Roseanne, Roseanne, Roseanne



You have always been a little weird and now you’re just kind of well……dumb.   And it’s costing you dearly .

You spent a long Memorial weekend Twittering away your future and that of so many of your cast mates on a show that after its extremely successful reboot season, had a zillion possibilities.

ABC cancelled your show…and rightfully so….saying that your repugnant racist  tweets don’t represent the network or its affiliates, it’s advertisers,  studio parking lot attendants,  i s gaffers, craft services staff…anyone and everyone.   And not only has your reboot been cancelled, Entertainment Weekly says  Hulu has joined Viacom and its channels in pulling ALL Roseanne reruns.  That means the Paramount Network, TV Land, and CMT will all cease to air reruns of the series, while Hulu confirms it will remove the show from its library.    That will cost you sooooo much, Rosie.    I’m talking  MILLIONS and MILLIONS of dollars in lucrative residual payments.

Roseanne was  also dropped by her high powered management team, ICM Partners.

The reason?     Her Twitter account which apparently in recent months,  has been all a twitter with extremely inflammatory comments.   Among the most offensive comments made over the long Memorial Day weekend tweets, was about  Valerie Jarrett, a former Senior Advisor in the Obama administration:

               If the Muslim brotherhood & planet of the apes had a baby=vj

Valerie Jarrett is a Black woman born to American parents in Iran.      This was a reply to a another tweet that accused Jarrett of helping to cover up alleged crimes by the Obama administration.

And it’s been reported that in 2013 she said this about Susan Rice, another woman in Obama’s close inner-circle:

                 Susan Rice is a man with big swinging ape balls,

I can!t even imagine what could have precipated THAT tweet!

My biggest question would be to anyone who might be surprised by her actions, on or off Twitter.   I’d ask them why?  i’d ask them how could this surprise you?      Roseanne Barr has had a vivid history of saying and doing many off-the-wall things:

•  In 1990, she sang the National Anthem…badly…at a baseball game in San  Diego, finishing her performance with spitting on the ground and  grabbing her crotch.

•  She ran for president Barr on the Peace and Freedom Party with anti war activist, Cindy Sheehan (she was the one who camped out near President Bush’s Texas ranch and refused to leave.   It was her way of protesting a son she’d lost in the war that ensued after 9/11).

•. She has said she intends to become the Prine Minister of Israel.

•  She accused several family members of sexually abusing her as a child….then she denied it, then said well, yeah, maybe it did happen, but she was on so many psychotropic drugs at the time, she’s not sure of anything but thinks there must be at least a kernel of truth to  it.

•  She bought a macadamia nut farm in Hawaii and unsuccessfully tried to get an established reality show about it in the process.   A pilot episode ran.   It was an absolute snore fest.

And in 1994, Roseanne announced that she has multiple personality disorder, telling anybody who would listen that it wasn’t easy  easy dealing with switching between “Somebody” and “Nobody”, two of the named personalities the former sitcom queen once claimed she had.   For those you playing the home game, the rest she named Baby, Cindy, Susan, Joey, and Heather.

Wonder which one is the racist Islamophobe?







Mere weeks away

According to my flight itinerary, we’re just 47 days out.

We are go for launch…for most part.   But my mother’s ability to go is in question.    She has degenerative rotator cups.   Not unusual for an 88 year old rotator cups, but a painful reality for the woman they’re attached to.   At first, Mother thought it was fibromyalgia.

There’s a slightly invasive procedure that would be performed on both arms at the same time, on an out patient basis, but it would result in the temporary immobilization of her arms.  Both would be in slings.  I’d have her move her in with me and one or both of my sisters would come help with her incapacitation.

I want my mother to go on the trip.   She wants to go, despite knowing she’d be in pain.   She’d be willing to postpone the procedure until after the trip.    She can have cortisone shots in each shoulder.    They’re painful, but can stave off pain for a few weeks.     She she might be willing to do that.

