Searching for the All American Love Stories

“I am the woman men date when they are falling in love with other women.” ~Shelly Hess  

If you follow my blog you may recall in my February post “Love is in the Air,” I made peace and let go of all of my sarcastic and jaded perceptions about love and relationships.  I proclaimed 2014 would be my year of observation—a time for me to admire, celebrate, observe, and learn from all of the lovely couples and families I know. Well, spring has turned into summer and all I can say is WOW, what a beautiful and profound journey it has been.

It’s amazing what you can learn when you stop and look at life from a new perspective; see those around you through a different lens.  Once I removed my negative hazed glasses I got to know couples who were high school sweethearts, first loves whose hearts found their way back together after years from being apart, and couples whose love story grew and flourished over time.  I had the pleasure of meeting a couple whose strong bonds had grown and developed throughout the span of a half a century.  Even as they were celebrating their 50^th wedding anniversary they still smiled and acted giddy around each other.  I watched new love grow and blossom.  I witnessed the love that exists between families and great friends. 

One of the most important lessons I learned from each couple, family member and friend was that love stories aren’t neatly wrapped together and tied with a bow as the fairy tales taught us.  Their paths were't always straight and the roads weren't always smooth.    

For those of you who have followed my blog you have read my stories about dating when I was writing about matters of my own heart (I refrain from writing those stories now), stories about my crazy life raising beagles, all of my crazy adventures, or my personal journey overcoming a long struggle battling ED (eating disorders).  Now I am asking to write or share your stories, particularly your love stories whether they be about romantic love, family or friendship. Teach me; teach us the lessons we didn’t learn from Cinderella. 

If you are interested in sharing your story or allowing me to write your story send me a personal message at shellylhess@sbcglobal.net .   I will either post your story here on my blog or create a separate page. 

Life’s Humbling Lesson—The Story Behind my Smile

I realize it’s been quite some time since I’ve written.  It’s not that I haven’t had anything to say, it’s because it has been awhile since my inspiration to write has coincided with my time to write.  If there’s one negative thing about having a life so full, it is finding enough hours in the day to do it all. 

Tonight on the eve of my 42nd birthday I sit here and reflect on all of the twists and turns I’ve taken throughout my life.  I particularly focus on how each one has molded and shaped the humble woman I have become. Although things didn’t always turn out the way I would have wished them to, I am at peace with my past. I remember with gratitude instead of regret. 

As the title of this blog suggests, the story behind my smile is one of my most humbling lessons. Although I have come to terms with it, I have to admit to this day when someone compliments my smile I still feel a sense of cringe, dismay and disbelief. 

It all started one very early spring morning in 2003. I awoke to the sound of my alarm going off around 3:30 or 4:00 am.  I was crazy overzealous back then, I always tried to get to the office super early.  That particular morning I was feeling a little lazier than most, it was chilly, and I just wanted to snuggle with Gillian, my naughty red beagle.  She was 3 ½ at the time and had proven to have somewhat of a snarky side.  To be honest, as much as I loved that dog she was always a little psycho and had a bit of a mean streak. 

Anyway, I crawled under the covers to snuggle with her.  Hindsight is definitely 20/20; thinking back now there is a lot of truth behind the saying “let sleeping dogs lie.”  As I went to hold Gillian she gave me one of her nasty growls, the warning that she did not share my cuddling mood.  Unfortunately, in my need for comfort I ignored her cautionary request and I was promptly greeted by her sharp snapping bite.  In an instant she took a dime-sized hunk out of my lip. 

Although this happened 11 years ago, I still vividly remember the events that followed after “Gillian bit a chunk of my lip off.” Something instinctively made me think to rescue the piece of my lip from the bed and put it in water (I know now I should have put it in ice).  Then I immediately went to the bathroom mirror to assess the damage. I recall removing the tissue I was using to stop the bleeding just long enough to look at myself in the mirror.  Horrified by the image I saw staring back at me, I went into problem solving mode.  For a brief second I tried to think of a way to cover it with make-up, but quickly recognized that would not work.  So I did the thing any single girl would do in a state of shock…I called my Mom crying.  Within minutes my Mom was at my house and we were heading to Sharp ER. 

