Unexpected Changes

After spending the spring, summer, and early fall in the Pacific Northwest for work last year, I was lucky enough to have a few months off to work from home recently.


The (not so) wee ones were both excited and less than thrilled to have me around full time, having become accustomed to running their own lives and the luxury of that. It was definitely a change, as I'm so accustomed to traveling, and found that I missed that freedom more than I expected. It's a fairly comfortable life, I admit. Hotel living has it's perks: gorgeous views, housekeeping every day, dining out every night, no hassle of dirty dishes in the sink or laundry needing to be done or "real life" drudgery.

It's lovely. And I found that I needed that mental respite on occasion.


So over the fall and winter, I'd take the occasional getaway, both for the kids' sanity and mine, and give them a break from the requisite motherly nagging that goes along with teenagers and messy bedrooms.


Through a good friend, I met a nice guy who lives in another state: we have a lot of shared interests in outdoor activities, intelligent but not divisive conversations about politics and world affairs, and we got along fabulously in the bedroom. I'd fly in and visit once every few weeks for a couple of days: he'd go to work during the day, I'd putter 'round the cabin, and occasionally we'd play hooky and go cross country skiing across the fields or out in the woods.

It was never meant to be a long term thing- honestly, I'm introduced around as "my friend who's visiting", and neither of us have any expectations. And we were okay with that.


Now though, I'm back to work up in Washington and doing the usual weekly commute. Vague plans have been made that I'll pop up and see him, or he'll come down for a few days, but it seems we've both come to an unspoken agreement that while it was all lovely fun, it's run it's course. And without much more thought, I've returned to life as usual: single mom, weekly travel, hotel living, and sorting through scholarship offers with my eldest on the weekend, trying to pick which university she'll attend.


As I landed on Friday evening after my flight home this week, I got a text from my oldest asking me to stop and pick up some things at the store for her. Obliging, I popped into the local drugstore and as I perused the aisles, it occurred to me I was overdue for my period. I scanned my phone's calendar, didn't see the usual notation for January, and - with absolute sureness that it was entirely unnecessary (as my GP had given me the talk about perimenopause not three weeks prior) but because I like to rule out risk with complete confidence- threw a pregnancy test in the basket along with everything else.


20 minutes later, in the privacy of my bathroom, listening to the muffled sounds of teenagers in the kitchen, I stared down in complete disbelief at two pink lines.

I did a frantic counting back, thinking no, it's not possible. Can't be possible. Desperately called my GP, who although 10 minutes past closing, took my call and told me to come into the office immediately. Dashed to her practice, where she mirrored my look of "dear god, let this be negative" as she thrust a specimen jar at me as soon as I walked in.


Minutes later, her nurse handed her the results. My GP looked at them, looked at me, and said, "Well, that's that, then. Now what?"


My thoughts exactly.

Let the Weekend Begin

Life is pretty damn good...

We survived the roadtrip (more on that later), and came home to find Eldest had been accepted to college. My close friends and I secretly breathed a sigh of relief and not so secretly toasted her achievements. Granted, she's still a senior in high school and living at home, but taking college courses simultaneously with her high school classes, and then -God, Buddha, and the Fates willing- she moves to Oregon next year for university.

That, combined with my company being based in the Eastern US time zone, is how I find myself on the front porch with friends getting pleasantly tipsy at 2pm on a Friday enjoying rosé (and maybe a few G&Ts) and enjoying the unseasonably cool summer day (a spring like 102* F).

Ah, this is the life.... One child successfully reared on my own, friends to celebrate with, and a glass of wine to toast it all.

Cheers!

Those who wander are not lost, just finding their own way

We're on the road again, and by we I mean one mom, two dogs, and three teens. All living in the teeniest tiniest camper van ever built, our Westy.

You'd think two teenage girls and a 12 year old boy might mind sharing roughly 45 square feet of space. With no electrics. No bath. And no AC.  You'd be wrong. :) Despite the occasional squabble, they've been doing brilliantly well. And after 10 days of living/camping on the road and in the woods, we made our way  up to the Pacific Northwest, where I'm working for a week.

Upon arriving at the hotel I alway stay at for work, they scrubbed the dirt of the feet, traded flip flops for real shoes, and just like that they morphed from hippie kids to hipster kids, wandering the museums and art districts, eating lunch at hole in the wall Korean places, and sending me texts of graffiti street art. I love that they're so independent, so self sufficient, and so adaptable. It's amazing how they take everything in stride, and find their own way.

