The luckiest monkey in the world

The Old Woman died three and a half, nearly four, years ago.  And, I've pretty much been in a really bad mood since.  Last month, The Old Man was placed in a facility, not too much unlike the lab, for old humans.  It isn't an ideal situation, but it was the best possible option. His health is such that he can't care for himself and refuses to assist family members in caring for him.

I was talking to the oldest child of the Old Folks the other night, and after our conversation I realized how lucky I am that the Old Folks found me/gave me a home.

The Oldest Child characterized the Old Man as the "most emotionally disconnected" person he'd ever met.

My perspective is wholly different.  The Old Man, without a doubt, loves me unconditionally.  He is always happy to see me, and affectionate.  (When he was a bit younger and stronger, would greet me with a hug that would lift me off my feet.)  I have always known that the Old Man was my greatest cheerleader and anything I thought I should try to do, he had complete confidence I could accomplish it.

I'm sad that the children of the Old Man experienced their relationship with him differently.  And, given his advanced age, I suspect there won't ever be a moment when they are able to experience him as I have.

Having the opportunity to realize how much I'm loved as well as reconcile any "difficult" relationships is just one more way I'm the luckiest monkey in the world.

In from the cold

I hope.

We have a homeless guy who I think sleeps in the dumpster behind my office.  I feel a lot of guilt because there is a person who is clever enough to figure out that the safest place for him to sleep, as a homeless person, is in a dumpster.  He generally is out by the time I roll in each morning, but once in a while I catch him.  Our office is just a block away from the town square fountain.  In warmer months, he'll get up early, splash off in the fountain, then come gather his things and leave for the day.

He also regularly digs through the dumpster for stuff he can use or sell.

Problem Child use to freak out when she saw him.  She wanted me to call the cops to have them take him off.  When I could, I'd bring him bottles of water and/or food we might have in the office.  This use to make her mad.

Today, being mardi gras, I had a king cake I'd made for the office.  About lunch time, I took some over to share with   friends in a neighboring office and noticed the homeless guy digging through the dumpster.  When I left work at the end of the day, he was still at "work."

I sat in my car and watched him for a minute.  I'd been blasted by cold air leaving the office.  I noticed he'd found a bright purple pair of sweat pants he'd put over his jeans.  He was trying on a pair of shoes he'd found in the dumpster.  I went back into the office, grabbed a bottle of water and cut a large portion of cake.  I wrapped up the cake on a plate with a napkin and fork in foil and took it out to him.

He danced as if he were on Bourbon Street.  I don't think he even heard me tell him that the homeless shelter would be open with no restrictions due to the cold.

I hope he wandered over to the shelter tonight.  I can't believe how rich I am, sometimes.  And, I can't believe that there are folks who would shrug and act as if the fact someone could freeze to death for lack of warm, safe places wasn't their problem.  Don't ever tell me you're "pro-life" if you'd throw this guy's life away to save a few pennies on your taxes.

Just a little bit pissed off right now

Disclaimer:  I've had three boozy rootbeers tonight . . . which seems to be enhancing my reactions.  I know, drunks always say booze makes them faster, stronger, better looking, great dancers . . . but for monkeys it is actually true.

Anyway, I was watching my facebook feed fill up with stories about the attacks in Paris with heart break.  Humans have such horrible ways of throwing tantrums.  I keep thinking y'all have hit the worst you could come up with and then you top it.

But, then I saw some of the tweets "conservatives" are putting out there.  Too many folks are trying to create some link between the black college students demanding to be safe in their homes with terrorist attacks half a world away.  

Funny.  Too often when white people say "I don't feel safe" they follow it with "So, goddamnit, I should be able to carry a gun with me any where I please and say any nasty horrible thing I can think up and by god it's my right."  But should a person of color or a woman say "I don't feel safe in my home or at my school or coming and going in my community" these same gun-toters say "shut the fuck up!" 

Some times I wish I believed in hell so I could be comforted in knowing that the sick bastards who would immediately twist the pain and agony of other people into some sick agenda only they understand were hell bound and I didn't need to worry my pretty little monkey head over them.

It changes you

25 years ago, I made a new friend at work.  Her mother died shortly after we met.  She grieved for her mother for a very long time.  At the time her mother died, she had one young daughter and 2-3 older children (I can't remember exactly how many kids she has, as I've not met them all).  She told me, years later, that one of the reasons she "spoiled" her younger child was because she felt she'd emotionally cheated the child because of her grieving.  She said she felt like she spent about 10 years of her life being a zombie.  She was going through the motions, but was emotionally disconnected.

