the air. “Bye Jesse!” But the boy with the Pokémon cards didn’t turn around, and Mason looked wounded.

“You shouldn’t have mentioned his hearing aids!” Mason’s mother scolded. Throwing her purse over her shoulder, she pulled her son out the door.

The boys didn’t mean to hurt each other.

They didn’t.

But mothers love.

And a mother’s love, which sometimes seems weak can also make us fierce. We want the world to appreciate our most precious people the way we do.

But isn’t this life? And don’t we, adults, sometimes find ourselves in these kinds of situations? Sometimes we make the wrong assumptions. We may inadvertently touch a tender place near someone’s heart. We may injure someone and never understand what it is that we did to hurt them. Or we may feel injured or rejected ourselves.

In airports, people carry suitcases and backpacks, but people lug around invisible baggage, too.

With friends, we like to think we have an inkling, but this is not always the case. Sometimes the feelings in our friend’s hearts are as far away as a distant galaxy or an exotic sounding destinations, like Kamakura or Fuzhou.

If only we could all activate our own Super Special Auditory Amplification Systems and really hear what’s going on inside each other’s heads. If only we weren’t so quick to believe the worst about each other.

Ever had an interaction with a stranger that wasn’t well received? How about a positive one? Do you talk to strangers on planes?

tweet me @rasjacobson

I’m linking up this week to the fabulous and inspiring writers and Yeah Write. Click on the badge to see what they’re about and join us.

 

Blogdramedy recently took an extended trip to Italy and France, and she wrote long, dreamy posts along the way. She also likes to write about Karl Urban. I’ve known for a long time that Blogdramedy enjoys wine. After reading today’s post, you’ll all understand why. In sharing this piece, Blogdramedy has raised the bar for #SoWrong posts. Or maybe lowered it, depending on your take. Click to check out Blogdramedy’s blog. Follow her on Twitter at @blogdramedy. Or both. You won’t be sorry, but you should probably bring some tissues.

• • •

How a Corkscrew Let Him Put a Ring On It ~ by Blogdramedy

Four months after the divorce, I arrived at work for a meeting and that’s when I saw him.

Tall. Dark. Beautiful. Dressed in a deep blue suit with mauve pinstripes. It was his shoes I really noticed. Burgundy loafers with a slightly pointed toe; polished to a gleam.

No one wore shoes like that where I worked.

No one wore shoes like that in the entire city.

I wanted to ask him where he had bought them and if he polished them or if he had someone do it for him.

I shook his hand instead.

By the end of the meeting, I could tell he fancied me. All the signs were on display.

He was a male peacock flashing his colors and I was blinded…he was
a kaleidoscope of light and I was a moth.

He interpreted my moth-like eye fluttering for flirtatious behaviour (it was) and called me later, asking me out for a drink.

A month later and we’d been on 18 dates. We still had not slept together. I don’t know if it was me sending out the “damaged” vibe or him being kind of shy underneath his spiffy suit but we didn’t rush. It was nice.

And then he said he wanted to cook for me and to introduce me to something rather special.

Cue alarm bells.

Introduce me? What…like to a person? Another woman? Another MAN? HIS MOTHER???

When I arrived, the lights were low and the fireplace was flicking. Sade was playing on the stereo.

I took a quick scan and relaxed when I saw we were alone. Not totally relaxed, mind you. Constant vigilance had been my motto ever since a grasshopper jumped up my ballerina dress at the age of six.

After we’d chatted and caught up on our day, that’s when he sprung it on me.

The something special was a bottle of Bordeau that had just arrived from his wine club. (Yes, I know. Screams pretentious but it was the 90s.)

Now, I was never a lover of fine wines. I really didn’t like white and red had to be sweet and fruity before I let it pass my lips. He uncorked and poured, all the while describing this particular wine’s characteristics.

It was smokey. [sip]

It was plummy. [sip]

Lush. [sip] Ripe. [sip] Full-bodied. [sip sip]

Mouthy. [swallow]

By the end of the second bottle, I was ready. And so was he.

Somehow we made it into the bedroom, where I pushed him down onto the bed and proceeded to demonstrate my take of a slow striptease. Unfortunately I was not wearing one single thing with a button or a zipper. The best I could do was tug my sweater up over my head…slooowly.

