Advice from Rob

I'm a firm believer in horoscopes. I've seen some so incredibly accurate, that I swear the astrologer must really be talking about me. Rob Brezsny, the Free Will Astrologer, publishes nationally. His weekly horoscopes also appear in a local publication Mountain Xpress. These past few weeks for me have been complete upheaval. I'm preparing to move across the state to take a high profile position in state government. I'm saddened by leaving some of my best friends and colleagues here. My daughter will be staying behind for two months with my parents to finish off her year in kindergarten. And 2012 has been a dating and relationship nightmare. At some point I'll write about the three men who have made their mark on my life this year. Needless to say, "asshole" is a fitting word to describe two of the three. Ironically, Rob Brezsny knows this... for Scorpio for this week Rob says:

"Before you diagnose yourself with depression or low self-esteem," said author William Gibson, "first make sure you are not, in fact, just surrounded by a--holes." This is a good time to check in with yourself, Scorpio, and see if Gibson's advice applies to you. Lately, the jackass quotient seems to have been rising in your vicinity. APRIL FOOL! I was half-joking. It's true that you should focus aggressively on reducing the influence of jerks in your life. At the same time, you should also ask yourself rather pointedly how you could reduce your problems by changing something about yourself.

I am always one to be accountable for my own deficiencies and choices, so this first count of relationship woe starts at the very beginning. As I work on identifying faults within my own life, I look at those who have shaped the person I am.

In August of 2007, I was completing my final training for my school administration certification with Hickory City Schools. I had been a stay-at-home mom for a year with my daughter, Isabel, and I was ready to get back in the work saddle. After all, Uncle Sam financed my education, and he would soon like it to be repayed. Throughout my career, I had problems with being taken seriously. I don't fit the profile of your standard principal. I'm not old, a man, or bald. I have a ridiculous name that's more like a show name for an exotic dancer and I can still pass for about twenty-five. During that year at home with Isabel, I drove over 5,000 miles across the state of NC looking for work. Nothing seemed to pan out. Then a teaching position opened at Catawba Valley High School, a local alternative school located in Hickory. I had spent three years working in a juvenile prison with the NC Department of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention, so alternative school kids were right up my alley of expertise. I was immediately invited for an interview and discovered the principal of the school was my own middle school social studies teacher. Now, I was an over-achieving middle school student with a host of personalities. Like most kids, I went through the grunge, punk, skate-boarder, prep, cheerleader, head-banger, new age phases... you get the picture. Despite my chameleon personality, I was a good student who was highly competitive academically. But what does this teacher and potential supervisor remember about me?

"So tell me, how is Steven Jones?" He grinned.

Steven Jones. I shuttered. Anyone who knew me from those days knows that my entire world revolved around the Most-Awesome-Boy-of-All-Time, Steven Jones. I was crazy about him like any adolescent girl is over her first crush. Steven Jones was the son of a local Baptist minister. He was elusive, eccentric, and was the first boy that ever asked me to "go with him". He had beautiful dark curls and tend to brood out from behind his round, John Lennon spectacles. Our first "date" was a skiing trip with his church. I couldn't even stand up on the skis. I completely wiped out on the tow rope at the bunny slope. It was embarrassing. It didn't matter to Steven. We spent the evening inside the lodge talking. Steven and I were a happy couple for about two weeks. Then we broke up. Then we got back together. Then we broke up again. During the good times we shared secret kisses in the dark on the band field trips. During the bad, we scowled at each other as we passed in the halls. And so the see-saw went. For almost four years. We discovered second base in the basement of his church during Wednesday night services. He was my first real-life boy obsession. We were both Scorpios and loved each other (and stung each other) like Scorpios do. I wrote poetry, books, made art... everything was about Steven. So it is Steven that shaped my vision of boys and eventually men. When we broke up for the last time in tenth grade, a friend of mine wrote me the nicest letter. In it contained the simplest advice, "If it's meant to be, then it will be". This friend eventually went on to marry Steven Jones.