I know I’ll be depressed if she doesn’t go.  We were all aware of the fact that at her age, this would be here very last vacation and had various things planned, such as a belated birthday celebration including some five-star surprises in one of her favorite cities Europe.


I know I’ll get “the phone call” someday.   The one that alters life as I knew it.  She’s fallen before, tripped over something.    I’ve already found her twice on the floor, drenched in her own sick and dangerously close to the kind of dehydration from which a woman her age doesn’t recover.   She refuses to wear her life alert button necklace.    It is bulky she says and affects the neckline of all her blouses.

It doesnt.

She’s deaf, but refuses to wear her hearing aid.    It’s uncomfortable.   Do I’d having to shout things out to her.

She’s stubborn as a mule, even in the midst of an “episode” in which she’s convinced I once went by the name of Jan, and lived with another family in Utah.

I didn’t.

She’s been cruel, has torpedoed my success on more occasions than I can count and has been the subject matter of almost every psychiatric session since my teenage years.   I stayed away for years.

So you see, I can’t  deny the fact that my mother has been the bane of my existence.  We’ve had a tumultuous relationship for most of my 59-years on this big, blue marble.   There have been fights,  caustic disagreements, and we’re both equally guilty saying of  nasty things to each other, things that were etched in pain and left psychic scars.   So, when that happens, we employ  “The Kendrick”, a classic move of letting a few weeks go by with no contact.    Then, when we reconnect, nothing is ever said about the spat again.  The wound might still be open and oozing, but it’s the most non-emotional way of starting the process of healing, as unhealthy as that might be.   It’s not my personal method of conflict resolution; it doesn’t work in the real world, but it’s the only one we’re willing to try within the confines of my taxonomic family.

I’ve often said that she was never the kind of mother a woman  like me should have had.   I was never the daughter a woman like her should ever have mothered.

I willfully accept my contributions to our dysfunction.


This coming July fourth will mark the eleventh anniversary of my best friend Walter’s death.    He was HIV+ for years and died of full blown AIDS a mere nine days after he was diagnosed.   In the weeks before as his body was succumbing to fatal pneumocystis pneumonia,   I was in such denial.     He would call to tell me he felt like hell, but I cavalierly told him to take a few aspirin, maybe even a shot or two of tequila and I’d talk to him later.

I hated myself for that and vowed to never do that again, but damned if I don’t find myself trying to talk my mother out of  the pain and fear associated with 88 year old body shut down.      I do allow her to talk about her fatigue and even question herself as to how much longer she wants to stay alive, but I still find myself trying to down play her aches and pains.

Why do I do it?   What’s the motivation behind my denial?     Selfishness.

I’m taking her to get an MRI tomorrow.      She has a cardiac consult in a few days.    Her EKG indicates stress minor on her heart.   I’m hoping it’s the result of living with chronic pain.

If she doesn’t go to Europe with us, I’ll be depressed.   When she chooses to leave us for the last time, I’ll be devastated.










.  wants to go and  go.   I know I’ll be depressed if she doesn’t go.  We were all aware of the fact that atbher age, this would be here very last vacation and had various things planned, such as a belated birthday celebration including some five-star surprises in one of her favorite cities Europe.

My mother has all too often been the bane of my existence.  We’ve had a tumultuous relationship for most of my 59-years on this big, blue marble.   There have been fights,   caustic disagreements, and we’re both equally guilty of  nasty things that were etched in pain and left psychic scars.   So, when that happens, we employ  “The Kendrick”, a classic move of letting a few weeks go by with no contact.    Then, when we reconnect, nothing is ever said about the spat again.  The wound might still be open and oozing, but it’s the most non-emotional way of starting the process of healing, as unhealthy as that might be.   It’s not my personal method of conflict resolution; it doesn’t work in the real world, but it’s the only one we’re willing to try within the confines of my taxonomic family.

A Month & A Half….

