First 10 Pages:
Reading Instructions
By falling into this book, you will become skilled in dodging, slamming into, and laughing at the unwelcome changes life throws at you. Every chapter reveals recipes, outlandish skills, or activities to enrich your life with whimsey and flair, much like a life hack.
A “Life Hack” is a clever trick to provide simple solutions to life’s frustrations … Like getting your Life Back.
A “DOIT” is an obsolete Dutch coin of little value. But when you DOiT, you will gain significant value.
Hence: the discoveries at the end of every chapter are your “Life-Back- DOiTs.” You are encouraged to try them (for free). They are a valuable wealth of knowledge for your pleasure, confidence and absurdity. So, when you reach the end of every chapter, just DOiT. Get it?
Congratulations! You are among the first to implement
“Life-Back-DOiTs” to become a human genius!
(Wine glass raised here.)
Sample DOiT:
Take A Stuffed Animal to The Vet. Be all freaked out about his condition, and tell everyone how much he means to you. Call him by his name and talk to him to calm him down. Be sure to escape before they call someone to lock you up.
OK, that was a bad example, but you get the idea. DOiTs are usually useful, but sometimes silly.
DOiT Journal.
Writing helps you clear your head and own up to the fact that you are the one making decisions about what you think … and want … and do. DOiT while you’re still sober. If it’s too late for that, write it anyway! That may be more fun to look back on.
A prompt after every chapter encourages you to reach inside yourself to reveal your buried self-wisdom and intuitions to Get Your Life Back. DOiT darlin’ (If you want to).
THEY: The experts who know everything, as in “THEY say”
RC: I didn’t want to Dick-up this book too much, so to clarify the references to RC on the following pages:
RC stands for Richard Cranium. (Dick-Head).
(Richard = Dick) (Cranium = Head) – my RC or yours, just a Dick Head.
Potato-Smasher-Word:
Write inspiring words on pieces of paper to hang from a Potato-Smasher with colorful twine or yarn. I’ll point out a few as we go. Sounds crazy you say? Think of it as a hanging vision mobile. You’re smashing; so, keep searching for something good and smash it! (In a good way.) Besides, it gives you something to do with your hands between drinking sessions.
INTRODUCTION
Where I’m coming from, and where you may not want to go…
“Confidence is needed to proceed, and Humility is the way to build confidence.” ~Debbie Craig
Dogs sometimes eat shit. That’s funny; I don’t know why. But saying it is comical … “eat shit.”
That doesn’t mean I’m going to do it (anymore). I’m not a dog. I’ve had enough, and I proved it by dealing with the shambles of my marriage like a dog handles life: If you don’t want to eat it or hump it, piss on it and walk away. So, I did.
But it’s because of Richard Cranium (RC) that we’re not sharing the life and family we built together. Now I only have myself to share 35 years of memories only RC and I found hilarious. We did share puberty, our first home in a ramshackle trailer on PFC pay, and a single 24 oz Fosters beer every payday to celebrate (payday). PFC is the Marine Corps rank: Private First Class and, back in the day, that was equivocal to $443 per month. If Private First Class sounds like a good wine, it will be soon! Details in the future on www.lifebackdoit.com.
At my first and only wedding, I promised “as long as we both shall live,” and I meant it. He was my true love. That’s the reason I married him. That, and the fact that he could thaw a frozen pipe under a trailer home with a blow torch. He duct-taped our jeep tail light to pass inspection and could butcher a deer. That’s how we survived our first few years of marriage. Those were the good ole days. I hardly recall how the good days turned bad, but they did, and I suddenly became the enemy.
Oh, I didn’t recently get divorced. It has been years. It hit me after three years though, that I wasn’t moving on. I thought I was evolving but was only emulating the roadrunner. Feet spinning, lots of dust, no progress … then … off the cliff. My life was a romantic comedy, without the romance.
I read somewhere that for each year of a relationship, you should expect one month of recovery after it ends. Part of that recovery process is about achieving distance and perspective … Blah Blah Blah.
Honestly, that’s true, but it sounded like dogshit the first time I heard it. I didn’t care what anyone else thought I should do to forget the life I’d lost. No one could possibly understand.
That’s why I’ve outlined a plan for you. (I recognize the irony here, but) I’m including useful skills in this book, Real Skills … like how to fake your own death and where to hide the potato-smasher, and WHY. Plus, some things you probably shouldn’t do. You may benefit from avoiding every situation in this book. For now, just get yourself a wonderful wine glass or coffee cup. It will temporarily fill the void and inspire your accomplishments throughout the remainder of this book.