I wish I could remember the moment that I let him go. The initial misery of our separation was deep and painful. But like all grief, it subsided, tip-toed out, and I barely have any memory of it at all. A few years later, Steven Jones sat beside me in my college freshman astronomy class. He did not even acknowledge my presence even though I greeted him every day. It's not that I had any desire to have Steven back in my life. Who knows what dark memories and emotions were still haunting him? I don't like being ignored. You'll see from stories yet to come that much of my behavior (and some I am not proud of) stems from that very concept. We are all shaped by the people who come into and leave our lives. Steven shaped mine in ways I have yet to discover. One thing is certain, my obsession with Steven had a profound affect on the lives of other people. It disguised the person I thought I was and left a lasting impression. I cringe when I think about all of my accomplishments from those days. Yet, I was remembered for my infatuation with a boy. I've never really gave more than a brief thought, but as I have sat across from many a friend over the years, I realize that I am often defined by the man-of-the-moment. I am consumed by him so that only a whisp of me is left. It is this tragic flaw that has left me desolated more times than I care to count.

So for 2012, I vow to myself to reduce the jackass quotient in my life and to work on my own character flaws.

Advice from Grandma...

My Grandmother Bernice passed away in 1998. I was not quite 21 at the time. She had been married young, birthed 11 babies (only one set of twins!), and survived many years of abuse from her first husband. She offered me two pieces of advice in my youth:

"It's better to be an older man's darling than a younger man's slave." I've never found that it made that much of a difference, although I have noticed that younger men ten to have a propendency to treat their older gals more like a mom... so I guess she was right. Mom always cleaned up the messes. I've always had a liking for younger men and even as I age, I noticed that my preference for men have not. Is it that I have a secret desire to be a Cougar when I grow up? Or perhaps it's that I haven't really acknowledged that I have aged. Twenty-five seems like only yesterday when almost a decade has slipped by.

The other advice was less advice and more of a gift. Hidden beneath a pile of pots and pans in my cupboard is a small, tattered, slightly greasy brown bag. Inside it is a cast iron grilled cheese pan. This pan has never been used. Before the era of Tangled, there was the wisdom of the southern lady: a good frying pan is good for more than just frying bacon (or grilled cheese). A good frying pan of the right size can release one from all sorts of evils. This frying pan is known as the "husband killer". Its size and weight make it ideal to do damage when aimed at the head of an abusive husband and not too heavy where the lady can't get a good swing.

It's fortunate that I haven't ended up with one of the assholes I've encountered over the years lest I should need to use this greatly prized gift. I don't think Grandma ever anticipated that I would end up husbandless. But I thank her for giving me the wisdom not to be any man's slave and the tools that I need to liberate myself should I foolishly end up in that situation.

10,000 Ways It Didn't Work

"If I find 10,000 ways something won't work, I haven't failed. I am not discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is another step forward". --Thomas Edison

Through most of my early twenties, I was happily coupled with some “nice” man or other… each of whom I was convinced would turn into Mr. Right. But no matter how many times you kiss a toad, he does not turn into a prince. If anything, he gets even more toad-like. I never imagined in those days that I would spend a half a decade (so far all of my thirties) single and for the most part, celibate. Most days feels like a scene from Bridget Jones, straight down to imagining that my dead body would be found half-eaten by wild dogs… except in my fantasy it’s more like by obese, dog-like pervert cat, Tiger. I have no doubt that when he watches me showering that his fantasy is eating my carcass. It’s funny that in the years since Bridget Jones and Sex in the City, the answer still remains: Why are there so many unmarried women in their thirties? It is not that we are covered in green scales or that there aren’t any decent men out there. However, I look around at my dear friends who all are rowing with me in the vessel of thirties singledom and see some very clear reasons why each of us have found ourselves in this situation. I think it’s important to note that we are all fairly attractive, (mostly) level-headed, with a good education, established careers, and home-ownership. One would beg to even wonder why we would even need a man in the scenario at all, except that all of us have certain desires that no toy (or endless supply of batteries) could ever quite fill. And despite the fact that I can fix my own lawnmower and change my own oil, I want a man to do the “man” chores. It’s not sexism. It’s being practical. And part of doing "man" chores is satisfying an incredible sexual appetite. It seems to be a win-win for all. Except it isn't and never has been because as my lady friends and I are discovering living the paradoxical lives as fierce Southern ladies does not bring in the men, only the bacon which we can happily bring home and fry up on our own. So what does a fierce Southern lady do? And how does she conquer the expectations of women that run thicker than molasses in December? Well, she learns from ol' Edison to know the 10,000 ways love didn't work and perhaps glean some knowledge about herself and life along the way.