What The Puck?

I had decided to chronicle my opinions, moods, anger, joy over the return to the sport of hockey to Worcester, MA. I didn’t do it because I didn’t want to hurt my hubby’s feelings. I often lament to my dear hubster when I am feeling vulnerable that I feel unnoticed, unwanted, under appreciated, invisible and unloved…but it never rings truer for me than when hockey season is in full swing. I will attempt to let you, the outsider, in on all the secrets of a hockey widow… and then I just didn’t do it. See above.

What good can come from being frustrated? I do not enjoy the stuff that surrounds the pregame BS of hockey. Unlike most casual fans of the game, my hubby ( a die hard fan )wishes to be at the arena almost a full two hours before the puck drop. EVERY SINGLE GAME !


Have I ever told you hubby doesn’t drive? I get angry because I feel like I am chained to this sport. I can’t go anywhere game days. I don’t get much done. I feel like I have no say in what I want or what I have TO DO those days.

As the first season draws to a close I can tell you here and now that my attitude has not changed about feeling trapped by this sport. I hold a deep resentment for my husband’s mistress (HOCKEY) but I love him. I think our life together has been able to sustain itself partly because we are both wise enough to know that compromises are a necessary evil for a healthy union along with respect, love, friendship, and flexibility. I need to find something to keep myself engaged while I am in the arena for the two plus hours I will be there. Start a memoir? read? sing? watch a movie? write posts for my blog?

podcast anyone? with witty repartee?

*** Today is March 29,2018***I started this post in October 2017 when I was feeling on the fence about the commitment hockey is in our lives. I love all of the people I have become friends with through hockey. My life is enriched by you in ways I can not articulate. ; )



Pop, Dad, Old Man, mine <3

Our relationship has once again repositioned itself. I tread unfamiliar ground. How childlike my Dad has become in such a short span of time. I was growing so weary in my role as primary caregiver. I never had any real amount of time off from my duties. Dad was ever needy. On his good days though what fun we would have. I like to believe that he looked forward to seeing me everyday. We had a routine. I would come home from work, start coffee, hit the bathroom and get ready to go out the door to Dad’s. Some days Pop even waited long enough for me to be almost done with my afternoon prep before he’d start ringing my phones. He would sometimes call every thee minutes, not absorbing enough info from the first six calls. Some days I would find it amusing, others infuriating. I could always hear the angst in his voice when he was feeling afraid or uncertain. I looked forward to the calls where he would call jovial and mischievous.

Christmas time is not easy for me. I feel alone in the world, without a connection to the family I once had. I felt even more off balance this year with my life and Dad’s being set aflutter on the winds of change. I know in my heart of hearts he is being looked after and taken care of but I miss the old goat. I thought that when the time arrived and the day passed when my phone no longer rang, I would finally know peace. Why don’t I feel that way? Why? I am sad. I am angry. I am suffering from decision remorse. I am having regrets about doing the right thing. You know they say you can’t unboil an egg. I might as well come to terms with what has happened.
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I try to go see Dad every night and help him with supper. His face lights up when I enter the room. He always thanks me for coming, like I have been away on a long voyage. I greet everyone with the warmest hello and smile I can muster. The conversation I have with Dad is generally the same every night. How is your old man? How is everyone else? How is work? When can I live with you? Why can’t I go home? Am I sleeping here tonight? How long have I been here? Do I have to sleep in the attic? Do they have a bathroom in here? I reassure him the best I can but I see the pain in his face. I feel he is nervous almost afraid. It is hard for me to cover my own misgivings about this new adventure we are on. I sing for him. I hold in my tears. I joke with him. I owe him so much. I love him. I give him what I have; me. I hope it is enough.

The Streisand In Me

wishMusic has always been very important to my well being. Magical is the only way I can convey what it means to me. A depth of beauty many seek but only a few find. I discovered I could sing when I was twelve. I have near perfect pitch and recall. It sets me apart from other people. I am a misfit. I always have been. Music makes me feel like I belong. That somewhere just beyond my reach I am normal. I am well loved and wanted. During the empty years of my youth, before I left high school and ventured into the stark realities of adulthood, I spent most of my free hours singing all things Streisand. I found I could sing just like Streisand. Every note. Every inflection. Singing helped me feel less lonely, less unloved, less unwanted. Not everyone has a wonderful childhood. In fact, I bet most don’t. Yet we mostly survive. Scars only serve as a reminder of past pains and how to avoid them if one can.

Music and singing help me to deal with the burden of sadness that I keep well hidden from most. I learned to laugh to hide the tears, to sing instead of wail, to joke instead of cope. I have never learned to enjoy a moment, to be alive in the midst of something wonderful as it happens. When I sing my soul is at peace. I feel a freedom I don’t want to lose sight of. I am me. I am no longer that lost girl. I am that woman found. Everything seems possible and in an order I alone understand. When I SING I am every single thing I ever imagined I could be: beautiful, well spoken, intelligent. I sing to calm myself, to love who I am. Into everyone’s life rain will fall. Sunshine is always just around a corner waiting for its moment to shine. Sometimes I make my own sunshine by singing.