Not long ago, one of my co-workers experienced what could only be described as a "freak out."  During her "freak out" she said LOTS of things (rapid fire, bouncing from subject to subject, sort of random) some of which wasn't true, some was exaggeration, some total nonsense, but some probably grounded somewhere in the truth.  The theme seemed to be that I am a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad "person."

Even though I could easily dismiss all of what she spouted as the product of a perfect storm of several very bad days, a couple of major screw ups, and personal issues, one can't completely forget such an attack.

Which has me thinking . . . I've found myself without friends lately.  Not the real friends .  .  . they still seem to think I'm worth knowing . . . but the more social/superficial friends seem to have decided to spend their energies else where.  And, frankly, I've not really been in the mood to go out of my way to be extra nice to anyone.

And then I started to wonder . . . has my grieving over the last three years (and the multiple hits of emotional firebombs) turned me into something of an emotionally distant zombie?  I suspect the answer is yes.  I'm not sure I actually want to do anything about it.  Although it was nice to have a lunch crowd, it was expensive. The feeling of belonging was cozy, but obviously temporary and fleeting.

Grieving changes you. I think I'm less willing to put up with BS and I have a shorter temper.  And, I should probably not take things so personally.  But, I think I'll concentrate on being grateful for the real, deep friends I still have.  At the end of your life, they are the ones that matter any way.

Foggy

There are losses you never actually stop grieving. I understand, deeply, when women express the difficulty of mourning their mothers.  I have a friend who has been at her dying mother's side this week.  We've not heard from her in a couple of days, so we suspect her mother has passed on.  She's pretty intensely private, so one has to read the signs with her.

Two years ago, when my dear friend died, it put me in a daze that lasted several weeks. More or less, I have no recollection of anything that happened between his death in August and the first of October.  Why the first of October?  Because today is the two year anniversary of the death of a good friend's mother.  Her mother had been very ill, the night before my friend had to sign papers for her mother to have surgery.  The situation was dire . . . she would die in a matter of hours without the surgery and might not live with the surgery.  Her mother lived through the night, and my friend awoke, on her birthday, to believe her mother would recover.  Only, a few hours later, her mother died.

Realizing my friend needed support jogged me out of my fog.  And, today, on that anniversary, when others are leaving sweet and joyous notes on her social media, I'm the one asking if she's got a plan to make it through the day . . . because I understand what it's like to be robbed of ever seeing one's birthday as a holiday and pure celebration.

Being grown up really does suck sometimes.

RIP Cookie

I've written about my being shunned from the SMLF.  Then, the ringleader of the shunning did the modern day version of the 7th grade girl freeze-out; she "unfriended" me on social media (and then unfriended me and my office from her office's social media . . . damned unprofessional.)

I will admit, monkeys harbor ill feelings a long time before we're finally able to move on.  And, although my brain tells me that I was a better friend to the ringleader than she EVER was to me and that her deciding we can't even be civil to each other isn't actually a loss . . . I am annoyed that not a single other member of the SMLF has said a single word to me.  It's weird.  Freeze out has been complete.

Being that I like to gaze upon my own navel for hours upon hours, I want to think that they are all just so busy and wrapped up in their lives that they haven't noticed.  Which actually doesn't say much about our friendships in the first place, eh?  I am willing to entertain the notion that they are as perplexed by the turn of events as I am and don't quite know if they've done something to offend me.  But, I reject that theory because ESK, surely, would have either set them straight or said something to me if they'd inquired to her.

Nope, the sad resignation is that I was rejected, shunned, burned, frozen-out, given the boot.

And, this week I realize how complete that boot giving is because the camp that I have been camp cook for over the last several years is happening this week, and I was not invited back to be 'Cookie."
It was volunteer work I truly enjoyed, and am sad to be forced to give up.  And, a bit angry.  You really don't want to make a monkey angry.  As much self control as I frequently exhibit, monkeys are pretty unpredictable and likely to allow nasty quips and sarcasm to take over.  And, there is that who harboring hurts thing.  You think elephants never forget . . . they got nuthin' on monkeys.

Selfish, again.

Mourning is a long, drawn-out, never-ending process.  Well, for me.

This weekend, I had the rare chance to spend a few hours with the father of my friend who died two years ago this month.  He and I are working on a couple of projects, truth be told, are all about making sure my friend doesn't just disappear.