That is, 1.5 months intil seven members of my family head to Central Europe.    As I busy myself with trip prep, I realized I hadn’t thought about you a long time.   Your name might come up in a conversation,  but when I speak about you. I do so in a very detached manner.    I’m not even aware of how detached until much later.
You’ve been gone” 16months.    You’d delight in the fact that I didn’t know that number off the top of my head.  I had to stop and think and actually tally the months in my head.
I’d call that progress.
In the beginnng, I missed you.    But then, it didn’t take me very long to realize how much it wasn’t you I missed.  I missed my normalcy.   How decent things were before you entered my life.    You kept things chaotic….and at a distance.   I hated that.
I found this letter I wrote you sometime after you left.      Basically, it says it all.
You’ll never get this missive.   I’ll never send it.  I’d if I could, where would I send it?    Heaven?  Uh…..there’s one principle reason that would be folly:  I don’t know if you made it there.
You were a Godly man, in your own way, I suppose, but I can’t imagine “Heaven” being anything like you, a self-professed “scholar”  would have envisioned…..if you made it.
And then again, maybe you did and it IS all brilliantly gilded with marshmallow like clouds with this Charlton Heston lookin’ mother fella perched in repose on one of the fluffier ones.    Boy oh boy, would I love to be a fly on the wall cloud  when or if  THAT first conversation ever took place:   you and God having a chat with you correcting him about certain creations you think He got wrong:  the Gaza Strip, ocelots and Visigoths.
I immediately wept after learning you had died, then cried for other reasons when I learned how.  Your heart, the detective intimated, exploded.  It “was a mess in there” he quoted the Medical Examiner saying.   I was in the hospital myself.  I’d just received a life-altering diagnosis myself.     At the time, I was overwhelmed.
But my situation was auto-immune, yours was self-induced.    You ate eggs and salami and all the things in bigger amounts that would assail the healthiest of hearts   Did you want to die?   No, but I don’t think you were too terribly keen on living.   You were grossly unhealthy from what I hear and having been a reporter and seen other cases of a person’s nonchalance to life in death, I can imagine what your corpse must’ve looked like.    The detective and the forensic team walked into your townhome and at first,  thought you looked homeless.  Then, he said  your home gave all the tell-tale signs of that of a hoarder.     I can’t speak to that.    I never saw your life as you lived it.    But it was never hard to imagine all your imperfections.

.I never had the desire to pursuit additional facts about your death, much less your life.   I know you were deceptive.   I was always 95 to 97 percent sure your existence was a lie based on a few truths.     You weren’t very convincing.     You would have been better off trying to pull off being Canadian.


At one time, you probably loved as much  as you could, but you would never allow anyone to love you in return.  You would loathe the responsibility.   I don’t understand that.   But I think,  I was also on an unhealthy road to learning how that process worked.  People might think me unkind for saying this, but I think of all things, you’d  understand the following statement better than anyone else–hadvyou not field or pretended to have died, I would never be free of you any other way.


 I understand so much now. How you disliked me the most when I was at my most human.   You liked me cold and hard though I could tell on  infrequent occasions  that veneer had been compromised,   That may be, but I never, ever came close to ever being the one who could scratch your surface.
I’m not allowing myself to be overly consumed by your dishonesty, perceived or otherwise.   I don’t know why, but I won’t allow it.  Maybe it’s because I won’t be duped again.   Maybe it’s because I’ve wizened up and will live better, longer because you lived yours so horribly wrong.  You were exemplary  for the best and worst reasons.   You’re gone and the method by which you left is no longer important.   Sometimes I think you died, other times I think you just had someone lie for you.    If that’s the case, you must have really wanted to be out of my life.
And if you are dead, and died in the way the detective described,  it wasn’t a very very pretty death.    I was told you died as a grossly overwieght man and a dirty, unkempt one at that.   They thought you were homeless.
You lied on the floor of your townhome for  four days.   It pains me to realize that your “death” went as as unnoticed as your life.    No one missed you.     I didn’t.    I figured you were just another typical heartless, male who wanted out, so you left.
I laugh now when I think you always said “no one cares”.    That was your pat response to everything.   Perhaps I did.  Perhaps, I cared despite you, in spite of you.  Perhaps, I loved you in my own skewed, distorted way.     As much as a fractured soul like me could love another warped soul like you.    Maybe I felt nothing and was just lonely, yet  craved your audible  company, but only from a distance.
My biggest problem is with your death, if you really died.    At times, more often than not to be honest, I really I don’t think you died.   You were so deceitful, cruel and lacking in basic human decency, that it’s overwhelmingly easy for me to believe you faked the whole thing.   I think you might have been in the process of making a major life change that certainly didn’t include me:   a move away from your home, your city…maybe even your state and faking your death was a convenient and permanent way to exit the scene, eliminate all debts and because you were a cruel bastard, break my heart in the process.    For someone like you, hurting me was icing on the cake.
But you see, you really didn’t break my heart.   Instead, you did me a huge favor,   Dead or alive, you and your abuse, your usary and sociopathic ways are out of my life.
My heart isn’t broken, it’s relieved.

