Back in March, I got stood up.  Something that, at age 41, was something I never dreamed would ever happen.  But yes, it is true.  Let me back up.

In the beginning of this past spring, back when the fog was still heavy with dew and lay like a blanket of water droplets on anything that couldn't move, I decided to search Facebook for the man who could, I thought, single-handedly fill in some of the gaps I have surrounding my mother's death.  Sure, I had searched Facebook before, only to turn up nothing I wished to pursue.  What was different this time, I am still unsure.  But, I managed to find someone by the same name as this man I once knew.  In my typical be-bold, but-not-too-bold fashion, I dashed out a short message to the closest person I could find:  His Son.

I honestly don't know what I expected to happen, but believe me when I say I never thought this man would not call.  He sounded sincere, I guess, in the way that everyone sounds sincere over Messenger.  Sincere Until Proven Otherwise, that is how I tend to play the game.  I mean, why assume the worst in people?  Still...he never called.  I never did get back in touch with him about it, either.  Today on Facebook, this man cannot be found.  I will never know if he blocked me or if he just doesn't have Facebook anymore.  I would probably be a little spooked, too, if I was the head of an inherited empire that cost people their lives as a direct result of their "occupations".  It was the early '80s, she was a vulnerable young and beautiful woman, naive, who grew up on the poor side of town.  She must have felt a panic to get out of Nowata, a kind of desperation, and just took a chance!  I know that feeling.  I have felt it often over the course of my life here.  Not lately.  But at 28?  Well, just about every day is how often I felt just like that.  Yes.  It was the early '80s, I have heard the blow was good, and obviously so was her salary.  But the risks?  Not hardly.  How can he even sleep at night?  I never get to, so why should he?  Really.  I would LOVE to know all of his secrets!

I guess I was dreaming it out like this:  My phone would ring.  Max would start off by telling me how his father and my mother met, and how their circles of friends overlapped enough to get them together.  And then he would tell me the truth about my mother's real role in her company.  He would tell me what she liked to do, her hobbies, and what his father had seen in her.  How his father had felt about her.  He was supposed to have told me what happened on her business trips to The City, Boston, Kansas City, Dallas, Orlando.  He was supposed to tell me how she had keys to that beachfront condominium at Cocoa Beach, too, but we never got that far...because he never called.  He'd stood me up.

"What exactly did she DO?"  I imagined myself asking.

"You probably have heard a few people talk, haven't you?"  Max answered my question with a question of his own, deflecting and dodging bullets.  I hate when people do that!

"No, actually.  Nobody's EVER given me any information about any of it,"  I would say, disdained.  Then, again:  "So, what exactly did she do?"

This man I did not even know, sighed.  He was reluctant, of course he was, because telling me would likely put himself or his family in danger or, worse, their secrets would be uncovered and they would risk losing everything.  "You need to know that your mom loved you very much, Elizabeth."

Yeah, I did know that.  That's the same response Alan Lambert, another old boyfriend of my mother's who also happened to be the KVOO disc jokey and, later, the host of 'Big Band Saturday Night' on one of my favorite radio stations growing up, 92.9, had told me several years ago.  I had been driving somewhere late at night, listening to his radio show.  His voice, soothing and sophisticated, or so I thought, was music to my ears the night he picked up the station phone during call-ins.  I hadn't expected him to actually answer.  But, he did in fact answer.  

I explained to Mr. Lambert who I was and why I was calling.  You know, "To find out more about my mother," I remember saying.  He seemed taken off guard, but not upset or mad.  He sounded genuinely happy that I had called.  His voice never wavered from his usual one coming out of my car speakers, which was a relief to me.  Consistency.  Finally, something that lined up.  Something that was the same then and now, now.  Fluid.

"Your mother was beautiful, Elizabeth.  And how much she loved you?  It was unmistakable just how much she loved you...I remember she smiled every time she said your name,"  Alan said in his best emcee voice.  No change in intonation whatsoever, this man.  He wouldn't be a hard case to crack, but then again, he wasn't a part of the main people who served as a catalyst to her demise.  I pictured her; her teeth, white and perfectly straight just like piano ivories.

I think he said a few other nice things, but I began to choke up.  I hadn't known he would actually pick up the phone.  "Okay -- thank you very much!  I appreciate it."  Click.  

I hung up the phone, right in his ear.  He was running a damn radio station and it was 11:00 at night, I didn't want to get him into trouble.  Or, that's what I told myself to justify ending our surprise conversation so abruptly.  I bent over my steering wheel and sobbed.  The top was up, a rare thing, but the safest thing.  I had kept it up that entire night, just driving with the windows down. 

I had no particular place to go, but it seemed I was in search of everything.

​

I had to confiscate this book from Molly tonight.

Let me back up.