Oh, grab your potato-smasher too. You’ll need it later.
Back in 1978, in Dublin, Virginia, population 5,576, when you walked into Contessa Beauty Shop, you were slapped in the face with an 11x17” portrait of Miss National Teen of Virginia in an enormous gilded frame. She is donning a banner and crown, leaning against a fence, gazing into the distance looking constipated.
It should have been easy to refrain from smiling (as the photographer insisted) at 7:30 the morning after accidentally winning the state title. But it wasn’t. I’m a smiler; it was hard to keep my mouth shut.
Mom submitted my entry to the pageant. She lived vicariously through me, so I did it to make her happy. I didn’t tell my friends about the contest because I didn’t expect to win. It was RC’s birthday, and I simply wanted to get home.
All I ever wanted from life existed in that one-stoplight town, just like all simple-minded kids in Dublin. We played kick the can until dark, climbed trees, and had secret hideouts. We got spankings from our dads (mine had a huge leather State Police belt), and we all had to be home for dinner and wash the dishes after we did our homework.
I don’t know about the others, but I was smothered in unconditional love from my mom. Her perceptive attention was annoying then. But after she died of breast cancer, no one remembered my birthday for two years. No one called to warn me of mad cow disease, and no one told me how to do everything differently. I wasn’t sure how to do anything anymore. Especially after a heartbreaking divorce.
So, after my divorce…
I went skydiving, horseback riding, fly fishing, and castrated a calf at a “Wild West Women” retreat in Montana. I wined a lot. Then I went on an all- woman hiking and ziplining week in Arizona; climbed to Angel’s Landing, and lost 8 pounds eating vegan for six days. I flew with an airshow team to 42 airshows in two years, started an event planning (and of all things, wedding planning) business, and vowed to become more involved in the everyday life of my three grown sons.
My boys weren’t as enthused as I was about the idea. They had their own lives. So, I started mine.
After accepting a job in Japan (a few months before the big tsunami), I had brain surgery; got engaged and almost married a hunk of a man who adored me and wanted sex five times a day. I know, you’re thinking, “shouldn’t THAT be the story?” Hmmmm … maybe the next book. (Too Many Shades of Thank You.)
After charges showed up on my credit card from RC’s trip to Europe with his Texas Trash Tramp on my birthday, I stayed in the Paris hotel where they charged our credit card. (That strategy is not recommended.)
I identified as brave and adventurous. I still identified as a woman; but nonetheless, changed my persona from wife/mom to majestic unicorn. I deserved more than cold leftovers and a used mattress. I was single, free, and (learning to be) just me. I only had myself to answer to.
The problem was, I didn’t know the questions. Hopefully, you’ll find your questions and answers in the following pages. If nothing else, you will learn to laugh and be entertained mindlessly.
When I got over the “I am woman, watch me soar” tour…
I unintentionally began to live my own life two steps forward, six stumbles back. THEY say setbacks are proof that you’re making progress. Maybe THEY are full of it.
Here is what I did … mindlessly … coffee cup or wine glass in hand. (Usually a wine glass.)
If you’re newly separated and want to focus on riding your own “I am woman, watch me soar” rollercoaster, skip to Chapter 18 and follow the 10 Steps to Getting Over Dick Head. Then come back to the beginning for more entertaining and inspiring ideas to get your life back.
1
Escaping A Breakup with Your Potato-Smasher
“Humility, that low, sweet root, from which all heavenly virtues shoot.” ~Thomas Moore
Who needs a bottle of wine when heartbreak can make you just as senseless? Even if you feel like you’re eating soup with a fork, don’t give up. Little dribbles of hope and clarity will seep into your journey as you follow along.
After being humiliated too many times, the conflict between what you know and what you feel can be resolved by looking at where you are. If it’s where you want to be, then … there you are. But if you’re making a complete fool of yourself and torturing everyone in your life with your crazy pinball relationship woes, it’s time to get out of the arcade and make your way to a new mecca.
First, give yourself some credit. You have become virtuous by continuing to breathe after your heart was crushed. Secondly, simply escape. If you’re the type to stay and fight for what you want, you will discover when, or if, it’s time to pack your bags, even if you don’t know where to go.
Take charge of your itinerary. It’s not easy, but you will find a way if you open your mind to all possible routes. I will help you.
I learned an ingenious tactic when I slid into an obscure hideout with a wave of relief. I had escaped. A new life began for me when I had my tolerance tested. It was negative. So were the emotions seeping from my marriage. It was time to go.