We Leave Soon

T-minus less than 60 days and counting.

Mother’s gerontologist has given her a clean bill of health to travel.    She can walk, but at 88, stairs, inclines of any kind and distance  are not her friend    We bought her a collapsible transport wheel chair which because of our stint in Germany, she has named Greta.

In London, she named her chair Sarah Jane.   By day #5, the concierge and doormen knew the chair by name.   And one nattily dressed doorman tipped his top hat and asked her, “Will M’Lady require Sarah Jane today?”  They’d actually wrangle it for her.

By the way, Brits LOVE Texans.    Well, Brits of a certain age.    The younger ones barely know what it is, much less where it is,  but older Brits are fascinated.    Guess it’s an oddly protracted holdover from the days of J.R. and Dallas.     They knew we were from Texas the minute we opened our mouths.   Not Atlanta…not North Carolina…Texas, specifically.   From waiters to cabbies to pubtenders.   They nailed our accents each time.

I love England.  I can’t wait to go back.   Why should Meghan Markle have it all to herself?


I’m lucky enough to have been to “The Continent” on several occasions.     The very first time as a child.   I’ve spent most of my time the Western part.   This will be my first time in Eastern and Central Europe.   Several countries on our itinerary were once part of the former Soviet bloc.    This includes  stops in Hungary, Slovenia and Czechoslovakia.

As a little girl I remember watching news reports and seeing the pained expressions on the the sad faces of Czechs as they stood in public squares watching the Soviets invade Prague.    I’ve pinpointed one specific location in downtown Prague.  I feel the need to go there, stand there.

And there’s Poland, too.

My hometown was close to Panna Maria, the oldest Polish settlement in the US.    As a result, I grew up with with kids whose last names were really nothing but a lengthy succession of consonants.    Poland is quite pretty I hear.    The people are warm and friendly, despite a cruel past.    They dealt with Hitler, the  Soviets, Crimeans, Mongols and the Turks.  Now, they have a tremendous economy and a very unified people

Total solidarity.

Guess they finally learned to spell the word correctly.


Wszystkie żarty na bok .... Uważaj na Polskę, nadchodzimy

More, later.

her pretense

They got married.

She’s a small town girl, from somewhere in the south would be my guess.   Why?   She has that “look” on her face,   I’m from Texas, I know that look.   It’s a combination of naivete and a school girl dream of love that’s eternal and effortless.   This love, she thinks, supersedes bills, debts, immaturity….and combats all negatives.    He’s looks as though he’s just going along for the ride.

They fell in love in high school.   They commemorated their coupledom by securing  a cheap photo session paid for by a week’s worth of her salary as a Dairy Queen counter server.

She could dip a mean vanilla cone, from what I understand.

His cowboy hat, the cheesy forest scene backdrop they chose, along with her XXL Reba designed shirt with sequins and clownish make-up make me think “they’re Rednecks”.  Probably decent people, but rednecks just the same.

