Dear God, Are you there? It's me Tracy....

Hey Big Guy

Let's face it, you and I both know that I have always believed in you.  I know that you forgive me for not being the church going type of girl.  I have always been a bit of a nonconformist that way. Some people I suppose find you while sitting in the pews of a Church.  I have always preferred to find you in the simplicity and beauty of nature amongst the birds, and flowers, the crashing of the ocean, blue skies, vibrant sunsets and in the mere feeling of the dirt beneath my feet.

I am not sure you are aware, but I have always prayed to you every night, the same unabashed prayer I have been saying since my childhood dog died when I was 17 years of age.  That prayer never changed in all those years until last year when I stopped.  I never explained to you why I closed the doors of communication and I never apologized for it either. I probably should have. I suppose that I felt that somewhere along the lines that same prayer was falling on deaf ears, or that perhaps, you were getting tired of my same old song and dance.  I don't know, but I felt that I shouldn't waste anymore of your valuable time on my trivial thoughts.

You know I have always thought you were amazing.  I mean good grief the colours of the world are so breathtaking that as I sit here, I cannot even fathom the amount of work it took to create the intricacies of such striking things like the wings of a butterfly, or the stunning beauty of a hummingbird or how the sky at night can go from soft blue to hot pink and then burn into an outrageous orange.  I know you know that I have always stopped and looked around, observed and appreciated the breathtaking splendor of nature. Being a lover of art, I have to say that walking out my door every day, I get to view for free the most spectacular hand painted canvass ever.  Thank you for that.

I do my best to pay homage to you in my own eccentric way.  I have tried to be kind and understanding every single moment I have been alive (of course I have wavered on understanding a few more times than I like to admit), I try to help whenever I can, and I try to bring happiness to others as often as possible (admittedly I do pass gas too much and am a bit of glutton when it comes to pickles and moose tracks ice cream). But, I have to tell you God, I am failing.

This pain I live with is becoming increasingly unbearable and there are days when I wonder if I will be able to keep going.  I spend an inordinate amount of time wondering if I am being punished for some past life deeds, or that perhaps, I angered yourself or the fates in this lifetime and this has become my retribution of sorts.  Everybody says you are a forgiving God, so I am hoping the latter statement is not true. But if it is, I have to say that whatever I have done, I am really very sorry.

Listen, I know you are busy, but I wondered, could you please tell me if this is really how I am going to spend the rest of my life?  In this unyielding, agonizing pain because I don't think I can go on much longer. You see, I am tired.  I am tired of the throbbing, aching, sharp pains.  I am tired of popping pills, using ice packs, pain sprays and heating pads. I am tired of therapy treatments and doctors appointments.  I am tired of planning my sex life around a less painful moment.  I am tired of getting up in the morning and seeing if this will be the day I can actually go and have some fun, and find out nope its another one of "those days".  I am tired of trying to put my underwear on and nearly keeling over every day because my knees give out. I am tired of red swollen and stiff joints.  I am tired of no sleep and exhausting days.  I am tired God.  I am so very tired.

Oh I know, there are far worse people out there than me, and you know I say that every day when I get out of bed and can barely walk.  It keeps me going, knowing that I am not the only one suffering and how sad is that?  And I am so aware of the fact that this world is going to crap in a hand basket, and that you are spread to thin by all the ignorance and destruction from mankind. I am completely surprised you haven't thrown your arms up in the air and walked away from us all.  If it was me, I would have done so a long time ago. I guess that's the difference between you and me.

But I wonder God, do you have any time for me?

Can you make me feel a tad bit better, just a wee bit?

Can you give me just some moments where I am pain free and can enjoy life?

Could you?

Hey God, are you there?

It's just me Tracy.

A Chocolate Walk of Shame

Well it started off innocently enough, at least that is what I told myself.

Be organized, beat the rush, gather your goodies now blah blah blah.  

In essence, this is what really happened.

It was a glorious Wednesday afternoon, and I, in all my glory, sauntered down on my lunch hour to the town's chocolatier to gather up what would be some yummy delectable goodies for my better half and my mother.  I roamed around the shelves for what seemed like an eternity picking this treat and that treat and this goody and that goody and then dropped a substantial amount of money on the custom made treats for my beloved and my amazing mother.