And, as luck would have it, I happened to also have a conversation with a publisher who is expressing what could just be polite interest, but interest none the less.

Which does leave me feeling just a little like my friend would slap me with a herring if he knew what we were up to.

Where is the line between keeping a legacy alive and violating everything someone stood for?

I'm in a rut

A writing rut.  Which can be a good thing . . . meaning that nothing of much importance or exciting is happening around me right now. And, gees, that's a nice break.

I started this blog 10 years ago because I needed a place to vent.  Well, as with most of life, the cause of my need for venting has disappeared. (YAY) And, then other dramas, mostly of various humans' making cropped up into my idyllic little monkey life.

I nearly allowed someone to take this blog away from me.  Fortunately, I came to my senses.

But, now that I'm in this rut, I find myself wondering what to do about the blog.  Shift focus?  Drum up drama?  Wait for the election cycle to get me all revved up over injustices?

Or, post all cat photos, all the time?

Tantrum

The Old Woman would call it "cutting off  your nose to spite your face."

On the heels of my recent "fade away" from the SMLF, I've decided that I'm going to, in the most juvenile way possible, "test" the humans I surround myself with these days.  Basically, I'm going to stop being so freakin' eager to perpetuate the friendship. I'm polite.  I inquire after their families and do the chitchat thing.  But, they need to invite me to actual interactions, like lunch.  I'm feeling the need to have someone reach out to me for once, rather than act like the little brother begging to be included.

I know, the only loser in this game is me.  Although, I'm hoping in the long run I might actually be pleased to see that I am appreciated for my own monkeyness rather than simply one of the group you invite because you can't very well invite one person from an office an not the others . . . especially if you're eating in that office and food that monkey prepared.

So, I'm eating lunch alone a lot these days.  I did have a lunch invite from a friend this week.  Not one of the SMLF, but someone I enjoy conversing with on a regular.  So, it's not all navel gazing and pity parties.  Mostly, but not all.

Finally took the hint

For several years now, I've participated in a lunch group we call SMLF.  It has been said that I was one of the original founders.  I prefer to think that the group, more or less, developed organically.  At its peak, it was a loud, hilarious, fun group that got the members through many a frustration.  We supported each other.  We pulled together for the common good.  We were perceived as having power.  Hee hee.

But, members started taking different jobs and being less available for lunch.  But, we still managed to throw together a rocking baby shower for a member, recently.  But, I'd noticed something of a drifting.

Since the start of the year, I had really noticed that we hardly ever got together any more.  Even the mainstay members were unavailable.

Then weird things came up . . . like a lunch invite that was revoked 10 minutes later.  (The invite was initiated by one member, and then ten minutes later she claimed she wasn't in town and couldn't have lunch.  Very weird.)

Today, I was having lunch across town with an associate.  It's a restaurant the SMLF never goes to because it's so far from most of our offices, the travel time would severely cut into our lunch hours. But, then I looked up to find that the SMLF were having lunch.  I had not been included.   And I assume the choice of restaurant was to minimize the chance of me seeing them.

And, suddenly the weirdness of the past several months made total sense.  This is what they do when someone is no longer welcome . . . they just quietly stop including them.  FUCK.

So, tonight I removed myself from the spider monkey lunch forum list.  There is just a tiny bit of dignity in removing myself . . . after weeks of hints . . . than to go on thinking I'm part of the crowd.

I would like to know what transgression merited this treatment.  Was it the gifts I brought back from my travels? The many treats I've made? The birthday and holiday lunches and baby showers I've organized (and paid for) ?  I think the Old Woman was right . . . I try too hard.  No one likes the kid who wants it too much.  Only, I thought I was just being generous to my friends.  Silly monkey.

For Tom

I have just finished reading a book put together by the Grad Student.  This book contains the journals of his son, my adoptive brother, before his final rehab, during the final rehab, and afterwards.  It ends with his suicide note and memorials left on his facebook page.

I'm in tears, huffing and sniffling, as I type this.

He was my first friend.  I still idolize him . . . even though I know his faults.  I still insist that the world see him as I did.  I want people to understand his intelligence and natural kindness.  I want them to understand that his flaws weren't his fault.  I want them to be in awe of his talent.  Even though he was eaten alive by shame and guilt and anger. . . so much anger . . . I love him.  I don't know if he ever was kind enough to himself to absorb that he was loved.