Eldest is off to uni  next year, and so we're checking out different schools  as we make our meandering way through the backwoods of Washington, Oregon, and British Columbia.

3500 miles and three weeks. One unforgettable adventure. Especially the ending... But that's a story for next time. 

I'm getting my groove back, finding my way, and finding my voice that's been muffled too long. 

And this roadtrip is just the beginning. 

The Next Adventure

It's been a long couple months. Major changes are occurring. 

I finally- after 6 long years of desiring- bought a Westy, a VW Westfalia camper van. We had one years ago, when the kids were itty bitty little things and there was another man in my life. 

I found one on Craigslist the other week, and on impulse called the guy. 

"You're the first person who's called about this van who isn't a hippy!" he exclaimed halfway through our conversation, "Sold! I'll hold it for you til you can get here."

A few days later I hop on a 5am flight to Northern California. Halfway through the flight, I get violently, horrendously ill. The plane lands in a rinky-dink airport in the middle of nowhere and I stumble off the plane to the closest airport bathroom, where I alternately sleep on the toilet floor and vomit for the next four hours. I literally crawl out of the bathroom and collapse in the floor in the airport hallway, completely ignored by passers by. I finally, luckily, and half delusionally, flag down an off duty airline mechanic leaving after a long night. 

"Is there a medical facility in this airport?" I ask. His blank stare tells me everything I need to know.

"A what?" he asks, probably wondering what the hell the woman lying on the floor is asking. 

"A doctor, a quick care, anything?" He shrugs, and it's all I can do to ask for a wheelchair to get me to a cab. He wheels me out, taking care to get my full name and the airline I came in on (in case I sue, I presume) and dumps me in a cab. "Closest ER, please," I ask the driver, who looks understandably scared, given that I'm vomiting all over his back seat and have shocking red and oozing welts protruding from every inch of my skin.

The driver, nice that he is, rushes into the hospital and retrieves another wheelchair for me when we arrive. He wheels me in, and as I'm doubled over in pain and alternately crying and vomiting, I check in.

I know the drill, I work in healthcare. And still I'm shocked as a nurse parks me in the corner of the ER, where I fall out of the wheelchair, and I spend the next hour huddled on the floor, crying and sick,  and only other patients also waiting for help bother to check on me.

A nurse finally retrieves me from the floor, and I'm given a bed and medication for pain. Then IV drips of antibiotics and anti-venoms. My phone rings, it's the VW Van guy. 

"I'm here with the van, where do you want to meet to see it?" he asks.

Completely drugged up, I tell him to bring it the ER. Tell them your my uncle, only relatives are allowed, I say. He shows up, a half hour later, and a sweet volunteer brings him to the ER bed I'm in.

I'm naked, save for the hospital gown, hooked up to IV drips and cardiac monitors, and he's looking around nervously like he's on some hidden camera pankster reality show.

"Do you want to see it?" he asks, somewhat ridiculously. I can't move, am hooked up to so many lines and wires I'd trip if I tried to. I laugh, say no, and we make somewhat awkward chitchat. I buy the van, sight unseen.

Hours later, I wobble out to the parking lot after I'm discharged, (diagnosis: severe allergic reaction to venomous spider) and there it is...

A 1983, manual drive, somewhat beaten up old camper van. 

And it's beautiful. 

I climb into it, and collapse in the back to sleep for a couple hours.

And so begins the next chapter...

New Perspective

I spent the whole weekend on the boat, for the first time since Trevor walked out without warning or explanation. I've spent a couple hours down here, on the weekends I'm home, but it's hard to be here alone. 

This weekend, though, I decided to push my way though the emotions. The weather is gorgeous, and I'm only home for two weeks before I "move" to Seattle for work. Here at the marina, though, the spring boaters are just starting to make an appearance. The rest of us are starting our annual  maintenance; cleaning, shining, waxing... shaking the proverbial winter dust off our sails and opening the portholes to the spring breezes. I decided to join them and return to what used to be my normal life, til it all went awry. 

I drove down to marina, screwed up my courage and committed to spending the night there. I made my way to the boat, chatting and catching up with all the neighbors along the way. I changed into shorts and a bikini top, got out the teak oil and fell into my springtime routine of refinishing the woodwork- something I've always loved. My box of oiling supplies- sandpaper, brushes, rags, teak oil- was still where I'd hidden it last spring when he had insisted on taking all "unnecessary supplies" off the boat. On deck, my handrails were still partially sanded, when they'd been abandoned last spring, slightly more gray for the weather. The sun shone above, voices and faint music floated over the water, and I settled into a blissful state of non-thinking. 

