Auto Parts Excursion Along With a Near Death Experience

My day…tagging along with tugboat man. When you’re the wife of a mariner, even slightly unpleasant tasks become opportunities to spend time together. Even this.

brakes1 Sitting in the car, looking though the camera lens, attempting to locate beauty in spite of it all.

Like this tree. How can it survive surrounded by concrete?brakes2Shapes against an azure sky. It’s about 77 degrees today!brakes3Trash that needs to be swept.
brakes5

Backstory…

For one of Angel Boy’s birthdays, I think it was when he turned twelve in 1993, he and I went on a celebratory skiing trip to Big Bear, which is about three hours away.

To get there, you have to drive a scary hairpin turn curvy mountain road.

Before that day, I had been totally comfortable with my driving ability and had been all over the country by myself, well at least as far as Colorado.

After a wonderful day of skiing and snowboarding, we followed a long line of cars driving down the steep mountain road.

Halfway down, I noticed a burn-y smell, saw smoke, and my brakes weren’t responding.

I mean, I was frantically pumping them and the brake pedal pushed all the way to the floor and the car wasn’t slowing — NOT AT ALL — instead, it was picking up speed.

Downhill!!!

There was nowhere to turn and sheer cliffs to the right of us.

Just before I rammed into the car in front of us, a ranger station appeared on the right — the only problem was that I couldn’t slow down, and there was a sharp turn into a small driveway.

I told my son to put a pillow in front of his face. His response? “Why?” My answer? “JUST DO IT. WE MIGHT CRASH!” That’s my Angel Boy, always questioning authority but not really aware of what’s going on around him. (He probably had his head in a book.)

I pulled hard on the emergency brake at the exact moment that I wrenched the steering wheel and screeched over the curb to a complete stop. My heart was racing and I was aware of just how lucky we were to be alive. I still don’t think that my son realizes how close we came to a disaster that day.

Cars pulled over and offered support and comfort, as they said they didn’t think we were going to make it– everyone was talking about the runaway car, and this was well before most people had cell phones.

The ranger station was closed but there was a phone with a direct line to the highway patrol, and CHP arrived in a few minutes to assess our situation.

I was petrified, but not so out of it that I didn’t notice one of the officers was the most beautiful male specimens I’d ever seen in a long time (tugboat man excluded). He called a tow truck and we were towed to San Bernadino. The diagnosis was that my brakes got too hot — that’s all — and least that’s what I remember they said —  and by the time we reached the service station, everything was OK.

Angel Boy and I drove home — very slowly– and on a nice flat freeway. The next day I took the car to our mechanic and had him do a complete brake job even if it didn’t need it.

I always felt that we cheated death that March afternoon.

Ever since then, I become VERY panicky on mountain roads unless hub drives, and I’m too afraid to drive by myself, and I’m a FREAK about my brakes (different car) — he checks them for me all the time, which is how I ended up sitting in the car at O’Reilly’s in Oceanside. While he was away at survival training last week, I felt that there was something wrong and smelled the burn-y odor again. When he checked it out, he saw a real problem with the caliper and the brakes were “sticky” (whatever all that means). Anyway, being the kind of wonderful human that he is, he decided to replace the calipers, brake lines, and brake pads on both sides, even though only the right side was messed up.

Oh, and were you wondering where tugboat man was in 1993 and why he wasn’t skiing with us since we’ve been together since 1991? The company he (and I) worked for decided to expand to Hawaii and my future husband had recently sailed a 700 passenger vessel there from San Diego and was involved in establishing the business in Oahu, as well as doing a lot of surfing.

The Unbearable Death of a Boy-Man

It’s been  a year since my son’s boyhood friend tragically died in Hawaii from a surfing accident.  His body was never recovered. I wanted to take a moment to remember this bright shiny boy and the joy he brought to everyone he met.

From Kirk's Facebook page

From Kirk’s Facebook page

The loss of a child cannot be fathomed.

Who could ever be prepared for their child to die before them?

There must be endless tears and sorrow and sadness and a forever and unrelenting pain.

