Jennifer Plesko

Yesterday after work, I met a friend for happy hour and had two drinks. Afterward, I went to another friend’s house for dinner, and had some wine with my meal. I wasn’t even remotely drunk, but you see that no longer matters. This time last year, I would’ve hopped out of bed the next morning like it was no big deal. But ever since my last birthday, my body has decided to become a drama queen.

So instead of sleeping soundly through the night, I woke up at three a.m. sweating, sniffling, and dying of thirst. I went to the fridge and chugged an entire pitcher of water. Then I went back to bed. When my alarm went off about three hours later, it felt like someone had gone trailer park on me in my sleep. My body ached and my eyes looked like two marshmallows. What was in that wine? Tequila?

The last thing I wanted to do was wash my hair, so I ran some baby powder (what you fancy people call “dry shampoo”) through my bangs and put the rest in a ponytail. I hosed off the rest of me in the shower because I am considerate of others. I still felt bloated from the previous night, so I pondered what to wear. I looked over at the dresser and saw a polo shirt dress I’d just gotten in the mail still sitting in its envelope, so I tore open the package and put it on. No sucking in required.

Normally, when I am at work, my hair is freshly-washed and carefully straightened and I’m wearing an uncomfortable dress with uncomfortable stilettos. And wouldn’t you know - the day I am walking around with dirty hair, bloated, and basically wearing a long shirt…that’s the day I get the most compliments. Which begs the question: why do I try?

Anger is an interesting thing. It can start with something that happened so long ago you can barely remember, but that’s all it takes - like a bitter seed planted into your soul. As a matter of self-preservation, you shove it down and try to move on. But it’s there, nagging, like a rock in your shoe, and it will begin to rear its ugly head when you least expect it.

Before you know it, a shy, well-behaved little girl becomes a bully. She lashes out at her best friend and pummels him to the ground. She teases kids that are smaller or more defenseless. She dismantles insects and worms.

By middle school, she begins to learn how to push the rage down as if she were stomping down the trash in a garbage can. But the kids at school call her fat. Her best friends betray her. The boys don’t like her. And then her grandmother goes to a nursing home and her grandfather comes to live with them, so mom and dad are distracted. They don’t pay her the attention she wants. She has to make them pay attention. There is depression. There are suicide threats. There is cutting.

Then her grandfather dies, and the guilt begins. More self-loathing. More anger. Until Junior High when she, the former bully, is now on the receiving end on a daily basis. She is ridiculed. She is gossiped about. She is betrayed over and over. One day she loses control of her anger when a boy in her History class calls her a name and she punches him in the face. Three days of In-School Suspension. The boys notice her now, but they sense her vulnerability and low self-esteem and take full advantage. At least they like me, she thinks.

By high school, she learns to suppress the rage more and more. After all, she is trying to control her boyfriend’s temper as well. It is a lot of work. He gets angry at her and she doesn’t know why. He puts her on a pedestal and then tells her she’s bad. He punches holes in things. He makes sure he has control over every move she makes. He even cheats on her and tells her that she should call the girl and thank her for talking him out of breaking up with her. And she does. And the anger continues to bubble below the surface.

By college, she has almost mastered the art of squelching her feelings. When someone dies, it barely fazes her. The dog who was her constant companion for the last 14 years is put to sleep and she feels nothing. She fails a test and it barely registers as a blip on the radar. A boy who she thought was her friend assaults her at a party, and she is numb.

Then she meets a boy and begins to feel things she didn’t know existed. There is excitement, romance, infatuation. His name appears in her inbox and her heart leaps. He knocks on her door and her stomach is in her throat. She has butterflies of anticipation every second they’re apart. Sometimes he gets jealous or mad, but that’s just because he loves her so much. One day this boy asks her to marry him and all her dreams come true. But soon he starts to withdraw and a cloud passes over his face. He pushes her further and further away. He says things that hurt her. He does things that destroy her. The helplessness she feels causes her rage to be almost unbearable sometimes. She wants to scream. She wants to break things. She wants to drive off a bridge to make the pain stop. But this is her husband to whom she made a lifelong commitment, so she just pushes it deep down, wipes away the tears, puts on a smile, and loves him with all her might. No matter what.