Hours later, hands cramped and arm muscles burning, I retired inside, turned on some music and made myself at home were I'm happiest: in the kitchen. But slowly, as the night darkened and despite my best efforts at avoiding, the echoes of the past floated through the air, "my beautiful bride" was whispered by the ghost of his memory, and his presence -as overwhelming as it always was- seemed to permeate every nook and cranny of the boat. I dreaded going to sleep, the v-berth seeming cavernous and empty. I crawled into bed, lost in the emptiness, and rearranged the pillows snugly against me- both as a barrier against the past which held me firmly in its grip, and as a comfort, a replacement for a lover that once held me close here.

Memories -both good and bad, for I'm no fool wearing rose colored glasses- held me hostage 'til I finally surrendered the past to sleep.

I normally sleep the sleep of innocents and babies on the boat. Last night, I slept the sleep of the tortured. Finally, about 530 this morning, I fell into the deep sleep of exhaustion, and when I woke late this morning I was tired, but somehow lighter. 

Whether it was subconscious or not, I had taken off my ring yesterday before I went down to the boat, for the first time in 13 months to the day it was put on, and exactly four months to the day he left. I didn't realize it in the moment of taking it of. I just did it. I left it on my bathroom sink, and it sits there still. But I'll admit I have noticed its absence. 

The hard part is knowing he left by choice. It was intentional. Planned. And a complete surprise to me. So I don't know how to grieve, really. How does one grieve for something they only thought they had? Because I realize, what I believed was there, what I changed my entire life for, what I opened my kids to... was not actually real. It was not healthy, it was not real, it was utterly devastating and almost destroyed my family.

He cheated, he lied, he made promises knowing he'd never keep them. I can't believe I ever trusted him, but now I'm here on the other side, having survived. Stronger. Smarter. And more aware of who I really am, and where I want to be. And the kids and I came through it, closer and stronger as a family.

So despite your pathological character, and your selfish ego that supersedes all else, we survived you, Trevor. And all I have to say is good luck- karma is a bitch and usually comes when you least expect it.

Same Old Story, on Repeat

It's been five years, almost exactly, and yet I found myself sitting in the same position now as I did then: a therapist's couch. Different man this time, but if I closed my eyes, I'd swear they were the same. Marriage proposal from a single, never married, no kids man followed by major freak out on his part and marriage counseling so he could point out all my perceived flaws as an excuse for leaving. After two sessions of listening to him tell the therapist how horrible I was, I decided enough was enough. And the next week when I returned to the therapist alone, the therapist told me I should consider myself lucky that it ended, no one would ever be able to meet my ex's unrealistic standards and demands.

So life has returned to normal since then, I spend my weekends sailing when I'm home, and now Christmas is just around the corner.

I'm living in New England for work these days, in a small college town of notable money. It's a beautiful town, but weird in its Stepford-wive-ness. I found myself in a meeting last week, wondering if I should go blonde to fit I'm better, as I looked around a room filled with blonde women, all wearing J.Crew and dripping in jewelry.

I don't know that I could pull off blonde, but at least it would hide all my grays!

But for now, I'm home for two weeks with the kids for the holidays before I return to New England, and just starting to get our Christmas going.

Wish me luck as I face the crowds of Christmas shoppers! I'm going to remind myself that it could be worse when I'm waiting in line behind 832,000 other last minute shoppers... I could still be in marriage counseling!

High School Never Ends

I was home today, for the first time in ages, to watch Eldest do her band thing. I drove 50 minutes through hell, high water, and ghetto neighborhoods to watch her get her band geek on at a Big City High School.

Showing up early, I got roped into helping them load stuff on the field.

As I stood there, watching as acne-suffering teens filed past me, the band director -having correctly pegged me as useless- assigned me to pull the cooler filled with water bottles, entrusting the more important band things such as gong and xylophone to more obviously trustworthy adults.

I watched as the band kids pass me, in awe of the freaks and geeks that band seems to beckon (me and kid included), when the band director/teacher yells at me, "Hey, take it to the sidelines!"

And just as the band is announced, and I'm struggling with an unwieldy cooler on wheels full of unnecessary water bottles -it's 50 fucking degrees people and these kids who are being judged on their performance are certainly not going to stop mid-performance for a drink- I trip over a goddamn speaker wire running from the judges to the field.