For me, it’s a pure and simple matter.

If I never heard my son’s voice again or was never able to wrap my arms around him, I don’t know if I could take another breath.

…On Wednesday, November 13, 2013, Kirk Passmore, 32, a passionate big-wave surfing veteran and Hawaii resident, is presumed to have drowned and as of today his body has not been found.

One minute he was alive, surfing an estimated 20-foot wave at Alligator Rock on Oahu’s North Shore, with an audience of other surfers and photographers.

He dropped into the steep face of the wave before falling over the front of his board and into the water.

The top of the wave crashed over him and witnesses say he surfaced for a brief moment before he was crushed by another wave.

It was the last time anyone saw him.

Although extensive searches have been conducted in the area, he’s been missing since the day of the accident and is presumed drowned.

It was all caught on video.

This is the video of his last wave. Somehow he never made it out alive.

His dad wanted the his final ride shared with as many people as possible.

Maybe you heard about this. Maybe you were watching the news on television and you paid scant attention to the story while you were on the computer or eating dinner.

Maybe you read it on the internet and saw the pictures or the video.

You probably thought to yourself or even said out loud, ” Wow, that’s really sad.”

Kirk Passmore.

Why am I writing about him?

Yes, it’s true that he was someone’s child, brother, friend.

But he was also one of my son’s friends.

They went to school together.

He’s the first of my son’s friends to die.

Kirk had the biggest smile and the reddest hair. Everyone called him “Fanta” or “Red”.

He was one of the many boys I’d chauffeur around, packed like sardines in the back seat, all gangly legs and arms, endlessly stuffing their mouths —  bottomless pits of growing boy bodies– with the cookies and smoothies and other snacks cheerfully provided to everyone who came over.

A carful of boys talking about school, skateboarding; laughing, always smiling, always a thank you for the ride as he slammed the car door.

“See ya, Jason.”

A flash of bright red hair lit the way as he ran up the walkway to his house.

But no more.

I bet for most of these boys – and I still call these thirty-somethings BOYS because to me they will always and forever be “the boys” or “the guys” — my son’s friends from Kelly Elementary, Valley Junior High, and Carlsbad High School — this is their first experience with death and subsequent thoughts of their own mortality.

I feel so bad for his family and his friends who are mourning him with candlelight vigils, surf paddle-outs, tributes, and memorials. 

To honor Kirk, they’re handling their pain with grace and beauty.

One of them, artist Bryan Snyder, created a memorial wall in our town. If you’re ever in Carlsbad, check it out.

Bryan Snyder

Bryan Snyder

Our deepest sympathies go out to Kirk’s family. Our hearts are heavy and we are so very, very sorry for their loss.

The Passmore family released the following statement:

Kirk was born February 11, 1981 in Orem, Utah.  He grew up in Carlsbad, California and graduated from Carlsbad High School in 1999 where he was a member of the school’s surf team for four years.  As a youth, he was active in pop warner football, little league baseball, and basketball but his love was in surfing.

He started coming to Hawaii when he was 14 and was an experienced and expert surfer.  He was not new to big wave surfing, having surfed most of the well-known big wave locations, including Waimea Bay, Sunset Beach, Pipeline and outer reefs on the north shores of Hawaii.  He was a familiar face at Todos Santos off Baja California.  He also surfed Maverick’s in northern California and Puerto Escondido in Mainland Mexico.  He spent 3 years in the southern coast of France.  He moved to the north shore of Hawaii full-time in the spring of 2012.

Kirk was a part owner of Third Stone Surfboards in Waialua, Hawaii and a Manager at Bonzai Sushi in Haleiwa, Hawaii.

He is survived by his mother, Diane Passmore (Orem, Utah), father and step-mother, David and Karey Passmore (Sunset Beach, Hawaii), siblings, Alyson Adams (Highland, Utah); Merrily Roberts (Encinitas, California) and Matthew Passmore (serving an LDS mission in New York, New York).

The family wishes to thank the Coast Guard, the City and County of Honolulu lifeguards and Fire Department who continue the search.