They got married right out of high school….if not before….and she learned she was pregnant immediately.      He joined the military, perhaps out of  a sense of duty, perhaps because he lacked ambition.      Either way, college was not an option for either, for whatever reason.    But he joined before they got married.   Perhaps he was a year older,  perhaps he didn’t finish high school,  I don’t know.   But he signed up for military service  AND marriage as a very young man.

He went to basic training and she went with him.   Pregnant, young, homesick. She eventually  had her  baby.    So there she was, a young mother…the smell of her HS science  class benson burner still fresh in her memory.    She was in a new state and city,  filled with unknowns,  limited by military rules and regs.    She had that, plus TV, and she could shop at the PX and buy cheap junk food.   And in between eating Twinkie’s , watching reruns of “Friends”  and tending to a crying baby, she probably felt very lonely.   Her husband’s low rank kept him busy.  He was rarely ever at their  dismal home…base housing, which was cramped, dated, ugly and haunted with bad memories of the same miserable women who’d lived there before,

But this was her reality.    She was either a simpleton and knew no better or perhaps, it was worth the sacrifice of doing with out lovely things and creature comforts,.  She was and still is proud of her husband rank and file US military existence.    Or, she was intensely miserable.   The lives of enlisted men, especially very young  married ones, are complicated.   That trickles down to his wife and kids.    Maturity and the lack there of, is often a big problem.  I’ve known women who married enlisted men and lived to regret it.   .They said it felt like a prison.  Few had formal educations and found themselves trapped in quite hapless situations.  That is, until they broke free.  For some, that involved marrying up.     For others, that meant forging ahead in business or going to college and making names for themselves.

Anyway, back to the subject at hand.  She gave birth to a daughter.   To hear her talk, the child is a saint, beatified in utero and her husband, who mysteriously died, did so as a full bird Colonel.

He was an enlisted man, no more, no less.     Details as to how he died are never disclosed, but it wasn’t in combat.  But she insists he died while on active duty.  And she brings it up constantly  when and if her husband’s name  is ever mentioned. and in  her case, she brings him up relentlessly.    That’s HER badge of honor.

I don’t know this woman, never met her, but I kind of know her, in a way and truth is, I don’t care for her.   I just don’t.  Couldn’t if I tried.    Her narcissism is renown,   She has an incredible belief in her own self importance and it’s so ridiculously obvious.  She feels her PR  job at  a very small, little known agency  will someday win her a  Nobel Prize.  For what, I don’t know.   Is being delusional a prize category?

Not only that, she’s  one of those mother’s who have  forced her entire belief  and value system on her daughter, not giving her the room to form her own opinions.

Some children are Indigo Children.   They were born with an exceptional knowledge and and an inexplicable precocity.   These children grow up with empathy, tremendous creativity , an amazing sense of virtue, fair play and kindness.  Indigo is just a color designation for their spirituality.   This normal child was born pink and crying.   The mom would insist to whoever would listen that her ‘exceptional’ child has all these traits and more…. that the child is beyond special and is as indigo as they come.

She wasn’t.    But that didn’t stop this woman.   She tried to make perfect, a very normal child.   She instilled in her, her textbook values.   The ones she read about to free her from a life of seemingly bad choices.    The mom  had no formal education but was/is  well read, though pretentious about her book choices,  telling everyone about her current “cannot-put-down” hardcovers, such Finnegan’s Rainrbow….in Swahili.      I admire her desire to educate herself, through literature, but……uh……..shut up about it.

I also respect her desire to instill a sense of civic duty and humanity in her child but there are right ways and wrong ways  to do this.     She had this kid as a toddler blithely raising money for disaster  relief.   She made her skip soccer games as birthday parties  to attend rallies protesting or supporting the agenda du jour.  the daughter  was forced to sacrifice her Saturday’s, no playing with friends, no watching cartoons  in order to protest some entity for some cause she’d just read about.   The child was instead was brought to hot warehouses   to help prep care packages to send to troops…….now, don’t get me wrong, these are all wonderfully admirable  things.   But a five year old doesn’t understand anything other than she’s putting cookies and candy  in boxes and sending them to someone else,  somewhere else.     But this woman tells her daughter to smile while packing.   Her lines are rehearsed if any questions are asked.   You see, it looks good for a mom like this, to have a daughter like that.   One with a very precocious civic  consciousness.  That’s  something a mom like this woman needs.   She needs the comments, too.

