Sh*t Happens!

   Believe me, sh*t happens. Just when you are coasting along, thinking life is going pretty good -- K E R B A M -- everything changes in a nanosecond and you might not even recognize your own life on the other side.
   I started a new job last week, which was stressful even though I love it. Then my low back locked up on me on my first day, which got progressively worse as the week wore on. I finally broke down and got a chiropractic adjustment on Friday, which gave some relief, so I was really looking forward to a relaxing, be-good-to-myself weekend, the first weekend I didn't have to work in forever. The plan was to help out at Aids Walk Saturday morning -- I love volunteering at Aids Walk, such a fun crowd and everyone brings their dogs in costumes! -- then come home to a quiet house and nap as long as my heart desired since my sweetie DMan was golfing. My intention for the rest of the weekend was to read, chillax as much as possible, sip some wine, maybe have some romantic time with DMan, and do nothing more stressful than take my bestie to the airport on Sunday morning. Perfect! Until BAM, my phone rings on the way to Aids Walk and I find out my sister (I'll call her Sister S) fell and broke her leg/knee during the night and has to have emergency surgery. AND, that my 13-year old niece has been alone with Sister S (her mom) all night at the hospital. This is bad. This is very bad.
   Let me give you a bit of background here. Sister S is a single mom and has recently lost her job and her car. Besides having my niece, whose father is nowhere to be found and who has multiple other kids in multiple other states that he also provides no support for, my sister has an 18-year old hooligan son that has been in trouble with the law and stays with her when he needs a place to crash but the rest of the time runs with a bad (and scary!) crowd. Plus, my family is a mess. If you've seen the cartoon that says, "My family puts the 'fun' in dysfunctional," well, MY family sucks the fun right out of dysfunctional! And there's been very recent ugliness between our parents and Sister S, so much so that they aren't even talking. See what I mean? This is very bad.
   So my wonderful weekend turned into back and forths to the hospital (which I loathe hospitals!) and Sister S's house to pick up necessities, hanging with my niece and trying to convince her that her mother falling was not her fault, and trying to prepare my un-kid-friendly world to have a teenager living in it. I've never had kids, never wanted them. I don't "do" kids, and now I've got one living in my guest room. There was nowhere else for her to go. She's a sweetie, don't get me wrong, and I am enjoying spending time with her which we rarely get to do, but it just feels weird having someone besides DMan and me living here. Even though I've been exhausted the past two nights, after I go to bed I lie there listening for every odd noise and wonder what the hell she is up to since she's a teenage night owl and not an old fart like me that likes to get 8-hours-plus of sleep. And even though she is family, I feel stressed at having to take care of someone besides myself, especially since I have no clue how to do it.
   But, so far, we're making it work. I've now got the fridge stocked with some food that my picky-eater niece will eat, that's a start. She is digging all the channels we get on U-verse, so she's not bored out of her mind. I got her up and delivered to school on time this morning with no crisis or drama. Plus DMan has been extra thoughtful and wonderful about the whole thing, and he and my niece are getting to know each other. And, my new job schedule will allow me to take her and pick her up from school -- something that would have been impossible with my old library job -- for as long as this "sh*t happens" situation lasts. So far Sister S has had one surgery, leaving pins and rods poking out of her leg to stabilize the three breaks in the tibia and the break in her knee cap. The trauma team is coming today to schedule the corrective surgery, then we'll know more about how long we'll be a threesome and my life will be crrr-azy.
   The moral of this story is: Pay attention and truly savor those life-is-good coasting moments because SH*T WILL HAPPEN when you least expect it.            