The Unbearable Death of a Boy-Man

From Kirk's Facebook page

From Kirk’s Facebook page

The loss of a child cannot be fathomed.

Who could ever be prepared for their child to die before them?

There must be endless tears and sorrow and sadness and a forever and unrelenting pain.

For me, it’s a pure and simple matter.

If I never heard my son’s voice again or was never able to wrap my arms around him, I don’t know if I could take another breath.

…On Wednesday, November 13, 2013, Kirk Passmore, 32, a passionate big-wave surfing veteran and Hawaii resident, is presumed to have drowned and as of today his body has not been found.

One minute he was alive, surfing an estimated 20-foot wave at Alligator Rock on Oahu’s North Shore, with an audience of other surfers and photographers.

He dropped into the steep face of the wave before falling over the front of his board and into the water.

The top of the wave crashed over him and witnesses say he surfaced for a brief moment before he was crushed by another wave.

It was the last time anyone saw him.

Although extensive searches have been conducted in the area, he’s been missing since the day of the accident and is presumed drowned.

It was all caught on video.

This is the video of his last wave. Somehow he never made it out alive.

His dad wanted the his final ride shared with as many people as possible.

Maybe you heard about this. Maybe you were watching the news on television and you paid scant attention to the story while you were on the computer or eating dinner.

Maybe you read it on the internet and saw the pictures or the video.

You probably thought to yourself or even said out loud, ” Wow, that’s really sad.”

Kirk Passmore.

Why am I writing about him?

Yes, it’s true that he was someone’s child, brother, friend.

But he was also one of my son’s friends.

They went to school together.

He’s the first of my son’s friends to die.

Kirk had the biggest smile and the reddest hair. Everyone called him “Fanta” or “Red”.

He was one of the many boys I’d chauffeur around, packed like sardines in the back seat, all gangly legs and arms, endlessly stuffing their mouths —  bottomless pits of growing boy bodies– with the cookies and smoothies and other snacks cheerfully provided to everyone who came over.

A carful of boys talking about school, skateboarding; laughing, always smiling, always a thank you for the ride as he slammed the car door.

“See ya, Jason.”

A flash of bright red hair lit the way as he ran up the walkway to his house.

But no more.

I bet for most of these boys – and I still call these thirty-somethings BOYS because to me they will always and forever be “the boys” or “the guys” — my son’s friends from Kelly Elementary, Valley Junior High, and Carlsbad High School — this is their first experience with death and subsequent thoughts of their own mortality.

I feel so bad for his family and his friends who are mourning him with candlelight vigils, surf paddle-outs, tributes, and memorials. 

To honor Kirk, they’re handling their pain with grace and beauty.

One of them, artist Bryan Snyder, created a memorial wall in our town. If you’re ever in Carlsbad, check it out.

Bryan Snyder

Bryan Snyder

Our deepest sympathies go out to Kirk’s family. Our hearts are heavy and we are so very, very sorry for their loss.

The Passmore family released the following statement:

Kirk was born February 11, 1981 in Orem, Utah.  He grew up in Carlsbad, California and graduated from Carlsbad High School in 1999 where he was a member of the school’s surf team for four years.  As a youth, he was active in pop warner football, little league baseball, and basketball but his love was in surfing.

He started coming to Hawaii when he was 14 and was an experienced and expert surfer.  He was not new to big wave surfing, having surfed most of the well-known big wave locations, including Waimea Bay, Sunset Beach, Pipeline and outer reefs on the north shores of Hawaii.  He was a familiar face at Todos Santos off Baja California.  He also surfed Maverick’s in northern California and Puerto Escondido in Mainland Mexico.  He spent 3 years in the southern coast of France.  He moved to the north shore of Hawaii full-time in the spring of 2012.

Kirk was a part owner of Third Stone Surfboards in Waialua, Hawaii and a Manager at Bonzai Sushi in Haleiwa, Hawaii.