This week, I've been visiting the Grad Student.  It has been a nice limbo of being in-between adulthood and moments of carefree childhood.  Today we dressed up and went to see the Oregon Symphony and dance performance (pretty girls in pretty dresses twirling on stage) and went to a fancy restaurant after .  .  . but I could order a boozy drink.  But, we have also tried to make peace with the past.  We have tried to reason why we have arrived at the place we are now .  .  . one man short.

You just never know

when you will influence someone.

I contacted Frances of the previous story to share the story with her.  Her response was "who the heck was Deb?"  She had no memory of the conversation, but appreciated my sharing.

Reminds me of another story.  Shortly after the Old Folks decided I could pass in public school, I had a teacher who required daily journal entries.  Often, she would offer a writing prompt.  One time, the prompt was something we wanted to learn to do, and what was preventing us from doing it.

I wrote that I really wanted to learn to cook, but I didn't want to be defined by my domestic skills.  I had the buddings of being a feminist and already understood that society was all too happy to pin a single role onto the females.

My teacher wrote on my page that cooking was a wonderful creative outlet, and I shouldn't let what others say prevent me from expressing myself.

Even now, when I make something particularly good, I always think of this teacher.   Several years ago, I managed to find her and write to her about the lasting influence her words had on my life.  She had no recollection of it at all.

Take care with your words and actions because you never know when they will be deeply influential to another.

How syndromes get started

I was pretty fragile for about 6 months.  I had people hovering over me.  I had trained medical folks coming into my home to care for me.  I had multiple surgeries.  It was scary.  And, at the same time, it was easy to give up my care to nurses and the Phenom.  After my first surgery, I didn't want to get out of bed, ever.  I hurt.  I had tubes and wires attached to me.  I had devices taking care of my in takes and my outflows.  Even when they made me get up, I couldn't wait to get back into bed.  When they finally released me, I didn't really feel ready to go home.  In fact, the next morning, I could only cry because it was too overwhelming.

With subsequent hospitalizations, surgeries, it was equally easy to give up care to the nurses.  Truth be told, I liked being taken care of, even by strangers.  The Phenom did an equally good job of making sure I wanted for nothing.  It was so easy.

When it came time to return to work, I was happy to not have the inconvenient items of the illness but I also didn't know if I were quite ready to jump right in.  (And, given the last hospitalization when I split open one of my scars, clearly I should have gone slower.)

Right now, I have a bit of an infection.  Nothing bad.  Nothing that keeps me from normal functioning (except the gym . . . I don't want sick people using the gym equipment I use, and so I show the same respect to them.)  But, at the same time, a little voice in the back of my head tells me that perhaps I should feign being sicker than I am so I can be taken care of again.

I'm pretty sure this is how Munchausen's Syndrome starts.  Although, to reference Bill Murray in What About Bob? . . . if you can fake it, you don't have it.  Darn.

Not Surprised.

I had this conversation last night with a friend.  The unrest and anger in Missouri were inevitable.  In the past few years. . . starting with 9/11 and continuing with Obama's election, open racism seems to be the norm.  Horrifyingly scary, threatening, and racist stuff gets posted from total nobodies and we all see it, hear it and react.  All too often, the racists find more than enough support from the imaginary peer group.  And, heaven help anyone who tries to point out that perhaps more polite discourse is called for? For calling out the racism, people are often treated to screams about 1st amendment rights and accusations of bullying.

Then, you have the talking heads on tv and radio who spew racist, vicious, classist, and threatening crap morning, noon, and night.  They just fuel the fire.  And, they give the nobodies a platform to both spew more hate and claim victimhood.

And, there are the 2nd amendment nuts.  The open carry wackos.  They are egged on by the talking heads and the powerful gun lobby.  They aren't victims because we don't want to look over in the baby section of mega-mart to see someone toting a weapon capable of killing everyone in the store.

Lastly, there are the elected officials who seem to chase the 24-hour news cycle with stupid statement followed by misinformed statement only to be compounded by hatefulness.

So, I'm not surprised that people have finally had enough.  I'm not surprised that people are standing up and demanding their rights be honored just as the wing nuts have been doing.

I am horrified that a whole section of our society seems to think that "public safety" waging warfare on American citizens is okay . . . so long as they are of color or poor.

