F.I.N.E.

It’s been years and years ago now, but at the time it couldn’t have been even a month since Al served me with divorce papers in the driveway of Cottage 64 on Tabby Lane, aka 12th Street on Sea Island, Georgia. Curiously enough my dear friend with the honeyed drawl speaking on the other end of the phone that particular Fall day, was also the same lovely lady I had been speaking to on the morning of September 14th when the khaki-clad man in the Sea Island Green polo shirt shoved the manila envelope of legal documents at me through the driver’s side window of my G-Wagon. The shared alliance between my Southern “Guardian Angel” and me was a blessing I appreciated deeply, and represented a bond which had grown exponentially stronger over the 11 to 12 years since our original meeting. That the gulf of years between our respective ages approached somewhere close to 35+ only served to strengthen my feelings of admiration, even reverence for my gem of a soul mate. From day one, she and her husband had not just introduced us to the original resort, The Cloister, as well as the many branches of its recently notorious tree of ownership, they also fostered our family’s sense of belonging amongst a deeply-rooted and wonderfully gracious coterie of personalities that called Sea Island theirs, nestled neatly between vast marsh lands and the Atlantic Ocean. Back history aside, when she called me that one morning to reconfirm our weekly Friday lunch plans, a cherished routine which had fallen by the wayside over the past month and asked me, somewhat tentatively, “are you feeling better,” I was challenged to find a reply which was sincere but wouldn’t sound harsh. We both knew I hadn’t been physically ill; she was referring to the emotional and legal drama that was playing out in real time for the Capone family. There was no part of me that wanted to hurt or lash out at my sweet ally no matter how miserable or grim those past few weeks had been. Instead, I simply answered, “yes, I’m fine.” That was hardly the case, but I desperately needed even the slightest semblance of normalcy in my life and hoped an hour or two spent with my treasured confidante over lunch would provide a measure of that. We settled on a time and location for Trinette, her much-valued housekeeper and aid to do drop off for our visit and the conversation ended. Walking back the length of our oceanfront home from the kitchen to the bedroom wing, I entered the Master Suite, newly and exclusively mine, and sat down at the foot of the kingsize bed overlooking the sea in front of me. I felt anything but “fine,” or was I? Almost immediately a thought popped into my mind. It’s anyone’s guess where I heard the acronym for the first time, but it seemed so wildly appropriate for my state of mind that day, I remember saying the word aloud and then followed up with the entirety of its meaning. “Okay so, I’m fine… F**ked up, Insecure, Neurotic, and Emotional.”

While that “F.I.N.E.” feeling happens with far, far, far less frequency now than it did in days past, it does still occur from time to time and after my last post “Oh Sh*t,” which I published shortly before New Year’s Day and in it resolved to abolish any maudlin feelings, I feel more than a little sheepish to confess that I’ve not been completely successful in that pursuit. More than likely, I shouldn’t have been so ‘bullish’ about projecting such a secure and evolved persona last month. I’m not sure of, nor do I think I want to know, the exact percentage of my happy, secure, even bold self, in comparison to the confused, self-doubting, and yes… maudlin persona which lives within me? Let’s go with 70/30 for now; that sounds fairly probable? With that statement in mind, and the conflict I’ve felt over the last week, it was also a wee-bit self-delusional to think my other resolution to abstain from swearing in the year ahead would be a walk in the park. Thank heavens, I didn’t try to give up Coffee or Pinot Grigio; I’d be locked up in a padded white room right about now. And wait, we’re only halfway through January; what the devil might be in store for the next 350 days of 2023?