He is survived by his mother, Diane Passmore (Orem, Utah), father and step-mother, David and Karey Passmore (Sunset Beach, Hawaii), siblings, Alyson Adams (Highland, Utah); Merrily Roberts (Encinitas, California) and Matthew Passmore (serving an LDS mission in New York, New York).

The family wishes to thank the Coast Guard, the City and County of Honolulu lifeguards and Fire Department who continue the search.

My Fresh Obsesh

Blog Update: I don’t know what’s happening to me! If you’ve been following the life of Enchanted Seashells, Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife for a while you might have noticed a sea change, a slight course correction, a freshening breeze.

It’s become increasingly more difficult – impossible even – to suppress the other seashells that insist upon rising to the surface…more than frivolous pursuits; pearls and Chanel, Hello Kitty and retail therapy, more than waiting for my sometimes-he’s here-sometimes-he’s-not tugboat man to come home.

The real world has rudely barged in and is guilty of disrupting Princess Rosebud’s rose-colored glasses form of reality, in spite of all the vigorous denial of that river in Egypt.

I’d much rather write about my seashell gluing and sewing projects, the search for that perfect shoe, or any of my seemingly neverending encounters with bad drivers and crappy customer service – but when animals are being abused, neglected, abandoned, slaughtered, unloved, or species threatened with extinction — it’s impossible to ignore.

My one small voice in concert with many will hopefully become a roar loud enough to effect positive change.

At least we have to try, right?

**This is a warning of sorts. You’ll be subjected to more posts that will be calls to action to raise awareness about animal related issues, defending these magnificent creatures, and providing them with the voices they lack. It seems like I should change the title of my blog to be Enchanted Seashells, Confessions of a Tugboat Captain’s Wife and Beeyotchy Animal Advocate-– or, too much?

===============================================================

But that’s not today’s topic. Today is all Princess Rosebud in her shopping glory!

If you’ve been keeping up with the saga of my quest for the perfect wedge. here’s an update:

I’m in holding pattern. I’m not actively searching anymore; I’ve exhausted all of my resources. I’ve looked far and wide up to Orange County and have experienced disappointment at every turn. I’ve made the majorest of decisions to leave it all up to Mother Universe — when she’s ready and the time is right, she will place the ultimate shoe in front of me — and I need to stop stressing about it.

There. I’ve given it up to a higher power.

Edging out the wedge (ha ha) of Number One priority status is my new (obesh) obsession to find the perfect black suit — pencil skirt and jacket  — for my public speaking event at a hearing in Sacramento on October 2 with Defenders of Wildlife.

Normally, I don’t travel alone. I don’t like to fly, I don’t like airports, I don’t like crowds, and I don’t like taking my shoes off in potentially germ-ridden places. I’ve only flown alone a few times; to visit my tugboat man in Hawaii before we were married, and to visit my son at Yale. Going to Sacramento alone is a major deal for me.

I’m not afraid of the public speaking part of this; I don’t suffer from glossophobia — I’m afraid mostly of driving to the airport, finding a place to park my car, getting from the airport to the hotel; those kinds of things.

So it makes sense that a new outfit to boost my confidence is just what I need, amIright?

A pencil skirt can enhance one’s shape or detract from it in a most unflattering way.

A three-way mirror is a harsh critic but very necessary, especially since I’ll be standing at a podium, facing the panel, but I can’t forget about the audience behind me. They’ll have the rear view.

A good fit is priceless.

That’s my logic for probably spending way too much money. I’m depending upon this suit to speak volumes to my audience and maybe even the media. Call me a media whore, no really, call me a media whore and I’ll answer you. I’m not ashamed of it, I’ve been known to whore myself out for a few precious moments of video, as long as my makeup and hair look good and my butt looks small. Well, smallish.

My Monday retail therapy pilgrimage brought me once again to White House Black Market. They have a pretty good selection of sizes for my five-foot-tall frame. Yes, I’m a Size Two and sometimes a Zero, but I’m a FAT Two. Really, there is such a thing. I’m small but solidly built. That’s what a zillion years of ballet and training with weights’ll do.