That got me a little dizzy so I fell to my knees and as luck would have it, the latitude of my face and his crotch? About the same. So, what’s a girl going to do? I leaned in, unsnapped the top button of his jeans, and…

…vomited all over his lap.

It was like something out of the Exorcist. I did Linda Blair proud that night.

And that’s the last thought I had before passing out cold on the floor.

I woke the next morning laying next to him, in the spoon position, still dressed and chastity intact.

He’d cleaned up and put us both to bed. The sex that morning was sublime and has been ever since.

In 2008, I married my Mister and we’ve been happily drinking wine ever after.

What did I learn from this embarrassing moment?

Always drink in moderation and wear something appropriate to the occasion. Something with buttons and zippers.

How did you meet your spouse? Was there vomit involved?

tweet us @rasjacobson & @blogdramedy

My mom was hot stuff when I was little.

She was pretty and had straight teeth.

She wore pink hoop earrings and wore floppy hats.

She did cartwheels with the girls who lived in the white house across the street.

My mother is in nearly all of my earliest childhood memories. She encouraged me to paint, explore calligraphy, and use pipe cleaners to make frogs and ladybugs. She loved when I sang and danced and rode horses and did backflips off the diving board. 

When I was sick, my mother brought the black-and-white television into my bedroom along with a little bell, which she told me to ring if I needed anything. On those miserable days, I watched My Three Sons and The Don Ho Show until my mother emerged with green medicine and Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup served on a swirly green and blue plastic tray.

One day, I didn’t want to be my mother’s twin anymore.

Pink and yellow were not my colors.

I remember shouting and slamming doors: the tears.

I saw my mother throw her hands up, exhausted, not knowing what else to do.

I felt powerful then. Driving her to pain and chaos was fun.

Now that I have a teenager in the house, I want to tell my mother, I’m sorry. Because I see how precious it is, that time when our children are young. And what a gift it is, to let a mother hold on to the little things for another day, another year.

Because it hurts when our children reject our cuddles.

Because it was cruel to play with her heart.

Even when I didn’t give her any credit, my mother has remained steadfast, guiding me with an invisible hand.

She still is.

I suspect she always will be.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

Hey mom, you have two good hands. And from the looks of this photo, you knew how to style your own hair. Do you think you could have done something with mine? Seriously. Also, if you still have that hat, can I have borrow it? xoxoRASJ

Tell me something you remember about your mother.

tweet me @rasjacobson

I have this treadmill. Rather, I had this treadmill. I used it for years. It’s not like I have been training for a marathon or anything. I just like to walk on it at a nice clip for 30 minutes a day. You know, to shake my groove thing. 

Three weeks ago, my treadmill broke. Or part of it did. The speed keys stopped working which meant I had two options:

1. I could walk at .5 mph. One-half mile per hour should not even qualify as a speed. It’s like moving in slow motion.
2. I could use one of the custom programs, which vacillated between too slow and too fast and too much elevation.

It took a while to figure out if it was worth trying to save my 7-year old treadmill, but when I learned a new motherboard was going to cost over $500, Hubby and I found ourselves shopping around.

{Because he knows I need to move my badinkadonk for 30 minutes a day.}

Last Sunday, while I napped on the couch, Hubby called for backup. He needed help carrying the heavy 55″ platform downstairs, but then my man hung out in the basement – alone — putting the whole mess together.

It took him hours.

There was absolutely nothing in it for him.

And he’ll never use it.

It’s all for me.

Does that not scream of selfless love?

This week, Piper Bayard wrote The Happy Man Manual in an effort to offer tips to befuddled women everywhere about how we can keep it simple when it comes to pleasing our men. Piper asserts:

Men come with a three sentence Happy Man Manual: 1) Feed me; 2) Feed my ego; 3) Feed my libido. If a woman does at least two of those three things, she’s made him happy. Three, and bliss ensues.

So here is what I did:

1) I fed my man’s ego. I told Hubby how awesome he is for putting together the new treadmill. Even if the old one is lying like a heap of trash  at the foot of the basement stairs. Whatever.