That question reminds me of 2016, a seriously dark year when I considered and even went so far as to tell my daughter that I was thinking of becoming a Catholic Missionary. I proposed a scenario in which I would move to Lourdes France and minister to the needy and impoverished. The idea occurred after A.J. was settled and safely ensconced in Alabama, Emily and Alex were happily married, and my “mothering/homemaking career,” aka the identity I knew and loved so well, seemed woefully over. But that was just the beginning of the storm. If that weren’t enough and to make matters far worse, my Mom had just passed; I was feeling lost, directionless and in need of a worthwhile purpose. In other words, I was feeling pretty darn “F.I.N.E.!” Being the voice of reason that that daughter of mine is, she quickly pointed out should I become a Missionary and move to Lourdes, I wouldn’t be able to take my family (two or four legged), my coffee or any Pinot Grigio with me, and it was also highly unlikely that even a modicum of swearing would be tolerated. Quel nightmare! No way; that did NOT sound like my kind of gig. Plus… then what? Where do you go after a failed stint as a middle-aged Missionary? (Good grief, add that to the list of things I never thought I’d ask myself!) So, with Lourdes ruled out but before enough time had elapsed to devise another distraction, I lost two more family members. Damn, my history and the corresponding figures were dropping like flies, but the most recent loss shook me to my very core. Losing my first friend in life was a bigger blow than I could fathom, and while still an often complicated relationship, my much treasured, older Sister was a rock, and one I desperately counted on. It took an entire year to summon the courage to contemplate, much less devise another plan, but I’m no quitter and with Viv gone, more motivated than ever to switch things up. I came up with an idea; one that was just wild enough (without the Lourdes part) but not too nuts and still promised to take me totally out of my comfort zone in order to begin a daring new life. So, “my crew” fled California for Texas, and as I wrote about in my post(s) “They Said It Would Be Fun,” (Parts 1, 2, and 3) we collectively discovered, albeit not quickly enough, what a misstep that decision had been. After exactly one year from start to finish in the Lone Star State, combined with the long, hot, scorpion/snake-filled, very expensive “stay” in Weatherford Texas, that plan too went the way of the poor, abandoned Lourdes, volunteer Missionary files. Boom, gone; both alternative lives crossed off my list. What do you suppose occurred then… yup, more “F.I.N.E.!”

I’ll bet right about now you’ve probably decided to do everyone a favor and switch up my self-assigned ratio of “normalcy” numbers from 70/30 to 30/70, and I wouldn’t fault you…but now with the exception of a few monthly speed bumps I can assure you, I’m pretty ‘a-ok,” and that most definitely hasn’t always been the case.

Blessedly our return to California brought new ideas, an exciting new business venture, and even a rekindled friendship with my eldest stepdaughter, which delivered a refreshing feeling of optimism. There were, however, more storms to weather, including a fissure with my Son, a contentious split from alleged friends, as well as a housing issue which became instantly overwhelming. Initially, we had secured two properties for our West Coast re-entry, but when the Seller of my proposed new home “crapped out” almost immediately (day 2) of our return, Em and Alex’s new place took on a new form. It was of substantial size and possessed a guest house, which would thankfully provide a soft landing while I sorted through the disastrous mess my Texas movers and the Alisal house represented. Indeed… a number of “F.I.N.E.” times were once again mixed in with the happier, more fortunate events.

Over the course of the previous six years, Emily and Alex had acquired a good bit of furniture, and I had set aside a small collection of my belongings which wasn’t taken to storage in order to verify and contest the moving company’s gross incompetence, not to mention the actual physical damage which ended up costing as much if not more than the move from Texas back West in its entirety. As such, we moved forward with the all the positive aspects of our return and tried (not so successfully for me) to set aside the more unpleasant parts of our new circumstances.

Among the reasons I opted to pursue an adventure far away was the desire to leave behind the feeling of emptiness, as well as to physically, not just emotionally, separate myself and my tight little family from the petty vitriol, diabolical behavior and ugly exchanges served me by my younger two siblings and Machiavellian cousin, who helped Dorothy and Lilith engineer the mutiny surrounding my Mom’s death as well as its aftermath. I didn’t realize that the disgust I felt for those three individuals was not just an isolated opinion held solely by me? Upon our return to California, I was contacted by siblings of the Machiavellian cousin, referred to hereafter as just, “Pablo.” They revealed the distrust and disdain each held for my cousin, their brother, as well as their father in some part, and the “careless sport” both men engaged in, while manipulating family members regarding their own “Family Trust” and the distribution, control and obsession over correlating funds.