“What a good mom you are.”

“My, have you raised  the perfect child. “

”A remarkable Mother, a remarkable daughter.”

It’s like some skewed Munchaussen disorder for overly ambitious, pretentious mothers.

But this mom is like many others who never lived up to their potential in life,  despite their over inflated egos.   This mom simply needs her child to be a better, kinder, thinner, hipper, smarter, prettier, better educated, socially aware, fair minded  extension of herself.     Like she’s creating a benign golem with a heart of gold.

Sad really.   The truth is this kid, who’s  probably a  genuinely sweet little girl doesn’t want to save the world, she just wants to save enough money to buy a new bike.

Facebook CEO, Mark Zuckerberg


1DD6CBA8-1E65-401C-A67D-0EEA76969F85For starters, he look was alien.   Instead of the solid-colored tee shirts and/or hoodies he always wears,  he wore a blue suit….for hours….in front of real,  by God, AARP membered adults,  some technically savvy, others not so much.

He was grilled on a bi-partisan cook top.    And he was for the most part knowledgeable, eloquent, and quite courteous.  He never began a sentence without referencing titular importance:   Senator This, Senator That.   And why not?    He has 63.9 billion reasons to come out of this smelling like a 🌹.

But I think he was tossed softballs.    With the exception of Ted Cruz (R-Texas) who expressed a wide swath of concerns that Facebook has censored conservative accounts and content.   Ask Diamond and Silk!!!    Facebook barred (but has since reinstated) the vocal Trump supporting duo from the platform after deeming their support of the president  “unsafe to the community.”

Zuckerberg kind of implied yes, but generally speaking, this isn’t the case.  He called Facebook as a “platform for all ideas.”   But he also couldn’t deny perceptions created by geography.    Facebook’s HQ is smack dab in the middle of the Uber liberal Silicon Valley.

By the way, Palmer Luckey, was a Facebook employee who left the company after it was revealed supported of a conservative group that produced anti-Hillary Clinton memes.

But the ‘big deal on Capital heel” was about user privacy and Senator Dick Durbin made the matter up close for all and for Zuckerberg, extremely personal.

Yeah, well Marky Mark, the FB  victims of data harvester, Cambridge Analytical didn’t have a say about their personal info though, did they?      So, then did Facebook practice to deceive?

Senator Kamala Harris, Democrat of California, zeroed in on that, asking Zuckerberg about the company’s decision not to inform users about the Cambridge Analytica episode when they learned in 2015 that data was sold by a researcher to the political consulting firm.

 Zuckerberg said  the company didn’t explicitly decide to withhold that information from consumers, but admitted Iitbmade a huge mistake in not doing so.

You see, in 2011: the Federal Trade Commission began investigating Facebook for violating consent decree. If the company withheld information, which would be a deceptive act, the company could face record fines for violating its promises to the agency.

Zuckerberg knows this.  He knows all that’s at stake,   So, he attempted to answer every question, perhaps not to the satisfaction of everyone, but he said he was open to privacy regulation, but looked a little like a well….”like a scared kid” as Senator John Kennedy, a Republican from Louisiana laid this on him.

What’s the net result of all this, I think?  Federal regulations on a company that was never regulated. I don’t think Zuckerberg will step aside.  He’s a lifer.   He leaves if he so chooses and that’s that,  but I’ll bet tonight he’s nursing the worst case of stress induced diarrhea….ever.