Black suit1I was lucky; I got a lovely skirt and jacket that look professional and will travel nicely. The jacket has a half-belted back that looks great and accentuates my waist. The three-quarter length sleeve is perfect for my short arms; this way it won’t have to be taken to the tailor.

I paired it with a deep charcoal gray shell; the only jewelry a simple strand of pearls and pearl earrings, along with platform patent leather heels. And of course, my Chanel Grand Shopper Tote, ‘cos that’s the ONLY Chanel I have…for the moment.

Being so short, I’ve found that I need to dress in a severe manner if I want anyone to take me seriously; I tend to still have a “little girl” look even though now it’s a wrinkled and Botoxed affect. Ah well, aging…

These selfies don’t really do justice to the deep black; I must have a lighting issue. And they’re neck down ‘cos I’m scary with no makeup.

Since my mean and non-existent-for-the-moment tugboat man has FORBIDDEN me to get a new smaller Chanel to supplant my courage, this suit will have to do it all — carry the day.

Although…he’s NOT the boss of me (I tell him that all the time) and he CAN’T tell me what to do, ‘cos I always do the OPPOSITE.

blacksuitopenWAIT!

Hold that thought for a minute.

Let’s analyze what he said.

HE KNOWS THIS. He knows that I’m contrary and normally do the exact opposite of mostly everything he suggests. (Example: my broken wrist. He told me not to run up the hill in slippery flipflops ‘cos I might fall and I did it anyway…fell, wrist broken. Read about that here.)

MAYBE the reason why he said I couldn’t get a new handbag is FOR THE SIMPLE REASON THAT HE WANTS ME TO GET ONE!

YES! That’s IT.  Reverse psychology!

Problem solved.

Looks like I need to do a bit more shopping, don’t you agree?

Hee hee.

Going on a Dump Date

More accurately, a date AT the dump, but I thought that title had more caché…was catchier.

My mostly-he’s-gone Tugboat Man started a project the minute he got home on July 4.

He decided to tear apart our deck. Why? He said it was termite-damaged, falling apart, the wood was rotting. I didn’t think it was such a catastrophe; it looked fine to me.

Hubs decided he needed a consultation.

My son’s dad is a friend — yes, I said FRIEND — and a master builder as well.

He came over to visit my tugboat man right after his return.

Yup, you heard me right. He CAME OVER TO VISIT. The two of them poked and prodded at the deck like a couple of doctors agonizing over a diagnosis – and came to the conclusion that surgery was imminent.

He offered to come back and help re-build the engawa (an exterior hallway on the side of a traditional Japanese house), a walkway that parallels the entire back of our house — after this deck project. Joy.

Here’s Captain Destroyer doing what he does best. Destroy.

deck1

Now I can’t even walk outside, I have to go out the front door and walk all the way around to the back gate to work in the garden.

deck2

Lotsa redwood. Lotsa $$$$.

He’s totally on my very last nerve with this thing.

He’s been sanding and sanding and sanding — FOR DAYS.

The windows are filthy even though the sander has an attached bag to catch the sawdust.

It’s not 100% foolproof. Obviously.

Thank goodness he’s almost finished.

Why do guys do this crap anyway? Can anyone enlighten me? Anyone???

Today the highlight of our day was a romantic outing to the Carlsbad dump to offload the trailer of all the old termite infested and rotten wood.

Why did I go, you ask?

Well, for some strange reason, I love to go to the dump, sit in the car while hubs does all the work, and read a book. It’s just a time to be together, and reminds me when we were in Hawaii driving all over Oahu on the Kamehameha Highway from surf spot to surf spot.

Good times.

I think hubs enjoys the company; I can chatter away about nothing and everything for hours on end (I’m a good travel/driving companion for that reason, too) and it’s turned into a “date event” for us.

Weird. I know.

Today was the dump date from hell, tho.