And promptly dump the entire, unnecessary cooler full of water bottles all over the track.

In front of stands full of hundreds of people watching.

(Flash back to when I was last minute picked to be a cheerleader when half the squad was kicked off for drinking. Homecoming, 1992. First time putting on a cheer skirt, no idea what the hell I was doing. The rest of the team hated me because I was a goody two shoes with straight A's who worked in the library and ended up as a cheerleader as a fluke. I spent the entire Homecoming game standing there stupidly because I had no idea what to do.)

The stands (today) laughed like they did back in '92, as I got down on hands and knees and scrambled to pick up the water bottle mess I made. A super nice band dad came rushing over to help, "I hate when that happens," he mumbled as we struggled to corral all the stray water bottles rolling all over the field.

I was too mortified to respond.

I'm 40, and still feel like I'm in high school.

Eldest refused to even look at me after, and shook her head- not subtly- when I glanced her way, warning me not to come talk to her.

I slunk away, as embarrassed at 40 as I was at 17.

As the saying goes... High School never ends. And I'm as much of a dork as I was then.

Man Bits and Mono

I got home last Thursday morning just in time to send the wee ones off to Ex-Hole's for a five day holiday. Littlest, who's 12, came home horribly ill on Tuesday night. By Wednesday morning, after hours of vomiting and coughing and keeping everyone up all night, I was desperate to take him to the doctor.

"Doctor's Service, may I help you?" asks the (not) helpful woman on the other end of the line. After hemming and hawing for twenty minutes and insisting that there were no doctors available for a week, she finally books me in with the nurse. Two hours later, the phone rings.

"Erm, sorry to tell you this, but the nurse doesn't see sick children," says a different woman on the other end of the line.

What the hell? Have you ever heard of such a thing, a family practice nurse that doesn't see sick children? What on God's green earth does she do then? Twenty minutes later, another appointment booked... with the doctor this time.

(Back story: The last time Littlest was in having his annual physical, I had just finished replacing a leaky garbage disposal and faucet in the kitchen. The Doctor had asked Littlest how his "plumbing" was working. Littlest responded with "Well, Mum just fixed it all up, so it didn't leak anymore." Cue baffled and concerned looks on the part of the good Doctor til I explained 1) to the Doctor, and 2) to Littlest what the Doctor was actually asking. More baffled looks on the part of Littlest.)

Fast forward to today. Finally got Littlest in to see his doctor. Having taken the Doctor aside beforehand, I asked him to check out Littlest's "plumbing" to see if it were growing as it should, since we were in there anyway. Being that I work in healthcare, I tend to roll everything I can into one visit. It's easier on my patience and on my wallet. So hey, might as well check out the man bits while you're checking out everything else, right?

The Doctor listened to his heart, lungs, palpated his spleen and abdomen, and did a cursory glance down the pants. Diagnosis: mono and the man bits are normal. Not satisfied with the cursory glance, given the importance of the thing in question, I asked again, "Are you sure everything's growing as it should?" I mean, come on now, the boy's going to want to have ahem, relations one day, and I want to make sure it's a possibility and that his poor wife can tell what's happening when it does.

The Doctor sighed. "Okay, Mum, come on over and have a look yourself." He glanced down at Littlest, lying bravely on the table. "Sorry, Son." He proceeds to un-pants Littlest, stretch his man bits out, and give me a breakdown on the anatomy of said man bits (with man bits in hand.)

Having gone over in detail that everything was functioning, growing. and looking as it should, he nods to Littlest, tells him to get dressed, and leaves the room.

Littlest just looks up at me.

"Well, that was weird."

For me too, kid, me too.


(Let it be noted, that if his future wife ever complains about their sex life, it won't be because I didn't do my part.)

Moving Home

My last week in the Midwest is done. I had vowed I'd make it out of there before the bitterly cold winter of the Plains descended in all it's frosty fury. And I was thiiiiiis close to making it. Until I woke up on Thursday morning to a drifting of snow outside my hotel window. Well, crap.

Glanced at the thermostat on the wall, indicating a lovely 76* inside. Checked my phone for the temps outside. 25*. Sighed, put on my big girl panties and got up to start my last day on the project there.

Trudged a half mile through the snow in open-toe heels, bare legs, and business dress to the office, and alternating between cursing Mother Nature and admiring the way the snowflakes looked as they twirled down, ran through my to-do list:

Meetings with the client.
Clean out the hotel room mini-fridge.
Phone conference with the kids' school.
Take my bike to the airport to ship.
Make a doctors appointment for next week.
Make a marriage counseling appointment too.