I leave you with this:  Zuckerberg has been the Facebook CEO since its inception.   He’s ridden an amazing crest of success for a wide-eyed, idealistic collegian.   Obviously, he isn’t stupid and just politically savvy enough, but even with all his techno-brilliance, his ambition, success and billions, his handlers insisted he sit before Congress……in what amounts to a booster chair.


Zuckerberg is set to plead Facebook’s case once again tomorrow.

Two words of wisdom for the second day of testimony:  asbestos undies.











Memories of Them


Our trip to Central Europe is still on, but I’ve lost some of my enthusiasm for it.  Apparently,  in my pre-departure excitement, I’ve been texting too much about our impending journey and that’s annoying the very busy, very important Supreme Court justices and foreign heads of state on my guest passenger roster.    The two-legged travel issues are always the most bothersome.

So, even though we leave exactly three months from today, I’m tamping  down the texts, the calls with trip news and my overall external displays of excitement.  I will instead reflect on much earlier disappointments,  the ones known as ex-boyfriends.

M:   Jr. High silliness.  You were my first boyfriend.   Heavy emphasis on the “boy” portion of the word.    I was 12, you were 13.   We were so in love, yet you broke up with me prior to every gift giving holiday.   I never asked you for anything, nor did I ever expect anything.   All I wanted was to spend time with this cute boy with the greasiest hair (I was never sure if that was the result of over-active pubescent oil glands or heavy applications of Brylcreme).   For the two years we were us, you broke my heart my consistently…I’d cry my eyes out every February 14th, Easter, my birthday and Christmas.   All these years later, my Veteran’s, Arbor and Columbus Days are sacrosanct.

The best thing I can say about you now is that I no longer harbor any unhealthy,  sentimentality where a portion of our shared childhoods are concerned.

Thank God.

J:    Forbidden love.   You were Hispanic, I wasn’t.   What we had, while juvenile, felt real.  The fact it was frowned upon in Small Town South Texas in the mid 70’s didn’t make it more enticing, it made it more painful.   We tried two make a go of it again in   in a more progressive time and place, but we failed a second time.   Maybe, the word failed is too strong.     Hell, it might not be strong enough.   I’m not sure.  It was all a milion years ago.

To be honest, I’ve tried to block out this relationship as much as possible.   Not because it was necessarily bad, but because even trying to remember two failed attempts at co-mingling with you is mind-numbingly boring.

I mean no disrespect but to be honest, time has dulled the very last bits of idealistic luster.

A:   Sweet, kind, generous,  but limited.  You were too scared to leave your comfort zone and I was frightened at the thought of staying in mine.  You had the misfortune of entering my life in the worst time of my life.    Circumstances turned you into more of a guardian than a boyfriend.    I’m sorry for that.

Despite a negative ending (I seem to remember you started covertly seeing the the small town woman who’s now your wife), it wasn’t a tragic break up by any stretch.   I was just as ready and eager to end things.   I wanted start flirting back with handsome coeds who were soooooo different from you.

No ill feelings.  Never had any where you were concerned.  Instead, I’ve always wished you happiness.  Feel honored: you’re the only ex upon which I’ve never wished  a severe case of Tetanus.

L:   You loved me too much, but that didn’t keep you from hurting me.   The timing for your indiscretion sucked.   But fortunately,  I didn’t love you enough for that to  matter, not in the grand scheme of things.  But you certainly did everything you could to secure a small place in my romantic history.    You made sure you were nothing but a blip.

A:   You were from Mexico.  You were educated, poised, from a wealthy family.   On paper, you were perfect.  In the flesh, terribly milquetoast.   Bestezo means yawn in Spanish.  You defined that in two languages.

R:  My involvement with you is my second biggest regret.

L:   You will always remain my biggest regret.

A:   Phantom.  A waste of time, money and emotion.   You’d be in the top tier of regrets if anything about you was real.

Player to be named later:    The ubiquitous ‘they’ say you’re out there.  If you are and you’re to enter my life, you’d better hurry.  We’d better hurry.  Something tells me time is of the essence.