You probably don’t know about the guarded secret I am about to expose. (I had a Top Secret clearance back then.) The unexposed nexus is a passage to paradise, behind an obvious façade, veiled in plain view. I am prone to exaggeration, so I am intentionally being conservative here in telling you about my flight to freedom where I discovered this oasis.
It all began, after 30 years of marriage when my X (RC) gave me two weeks to move my belongings from our house so his Texas Trash Tramp could move in. You may have discovered that in the middle of a crisis, you just don’t think rationally. So, don’t even start wondering why I evacuated on demand. I have exactly no idea. I just mindlessly moved out.
All I know (because I still had a key) is that she had nothing to move into my home except suitcases full of very expensive clothing, makeup, and shoes. No blender, no books, not even a wine glass or potato-smasher. I took my potato-smasher by the way. It seemed logical at the time. She got my RC, but she didn’t get my potato-smasher or my favorite wine glass!
She did acquire my new furniture and old stained linens. Good for her. I’d like to high-five her with a 2x4 in the face - but I digress. For karma, I left her my mom’s hidden ashes for a few weeks. Mom had to be just as pissed as my dog was about that skank squatting in my homestead.
Anyway, I boarded the plane and aimlessly pushed my way to the very back. You know, the seat that doesn’t recline. Like most things these days, that seat was not my choice. But it wasn’t so bad. I am an optimist. I sat for 149 minutes as they repaired the ventilation system, and it gave me time to ponder why and when they banned potato-smashers in carry-on.
The stale air was suffocating. But overwhelming discomfort came from the fact that the woman in front of me was accompanied by her feline in a carry-on, and I am deathly allergic to cats. Consequently, the moment I squeezed into my corner seat; I was clawing at my swollen red eyes. Luckily, I was distracted by a screaming 4-year-old with a limited vocabulary of “No” and “Stupid.” His poor mother must have been nearly deaf because that child had to shriek his insults mere inches from her unresponsive face.
We finally pulled away from the gate … and were delayed … again.
In my glorious optimism, I controlled the urge to run for an exit. I had just sweated through a 2 ½ hour delay at 98 degrees on blazing asphalt. I knew I could endure another hour going nowhere. Air was finally circulating. I was squished into my little corner by a couple who loudly popped the gum in their jowls from the moment they sat down, relentlessly swirling their tongues to readjust their globs, efficiently cracking and snapping. I gagged when the passenger in front of me leaned her seat back into my lap (she and her cat).
Finally in the air, I began to breathe easier. Well, until my new friend repeatedly leaned over my body to photograph the clouds commenting on “how close we were to heaven.” Meanwhile, her relentless gum popping made me feel like I was in hell!
I suddenly became severely claustrophobic and popped from my seat, escaping to the aisle in one swift leap. It was one of those moves you look back on in amazement. Really, how did I do that?
I stepped into the galley and ordered wine. The flight attendants had observed my “situation” and offered free wine to compensate for my misery. I hung with the flight team for a while, until the conversation turned from my absurd dilemma to airline schedules and crew rosters. Wearing out my welcome, I slyly slipped away.
Not wanting to return to half of my seat, and thinking I had exhausted all options, I haphazardly stumbled upon the most amazing discovery! There just so happen to be private cabins available on airplanes. I know, you didn’t know, right?
As many times as I have flown, I never knew about this hidden compartment. You can’t book it in advance. It isn’t even in first class; it is better, truly private. No one can see you. You can pick your nose without being observed, stand up, move around, sit back, and breathe your own air.
I acquired another complimentary glass of wine, a bag of pretzels, and slithered into the last available secret cabin on the plane without being noticed. It was heavenly. I leaned back on my seat, locked in with my book and wine. It couldn’t have been any finer.
After only 38 minutes of bliss, and after ignoring the knock for as long as I thought believable, I folded the door back and peeked out. I had been discovered. I cried inwardly. No other place on the plane offered a private sink, disposable seat covers, and sanitary amenities. The flight attendant said, with true compassion, that I simply must return to my assigned seat and buckle my seatbelt.
It turns out, that lavatories don’t have them and, when you fly into extreme turbulence, you are required to wear a stupid seat belt.
I’m pretty sure I suddenly became menopausal during the remainder of the flight. My temperature spiked. I broke out into a cold sweat. I became impatient and irritable. My hair began falling out (probably because I was pulling it). I became overly anxious, and I had absolutely no interest in engaging in sex with any of my fellow passengers. That last observation was not uncommon for me in public places, but I still consider my lack of libido during this flight a valid symptom of my sudden transition to menopause.
Back in the corner, I turned to my seatmate, focused on her mouth, and wondered how much gum they allow in carry-on anyway. Could someone