Clearly, more familial drama was in store, and while I wasn’t seeking it out, I also wasn’t adverse to answering their questions and sharing the information I knew to be true, which was being asked of me by my slightly elder cousins. I answered their questions and shared with them the chain of various written communications, legal documents, and all the information I had in writing, spanning several decades from the time my Grandfather (in 1981) then Grandmother, and finally my Mom passed to the current day, which at the time was in 2019. My cousin’s assessments were that both my Uncle and cousin were extreme narcissists, strictly self-serving, and each having committed heinous fraud regarding both my Maternal Grandparent’s estates as well as my Mother’s. They were right; it was fact, and there was no point tidying up the ugly reality or suggesting anything else. I had long since made peace with the course that those deaths and their outcomes created in my life, and while I wanted to be of help if possible, I wasn’t interested in getting caught up in any more legal issues and entanglements. Al’s deception, fraud, non-disclosures and malfeasance, as well as my two younger sibling’s stunning deviousness was burden enough for several lifetimes; no need to engage in any further drama. Nonetheless, I listened as my cousins detailed the “elder abuse” they had caught their younger sibling engaged in on multiple occasions as well as the twisted financial manipulation that both my Uncle and “Pablo” were obsessed with exacting. I was disheartened and sad that my cousins, whom I hadn’t seen in decades, were experiencing the same manipulation and pain to which my Mom, my older sister, Viv, and I, as well as our children all fell victim. Still, there was little for me to do other than listen and confirm the parts I knowingly could. For the majority of my adult years, my Mom did nothing but express her gratitude for her older brother, my uncle; “how good he was to her, and how fortunate she was to have him in her life.” For almost as long, I might have concurred. That is until after Mom’s death when I learned the truth about my uncle, as well as his son/protégé, aka my cousin, “Pablo” and the vile human beings they had become.

I’ve written about some of this before in DearEasyDiaries, but what I never knew or had not been able to bring myself to expose in the past, I’m driven to disclose now. If you judge me harshly for sharing this, I understand, but still won’t be dissuaded from letting the truth be known. It has hurt and troubled me deeply since I first learned about a specific statement made by my uncle, as well as other concerning details I hadn’t been told before. I never knew the particular details of why my Grandparents were so much closer to my Mom and our family than they were to my uncle or his family. I never knew about the deeply seated animosity, rivalry and competition that my uncle felt towards my Mom. Neither of my Grandparents nor my Mom spoke of such matters. No-one ever discussed the “race” or bet that was wagered regarding which sibling (my uncle or Mother) would bear the first Grandchild? What a petty mindset, I thought. As fate would have it, my eldest cousin was born prematurely and before my Sister. I’m told my uncle gloated about having won that go-round and with a Son, to boot. Nonetheless, that never stopped my Grandfather from always addressing my older Sister, Viv ( his favorite) as “Numero Uno,” a.k.a. Number 1. There was much I didn’t know, but I didn’t let it detract from what I did know. For example, I knew the utter failure my uncle represented to my Grandfather and the lack of respect Pa felt for his only Son whom he repeatedly “bailed” out of all kinds of failed ventures, business or otherwise. Just as clearly, I knew the love Pa had for my Mom, my siblings and me. Pa wasn’t covert in his favoritism. That must have all contributed to the enormously significant chip my Uncle carried on his shoulders? So too, way back when, I was never told about my uncle’s drinking binges, nor was the rage and violence he directed at his growing family of six kids ever discussed. I never heard about his ‘hurling” young sons across a room? The only snippet I ever knew that could have possibly raised red flags was my uncle’s disclosure to my Mom that he feared his youngest son might murder him, and he had gone so far as to have taken out an insurance policy to cover that contingency? In retrospect there’s nothing insignificant or petty, as I may have mistakenly mentioned earlier, about any of these issues. No, it’s all repugnant and only serves to illustrate exactly how twisted my uncle, and many branches of my family tree were and probably still are?

I may not understand all the various opinions and feelings that these latent disclosures might prompt, but silence has never erased or rewritten history and at some point, speaking the truth is the only path to freedom. This is a weight and burden that I’m finally choosing to put down and let go. You’ll discover why shortly.

MY MOM WAS ALWAYS A STUNNING WOMAN, BUT STRUGGLED WITH HER WEIGHT AFTER THE DIVORCE FROM MY STEPFATHER, GEORGE, AND THE HORRIBLE LOSS WHICH THAT EVENT BROUGHT TO HER LIFE. I’M CONVINCED THE WEIGHT GAIN WAS SOME TYPE OF DEFENSE MECHANISM ENSURING THAT SHE WOULD NEVER FIND HERSELF EXPOSED TO THAT TYPE OF HEARTBREAK AGAIN? BUT, WHY WOULD I CONTEMPLATE SUCH A THEORY?
WELL, HERE’S THE THING…IN MY FAMILY OF ORIGIN BEING OVERWEIGHT, EVEN JUST A LITTLE, MUCH LESS A GREAT DEAL, WAS AKIN TO BEING LIKENED TO A SERIAL KILLER, OR MENTAL PATIENT? EITHER WAY, YOU’RE SCREWED!

