Relationship Status

As of this writing, I am fifty-two years old. The man with whom I am in love is sixty-five. We have grown children. He has grandchildren. We currently maintain separate residences since I still have two teenagers at home. We are a couple.

Groucho Marx with imaginary cigar voice-over: “A couple of whats, I don’t know.”

According to the dictionary definition, he is my ‘boyfriend,’ but we struggle somewhat with introducing each other to our respective friends and acquaintances because saying “this is my boyfriend/girlfriend,” sounds juvenile to our aging sensibilities.

“Lady-friend” is icky and makes me sound decrepit. I don’t like that either and furthermore, there is no male equivalent. 

“Man-friend?” No. 

"Gentleman-friend?" Ewww.   NO.

My honey. My sweetheart. My love-bunny....   would you introduce anyone like that? I don't think so.

Not that I’m about to post our relationship status on Facebook (reference earlier ‘juvenile’ statement), but these are the levels of involvement Facebook offers: 

We are, by legal definition, single. We are in a relationship with one another. I am divorced. He is widowed. It IS complicated. None of these descriptors are helpful. 

I would like to propose the following levels of in-a-relationship status:

1) We are dating.

2) We are dating exclusively.

3) We are dating exclusively and have professed love for one another.

4) We have introduced each other to our families. 

5) We feel comfortable riding in the car for long distances without maintaining artificial conversation.

6) We have toothbrushes and other various toiletries in each other’s bathrooms.

7) We don’t die of embarrassment if we fart in each other’s presence. 

8) We have clothing in each other’s closets.

9) We have vaguely discussed future plans for a more permanent commitment without actually committing to said plans.
   9.5) We are each other's emergency contacts.

10) We’re making plans to move in together and have discussed finances.

11) We live together.

12) We are engaged. (This is my fiancé(e).)

13) We are married. (This is my husband/wife.) Interesting that this is number 13 on the list, isn’t it?

If this were to become a universal adopted and accepted list, we could introduce each other this way: 

“I'd like you to meet my level seven.”

So I'm putting this out there and we'll see if it catches on.

Until then, I guess he’ll just be my boyfriend unless someone has a better suggestion.

UPDATE 11/7/2014:
I have added a level 9.5: We are each other's emergency contacts. 
We are currently at level 9.5 in case anyone's keeping track of the progress. 

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

Rhubarb Cake

You may be surprised to learn that I haven't always been so cultured and refined and steeped in suburban social sophistication as I am today.

In 1985 I taught in a tiny little school in rural north central Illinois.

In 1985. Wow. It doesn't seem that long ago.



In this school there were one hundred and nine children in grades kindergarten through eighth. Most of their parents were farmers - dairy farmers. The kids rarely left town because living with cows that need to be milked twice a day doesn't allow for much time away from home.



As you might imagine, neighbors there are knit together pretty tight.  People depend on one another. Joys and sorrows are felt deeply by the entire community.

And people are remembered long after they're gone.

One morning in 1985, our school custodian, Lavaughn, brought in some rhubarb cake made from an old family recipe. Seems he'd had a bumper crop of rhubarb that spring and he wanted to share.

Now rhubarb tastes pretty horrible if you just chew on it raw, but if you add enough sugar, it's fairly tolerable and that cake was one of the most tolerable desserts I've ever eaten. I asked Lavaughn for the recipe and he scribbled it out on an index card, which I still have in my recipe box.

I made some this morning and I thought about Lavaughn, who is long gone.  Here's the recipe:


Three cups of diced rhubarb.










Stir in a half cup of sugar and let the mixture rest.

Cream together a stick of butter and a cup and a half of sugar.









Beat in an egg.










Add one and a half teaspoons vanilla.










Stir together two cups of flour,
a dash of salt,
a teaspoon of baking soda
two teaspoons cinnamon

Add those combined dry ingredients to the butter/sugar/egg mixture alternately with a cup of buttermilk.

 


Stir in the rhubarb/sugar mixture along with any liquid that formed while it was resting.









Pour the entire mixture into an oiled 13 X 9 pan and bake at 350 degrees for an hour or until the top is toasty brown and springs back just a bit to the touch.










Serve warm - it's best with vanilla ice cream or some freshly whipped cream.





I'm going to have mine out on the patio with a glass of Gewirtztraminer (reference more recent air of culture and sophistication) and I'll be remembering long-gone Lavaughn.