2) I fed my man. I made an awesome meal last night because everyone knows that restaurants jack up their prices 20 gazillion percent on Valentine’s Day. Plus, it’s a school night. So we’re not doing that.

Hubby LOVES these gross Kosher for Passover fruit slices. a few days ago, I happened to be in the grocery store where the good folks at Wegmans were starting to fill the aisles with all things Pesach. And there they were. I bought him a package and hid the box.

Last night, I brought out the box.

Paydirt.

What? Oh, you want to know about the libido thing. Can I just say Hubby and I are going on an adventure on Friday and leave it at that?

Currently, we’re hovering somewhere between happy and bliss.

And you know who else is happy?

Marcia from Finding Felicity (@FindMyFelicity). She won the gnome salt & pepper shakers in my impromptu Getting To Gnome You: Valentine’s Day Giveaway. I loved reading everyone’s entries and I had a great time finding You Tube videos for y’all.

Gifts notwithstanding, what have you done recently to show someone you love them? Because isn’t that what it’s about?

tweet me @rasjacobson

I can’t help it.

I love to read personal ads.

Especially the ones where people write to strangers. You know the ones? A person has seen someone somewhere, and that person feels compelled to write about the *moment* in hopes that this person *might* see it and then recognize him or herself so they *might* hook up and live happily ever after.

First of all, I want to see one documented case – one – where this approach has ever worked.

Especially ones like these from isawyou.com:

Omigoodness.

In the name of fun, I’d like you to imagine that you are flipping through some local edgy magazine or some wonky online website when you see it.

Someone has written a personal ad.

And you know it’s about you.

Here’s how I imagine mine would go:

Last Monday. 1 pm. Seen leaving MCC campus. Woman dragging an unattractive wheelie-bag wearing a hat and a smile. You disappeared between a row of cars. I tried to come for you, but I don’t have a pass for Lot K. Can I buy you a ginger ale?

I can’t even tell you how much fun I had writing that, and it isn’t even that great!

So here is your chance!

In the comments, write a personal ad about yourself.

It can be fact or fiction or a hybrid.

Oh, and keep them under 50 words.

Personal ads ain’t cheap.

Unless you are on Craigslist.

Or isawyou.com.

Okay, who am I kidding? Even if they cost $750, personal ads are cheap.

But may they never disappear. Never.

tweet me @rasjacobson

Not long ago, I received a private message on Facebook from a stranger who turned out to be one of my ex-boyfriend’s ex-girlfriends.

This woman expressed concern that her ex – a man I used to live with – might be unstable, perhaps dangerous, and she hoped I could provide her with some background to help her understand what had happened in my now twenty years dead relationship.

I remembered the good things first.

How he brought me flowers and played with my curls. How we’d hiked and biked, ridden horses and picked wildflowers. How he gave me heart-shaped rocks.

How he made me feel.

After someone else had left me broken.

We played house in a rat-infested shack.

We went to university, learned our professions well.

But one day, he accused me of eating all his peaches.

And the next day, he stopped listening to my poetry.

He went out late and came home later, smelling of beer.

I learned he slept with another woman.

When I decided to leave, he came home as I was gathering up my last box of things and shoved me against a wall.

With his hands pressed against my shoulders, he shouted too close to my face. “You promised you’d never leave!”

Then he slid to the floor.

I kept moving.

Because I knew it was a trap.

He’d always used my words against me, twisted things around to make me feel like I was in the wrong. I was tired of being the bad one.

He followed me outside to my car. It was summer, and he stood on the hot driveway wearing shorts and wool socks as he leaned against my open window.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me.” His long eyelashes were wet. “You’re just like everyone else.”

I remembered I’d left my purple and green tapestry inside, but I decided he could have it.

Because I wasn’t going back.

Alone in my new apartment, I mourned the death of our love. I remembered how he begged me to stop taking my birth control pills. We’ll make beautiful babies together, he had whispered in my ear as we laid together on our futon in the dark.

Somehow I knew his words were wishes, not promises. They were just words without rings or commitment attached.

Somehow I knew to get out.

In the Facebook message from the ex-girlfriend, I learned there is a collection of women who have been wined and dined, then made to feel small, cheated on, and dumped by this same man.

If this is true, it means that for decades, he has brought one woman after another into his home. That he has fathered children, but abandoned their mothers.

