"The future's so bright, I gotta wear shades."

My high school years were not my friend.

I know, most people think I'm nuts for that. After all, your high school years are supposed to be some of the best of your life. And I suppose that for some people that I went to school with, they were. I mean, hey, if I got a brand new BMW for my 16th birthday, I would have been pretty damn happy (shoot, I would have been pretty damn happy with a beat-up Saturn back then, but I digress).

I wasn't one of those people who fit into a "clique" or any kind of group in high school. I had a few friends, but not many. I was by no means any kind of popular. I was more of a loner. I ate lunch in the Newspaper room because it made me look busy and hid the fact that I really was kind of hurting in the friend department. I hated school -- not the academic aspect of it, rather, the social aspect -- and I just wanted to grit my teeth and get through it. I cannot completely dis high school, though. My mom did basically force me to re-join Girl Scouts at the age of 14, and for that, I must say I'm grateful, because it's where I met my best friend, and it allowed me to take two great trips that I NEVER would have gotten to take on my own. Other than that, high school pretty much bit the big one.

But, going into high school, I did have goals. I had dreams. I knew -- or more appropriately, I thought I knew -- I wanted to be a nurse. I was a good student. I wanted to graduate and get the hell out of California. I have family in Rhode Island and my mom's cousin gave me a pretty convincing speech on why he thought I should move back there. I told him I'd think about it after college. He said they had some great schools back there, so why wait? I was sold. I wanted to get through college, begin a successful nursing career, start a family, and come to my 10-year high school reunion happier than I'd ever been in high school. At that point in my life, I held fast to my goals, and I thought my future was so bright I'd need an entire closet full of shades.

I had been, at the very least, a 3.5 student up until the end of my Freshman year. Not exceptional, but not half bad, really. Had it not been for Algebra, I could have pulled straight A's. I went into my Sophomore year with less enthusiasm, but didn't let my goals too far out of sight. I still wanted to go to college; hopefully not in California.

Something was up during my Sophomore year, though, and I wasn't quite sure what. My dad, who had pretty much been my best buddy my entire life, was changing as a person. Our relationship was changing. And it was hard for me, because I was one of those girls whose world revolved around her daddy. My mom had an old high school friend who moved from Rancho Cucamonga to La Verne and bought an old fixer-upper house downtown. She was a personal assistant for a living and she was supporting four kids, so of course she struggled financially. My dad, a self-employed plumber, started spending a lot of time working on this woman's house, even going so far as to re-pipe the entire thing, for free.

In January of my Sophomore year, I failed Algebra 2 at the semester. I earned no credit for the class. I had never gotten an "F" in my life. I was devastated, and maybe a little dramatic, as I thought I heard the faint sound of a toilet flushing in the distance, taking my college dream with it.

In February of my Sophomore year, my dad announced that he and my mom were separating. I, always one to be a little dramatic, blurted out right away, "You're getting divorced, aren't you?" No, he assured me, this was just a separation. That night, my mom took my brother and me out of the house so that my dad could pack the rest of his things and leave. He had already been moving for several weeks, and things were a bit different around the house but it wasn't totally noticeable. My dad used to be an appliance whore, so we had two great stereo systems, two VCR's, etc. My mom couldn't tell, but I had noticed that things were switched around, and my dad blew me off by saying that he had brought the "better" appliances into the house. Riiiiight. That's why they had previously been in the garage for years. The night Dad was leaving, Mom headed back home when she thought that he would be out, only to find her old high school friend's car parked in front of our house. The woman was helping my dad move out. Mom drove away.

To make a very very long story kinda short, my dad and the woman were involved in a relationship, and although they both deny it, I believe that the relationship had been established several months prior to my dad leaving my mom. They dated for about a year and a half (1999-2000), had a very nasty breakup, were separated for about a year, got back together (2001), were engaged within a couple of months and married the next year (2002). They have been married for almost seven years. Of course, the whole situation shattered my mother into a million pieces. Her marriage of twenty years was over, and someone she thought was a friend was a contributing factor. My mom spent the remainder of my high school years severely depressed (of course I can't blame her). My dad was no longer my best buddy because he had a new best buddy, and a "new family" (his words). I struggled with that for a long time and flopped around between periods of speaking to my dad and not speaking to him. I couldn't understand who he had become and I didn't like the new guy. Needless to say, my mom was struggling, my dad was a different person, and I felt like no one cared. I gave that "F" in math the finger, and this time I actually DID hear the toilet flush on my college dreams. I didn't care. During my Senior year of high school (2001), my English teacher asked where I would be going to school in the fall. The "F" loomed over me and I told her I'd likely be going to Citrus, a junior college in my area. Noticeably disappointed, she told me that I was "definitely university material" and that she hoped I'd change my mind. I doubt she knew I'd failed math. She is now my brother's Senior English teacher. I loved her class but I'd hate to go back and see her now. I graduated high school eight years ago and still have never set foot on a university campus (at least not as a student).