My First

   I'm sitting at the computer contemplating yet again deleting my Facebook account, sick to death of seeing nothing but Pinterest quotes and "yummy" recipes and "suggested pages" trying to sell me something, when a Facebook miracle occurred: I received a friend request from my very first love. At first the name didn't click in my brain and I nearly deleted it, thinking it was one of those phishing requests where next comes a weirdly worded message like "I respectably asking to communicate friendship with me." You know the ones. Then I looked at the name again. My breathing stopped. Could it really be him after all these years? I clicked on the request and saw his picture. No doubt, it was him! Older, more gray hair than black now, but in his face I could definitely see glimpses of the sexiest guy in my world when I was 14. If there had been a "HELL YES!" button I would have clicked on it, but "confirm friend request" would have to do.
   Let me set the scene for you. 1976. My family had moved to Maryland, where my Army dad got transferred. We lived in Aberdeen in civilian housing for three months, then moved into post housing on Aberdeen Proving Grounds. I didn't know anyone there, and the three girls my age that lived nearby were a tight clique, not welcoming to an outsider. Then by some stroke of luck, the group had a falling out and the coolest one of all, Sherri, became my friend. Eventually my best friend -- we were inseparable! She had two younger sisters the same ages as two of my sisters, so we all hung around together. AND, she had an older brother, Brian, that I fell madly in love with. He was the dreamiest -- six feet tall; muscular and lean; long, dark hair that fell over his eyes and gave him a sultry, bad boy look; a thin black mustache that grazed his luscious top lip; smoldering dark eyes, almost black, that were too intense to stare at for long -- like my very own David Cassidy in the flesh.
   Whether he knew it or not, Brian was involved in several of my firsts. On the occasion of my first drunk, when our friend Patty's parents were out of town and a bunch of us raided their liquor cabinet, he was my first drunk dial. While my intention was to use my buzzed bravado to call him up, explain my feelings, and ask how he felt about me, it came out: "I love you, I love you, I love" probably a hundred times, then I hung up and cried because I felt so stupid. I never mentioned the call to Brian, so maybe (hopefully!) he never knew it was me, but recalling that humiliation has probably saved me from many more drunk dials over the years.
   He took me to my first boy-girl dance. I was in ninth grade, he was in tenth, but God, he seemed so much like a man! My aunt Peg loaned me a long red dress -- one she had made herself and I'm sure looked great on her petite frame but was high-water on me -- to wear with my black platform shoes. I probably looked hideous, but Brian made me feel beautiful, pinning a corsage on me, holding my hand. The only thing I really remember about our date is we slow danced to Hall and Oates' "Sara Smile," and I wrapped my arms around his narrow waist and pressed my face tight against his chest like I'd seen in the movies, not even caring that my corsage was getting crushed. He smelled so damn good, and his big hands touching my back made me hot in a way that had nothing to do with dancing. I never wanted that dance to end! Even now, just hearing the opening notes of the song sends my body swaying and reliving that dance all over again. When it did end, he kissed me. Soft, slow, with those melty hot lips and the barest tickle from his mustache. My first kiss from my first love -- does it ever get any better than that?! Nope, not the way I remember it anyway.  
   I was crazy for that guy! I even got grounded to my bedroom for a whole week for having a pack of Brian's Marlboro Reds jutting out of the back pocket of my shorts so he wouldn't get caught with them. When Mom spotted them, I told her they weren't mine (no, I didn't tell her that my Kools were hidden in my panty drawer!), but I wouldn't rat him out when she wanted to know whose they were, so I did the punishment. That meant I couldn't see Sherri or Brian for a week -- which in the middle of summer feels like eternity to a 14-year old! -- but I was proud I took one for my man.
   Did he ever love me, or even think of me as anything other than an annoying tag-along friend of his sister? I don't know. We moved away in early 1977, and even though Sherri and I wrote letters for a while, we eventually lost touch. I kind of hope so, but it really doesn't matter. He was MY first love, still is, regardless of whether he loved me back. I've got tons of wonderful memories of him and Sherri and one of the best years of my life spent at APG. I've got a new Facebook friend and now a way to reconnect with my old best friend Sherri. And I'll always have "Sara Smile." In fact, I can hear it in my head right now and I'm smiling!