The girls and I went to the library in Bartlesville earlier today.  Long story short, we didn't even make it past the little room in front, the one with all the books for sale.  Friends of the Library, they call it, and this is how it works:  People donate books, magazines, CDs, DVDs, dictionaries...basically anything in print...and people like myself who enjoy a great deal on books in near-perfect condition can go in and peruse through and pore over at their own leisure.  Everything costs between $0.10 and $1.00, depending on what you buy.  

Well.

I was so excited about my own literary and monetary finds (why, just today I found a folded $10 bill between two pages of one of the books I was looking through) that I failed to pay attention to what Molly had chosen.  Molly is the type of kid who won't do something if she knows it will get her into trouble.  She is the type of kid who will come to me and tell me if she is feeling concerned about something she did, or if she happens to be remorseful about something that happened at school in her day-to-day interactions.  Molly is the type of little girl who will not watch something inappropriate just because she knows she is not supposed to.  And, if she does step over the line and watch something she thinks I would not approve of her watching, she comes to me to confess and tell me how sorry she is.  With her, I sometimes feel like a confessor.  It isn't a dynamic I had planned, and it reminds me a little of the smack-in-the-face simple ridiculousness of an '80s family-oriented sitcom, the convenient and annoying little way everything worked itself out in 26 minutes, dodging commercials and trips to the kitchen in a tidy little 30-minute time slot.  

But that's just her personality, self-regulating.  And that's just her heart, thoughtful.  

So!  She had this book, 'One Fifth Avenue', penned by none other than Sex & The City brainchild Candace Bushnell.  I found her in bed with it, her glasses still on, so I knew she had been reading it.  

"Molly...what book is that?"  I asked, noting the whimsical chic cover.  And with this, let me just tell you one of my biggest, baddest secrets about myself:  I JUDGE BOOKS BY THEIR COVERS.  Always have, and probably always will.  I hate to admit it, because it's absolutely against everything Mrs. Neely, a long-time blessing in my life as well as my elementary librarian, taught us kids back then.  For me to say this now, age 41, is a pretty bold statement, but there you have it!  I look at the covers of books, and trust me, it best be something that catches my eye or else I won't be opening the pages!  After all, it's up to an author to work in harmony with her designer to come up with the most perfect portrayal of what lies inside and between those pages.  If the cover's a flop, or if it is bland, then judgmental women like me will not soon pick it up!  We will just figure if the author and the designer couldn't work cohesively to catch our attention with a killer (dust) jacket, then why waste our lives trying to figure it out in our heads as we're reading it?  Nope.  Not happening.  If THEY, the very people trying to push a book, can't make something look halfway appealing so that it speaks to me when I look at it, then I'm sure not going to bother with peeling back the flaps to read what the book is even about.  Choosing a book happens in steps for me.  If the cover isn't interesting in some way or another, or if it doesn't evoke a feeling within me that I am comfortable with, then I'll not soon progress to step two, reading the inside flaps!  If Step One and Step Two passes, then I look at the author's photo on the back.  I stare at their faces, like, Do You Really Mean All Of This?  Sometimes I'll even read that little paragraph under the photo (usually a black and white, I've found, but not ALWAYS) that usually includes their credentials, where they reside, and some dumb trivia factoid they've included so as to seem relatable and lovable, likable at the very least.  Elizabeth lives in her hometown of Nowata, Oklahoma, with her three kids and emotionally unavailable husband.  Oh, and a cat named Cookie that lets them ALL live under its roof out of the kindness of its heart.  If all that's a "go", then the book will come home with me.  

"Oh, it's one of the books I picked out today," Molly answered innocently.  I stared at the cover, hard, and then I saw the author's name.  

She saw me giving it the mental third degree.  "Oh, momma, should I not be reading it?"  

I had a weird expression on my face.  I was stunned.  "No...it's not that...I mean...is it inappropriate?"  

"I just started it, I don't know," she admitted.

Well.  I turned to page 2.  The word 'penis' stuck out like a sore thumb.  Matter of fact, it just sprang up and slapped me in the face.  

I snorted.  "Uhhhh...no.  I see the word 'penis'."

"Mom, I know what it means.  It means a boy's ding d-"

I cut her off.  "I KNOW what the word means!  I know YOU know what the word means!  But that doesn't mean you need to be reading about them!"  I closed the book and hugged it tight to my chest.  "I'm sorry, baby, but it's mine now."  My sweet, sweet girl.  

She took off her glasses and put them beside her bed.  Lying back on her pillows she rolled her eyes heavenward.  Then, "I just wish there were more challenging books out there for my age..."  

I thought for a minute.  "I understand that.  But, as your mom it is my job to protect you from things that you shouldn't be exposed to.  Even though you are a good reader and you know what some of it might mean, that doesn't mean you ought to be reading it.  You know how the Bible talks about guarding our hearts and minds?"  