Not a moment to breathe, at least until I got on the plane one last time (for this project anyway).

And later that night, as I walked across the rinky-dink tarmac, and up the steps to the rinky-dink plane, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Made it. Survived it. Glad to be done with it.

And now back to reality...

Away from the green, away from relative freedom of no demands on my time, away from the relative luxury of eating out every day and hotel living. Back to the desert and being a fulltime mom. Back to work issues, school performances, family life, sailing and most importantly... being home.

Staring Into the Face of 40...

...And what I see in the mirror are wrinkles, laugh lines, sun spots, and more gray hairs than I had a year ago. But it's the face of a life well lived so far. And I'm determined to keep on living that way.

It wasn't ideal timing, financially, but my local bike shop made me a deal I couldn't refuse. I've known the guys there for years, and have spent many a weekend night hanging out with them either at the shop, the lake, or at our local pub. So when some jerk stole my bike over Fourth of July, my bike shop guys were keen to find me a replacement. And hurrah, they found one for me! I picked it up just yesterday, an early 40th birthday present to myself. And I put 17 miles on it last night, grinning ear to ear and adding to those laugh lines etched on my aging face.

In addition to this beauty, I picked up a 'well-loved' bike for $20 from the local thrift shop in my temporary Midwest home. I left it at the bike shop there last Friday before flying home, and they're restoring her to her former glory... or getting it ride-able, anyway. So now I've got something I can ride there to burn off stress after a long day at work, and now a beautiful new bike here to ride on the weekends I'm home. Life is looking up at the moment, despite the curve balls it keeps throwing at me.

It's a good start to a new decade. I'm loving life, even with all it's wrinkles and imperfections.

Balls to It All

Fall has finally arrived, and with it cooler temperatures.


I'm sitting on the front porch tonight, the wind blowing through the only, lonely tree on the property. The leaves rustle, and to my ocean-longing soul, sound like waves breaking upon the beach, sometimes fierce and strong, sometimes slow and caressing, tickling the hair on the back of my neck, a fleeting touch of something tantalizing.





The Man and I are working through some issues, and although we are going to counseling, all I can think is that if we've only been dating a year and are already in marriage therapy we may not stand a snowball's chance in hell.


Speaking of...



I was flying through Dallas the other week and plopped myself down on an airport barstool. The bartender sidles up (it being Texas and all), and asks me "Do you want a bad joke, or a good drink?"




"Both," I say without hesitation.



He takes a step back from his side of the bar, cocks his head and looks me up and down, as if he's taking measure of what may or may not be appropriate.


"Whats the difference between a  snowman and a snow woman?" He asks with a cheeky grin.


"Hmm, I don't really know ," I say.


"A pair of snowBALLS, of course!"


So there you have it, the anatomy lesson for tonight.


A wounded heart and a pair of balls... the latter will get you through the first and damned if I don't have a pair. So here goes nothing. Time to man up and get through the mess.

Yay for Fall!

The summer has drawn to a close, and the children are well and truly off to school now. My days have returned to peaceful quiet broken only by the occasional barking dog. I'm feeling like I'm starting to surface from some deep dark eddy of non-existence... making plans with friends, running again, and searching for my next boat.


I start travelling for work again next week, and I'll be gone through November. It'll be a long couple of months for me and the kids, but I think it'll be good for me, and give me the chance to reexamine the direction I want my life to go in.

I'll be living (during the week) in a small, rural town somewhere in the Midwest. I went online this morning, and found a dance studio located just a block from my work and the hotel I'll be living at. They have ballet classes twice a week at night, perfect for my schedule (and easier on my body than running!) And I'll be just a few blocks from the river, so can find some peace on the water as well. Last thing I need to locate there is a bike shop, so I can rent a bike to burn off stress. The more I look at it, the better this seems it will be for my sanity.

Current (Non) Happenings

Summer is well and truly in full force: days of heat-driven lassitude and nights of stifling summer heat.

The kids left to visit their father two weeks ago, and with them, any sense of responsible adultness left too. Since I resigned in June from the previous position, and don't start the new one 'til August, I've had nothing required to do. Nothing. Not a thing. While that's normally anathematic to my personality, it's been quite nice (just for the time being).

