Bitchslap from God

Somedays I can easily see God in my mind's eye.  My meditations take me directly to that circus tent on the beach that I have decided is heaven.  God is there, waiting for me, laughing out loud and beckoning to me to bask in the glow that is belief and wisdom and faith.  Other days I search the bottom of a bottle of wine, beat my head against the wall and cry angry tears, because God cannot be found in any of the usual or unusual places.  It seems that just as my will to continue wilts completely, God bitchslaps me right side the head, reminding me that I probably did not need to be looking so hard.

A few weeks ago I wrote about looking for my Sweet Spot, a place where I find comfort and self-acceptance, without the need for alcohol to lubricate the search.  My search for the sweet spot has taken some wild turns in the last week.  In fact, I am having to start the no-alcohol experiment over again.  In the last week, I have had wine sodden conversations about life plans with Gabby, and I celebrated my husband's new job and and his impending exit from San Francisco playing pool in a pool hall and drinking PBR.  I am a bit bipolar these days: sad about leaving my friends and family, scared about going to a new place, worried about leaving a good paying job, stressed about the act of moving.  Nascar Pitcrew leaves in 3 days to Salt Lake City.  I will remain in San Francisco at Gabby's house for 2 more months.  Seems so strange to call it Gabby's house, I am in shock that this is happening.  It is an end of an era for me, and the beginning of a new one for Nascar and me.  This is the biggest re-set button yet.

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When I think about today's version of heaven, it includes a circus tent, colorful graffiti, and a favorite lady friend, Mrs. O.  This red-headed spitfire danced into my life 16 years ago.  In June of 1996, a lady dressed in violet, brushed past me in a doorway of a Las Vegas rave club.  She smelled like lavender, and she looked me right in the eyes.  All she said was "Good Evening".  I had no idea that this woman was destined to speak at my wedding or that I would visit her every year, no matter how many miles are in between us.

I have spent the last 2 hours ruminating on a fantastic tale to recount here about the creative relationship Mrs. O and I share.   Our friendship is delicate, yet durable.  Magical, though seeped in the mundane stuff of life like mortgages and career ladders.  There are moments of brilliance, surrounded by years of survival.  We have become the women we spoke about.  You are a mother, I am a wife.  It sounds so common, yet I pride myself that we have both found places of truth and strength in these traditional roles.

  Happy Birthday Mrs. O and Thank you.

Thank you for being a friend through so many growth spurts and growth reversals.

Thank you for all the long distance talks.

Thank you for your patience.

Thank you for reminding me to listen when God bitchslaps me with the truth.

Thank you for encouraging me to see the truth in the details.

I love you!