But it still isn’t enough. He decides to leave anyway. She is numb again. People die and she feigns sadness. People gossip about her and she couldn’t care less. People cry and she fakes sympathy. Boys are scared of her because she stares an icy hole right through them. At night as she tries to sleep, the anger claws at the inside of her brain feverishly trying to get out. Her thoughts so red and furious. This bitter seed has grown into a thick, thorny vine that has slowly twisted around her heart and it is choking the life out of her.

Finally, she pleads with God to take it away. She wants to feel peace instead of turmoil. Love instead of hate. And slowly, He begins to hack away the vine, little by little, piece by piece. And to think a lifetime of anger started with one little seed.

This weekend ended up being a weekend of firsts for me.

It was the first time I attempted to make a cherry pie, and the first crust I’d made from scratch. It was the first time I’d ridden on the back of an ATV sitting on a feed bucket. It was the first time I’d picked mustang grapes and eaten them off the vine. It was the first time I’d seen an apiary in person, and the first time I’d been stung by a bee. It was the first time I’d ever kneeboarded, and I only fell once. It was the first Max Stalling concert I’d been to, and with his tall, lanky frame and his t-shirt and Wranglers, my high school boyfriend came to mind.

Maybe it was spending quality time with family and those who feel like family, but I felt a lot of joy this weekend. It was the kind of solace I hadn’t felt in awhile. Just the feeling that, although there are things in my life that are painful, there are also things that are wonderful. I am still more blessed than I have any right to be.

So this morning as I got ready in my nice apartment for the job that I love, I felt the bee stings on my scalp, the sunburn in the part of my hair, and the kneeboarding bruises on my legs, and I just smiled.

Since the concept of divorce became real in my life, there have been a lot of people who have given me advice or encouragement. I know that all of them mean well, and many times people, particularly those who have been in my situation, provide good insight. But some of the opinions I hear concern me.

It seems that there is an attitude that is becoming more and more prevalent in our society, and it goes a long way toward explaining the ridiculous divorce rates. It’s an attitude I’ve seen in popular books. It’s an attitude I’ve seen on television and in movies. It’s an attitude expressed to me many times in the last several months. It’s the idea that marriage vows are only true as long as you want them to be. It’s as if people are saying “’til death do us part” but what they mean is “until I don’t feel like being married anymore”…”until you start to get in my way”…”until you become boring or old.”

This egocentric notion seems to have caused an epidemic of inflated self entitlement and marriage becomes a question of “why isn’t my spouse making me happy?” But what are you doing to make your spouse happy? What are you doing to better your relationship? Why are you relying on someone else to fulfill all of your needs?

That is not what marriage is about. It’s about making a lifelong commitment to grow towards intimacy and oneness. That means that both parties have to work on improving themselves, serving each other and working on their relationship. When something is not right, you try to find solution together. You don’t go looking for greener pastures. And if both of you aren’t prepared for that level of commitment, please don’t get married. If marriage to you is about wanting to be taken care of or swept off your feet, don’t get married. If you’re going into it thinking “I do, for now,” don’t get married. If you aren’t willing to be there even if your spouse becomes senile, terminally ill, or otherwise incapacitated, don’t get married. Because divorce comes with a lot of collateral damage - more than you realize.

Are there valid reasons for divorce? Of course there are. Sometimes it can even be a necessity. But I am seeing fewer examples of that and more examples of people just treating marriage like a used tissue.

I’ve witnessed successful marriages. They do exist. And they are the product of years of mutual respect, maturity, love, humility, and divine intervention. And they are totally worth the effort.

My dad is not like others. Every Father’s Day, marketing departments try to pigeon-hole dads into three main categories: the fisher, the golfer, and the tie-wearer. My dad may wear a fishing hat, but he doesn’t fish. He doesn’t like golf. And since his retirement, he only wears a tie to weddings and funerals. Even then, it’s usually a clip-on. So I always struggle to figure out what I can get for the man who fits into no one’s mold.

Although he looks as big and burly as a truck driver, he loves going to the theater or afternoon tea.

He knows how to quilt and sew, and he sewed all my dance costumes in high school. In fact, he just made several pillowcase dresses for orphans in Vietnam.

He loves babies and he’s been known to volunteer in the church nursery just so he can get his baby fix.

He coordinates the food pantry at his church: from collecting to bagging to distribution. For those who need food but can’t leave their house, he personally brings the food to them.