NOT SURE WHAT OUR EXCESSIVELY ORANGE SKIN TONES WERE ALL ABOUT IN THIS PHOTO OF MY MOM AND I AT ONE OF THE SEVERAL DOG SHOW PARTIES I THREW FOR THE SANTA BARBARA KENNEL CLUB AND THE DOG SHOW LIFE I ADORED, FOR WHICH MOM ALSO SHARED MY ENTHUSIASM AND WAS RESPONSIBLE FOR MAKING THE INITIAL INTRODUCTION WHICH PROVIDED ME MY START. STILL THIS PARTY AT RANCHO VALIENTE REVEALS THE EXTRA WEIGHT MOM BEGAN TO ACCUMULATE AS THE YEARS PASSED. THE WEIGHT MOST LIKELY COMPROMISED HER OVERALL HEALTH, BUT IN NO WAY DID IT DIMINISH THE JOY SHE FELT WHEN SURROUNDED BY PEOPLE WHO TRULY APPRECIATED HER UNIQUE & SPECIAL STYLE AND ABOVE ALL ELSE THE LOVE SHE FELT FOR HER FAMILY… ALL OF US.
*THE FRESH HAWAIIAN LEIS WERE A “SERCY” FOR PARTY GOERS AND A GIFT FROM A DEAR FRIEND, MY PARTY CO-HOST, A REVERED MEMBER OF THE KENNEL CLUB, AND A RESPECTED JUDGE.*

Whether my theory holds water or not, who knows? There’s no part of me that claims to be an “expert” on anything. What I do know is the effect that words and judgement wield, and how cruelty can manifest itself in such a wide variety of ways. I didn’t learn for myself the level of disdain and disgust that my uncle felt for his only sibling, my Mother until just a few years ago. I was devastated when a particular conversation between my uncle and a cousin was relayed to me a year or two ago. Anyone who knew my Mom understood the great affection she held for her brother. Apparently, however, my uncle wasn’t as transparent, or authentic about his feelings for her; not as long as there was something left for him to gain, or until she passed. My uncle’s “not-quite-so-reciprocal” feelings and the hateful comment he made about my Mother, was as venomous as if my uncle were one of the deadliest snakes identified on the world’s top ten list and instantly brings Eric Church’s song “The Snake” to mind.

ERIC CHURCH’S SONG, “THE SNAKE” HAS MADE AN APPEARANCE IN DEAREASYDIARIES BEFORE, BUT IT SEEMS PARTICULARLY FITTING TO GIVE IT A SECOND SHOUT OUT NOW! (FOR THE FULL EFFECT, ASK SIRI TO GIVE IT A PLAY) LOVE ME SOME ERIC CHURCH!

Still…does any of that information address or answer the cause for my “moroseness” about January? Well, stay with me for a minute or two more, and let’s see if I can make sense of all this.

*THIS PHOTO OF MY DAD AND ME WAS TAKEN NOT LONG AFTER WE BOTH HAD RECOVERED FROM THE TUBERCULOSIS DIAGNOSES AND DISEASE WE SHARED.*

20 years ago, on January 11th, I lost my Father. Ours was not an idyllic, nor “fairytale” Father/Daughter experience (whatever that may be) but nonetheless, I felt incredibly close to him, and could probably go so far as to say I was his favorite. I spent an enormous amount of time with him as a young child, then again in my twenties and moving forward. I watched him show up for and participate in any and every occasion he was given the opportunity to attend during my own children’s youth. When it was his time to go, I was allowed to visit him in the hospital and say goodbye, albeit not much more. Nonetheless, I felt a certain peace about my Father’s passing. He had confided in me two months prior to his end, about the Cancer Diagnosis and daunting path in front of him. As such, I had an opportunity to digest and process the loss that was ahead.