The Man and I have had this time to ourselves (much needed, as I'll be travelling from Day 1 of the new job, 90% of the time), and it's been lovely. Lazy days of puttering on the boat (if you call installing a head and diving the boat "puttering"), midday naps, evenings under the stars. But today? Today is all mine, and it's about damn time...

He's at work, doing a 24 hour shift, and I had the whole bed to myself last night. Slept in late this morning (8:30, good grief!), and had whipped cream on my coffee (pure indulgence, mmmmm).

The house is silent, save for the gurgling of the fountain on the front patio, and the steady drone of the cicadas in the trees outside. The doors and windows are all open, as the monsoon season has begun, and the heavy humidity is a warm blanket of loveliness. If I squint my eyes, the green weeds that have taken over the back garden almost look lush and tropical, and for a moment- just a moment- I can pretend I'm not living in the god-forsaken hell that is this hole in the desert.

I'm off to enjoy the peace and quiet and solitude. The kids come home tonight, contractors invade the house tomorrow to finish all my unfinished projects, and life returns to it's normal whirlwind pace. We're off to the Deep South next week to scout colleges for Eldest, then I have five hours between landing from vacation and flying out again for work the next morning.

But for now, I'm going to take my coffee to the front porch to enjoy these last few hours of silence.

 

~~~~~~~~~~

Sunset snapshot from my week:

 



 

 

Recovery Time

I got home late Friday night. The house wasn't in too much of a shamble, and I didn't have too many phone calls of "Muuuummmm, so and so looked at me funny and called me such and such!" while I was gone, so I call that a success- on the home front anyway! Work, not so much. I was in serious need of de-stressing, so I headed straight to the boat on Saturday.

Sorry about the noise, it's my first video ever!

Did a little kayaking before the clouds rolled in...

The first "boat" I ever bought, and how I learned to love the water.

Did a little relaxing while waiting on the clouds to clear...

And was rewarded with a beautiful sunset...

Feeling much better about things now. Just keeping my fingers crossed that this week goes more smoothly on the project than last week. If not, I'll be handing in my resignation shortly. I spend too much time on the road for work for it to be hell.


"Dear Employer,

Thank you for the lesson in backstabbing, being thrown under the bus, and all sorts of perfectly despicable behavior. I'm sure this experience will come in handy some day, but for now... it's all yours.

Kind regards,
Me"

Opening Pandora's Box

It was Friday the 13th. I'd just received a text from my favorite waitress at the marina where my boat is. "He's here" is all it said...

Earlier that day, I'd taken one of my girls down to the boat to hang out while I puttered around, de-stressing after a crappy week. We were having breakfast at the restaurant, Middlest and I, and the waitress asked if I'd met the new sailor who'd been hanging around the marina. I laughed, and shook my head no. I had no desire to meet a man, nor the time for dating. I travel for a living, and I was exhausted. I'd just completed a 6 month long project and was taking a break from the traveling to recoup. No way in hell did I want to take on another "project", ie: a man.

"He's gorgeous," the waitress tried to persuade me, "Smart, single, and a firefighter!"

Middlest looked at me, and shrugged. "You should, Mama," she said, "It can't hurt to have a Plan B." She grinned impishly. "Plus, firemen are super cute!" Trust the teenager to focus on the important things.



I looked at her. Plan A was where we were firmly at. No man, no (relationship) drama, everything rolling along relatively smoothly. The ex-husband has been a thorn in our sides since we got divorced 10 years ago, when my youngest was just born, so I don't need any other drama in my life. I'd dated my fair share of men, learned plenty of lessons, and had been fortunate enough to have been in love twice and escaped relatively unscathed. No need for me to go opening Pandora's box, looking for more.

"He's here" said the text, later on that night. I glanced down at my phone, and ignored it. Bing. Another text, this one a pic of a charming grin, mischievous eyes, and dark hair falling across his forehead in a little boy way.

Pandora's box was tempting, and I couldn't resist.

The Adventure Begins...

Two years ago, I bought an old boat from a friend of mine. He was retiring with his wife, and leaving his old boat behind for a newer, shinier model in the Caribbean. She's beautiful, this boat of mine, all wood and character and issues... lots and lots of issues, unsurprising for a boat that's almost as old as I am. She's not my first, but she is my largest: a 33' Yorktown. No head, no galley, and a whole lot of work. But I'm always up for a challenge, and the water is my first love.

I'm Samedi, an almost 40, single mom of three lovely kids, and a woman living on a lake in the middle of nowhere with dreams to go everywhere.

This is my story...