I was sad.

Because I’d always said if he couldn’t find happiness with me, I’d hoped he could find it with someone else.

And I was sincere when I said that.

But it sounds like he is still tortured by the devils that were chasing him when we first met, that he has become the person he said he would never be.

I also learned I have a bit of a reputation.

Apparently, I’m “The Smart One Who Got Away.”

And that is partly true.

I did get away.

But I hate hearing that this man is broken, a scratched up record with the needle stuck in the same rut, and that this wonky groove is still the rhythm of his life.

And I hate hearing that he is smearing women against the sky.

Have you ever received second-hand news about a lost love? What did you learn? What did you say? Feel?

tweet me @rasjacobson

The woman behind the counter looked at the diamond studded watch that squashed her wrist, making it look like a fat sausage. She drummed her fat fingers against the counter top. She was in a hurry, and I was holding her up.

Though my fiancé and I had been engaged for eighteen months and I had more than ample time to think about it, talk about it, and make that decision, it wasn’t until we actually went to get our marriage license twenty-four hours before the wedding that I realized I could no longer defer reality. I had to make a choice.

I was torn.

Part of me wanted to keep my last name.

“Schuls” is the Americanized version of my grandfather’s Polish name. But it is hard to pronounce and no one ever spells it correctly on a first try. Still, it is my family name, linking me to my parents and my brother.

Anxiety prickled as I thought about my nickname?

It would be strange not to be RAS anymore.

I briefly entertained the idea that a new convention should be created where the man and the woman take a new name, perhaps join their names, and blend them in the name of holy matrimony. I proposed “SHAKE-OB-SON” and “JEWELS” to my fiancé, telling him we could go down into history like Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Henry Stanton who forever changed the institution of marriage by omitting the word ‘obey’ from their marital vows.

“We can be innovators, too!” I told him, grabbing his arm.

My fiancé laughed and called the idea ridiculous.

I pouted and wondered why I had to give up my identity.

Why I was the one who had to sacrifice, hassle with changing social security forms, medical records, credit cards, magazine subscriptions and insurance forms.

But the other part of me.

Oh.

The other part of me liked the idea of being lost in love.

Or something.

After all, I loved the guy.

I bit my lip and considered; it would be easier to spell.

The woman’s click-clacking fingers tapped faster, faster. A line had formed behind us.

I stared at her watch and felt time move too fast and too slow all at once.

Two other couples waited patiently to fill out their forms: other women had decided these things already.

“I’d like to hyphenate,” I declared.

And taking a breath, I said aloud it for the first time: “Renée Ann Schuls-Jacobson.”

Then I signed the papers, knowing that no one would ever say that whole mouthful.

It was official.

It doesn’t fit on a my driver’s license.

Or any of my credit cards.

And my students call me Mrs. Jacobson.

But, like I said, I loved the guy.

Still do.

Happy anniversary, Hubby.

Would you encourage your daughter to keep her own name or take the name of her spouse? If you had to do it again, would you do something different with the names thing? Or just make fun of our picture. Whatever floats your boat.

Tweet this twit @rasjacobson

My 12-year old son recently shared his 7^th grade yearbook with me, so I pulled out one of mine from a box in the basement.

As I flipped through, I remembered that in 1982, a guy named Tad* was a major theme.

“Who’s Tad?” Tech’s eyebrows arched.

“Just a boy I liked.”

My son saw people wishing me luck with Tad.

He also saw a disproportionate number of people leaving me ominous messages, warning me to be careful.

• • •

I’ve been wanting to share this story for a long time, and I’m excited to share the rest of it at Kludgy Mom‘s place!

Gigi is one of my most favorite bloggers, and back in May she asked a bunch us to imagine spending the entire summer at a remote cabin on the beach with a bunch of girlfriends. We were supposed to picture ourselves, in the evenings, gathered around a bonfire, maybe with a glass of wine, sharing in great conversation and the exchange of ideas.

I’m closing comments here today in hopes that you will follow me to the bonfire where I’ll tell you about the first boy to gut my heart.

I’ll be waiting for you.

*Author’s Note: While this story is true, it should be noted that the guy I liked was not named Tad.