We arrived at 11:15 a.m. Got weighed and paid at 11:35 a.m. At that point, we noticed the huge line of cars and trucks and garbage trucks lined up and stopped. As in not moving. This has never happened before. Usually if you go to the dump during the week, the whole process moves along fairly rapidly. But we were stuck. It was hot; it smelled like, well, like garbage, and I stared feeling nauseous. At 12:35 p.m. we were next in line to be directed to a the offloading site. Then, the guy who was in charge pointed to the truck next to us to move forward. He hadn’t been waiting nearly as long as we had and I was THIS CLOSE to jumping out of the car to start screaming but my tugboat man got it all straightened out before a major incident erupted. Thank goodness for his calm demeanor. I guess that’s why opposites attract, huh?

While hubs threw about 2,000 pounds of unusable wood into a pile, I got on my cell and started calling around to complain about the nightmare of a long wait we just endured. I complained about their lack of time management and their inefficiency and the general hell of it all to anyone that would listen. No one much cared, that’s the major takeaway I got from my futile efforts.

We got home at 1:15 p.m. The dumb dump is only about three miles away from our house, so we didn’t do a lot of driving. It took exactly two hours to accomplish what should have taken no more than thirty to forty minutes.

My dump date bliss was really scarred by that horrible event.  I’m not sure I ever want to go back. Poor me.

Job almost done. New redwood deck, freshly oiled.
All he needs to is install the seating, screw them down, and we can PARTY!

New deck

A Prophetic Discovery From Princess Rosebud’s Vault

I’ve tasked myself with organizing old photos and memorabilia collected and tossed in shoeboxes ever since the tugboat man and I met in 1991.

(While I’m typing away, the unmistakable fragrance of eau de skunk is wafting through the patio doors. It’s very distracting! Should I go out and look for the skunk or – er — oh, wait, I’ll be back in a minute. [tick tock tick tock] Thanks for waiting. I didn’t see a skunk but as long as I was out there, I grabbed a few loquats and snacked on ’em –hot from the sun; sticky and juicy. Don’t you wish you were here with me?)

OK — I’m focused again.

It was during this purge of duplicate pics and random grocery lists tucked away between birthday and Valentine’s Day cards spanning a couple of decades that I found a page torn from a yellow legal pad, folded into quarters. I crumpled it up and threw it in the trash.

tugboatmanletterThen I thought to myself, why did I do that before I looked at it? I dug it out of the trash, unfolded and put the pieces back together, read it and OH EM GEE.

I had almost destroyed an amazingly prophetic artifact. I must have written it when my tugboat man moved to Hawaii for about a year. Although we visited back and forth, I wasn’t sure what the future would hold…

Here’s the story:

Part Two (I’ll have to look for Part One)

Forever & ever land

Time went by and the seasons changed. The captain and his lady came to realize  that the distance between them had no effect on their love. it was special.

One day, the captain suddenly decided to come home. He had completed his journey and was ready to share his life.

Several times his lady had almost given up hope, but deep in her heart she had faith that their love would survive.

Without warning, he rang the doorbell.

She opened the door, surprised, but peaceful and content. This was the way it was meant to be. They stood for a long time looking at each other and not saying a word.

Finally, her captain sighed and his eyes filled with tears, “I have come home, Rosebud.”

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes, angel”, she replied. “I will love you forever and ever.”

And they lived happily ever after.

The End

Isn’t that just the cutest thing ever? I am uber-embarrased to say that the writing is very much junior high school level even though I was thirty-something, but the whole genesis of Princess Rosebud and her Tugboat Man was conceived at that precise moment in time and must have been occupying space in my subconscious until now. How cool is that?  It’s good to know that once in a while, dreams really do come true. The details of the reality are slightly different, but the end result remains the same.

Who knew I had a crystal ball?crystal ball

Smooth sailing? Not always.

The Continuing Saga of Princess Rosebud and her Tugboat Man

Day 30…thirty days and thirty long nights since my tugboat man has been away.

He’s on the move–closer to land–and his cell works! He called last night. Other than the five minute satellite telephone call on our anniversary a couple weeks ago, this was the only time we’ve spoken. It was so unexpected. What a surprise to see his name pop up on my screen!