The night I told my mom that my dad and his girlfriend were getting married, she cried what we have now dubbed the "cry of death" - it was a guttural cry, it came from way down in her toes and it roared out of her body. It was a sound I had never heard before. She couldn't stop crying. It scared the shit out of me. I thought she might be suicidal. She made it through.

My dad and his girlfriend planned a wedding in Mt. Baldy for a Saturday in October of 2002. My dad left a voicemail on my cellphone that said he hoped to see me at the wedding. I don't know if anyone remembers the fire season of 2002, but that was the year that one enormously huge fire stretched all the way from San Bernardino in the east to San Dimas in the west. The weekend their wedding was supposed to happen, the roads up to Mt. Baldy were closed. They rescheduled for a Saturday in November.

I honestly don't remember what happened with my dad and I between October and November of that year, but I didn't even get so much as a voicemail about the second wedding date. They married in Mt. Baldy on November 2, 2002, while I was in the hospital in Fontana suffering from a severe migraine that gave way to my very first case of vertigo. I had never had vertigo before, and by the time my mom forced me to go to the hospital (I thought the vertigo would just go away on its own and didn't see the point of going to the ER just for being dizzy) I had been in bed for three days straight. I wasn't eating at all or drinking much water. I could hardly sit up because I was so dizzy, so walking was out of the question. I didn't know what the hell was happening to my body, but I knew I didn't like it. After I was settled in the ER, my mom kept asking me if I wanted her to call my dad to come to the hospital. I kept saying no. Later, I found out he wouldn't have come anyway. It was his wedding night.

At the time, it didn't bother me to be excluded from his wedding. He said that due to my behavior, he didn't feel I was deserving of an invite. He also said that if my mom knew the details of their wedding, he thought she'd show up and ruin it. Oh, please. Yes, she had a more than difficult time dealing with the divorce, but by then she definitely didn't want him back, and she'd realized her "friend" was not a friend at all. Years later, having seen wedding pictures (my stepsisters in bridesmaids dresses, my brother and stepbrothers in tuxedos) and having seen the wedding invitation ("Together with our children..."), I can honestly say, fuck yeah, it bothers me. My grandparents had been divorced for fifteen years at the time. It was an ugly divorce, and my dad's wedding was the first time the two of them had seen each other in those fifteen years. What must they have thought when their son's only daughter was not at his wedding? And the invitation? Together with our children?! Are you fucking kidding me? How about, "Together with 5 out of 6 of our children, because we're purposely excluding one of them due to the fact that we feel her head is firmly planted up her ass"? Wouldn't that have been more accurate? I mean, think about if I were getting married and I didn't invite my dad to my wedding. Who would walk me down the aisle? Of course I could ask an uncle, or my brother, or even a good family friend, but really, in that situation, who takes the place of Dad?

Years later, my dad and I still struggle. I guess it's safe to say we're not speaking at the moment. I think this time, it's his idea. I've sent cards for Father's Day and his birthday and haven't gotten a response. We had a rough go of it when my grandma was in the hospital (and the nursing home, but she was back and forth between both places so it's easier to just refer to the whole entire time period as "hospitalization"). Dad and I put on a good act for Grandma's sake, but we spent more time together in those eight weeks she was hospitalized than we had in the previous eight years -- there were days where we would be at the hospital together for 12 hours at a stretch -- and honestly, I can't speak for him, but for me, every single day was fucking hard. A large part of it was that whenever I saw him my stepmom was always with him; the only time my dad and I were actually there by ourselves was the night of my grandma's first surgery -- three days into her eight week stint between the hospital, nursing home and back to the hospital again -- and even then, my stepmom made a huge deal of wanting to leave her night class at PCC to come out to Redlands. Thankfully, just that once, Dad talked her out of it. He told her everything was going to be fine even as we knew that Grandma had just gotten out of a surgery that had taken nearly twice as long as anticipated, and she was being intubated because she was having a hard time coming out of the anesthesia and her breathing pattern was too inconsistent for the doctor to feel comfortable letting her go it alone. However, the next day, my stepmom dropped her class, which freed her from lecture and homework time, and allowed her to be at the hospital all.the.time. I think when it was all over, my dad and I were both spent. Again, I can't speak for him, but I can tell you that aside from the fact that my grandmother came very close to dying and I was driving in excess of 70 round-trip miles per day to be with her (and sometimes she didn't even know I was there), it was mentally and emotionally exhausting for me to spend all that time having to act like my dad, stepmom and I really did get along that well for extended family and family friends, while never being able to let go of the fear that Grandma was in such bad shape that things were always touch and go with her.