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

World's Best Dad!

I’m seeing all kinds of wonderful posts about fathers today in preparation for Father’s Day tomorrow and it’s causing a lot of mixed feelings and I thought I’d share those feelings with you.

My father’s kind of an asshole, actually. I mean… my childhood was fine I guess but I don’t recall my dad being a big part of it even though he lived in the same house. He worked hard at keeping a roof over our head and when he got home at five or if it was the weekend, he deserved to have a glass of scotch and be left alone.

Anyway, it’s the night before Father’s Day and I’m sitting here tonight thinking that I should’ve at least sent him a card, but I’m terrible at thinking ahead that way, so I was trying to think of a nice last minute thing I could do…  I could write a poem. I could create a website full of pictures of my kids and me for him to look at since he rarely sees us and I’m not sure he’d recognize us on the street. I could order him an online gift certificate for golf stuff because I’m pretty sure he cares more about golf more than he cares about people….

I don’t have enough time to do the photo website. Once again, that would have required time and energy spent well before the day of paternal celebration. An online gift certificate is cold and impersonal and while he may be cold and impersonal, I’m not. 

So… back to the poem thing. I was trying to think of something nice to say about my dad. It wasn’t easy. The last 30 years have been trying at best. I had to go back farther than that.

I thought it might be helpful if I made a list of things for which I could thank my dad, then I could work those things into a poem. So here’s the list I made:

Dad took me to my first major league baseball game. 

       I don’t remember this as time spent with dad… just that he took me. It didn’t matter. I was in a dream-like trance from the moment I heard the first crack of a bat hitting a ball. I learned to love baseball.

Dad took me to my first guitar lesson.

      He dropped me off at age 7 at the music store and left me alone with an 18 year old boy who looked like Jesus and reeked of marijuana. I ended up majoring in guitar in college.

Dad taught me how to clean a toilet and weed flower-beds.

      This was necessary in order for him to never have to do either of those chores again but I still know how to clean a toilet thoroughly if I should ever have the desire to do so. I learned valuable life skills.

Dad would, once in a while, take my sister and brother and me to the Dairy Queen.

      This was his method of escaping arguments with my mother. When I was old enough, I got my first job at that Dairy Queen and was well on my way to becoming self-sufficient.

Dad once nicked another parked car when he opened his driver's side door. He left a note on the windshield of the other car with his contact information. He showed me the letter the owner of the other car wrote him to thank him for his honesty.
      He didn't miss an opportunity to let me know what a good person he was. I learned to take responsibility for my actions.

Dad taught me the proper way to pour beer in a glass so there was just the right amount of foam.

      He was training me to be a waitress for his parties and to be a good wife. Hmmm… That’s about it on that one.

Dad took the family to Door County, Wisconsin every year for vacation.

      I wandered around Fish Creek with my brother and sister and have no idea where my mom and dad were most of the time. I learned how to ask strangers for directions and find my way home. 

Dad told me I could marry more money in a half an hour than I could make in a lifetime.

      In other words, I should not look for someone who loves me, but someone who could take me off my dad’s hands. I learned that what I should look for in a man is someone who is, in many ways, the polar opposite of my father. I may just have found him…. finally.

So now I’m looking over the list and thinking that my dad is not really going to see things the way I do and if I wrote a poem for him he wouldn’t really appreciate it, so I guess I’ll just call him and tell him Happy Father’s Day and tell him I love him.

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

A Saturday Morning Poem

In the spirit of being present...

Saturday morning still in my robe

neighbors obscured by newly leafed out trees across the back border of my lawn

Sun on my face, cool breeze brushing my skin

Instant coffee in my red cup

Quiet dog lying at my feet on the cool cement patio 

Robin red breast hops into the yard 

Pulls a wiggly worm from the earth hidden beneath tall blades of green

Looks at us sideways to make sure we are still

Hop, hop, hop through the grass cut yesterday

He looks again 

We are still

     Hop, hop, hop

         Hop, hop, hop 

               He flies away

We are still

You can follow me on Twitter where I am somewhat less thoughtful:  @CeceliaHalbert

My Love and I

I didn’t expect to love wine this much. 

In college, I spent a lot of time with cheap beer and tequila. A lot of time. That’s what you do in college because money is scarce and fun is a priority and cheap beer and tequila are easily had. 