I always ask the same thing, “When are you coming home?” The answer this time was the answer he usually gives me; he doesn’t know, it could be now or in a month. “…you’ll be the first to know.” Dry humor.

The unpredictable life of a mariner

Some mariners have a regular schedule: three weeks on, three weeks off or two weeks on and two weeks off or even a month on and a month off. In the world of ocean-going tugs, there is no such certainty. One of my captain’s recent assignments was estimated to last  two months and it dragged on for a full four months due to several factors–including weather related issues.

Weather

There’s always weather. Right now, the project he’s on has had a lot of weather delays. If there are storms, high winds, and high seas, it’s neither prudent nor safe for a tug to proceed, and that entails a wait or what they call “on standby” until it clears.

What do you think about that? Do you think that uncertainty is a relationship hardship?

Things weren’t always so idyllic for us.

Did you think it was?

Before we met (at the company where we both worked), the captain had plotted a career move to Hawaii. His goal; good surf and work, probably in that order. Our company was setting up operations in Hawaii and he was tapped to head up that division.

Guess what? A year later, he left. He did. He really did.

I do kinda still hate him for that sometimes…wouldn’t you?

I took him to the dock and had to say goodbye. I mean a real goodbye, maybe a forever goodbye; he had packed up all his belongings and they were on the boat with him.

It was horrible at the time and it makes me sad now thinking about how I felt that day…so alone and bereft.

Us–we–it didn’t end. Over the course of several months, we visited back and forth a half dozen times. I was unhappy with the whole situation–I had done my work, made my list, and he was IT. Hawaii’s awesome, don’t get me wrong, who doesn’t love paradise–but that wasn’t part of MY plan.

Oh yes, he was IT for me but I couldn’t figure out how to persuade him to move back and allow our relationship to blossom. I was running out of options.

What if he met someone else?

One day I had just had enough. I was sick and tired of having a sometimes he’s here, sometimes he’s not boyfriend. It wasn’t what I wanted. And do you know what I did?

I changed my telephone number.

That’s just the way I roll. My home number was a landline and I called the telephone company and changed it. I figured that when he called, he’d get the recorded voice saying, “The number has been disconnected and there is no forwarding number” and he’d become so distraught when he couldn’t reach me that it would be the catalyst he needed to come running back to me!

MotorolaPager

I didn’t have a cell phone. I had a beeper, a pager–remember those things? Now I think only drug dealers use them LOL. He had one, too.

I waited for him to beep me. I waited all day. I was DYING to know if he had TRIED to call. This was 1992-ish; email was in its infancy–I don’t believe we even had a home computer, and the computers at work didn’t have internet access.

This is the funny part.

I started power paging him; over and over again. I mean, like twenty times, thirty times.

WITH MY NEW NUMBER.

I went to so much trouble to change my phone number and I couldn’t wait twenty-four hours. When he called, I asked him if he had tried to call the old number and he said he had (still not sure of that) and asked why I did something crazy like that. I can’t remember my response–I WAS crazy at that point.

[The quick end to that story is that I flew to Hawaii the following weekend and from there we went to Kauai and he said that I had wasted my time changing my number because he had already come to the conclusion that he couldn’t live without me and he didn’t want to live without me and he proposed and came home for good two months later and we were married nine months after that.]

Fast forward to yesterday’s phone call.

After we said our initial hellos and all that, I asked him,  “Do you ever get worried that I”ll change the number again and you won’t be able to reach me? Like when you’ve been gone a really long time and I’m getting tired of it? Like NOW?”

Him: (Laughing) “Not really, or if you did, you’d just call me right away to give me the new number like you did before.”

HA HA.

Now he’s turned into a sometimes he’s here, sometimes he’s not HUSBAND. The difference is that he always comes home–to me. Oh, and his paychecks come here even when he’s not. Hee Hee.

Final Words

It cracks me up when I hear “Somebody That I Used to Know“.  Gotye sings, “No you didn’t have to stoop so low. Have your friends collect your records and then change your number“…