I told myself that with Valentine's day less than a week away, that it would be best if I hid the chocolate at my office in order to avoid the prying and overly attentive eyes of that man that I call my better half.  Like the nose of a bloodhound, I could foresee my Valentine's Surprise going sideways if those gooey delish items were somehow hidden at home, as in all likelihood they would be snuffed out instantly with that ancestral Lebanese nose that my better half sports upon his handsome face.

This was, as it turns out, my biggest mistake.

By Thursday at lunch, those glorious chocolate were calling my name, beckoning me with their sweetness, taunting me with their rich flavour and I thought to myself (or perhaps justified to myself) that I had bought so much, how could one simple chocolate be missed.  I would soon use that excuse again an hour later, and again, a half hour later.  

By Friday, the first signs of my impending doom would be fully noticeable upon my chin where a now volcano sized eruption had appear.  You would think, or better yet you would hope, that the zit upon my face would have deterred me from ravishing the remaining chocolates, but no, sadly no, I would reach for another chocolate the moment I walked into the office come Friday morning, and again by mid morning. And by lunch time, the evidence of my devouring nature was circled around my lips like a glorious halo of oooey gooey velvety brown goodness.

It was obvious to myself and the multitude of empty wrappers by Friday afternoon, that I would have to somehow muster up my courage and open up my wallet to replace what I had so willingly sucked back in a mere few days.

By the time I returned to the office, I felt safe in the notion that the chocolate would be locked up and away from me for two solid days.  A sufficient enough time frame for me to forget those teasers, to get on with my life, and to devour apples in the same glorious way that I sucked the filling out of those damn chocolate filled treats.  But alas, I was tormented.  Tormented I say.  Tormented for two full days, dreaming and craving and dreaming and craving those stinking zit making gloriously filled treat temptations.

By Monday morning, I was nearly running up the stairs and drooling at the corners of my mouth as I burst thru my office doors like a crazy woman shedding her clothing off during a menopausal hot flash.  "Come to momma!!!!" the words popped out of my mouth!  And with no will power whatsoever, I downed every last piece within an one hour sitting.

As I sat there moaning and groaning partly over my stupidity, partly over my gluttony, and mostly over my serious lack of self control, it dawned on me, Valentines was the next day and I had eaten the gifts of love for the ones that I loved.

And as lunch hour approached, I grabbed my wallet, and with what little self respect I had, waddled my way down once again to the chocolatier.  And with a look of disgust upon the sales clerk's face (or just my guilty conscious taking over), I picked out the replacement items, and then did what every respectable woman does, I held my head high, handed over my money, grabbed not one but two pieces of free chocolate from the tray at the cash register, gave the clerk a wink and did the Chocolate walk of shame right out of her store.

Until Next Time.

Tracy

...the art of casting stones

I got to thinking today about the art of casting stones.  It struck me how judgmental we the human race are, especially since we are all essentially born with some type of characters flaws.

I had been reading earlier the different articles over the early demise of the now late Whitney Houston.  Far be it for me to ever write about the death of a celebrity, but I had made the mistake of scanning the comment sections of a few articles that were written.  I have to say I was horrified by the amount of sarcastic comments oozing off the screen.

I personally have never really been affected by the death of a celebrity, well with the exception of Elvis Presley and only because I was the same age as his daughter, Lisa Marie, and in my astute nine years of age, I wondered how she would fair in life without the guidance of a male figure.  Oh hell, I was just upset that she had lost her dad.

Often, when the latest celebrity death hits the net, or social media, or the media in general, I am one of the last to be shocked.  It's almost like I knew it was coming.  I, along with the majority of the population, could see the train wreck approaching and was just waiting for the moment when the actual collision, followed by the carnage, would occur.

So the death of Whitney Houston was for me, no shock at all.  

But what shocks me the most and saddens me to the core, is how we as humans are quick to step up on our soap boxes and bring out our almighty sword of judgment and withdraw our gift of compassion.