I should clarify here and say that my dad and stepmom weren't always at the hospital when I was there. But, with the exception of the night of the first surgery, they were ALWAYS there together. Whenever Dad was there, she was there. A couple of times she was there without Dad, which made for even more fun.

Luckily, I got plenty of one-on-one time with Grandma, rubbing her feet or brushing her hair or filing her nails, and sometimes grabbing her hand(s) so she wouldn't attempt to yank her breathing tube out in a fit of anger and/or frustration -- but several of us had to do that at least once. My dad actually had to lean over her bed, take hold of her arms and sort of pin her down once, she was that angry and determined. The respiratory therapist told us that the tube was lodged so firmly in her airway and taped so well around her mouth that it wasn't likely she'd be strong enough to actually pull it all the way out -- and he warned that the ventilator would sound one hell of an alarm if she actually did succeed in pulling the tube out -- but that certainly didn't stop her from trying. It got to the point where every time I saw one of her hands start moving towards her face, I'd pull it away and hold it for a moment. I looked at my 76 year old grandma and felt like I was scolding a child; looking into her eyes and saying a firm "No." Since she couldn't talk, the only way to tell what she wanted was to try to read her lips (which was extremely difficult to do given the breathing and feeding tubes coming out of her mouth), her facial expression, or her dry erase board if she felt strong enough to write, which wasn't all the time. So there I'd be, holding her hand, knowing that it was unlikely but freaking out that she was going to pull out the tube while it was just her and me. If she looked at me with a little bit of sadness, I knew that she was trying to yank the tube. I'd tell her I was sorry and I'd grab her other hand and hold them both tight for a few minutes until (I hoped) the urge to grab that tube had passed for her. But sometimes, she'd give me a look that said, "You little shit, I just wanted to scratch my nose!" and she'd raise the hand I wasn't holding and do just that -- scratch her nose. That time -- those foot rubs, the nail filing, the hair brushing, and even the hand holding -- it's time we had together that Grandma doesn't remember, and truthfully it's time that I wish we didn't have to spend for the reason we did, but I will always treasure it.

Sorry for going off track; now back to my story.

Neither my dad nor I have gone out of our way to call one another since Grandma came home from the hospital in the second week of May. Do I miss my dad? Absolutely. Do I love him? Of course. I would be lying if I said I didn't; and everyone that knows me knows that I can't lie for shit. But, as he always used to tell me, "The phone works two ways." And for a lot of years, I was the only one picking up the phone. I think I'm over that for a while.

Now, I'm eight years out of high school, and I can't blame my parents' divorce for where I'm at in my life anymore. I can blame my ex-boss somewhat (and I already have a little bit), because I firmly believe that he only wanted me to go to school for something that was going to benefit his business, not something that I wanted to do to build my own life and career. Besides, blaming him for my life not going the way I wanted it to go is something that he does -- he takes a situation HE created and blames it on someone else when things go wrong, or at least not the way that he expected them to go. I can't pawn this off on him. I have to take accountability for my own lack of action in my life.

At this point I would love nothing better than to just take out a load of student loans and throw myself into school, but I doubt I'd be able to make it that way and besides, I do really need health insurance. So I don't feel like I have the luxury of being able to go to school full-time and not do anything else, which is really what I should have done right out of high school. Hindsight is 20/20, and it ALWAYS kicks me in the ass. Now I have to work, not only for my finances, but literally, for my health. I am no longer a teenager covered under my mom's health insurance plan, and not working is no longer an option for me.

I think I was depressed for a long time. It's not something that I want to fly a flag about. I don't know how smart of me it is to advertise that here. I think that once again, as I struggle with unemployment, a slow job market and a serious lack of funds, I am undoubtedly struggling with it again. Life is hard. Anyone who tells you that it's not is a billionaire or a liar. And someone should tell the billionaires that money doesn't buy happiness (but I think they just might know that already).

My 10-year reunion is coming up in less than two years. At this point, I'm not sure I'll go.

It feels so strange to know that the people who were Juniors and Seniors when I was a Freshman have already had their reunions. I am nowhere near where I thought I would be at this point in my life - I only have 36 units of college courses completed (and some of those units are remedial math, which really shouldn't count in the number of units I've accumulated because they don't transfer). Sure, by the time my reunion comes I could have my ADN (Associate Degree in Nursing) completed, but that's IF I can get into the program the first time I apply, and judging by how many applicants the school gets, that's a HUGE "if." A family is not anywhere close on the horizon (although I really wish it were). Shoot, at the rate I'm going, I may just be one of the few people still living at home with their mother. And as far as being happier than I ever was in high school? I would say I'm about in the same place now that I was then, except now I have bills and no money to pay them with. Yes, I'm feeling sorry for myself. Hopefully I'll get over it soon.