"Yeah...I guess..."

"Well, stuff like this will make you old before your time.  Maybe let's give it a few more years, shall we?"  I asked, hopeful.  But I meant every word.

Molly sighed and nodded reluctantly.  "Ohhh kaaay."  If this were a ridiculously cheesy '80s sitcom, you knew the end of the show was near.  If this were a book, one could feel the falling action shifting toward a resolution.  If this were a plate of your favorite foods, you would almost be finished eating but wish you would never run out.  But since this is real life, you thank your lucky stars at what an "easy" kid God gave you.  
                                               ****                   ****             ****
Tomorrow, I embark on a new journey.  I start a new career in children's behavioral health, and I could not be more ready or thankful. 

After working from home for peanuts, for bupkis, for over 9 years, I was laid off in early July.  Prior to any of that, I had been slowly building my wardrobe out of sweatpants and sloppy tee shirts.  I used to be a decently-dressed young woman, Ann Taylor, J.Crew, Eddie Bauer, LL Bean, Gap...and then I became a tired mom who managed to lose all sense of respect for herself as she fought through her 3-year love affair with alcohol.  Lonesome for the woman I used to be...you know, before it felt as though my life fell apart, I started growing my hair out in an effort to get back in touch with myself.  A painful process at times, the growing-out stage finally gave way to longer locks, which I haven't had in close to 15 years.  Slowly, and surely, I began to manifest good thoughts and just kept on giving thanks for what I did have.  I started seeking out the sunshine, rather than staying tucked away inside and away from the world.  I began talking to more people, because I really do love people, and began to seek out making real connections with people.  It's an ongoing, daily practice, but I am learning to reframe my thoughts so that I can feel of sound mind and of sound heart.  For too long, I let depression control me.  Changing my mindset proved to be the most efficient, affordable way for me to get on track to a more fulfilled life.  

Pretty soon, things began to fall into place.  Tonight, they are still falling into place.  I don't want to make light of any of it, but I also don't want my friends to think I lead a charmed life.  I do lead a blessed life, though.  There are things that are happening that I cannot divulge because this is not the right time, but things are definitely in a transition phase. Like growing out my hair, some of this will prove to be painful as it is happening, but I look at it as progress.  Every day in every way, I am getting better and better.  And while I do not know how it all will play out, I am certain this is all moving in accordance to a plan that was written in the stars long before I was ever born.  A most perfectly orchestrated series of events, indeed.  

I believe that what we put into our bodies is important.  Input equals output, that's my theory.  If we eat like crap and we feel like crap, then something is wrong with this picture.  

I believe that what we wear should be, foremost, comfortable.  Too, I believe what we wear should be something that reflects our unique personalities.  I'm not at all caught up in labels, but just like a book jacket, we should seek to tell a story in how we clothe our bodies.  Minimalist?  Preppy?  Cowgirl?  Cowboy?  Sporty?  Sophisticated?  Bookish?  Proud nerd?  Misunderstood goth?  Own it, that's what I say.  People are going to see us.  They are going to make an assessment based on what they see, they just are.  I know as I began to build my wardrobe back up a bit at a time, I certainly felt myself perk up.  I am a firm believer that taking pride in how we present ourselves to the world makes us feel better!  I know I do not get dressed with the intention of impressing others.  I get dressed with the intention of feeling good that day in what I have on.  I do not say all of this because I am a superficial person.  I say all of this because I believe it is another form of self-care, and loving, gentle self-care is tantamount with a happiness that nobody else in this world can give you nor take away.  

The picture of me above was taken by my daughter, Grace.  She is 5 years old.  I wanted to try on my outfit for my first day tomorrow, and came out of the bedroom so the kids and Todd could see.  A dress rehearsal, if you will.  My hair was a mess and I had no makeup on, but my daughters just kept gushing about how "pretty" and "professional" I looked.  Todd told me I "looked alright," and I guess I will just go with it because I don't expect much from him, anyway.  I am proud of myself, even if he still harbors resentment and that unwillingness to forgive me for the hell I put him through during the time I wasted, drinking.  I am trying to love myself, anyway.  I am a survivor.  I love my kids.  I want my kids to have an example in their lives of someone who is imperfect, who has made BIGBIGBIG mistakes, but turned it around out of my love for them!  I am an overcomer.  I am a work in progress.  I am a walking, talking example of how a person can turn her life around by "getting real" and learning to get past the past.  I am coming into my own, and figuring out how to live out my purpose.  And you know something?  It feels magnificent.  

Colossians 3:14-17 New Living Translation (NLT)14 Above all, clothe yourselves with love, which binds us all together in perfect harmony. 15 And let the peace that comes from Christ rule in your hearts. For as members of one body you are called to live in peace. And always be thankful.