I liked beer and tequila a lot. I really thought we’d always be together, but eventually my tastes changed. I got tired of the hangovers, the late nights, the loud parties. I wanted more out of life and the cheap beer and tequila weren’t doing anything for me anymore.

I went for years without any sort of spirits. I had kids. A job. I focused on those those parts of my life, but something was missing…

Then one rare night out, someone introduced me to a cabernet. Seductive, rich, complicated… intoxicating. I was infatuated.

Over time, my relationship with wine deepened. Never-ending nuances to discover held my attention and, on occasion, surprised me. I fell in love with wine. 

And now, years later, I still sit down at the end of the day with a glass of wine. Some days, just looking forward to that moment when it touches my lips makes everything else bearable. 

I think you call that love. 

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

Truth

So yesterday was Easter - the holiest day of the year for Christians. 

I haven’t called myself a Christian in decades, but that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in God. It just means I don’t think that Jesus was the one and only son of a white-bearded robed white guy sitting on a cloud, but maybe I’m wrong. I could be wrong. I’m certainly open to being wrong, because how do you really know? And don’t say “because the Bible tells me so.”

I only know what I’ve seen happen in my life and I can’t deny there is a higher power at work. Take this very recent example, for instance: A few weeks ago I was laid off from my teaching job and almost immediately a way to work from home and pay my bills landed in my lap, allowing me to have the flexibility to be available for my special needs children when I need to be. This new gig also might save the life of a micro-managing school administrator bent on following Common Core to the letter of the law. One never knows, but I digress.

You might call these recent events coincidence, but I prefer divine providence. 

You can believe whatever you want to believe and I will respect you for your conviction. I have nothing but admiration for the faithful who live their life according to their convictions, particularly when those convictions involve loving other human beings regardless of perceived differences. I don’t know all of life’s answers, but I’m pretty sure love is one of them.

So yesterday was Easter - and on Easter I saw so much ugliness and intolerance in social media that I had to shut my computer off. Well…  put it to sleep, really. I rarely actually shut it off.

I saw people posting hateful things about Christians and I saw Christians posting hateful things right back and I wondered why. If you’re rejoicing about Christ rising from the dead, then rejoice. Go ahead and rejoice over the interwebs. I can’t fathom that anyone finds the phrase “He is risen” offensive, but like I said, I could be wrong and apparently I am. I don’t understand. Why can't you just let the man rejoice?

If you want to write posts about your lack of belief or your different belief, then by all means, post away. Rejoice in your own truth. 

I just don’t understand why anyone feels the need to attack someone else’s belief. No two people believe the same exact way, even among those of the same denomination. 

These are my truths: 

In my life, I have seen evidence of a higher power. 

I know your truth is different from my truth.

I love you because you are my brother or sister, no matter what your truth is.

In the words of the great prophet Paul McCartney, “Live and let live,” because “in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.” 

Go love. 

And have some wine. For God’s sake. Have some wine. He invented it for a reason.

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert

A Dry Spell

There is nothing to writing.

All you do is sit down at your typewriter and bleed.

                                   Ernest Hemingway

On those rare occasions when I have more then three unscheduled minutes in a day, I think about writing and that I should be doing it. If not working on a novel, then at the very least I should be writing a blog post. 

But I don't know what to write about anymore.

For a couple of years there, every day of my life brought some new level of ridiculous drama and I had what seemed to be a never-ending supply of ideas.

Here's the interesting thing: I still have a never-ending supply of uncertainty in my life, but what I have now is someone who makes me happy in spite of the drama rather than someone who at times made me incredibly happy but was also a perpetual font of drama.

In the last 8 months since the drama-font and I split, I have dealt and will probably always be dealing with my daughter's mental illness. My divorce was final. I lost my job. My childhood home was leveled by an F-5 tornado. 

And I met someone new and wonderful who somehow makes me believe everything will be okay.

It's nauseating, really, the two of us. Two old people, kind of crazy about each other, hanging around in bars, hanging on each other in bars...  I'm sure the patrons are as grossed out by our behavior as they would be if we were their parents.

And we could be their parents. We're that old.

Maybe there's a story in there, but it'd probably induce nausea. 

Hell, what do I care? I'm old. If I want to write nauseating feel-good stories, then I will. 

But, ewww....  the thought of that even kind of makes me want to puke.

We'll see.

You can follow me on Twitter: @CeceliaHalbert