Besides, it seems like Facebook has been as good a place as any to keep in touch with people (is it sad that I find a social networking site acceptable for that? I look at it as being the same thing as phone communications for me. I would much rather text than talk. So Facebook is like my texting). It's like a high school reunion, but only for the people you actually want to see - haha. I keep in touch with who I want to keep in touch with and I see who I want to see. Many of my classmates have beautiful children. Some have gotten married, some have not. Most are happy (or maybe, like me, most just look happy on the outside). I had no idea how many doctors would come out of my class. I was looking at just the people I am Facebook "friends" with alone (about 175 out of a graduating class of 330) and to me, it seems to break down about like this: 1/3 are doctors, 1/3 are teachers, and the remaining 1/3 reside in Rancho Cucamonga (I'm kidding, except about the Rancho Cucamonga part. A shitload of people live there). The point is, go class of 2001, you sure did well. I wanted to show you up, and, well, you showed ME up. Congratulations.

On a side note, I have one more little story that is kinda random, but it works for this whole thing. And I doubt my best friend reads my blog too much, so I'm gonna go with talking about this, and if she ends up reading it and wants me to take this next part out, I will.

I love my best friend. I love her mom. She's like another mom to me. I call her "Mom" in real life, and on my blog and on Facebook she is known as M.O.M. (my other mother). My best friend is a year older than me. She's a college graduate but she's had some struggles with employment, largely because her mom is sick. She's the only daughter and she spends all her time taking care of her mom. Until very recently, she hasn't been dating much because the amount of attention her mom demands doesn't afford her much of a social life. She and I NEVER get to go out on our own, because I do consider her mom another mom and her mom considers me another daughter. So M.O.M. is always tagging along for my "girl time" with my best friend.

About a month ago, I was over at my best friend's house, and we were watching a movie up in her mom's room. So, stretched out on the huge bed was me, my best friend, her mom and the dog. The movie ended and none of us were particularly moved to get up and put another DVD in. It was about 3:00 in the morning, we were all stretched out, I was tired and I could see my best friend was tired. I thought it was time to crash.

M.O.M., however, did not. At this point, I should mention that M.O.M. is going to be 60 this year. Out of nowhere, she blurts out: "You know, it would be nice if you made me a grandmother while I'm still mobile enough to enjoy my grandchildren. You know I have health issues and I would like to be able have grandchildren while I am still healthy and mobile enough to pick them up and hold them rather than have them climb up on my lap while I sit in a wheelchair."

Crickets chirped. The dog grumbled, came out from under her blanket, jumped off the bed and left the room. It was comical. It was like she was the only one with half a brain. If I were smart, I would have gotten up and left the room too, but suddenly I felt fingernails digging into the palm of my hand. My best friend was squeezing the life out of me so that she'd keep her mouth shut instead of telling her mom that the reason there are no grandkids yet is because she's not even close to having a husband, because she doesn't have a boyfriend, because she can't date because her mom's insecurities and fears about her illness won't let her (it's not my place to go into what ails her mom, but let's just say it isn't life-threatening at all). The only thing either one of us could manage to say was that her health is not as bad as she made it sound and that she would definitely be a grandmother before she met her wheelchair days. She wasn't having any of it.

My best friend's mom must have had a secret meeting with my mom, because a few days ago, I found out that yet another one of my high school friends is engaged (is it just me, or is EVERYONE getting engaged this year? It also seems like anyone not getting engaged is pregnant this year. Whoa). I told my mom about my friend's engagement and she went off on this whole thing about how "we" need to figure out ways to get ME out there because it was high time for me to find a boyfriend and jump on this engagement wagon myself.

Wow. I know I piss and moan about getting older (and really, 26 does seem much older to me than 25 did), but holy shit. Am I really so old that my mom is trying to push me towards a relationship? As if I didn't already feel as though my eggs were rotting away after participating in the fun conversation between my best friend and her mom, now my own mother is harping on me about my single status.

I used to think that I didn't want a family until AFTER I finished college. Now, seeing how long it's taken me to get where I am, I guess maybe it's time to shift my views a bit. I don't know. It seems like my future isn't the shade-inducing adventure it used to be. I know it's still out there, but I have no idea how to set out in tackling my goals. Some days, I'm not even sure what my goals are, or if I even have any.