I am surprised we haven't seen more uprisings.  The next civil war will be one over race and class.  And, I'm afraid there will be many more innocents lost to the nonsense the talking heads, wackos, elected officials/authorities, and gun nuts

Thoughts on the Tattoo

There are some cathartic events that you know it, you feel it as it is happening.  Like getting married.  Or attending the funeral of a loved one.

The tattoo has been slower in developing meaning.

I'd joked about getting a tattoo for years.  A couple of years ago, there was a half-hearted attempt to acquire one.  Then, last winter, when it was decided that my Bestie would be joining us in NOLA in June, the conversation got serious.  We both agreed we were into the tattoo.  We found the place we wanted to do it, and worked on our designs.

I, originally, had asked my oldest friend in the world to design one for me.  But, then he killed himself.  I poured through his artwork to see if I could find something usable.  Nada.  Then, one night, at the end of yoga, I envisioned a lotus flower.  Later, the same evening, a friend asked me for a recipe.  I consulted the Southeast Asian cookbook I'd inherited from my friend.  Stuck in the book, which I know to have been his "go to" cookbook, was a drawing he was using as a bookmark.  In the center of his drawing was a lotus flower.

The tattoo place said they'd have to make it HUGE in order to insure the detail would come out properly.  Much too large for what I was looking for.  So, it seemed I might not get a tattoo after all.  Then, as I gathered my friend's letters for his father, who is working on a collection of writings/art in memory of his son, I found a letter with doodles in it.  And, that's how I settled on the design.

The tattoo was more painful than I expected.  I didn't jerk my arm or cry, but there were moments when I gritted my teeth and wondered if it were worth it.

It is nearly healed now, and settling into becoming a part of me.  Like the way my friend will always be a part of me.

Let's face it.  Since my 40th birthday, it's been a long, painful march through crappy situation after crappy situation.  I learned that a person I thought of as a dear friend was everything but a friend.  I've had to watch the Old Woman struggle with the end of her life.  I've experienced the death of two of the most important people in my life.  And, I've had this bizarro medical journey with multiple hospital stays and surgeries.  I need a bookend to these years of crap.  I hope that this tattoo will become symbolic of what I've survived, and that the pendulum will swing back to the quiet, drama free life I once knew.

That is a lot to pin on 30 minutes of gritted teeth and a bit of ink.  But, humans are kinda silly in what they put their faith in, no?

Phenomena? Confession?

I generally consider myself a highly functioning monkey/human.  I possess all the basic skills for taking care of myself/others.  I can do basic repairs to clothes.  I can cook meals. I can check the oil in my car.  I can instruct others in basic life skills.  I also have higher order skills like reasoning, creating objects that are useful/pretty, and reading maps/navigating large cities.

Since this, months long, medical adventure, I've found myself facing an interesting phenomena.  I can only describe it as a semi return to infancy.  And, I can't say I hate it.  I'm not actively seeking it out, but I have enjoyed it at the same time.  By return to infancy, I mean allowing others to care for me.

This goes beyond the necessity of nurses changing my dressings or Phenom bringing me food when I can't get out of bed.  I think I've spent so many years trying to blend in, go unnoticed as much as possible, it has been a nice reminder of my place on the planet when people have gone out of their way to show concern.

There have been flowers, phone calls, care packages, sweet notes, and cheering of milestones in recovery.

I think those years in a cage in the behavioral sciences lab made me forget what it feels like to be mothered/cared for on that level.

Not that I'd ever consider repeating any part of this "adventure"  . . . but I do appreciate the many ways my fellow humans have gone out of their way to remind me that I have a place in their lives, that I matter.

Thanks, Ya'll.

Perspective

Two stories.

One:  I have dear friends in Portland, Oregon.  I've become a fan/friend of their teen aged daughter.  (Okay, I may have sent her some radical feminist reading materials.)  Their daughter is gay.  She's been openly gay, with girlfriend, since middle school.  I know it just killed her parents that they could not give their daughter a world in which she could enjoy the rights and freedom to marry the person of her heart's desires.  Until today.  I was so happy for this family when I heard about the federal judge striking down the ban on gay marriage in Oregon today.  And, I know that her parents are thrilled that someday, their child will have the chance to enjoy one of the dearest relationships humans can enjoy.

Two: I have a long time friend whose husband has serious kidney issues.  He has been waiting for a transplant for years.  Saturday morning, she texted me to say they were on the way to the big, university hospital because there might be a kidney for her husband.  I was so sad to hear from her Sunday evening that no kidney was available after all.  But, she said, she's okay because they are just disappointed, and somewhere there is a family grieving the loss of a loved one.