I don't know about you, but I can safely say that I am not without an addiction.  Hence my chubby little body and my love for fatty foods.  I see addiction in everyone.  Whether it's shopping your life away (and what could be considered my second weakness), exercising to the point of depriving your body of nutrients, drinking, drugs, hoarding, compulsively counting your life away, frugality, gambling, or counting bottles, whatever it is, we all have some form of weakness that we fight throughout our entire lives.  Unfortunately, in the case of Ms. Houston, some addictions are more harmful than others.

It's amazing to me how quickly we do things like jump on the band wagon to find a way to blame someone else for our own problems, or in this case Ms. Houston's problems.  But the fact remains, that in the end, we are the only ones responsible for ourselves, no one holds a gun to our heads and forces us to smoke weed, eat another doughnut, drink another beer, buy another pair of shoes, save every single penny, throw money away on a game of poker.  Nobody does that but us.

It makes me wonder sometimes, when will we learn to take responsibilities for our actions, but more importantly, when will we learn that passing judgment on others is only a meager disguise for what ails ourselves.

Hopefully, someday, we will learn that nothing good comes from the art of casting the first stone.  Sadly tho, I highly doubt it.

Now if you would excuse me, *ahem cough* I think its time for me to step down from my own soapbox.

Until Next Time.

Cheers

Tracy

...and then she was gone

It was December of 1995, just a mere nine days before Christmas that my mom, a neighbour and myself would trot out to nowhere to see what would become one of the most beautiful blessings of our lives.

Tucked away in the woods, in deplorable conditions was the most disgusting house that contained the most flea ridden, docile ball of fluff that would eventually widdle her way into our hearts and leave a loss so significant, that even now as I sit here typing, the tears roll down my cheeks like raindrops from the sky.

She would be called Maggie Mae and would become one of the greatest love stories of my life.

With hearing so intense and eyes so sharp, high strung to her inner chord, hater of most men and felines, scared of abrupt noises such as her own farts, where kisses were plentiful, and cuddles were memorable, from paw slapping you when she was hungry, to shoving her tiny butt into you when she craved affection, to jumping heights that would revel Superman, she was a wild child at heart and a contradiction on many levels. She was such a gift, our beautiful brown eyed girl, and a complicated sweet soul.

And while she was technically my mom’s little girl, I would spend the greater part of her life being blessed with the kindness of my mother in sharing custody. I would eventually move 20 minutes away and grieve the loss of being a part of her daily life. I would spend the next several years visiting her on Saturday’s and looking forward to hearing words like “Maggie Mae, Auntie Tracy’s here” where she would run excitedly at me and bounce back in a pounce position waiting for her treat followed by love.

Years would go by and time would move on, and she would live what people would deem a long life. But for me, it was not long enough. It would never be long enough. We often made bets that she would outlive us all, or at least until the age of 20, as there was no slowing down for the little girl with the speed and long legs to match.

We would spend her final year watching in sadness as her heart weakened and her health deteriorated. One by one, her usual habits of happiness started disappearing, from rolling on the ground, to barking at me when I went to leave, to pouncing in excitement. Her tail would wag less and her body slept more. It would eventually become apparent, that she was no longer well and a heart wrenching decision would have to be made...

Last Thursday, would be our last time with sweet Maggie. The last time I would kiss her. The last time I would hug her. The last time I would tell her that I loved her. The last time I would tell her what a good girl she was. The last time she would look me in the face. The last time she would kiss me. The last time I would hold her little adorable face in my hands. It would be the last time my heart would feel whole.

And as we reluctantly entered into the vets, she snuggled deep into my mother’s arms, and I stroked her failing body. I watched in agony, as she tried with all her might to keep eye contact with me after the sedative was administered. With my heart bursting into a million pieces, I gave her one more kiss, and shed a million tears. And just before the vet gave her the final shot that would take her from this life into another, I saw a small tear roll down from her eye onto her soft sweet sweet face, and then in quiet peacefulness she was gone. Our beautiful girl... And with her went a huge, irreplaceable part of my heart.

Oh Maggie, how I love you. Thank you for everything little girl.

Maggie Mae
October 22, 1995 to February 2, 2012