He has been all over the world building houses, digging wells, cooking, cleaning, doing whatever needed to be done in Kosovo, Nicaragua, Belize, South Texas, Honduras, Appalachia, and soon, Haiti.

He delivers clothing and supplies to Indian reservations in New Mexico, North Dakota and South Dakota.

If someone’s father is in the hospital, he’s there. When someone’s mother has died, he’s there.

He’s teaching Sunday school every Sunday. And living Sunday school every day.

He’s always seeking knowledge. When new technology or a different idea comes along, he doesn’t immediately scoff at it. He is curious to know more. He keeps an open mind. He asks questions. That is probably why he’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever known.

And somehow, he still manages to be there for me, whether it’s killing a mouse, hanging drywall, or helping me move.

But when you have a dad like mine, you’re presented with a unique problem. You’re so grateful to have someone in your life who you love and admire so much, but you’re so scared of losing him. But no one is on this earth forever, so I try my best to appreciate every moment. I love you, dad. Happy Father’s Day.

Three of my girlfriends and I spent Memorial Day weekend at a resort on Lake Travis near Austin. We’re all so busy it was like herding cats to get everyone there at the same time. But we did it, and I am so glad we did.

It had been a stressful week, so we were ready for a break. I was the first to arrive. I got into Austin just in time for rush hour, but I actually enjoyed driving slowly on 620 because I got to enjoy the amazing view. With all of the rocky hills, blue water, and gorgeous houses, sometimes it looks like another country.

About an hour after I arrived, friend number one arrived. Our other two friends were still a couple of hours away, so we decided we’d have dinner at the swim-up bar in the pool and watch the sunset. When we got to the pool, we heard someone playing live music. He sounded familiar, and he was playing covers of Jerry Jeff Walker and Robert Earl Keen (two of my favorites). But no one really seemed to be paying attention to him. Then I saw who it was. It was Django Walker, Jerry Jeff’s son and a singer in his own right, sitting on a stool in his swimtrunks playing his guitar and people walking around like it was no big deal. That’s Austin for you. I’m not from Austin, so I took a stalker picture of him.

As I imagined, the view of the sunset over Lake Travis did not disappoint - especially when you get to watch it while sitting in an infinity pool eating a brisket sandwich.

Friend number two arrived and she still hadn’t eaten dinner, so we got dressed and drove to the Iguana Grill where friend number three met us. Although two of us had eaten, that didn’t stop us from inhaling chips and queso and cocktails. Nothing has calories on vacation right?

After we shut down the restaurant and the waiters started not-so-subtly sweeping and stacking chairs around us, we decided that each of us needed something from CVS pharmacy. You know what I learned this weekend? With the right people, a midnight trip to CVS can be an adventure. We must’ve spent an hour in there. One friend was buying cheap wine and powdered donuts. One was buying Sour Patch Kids, coloring books and crayons…for herself. One was buying wine and sweet tarts. I bought Pepto and a 5 Hour Energy shot. I managed to talk myself out of a giant bucket of cheeseballs with a shovel. I think we provided entertainment for the staff at what is normally a pretty lifeless part of their shift.

The next day, we spent the entire day at the pool. I mean, wouldn’t you?

I did manage to go inside long enough to get a pedicure so my toes matched my bikini, but most of the day, we were sitting in the water talking and laughing with a beverage in one hand.

That night, we decided to go to Hula Hut. We had big plans to make it there early to beat the crowd, but by the time you get four women showered in one bathroom, well we made it there by 7:30. So the wait was an hour and a half. But we did manage to find a nice table on the patio where we could wait. And since it had been about 45 minutes since our last meal, we could get more chips and queso, cocktails and shrimp quesadillas so we wouldn’t waste away. And, of course, we could watch the sunset. (Do you see a theme here?)

After we finally left Hula Hut at about 10 PM, we headed to Speakeasy downtown. There, we saw a cover band posing as musical superheroes called The Space Rockers and they rocked! We were up in the mezzanine right above the stage and when I started taking pictures, I got the attention of Captain Cosmos.