I love it when other humans make me wanna be a better monkey.

Spoiled

Because of my recent medical battles, I've had to be on a rather strange diet.  Temporarily, and slowly now being reintroduced, I've not been able to eat most veggies/fruits.  And, those I can have must have no peels and must be very over cooked and low in fiber content.  (While the dietitian explained the diet to me I kept muttering "Yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck")  I also cannot have nuts yet.  This is difficult because nuts in all forms were one of my daily snacks.

But, now that recovery is happening, I can slowly start to add the foods I actually like back into my diet, with some caution.  (YAY)

Several of my lovely human friends have been so helpful and supportive during this time of foodie hell.  One keeps a growing list of foods we will have once I'm back to 100%.  Another has reminded me several times that the moment I'm up to it, she and I will have a meal to beat all meals at a super-wonderful, best-meal-ever, tapas restaurant we love.

Now, stay with me while I seem to veer off topic.

Last month, two nice young people Phenom and I are both acquainted with got married.  They are very young and both work in the field of journalism (print journalism too!) and thus are dirt poor.  Because of my medical situation, we were unable to travel the many miles to their wedding and partake of their blissful beginnings.  And, because of my medical situation, last night we finally got around to ordering their wedding gift.

While I was hospitalized in January (at the beginning of this nightmare), I watched the entire series of "A Chef's Life" on public television.  It is a series about a chef who left NYC to return to her rural hometown to open a restaurant.  She is committed to local foods/farmers and being inventive with classic southern ingredients.  (She does some damn interesting things with grits.)

As it happens, this chef's restaurant is in the same town as the newly wedded couple.  And, just because I can't eat fun food right now doesn't mean I have stopped obsessing over other people getting to eat fun food.  I ordered a hefty gift card for this restaurant for the couple.  I figure it will be enough for a few fancy date nights.

Less than an hour later, a good friend of ours called to check in on my recovery.  During the conversation, she suggested that once I'm fully recovered, I should come visit her (far away from us) and that hey, have you heard about The Chef and the Farmer restaurant?  It's not too far away from where she lives and she too watched the PBS series and we should go eat there.

How cool is that?  And, OH YUM!  And, the outpouring of affection and concern and sweetness and generosity from so, so many people during the past few months has been the most life affirming, lovely thing ever.  I'm such a spoiled monkey.

Navel gazing

I made a realization during dressing change today.  I don't have a belly button any more.  Now where am I going to stash the extra bug snack?  Monkeys may be the only creatures actually utilizing the natural pocket, and now, in return for their silence, those sick doctors have taken it from me.

On the flip-side, I'll never be accused of navel gazing again.  There is that.  I'm still a wet-the-bed-liberal . . . but not a navel gazer.

Strange turn of events

Or, how I know I'm a grown up.

When I was a young monkey, I attended the local public school like any human child would.  And, as any human child did, I experienced some level of teasing and/or meanness from some of the other students.

One of the more perplexing incidents was a pretty mean rumor that was spread about me.  It was one of those rumors that had the right blend of sex and scandal and person you wouldn't expect getting caught that the student body seemed to really take hold of it . . . for about two weeks until squirrels distracted them or something.

Being young, I was distraught.  (Especially because no part of the rumor was true.  And, being young, I assumed this would forever color my life.  Whew.)  I consulted my friends to find out who started the rumor.  During lunch, one day, a friend pointed out the "source" of the rumor to me.  It was a girl I didn't know, didn't have any classes with, and had no idea how on earth she would think to know anything about what I did away from school.

Knowing the rumor came from a near stranger helped me realize how silly it was to fret about it.  But, I've always had a level of dislike or distrust of this person.

Fast forward to the present day.  In the hoopla of facebook, many of the people who attend my school, especially my graduating classmates, rushed to friend everyone else who attended our school or was in my class.  Thus, I find my self "facebook friends" with this rumor-starter.  I'm pretty sure she has no recollection of being the source of two weeks of angst in my young life.

She recently experienced the death of her mother.  Her grief is overwhelming.  And, I find myself offering her messages of comfort (like going out of my way to send her private messages) and sympathy.  I'm not quite sure why I'm drawn to her grieving . . . except that perhaps it hits close to home.

Still, I wonder if she remembers the days when she was number one enemy?  Strange, this growing up.  Some grudges you can let go . . . others we wear like armor.