Thirteen years later, or 7 years ago, however you choose to look at it, I lost my Mom on January 7th, but this time, I was prohibited, as were my children, my older Sister, and her family, from seeing our Mother/Mother In Law/Grandmother/”Nee,” or even knowing about her condition. That she spent the last week to 10 days of her life in UCLA’s ICU came as a complete shock, and via text no less. At which point, it was too late to say goodbye. My two younger siblings, as well as my aforementioned cousin, “Pablo” seemed to revel in the power that the moment’s reality provided them. While those occurrences and my parent’s deaths aren’t something I could, nor would choose to forget, it strikes me that each instance illustrates not just the power which endings can hold over us, but also shines some light on my disdain for January. More reminders of how certain milestones get under your skin and the flood of emotions left in their wake.

Several days ago, I was sent a screenshot of an obituary from a random Northern California “online” registry I had never heard of before. I looked down at the face captured on the grainy, poor-quality piece of newsprint below me and the recognition which followed was instantaneous. Staring back at me was the once handsome face of my discredited and now deceased uncle. There was no grief, no regret, not even the slightest ounce of sadness, nor any sign of tears on my part. An oddity for sure, as there are many, many, many things that bring me to tears. Not this time though… the only thought I had was about the comment my cousin shared with me that my uncle had said upon hearing of my Mom’s wish to be cremated after death. The only words Don replied at the time were, “how many trash cans do you suppose that will take?” Initially a couple years ago upon hearing this horrendously callous statement, I wanted to vomit. As I thought back on it, just days ago while looking down at the brief obituary…many thoughts sped through my mind, and I probably could have worked myself up into a very respectable tirade, but instead I stopped. I looked around at the blessings which surround me now, then looked upward towards the sky and told God, I’d say a Rosary for my uncle’s soul. He deserves it, as he’s most likely still “F.I.N.E.” and then some.

I DON’T HAVE A WEALTH OF KNOWLEDGE ABOUT WRITING OBITUARIES, BUT I HAVE READ MANY AND WRITTEN ONE. WHOEVER WROTE THIS STRING OF SENTENCES COULD NOT HAVE FELT, CARED, NOR KNOWN MUCH ABOUT THIS MAN? OR, MAYBE THEY DID? I’M NOT CERTAIN WHICH IS THE GREATER SHAME?

Having been raised Catholic, there are many rituals and traditions that bring me peace…saying a Rosary is one of them. I picked up the habit from both Pa and my Mom. The example of faithfulness coupled with the joint standard of reverence I witnessed with them regularly at 8:00 a.m. daily Mass left an enduring impression. My Grandfather, Pa, had an expression when it came to evil and troubled people as he referred to them. His words return to me now when I think of the double-dealing miscreants I’ve had the misfortune to know and at who’s hands I’ve experienced so much loss. He always said, “pray for them sweetheart, they need it.” Indeed, Pa!

Today is another chance to start afresh, but as I completed writing and editing this post last night/early this morning, I turned around to see if my TV remote was on the bedside table; it wasn’t. It was then I noticed the array of articles which I usually keep close by, whether working from my “bed office” at 1:00 a.m. or my ‘proper’ office during a good bit of the rest of any particular day. Good grief, what a mess. If the photo pictured below is at all on point, I’m quite the conundrum. Let’s see… a Glock, my Grandfather, Pa’s, Infant Jesus of Prague figurine he left to Viv, which she subsequently left to me; an ashtray from The Regency in New York with the Rosary that sweet Bamsome and I chose together from St. Stephen’s Catholic Church gift shop in Weatherford Texas; the remote for my new, super-fancy “crank-up” mattress gifted to me on Christmas by my “kids” Emily & Alex; daily Probiotics; a Pewter cup of pencils and pens etc; random notes; my favorite Sugarboo mug which houses whatever Green Juice I’m currently consuming; the requisite water bottle; a second coffee mug with the day’s blend of ‘Joe’ & Turmeric; one of my favorite lamps from 574 Freehaven; tissues (because you never know when a tear may fall) and you betcha…Pinot Grigio. Last, but definitely not least, it feels good to know that God and a gun are always within reach. So too, it’s pretty certain there’s nothing “F.I.N.E.” about today.

“Be A Light”

“Oh Sh*t”