First he photobombed this one (he’s the one in the red)

Then he waved at me in this one

The next day, half our party had to leave, so the other half did what we do best: lay around at the pool stuffing our faces. Adjacent to the pool was a rocky staircase leading down to a patio on the water with two chairs. But for some reason, it had been padlocked the whole weekend. So later that night, after a movie and a couple several glasses of wine, my friend decided we should head back out there. Sure enough, it was still padlocked. But that wasn’t enough to stop her. “Here, hold my wine.” she said. And she scaled the fence and hopped over. “Now it’s your turn,” she said. Okay, first of all, she is about three or four inches taller than me and she was wearing jeans. I have short legs and I was in heels and a maxi dress. But she doesn’t take no for an answer. So I said, “here, hold my wine,” and I hiked up my skirt and gingerly scaled the fence in my 4-inch heels. We made it down the bumpy stairs and settled into the metal chairs overlooking the water. You could hear a blend of music coming from the wedding reception on the upper deck, the guitarist at the pool, and the band across the lake. We sat out there for two hours watching the boats and talking about life and death. It was one of those moments you know you’ll remember a long time, so I’m glad my delinquent friend talked me into it.

I was sad when the weekend ended. It was everything a girls’ trip should be. We ate too much, talked too much, slept too late, stayed up too late and spent too much money. And I can’t wait to do it again.

I went to a baby shower last weekend for one of my sweetest friends. As you can imagine, since I’m so old, this was not my first rodeo. I have been to my fair share of baby showers over the years, and I’ve noticed that there are some unspoken rules that people tend to adhere to. So in case you’re inexperienced in this area, allow me to clue you in so we’re all on the same page. You’re welcome.

• The estrogen and cuteness in the room must be so palpable that it could make Chuck Norris run screaming like a schoolgirl. No really. Make sure it looks like Martha Stewart had a seizure in there.
• Because of all the estrogen, everyone’s voice is required to go up an octave. This is especially important when greeting people and observing the unwrapping of the gifts. Which brings me to my next point.
• You must break down every word you say into extra syllables. (Example:  “Ohhhh maaahhhh gooosshhhhh. Thaaaaat is soooooo kaaahhhhyyyoooooott!!!”) That way everyone knows you’re being sincere.
• Because everyone is on their best behavior, no one will touch the food until one brave soul grabs a plate and gingerly places one finger sandwich on it. Then, gradually everyone will follow suit taking one grape here, one cheese cube there. But by the third or fourth round, the decorum is gone and everyone’s piling food on their plate like it’s their last meal. That’s the part where I really shine.
• It’s ok to bring your baby with you. If he’s well-behaved, it will make the guest of honor look forward to her new addition even more. And if he’s screaming bloody murder, well, at least there won’t be any surprises. Win win.

But seriously - congratulations Lauren. You’re going to be a beautiful mom. And thank you to the hostesses for not making us identify melted candy bars in diapers.

(And for not having a cake like this. Thanks for the nightmares, Cakewrecks.)

When I was in high school, I hated the fact that people treated me like I was a child and I didn’t know anything. In college, I was still considered young, but people seemed to listen to me a little more and might have even thought I knew what I was talking about. Sometimes.

After college, I promptly bought a house and got married, so I was an adult, right? But for several years, I was still largely treated as if I were basically a college student. I still lived in a college town where employers pay college grads just as poorly as college students, because hey, these twenty-somethings are a dime a dozen. If they don’t like being paid with the change I found in my couch cushions, I know where I can find some more poor schmucks who do.

By the time I was 27, I started to feel like I was far enough beyond college that I was gaining ground professionally. I had the elusive “five years experience” and there were actually people being hired under me and everything. But since I still looked 23, and I’m a girl, there were still some people who had a hard time believing I knew what I was doing, so I had to work hard to prove myself.

When I moved from my hometown to the big city at 28, I hoped I would finally be taken seriously and not seen as a child. Well, it seems I have now gotten my wish. I have a great job that I’m good at with my very own team. But now? I’m over the hill. Apparently.

I’ve dealt with the “why-don’t-you-have-children-OMG-you-fail-as-a-woman-now-you’re-too-old” crap for a few years now. I get that I married rather young, but I didn’t realize people would expect my ovaries to shrivel up like raisins the second I hit 29. Life does not always go as planned, my friends. How about minding your own beeswax, mmkay?

Just last week someone noticed my wedding ring for the first time and exclaimed “You’re getting married??” When I pointed out that I’d actually been married for seven years, he said “Oh, I thought you were young.”

On my last birthday, I had to show my driver’s license several times to prove that I was, in fact, turning 30 because “wow, that’s old. I can’t believe you were born in the 70s.” I suppose it’s better than people thinking I’m older, but still.

So here’s my question: when was I the right age? How did I go from too young to too old and where was I when the change took place? For the first time in a long time, I’m taking care of myself, so I actually feel younger than I have in years. And I have learned more in the last five years than I learned in the 25 years prior. Does that make me old? Don’t I still have a good 50-60 years left in me? If I’m old now, will I be ancient at 40? Decrepit at 50? Senile at 60?

Do men have this problem too?

A friend of mine is always doing things to push his body: running a half marathon without training, living on lunchmeat, eating raw chorizo from a tube. So when he started taking these new dietary supplements, we just thought it was more of the same. Then slowly, he began convincing us, one by one, to try them. I held out for awhile, but eventually, Pusherman talked me into it.

He said the bottle tells you to take six a day, but he recommended four instead. Considering the source, that should’ve been a red flag. I was supposed to take the first two in the morning and the second two right after lunch. He warned me not to take the second dose too late in the afternoon, or I’d never get to sleep. Red flag number two. He said he got this from GNC, but I was beginning to think he scored it somewhere in south Dallas.

Reluctantly, I took the first dose. It wasn’t long before I was sweating and twitching and had the sudden urge to run around the building and possibly leap over a few cars. But unfortunately, I had to sit there and twitch and sweat it out for several hours. Against my better judgment, I took the second dose and went home.

What followed was a feverish cloud of OCD. I scrubbed floors on my hands and knees. I hand scrubbed the carpet with Resolve even where there were no stains. I brushed my dogs’ teeth. I wiped baseboards. I dusted the furniture, I pulled out the furniture touch-up marker and started looking for scuffs, I worked out like an anorexic on crack. I just kept looking for more things to do until about 11:00 that night. It was kind of exhilarating.

I had one more dose left, so since I had a lot of errands to run, I took it the next morning. Once I started to sweat, I knew it was kicking in, so I took the dogs for a walk. But I couldn’t stand moving so slow, so I started running. We ran for about four miles while the dogs occasionally looked up at me as if to ask “Lady, what is wrong with you?” Then I immediately ushered them into the bathroom and gave them a bath, dried them off, brushed them, fed them and brushed their teeth. Next, I vacuumed, did laundry, scrubbed every surface of the bathroom, cleaned out my closet, took the clothes to a donation drop off, assembled a bookcase, filled said bookcase with books, hung pictures, cleaned the interior and exterior of my car, washed dishes, worked out some more, ironed clothes, and finally took a shower some time late that afternoon.

I’m a little conflicted. I don’t know that I should have enjoyed all of that manic energy so much, even if it does leave me with a spotless apartment and a lot of burned calories. But I’m not hooked. Really. I can quit any time I want.

Galveston has a lot of memories for hubby and me. Our first spontaneous drive to Stewart Beach. Sneaking onto the roof of the Tremont Hotel with an ice bucket of homemade margaritas and watching the ships roll in. Walking down the Strand in our formal wear after a college formal. Spending our first wedding anniversary at the San Luis. Stealthily sneaking our dogs into the La Quinta only to find out they allow pets. Watching Scratch leap into the waves while Sniff ran from them.

So when I planned a getaway at a beach condo on the Seawall with the dogs, I couldn’t help but invite him along. Was it a bad idea? I think we both asked ourselves that question. But even though he doesn’t live with me, he is still my husband for the time being. And I still love him. And so do the dogs.

It was bittersweet. In many ways, we fell back into that easy rapport we’ve always had. We know that one person will take the dogs out while the other gets the food ready. He knows to offer his arm when I’m in heels on a brick street. I know he is going to want steak (extra rare) at least once while we’re there. It’s just that unspoken language that you develop over the course of an eleven year relationship.

We created new memories. Watching Scratch lose his mind when he figured out we were, in fact, going to the beach. Going to the steakhouse at the San Luis for dinner and having a meal so good it should be on pay-per-view. Sitting with the dogs in front of The Strand Emporium drinking an Imperial Sugar Dr. Pepper. Watching him try every single flavor of ice cream at LaKing’s. And, of course, the Galveston Island Food and Wine Festival in Saengerfest Park.

But amidst the joy, there was still that twinge. That feeling that this may be the last time. That of all those wonderful memories, this could be it. And that made me wish that Sunday would never come.