Once we arrived one of the nurses quickly put what was left of my lip on ice and whisked me away to a bed. There were questions about Gillian, I had to fill out forms that would inevitably be sent to Animal control.  Then was a lot of discussion between the nurses and the doctor on duty about how to treat me.  Thankfully, they decided to call in a plastic surgeon to perform the reattachment. I will always remember Dr. Vecchione as my rescuer.  He performed miracles that morning, 25 stitches later my lip was reattached and I was sent home for recovery. 

The first thing I saw when I got home was the shameful remorseful look in Gillian’s eyes; she knew she did something bad.  While there was forgiveness on my side, I never completely trusted her again (more of this later).  I spent most of that afternoon in and out of a dazed sleep. 

The next day I returned to work. As vain as I was back then I was more of a workaholic.  I had convinced myself the curriculum world would not survive another day without me.  I remember attending a huge meeting with all of the Vice President’s.  All eyes were on my face and the huge white bandage that covered my upper lip.  I looked like a spokeswoman for a ‘Got Milk” ad. 

The weeks that followed were long and painful.  It took all of my strength and courage to walk with my head held up high.  Especially since all I wanted to do was crawl in a hole and rot away.  One of my colleagues who himself was apparently more vain than I, admitted he would have done just that. 

I visited Dr. Vecchione regularly so he could monitor the healing process.  Finally the day came when the bandages would be completely removed.  I don’t know what I was expecting, but I definitely was not prepared for the image I saw once he took them off.  The reattachment did not take; there was a dime-sized hole where my lip once was. Once I saw the gapping hole in my lip I immediately burst into tears.  In all my memories I cannot recall a time when I felt more ugly than I did at that moment. 

I think Dr. Vecchione had a hunch that it was possible the attachment would not work.  He lifted my spirits when he told me about another option.  As it turned out, his brother was a cosmetic surgeon.  I went straight to his office and started the next round of procedures and recovery.  After several sessions with Dr. Vecchione II, minor reconstructive surgery and natural healing my smile was almost back to normal. 

While I try not to dwell on it too much, I know the imperfection is there.  To this day if you look closely you can see the small check mark scar above my lip and the little crease in my smile. 

Looking back I know I didn’t learn the humbling life lesson from my experience immediately. If anything it was quite the opposite. Shortly after it happened I went into what I now refer to as “my early life crisis.” Overtime, however; the incident has helped keep me in check, I realize it could have been much worse, and have come to appreciate how it has helped keep me grounded. 

As for Gillian, while most people thought I should have put her to sleep, I couldn’t punish her when it was mostly my fault.  After the incident I took her to a behaviorist, it mostly helped me learn how to handle her and deal with her aggression. She had a red dot on her medical chart, even then I always warned the vet or anyone who worked with her that she would bite. Fortunately, she never bit anyone like that again. She lived a normal happy healthy life until she was 12 when I had to do the humane thing and put her to sleep because complications from congestive heart failure. As crazy as it sounds I will always love that crazy beagle! 

Love is in the Air

Disclaimer: I haven’t really been writing about matters of the heart.  I got mixed reviews.  Some people thought I was being a little too open and perhaps sabotaging any potential relationship.  I hate to admit they are probably right, but it’s such a big part of my life and my journey, I’d be remiss if I didn’t reflect on my feelings of love. 

It’s that time of year again; Valentines Day is peaking around the corner.  Facebook status updates of new romances blossoming, big pink and red hearts and other images of love surround me.  Even Sheldon Cooper celebrated his first long embracing kiss with Amy. Usually this single girl hurls at the very sight of all of this mushy love and display of affection and adoration.  I’ve also been known to lock myself up and hide my tears in my dark self -pity single cave. Oh and then there was the year I was at a Valentines Day function with my friend Susan and drew my infamous painting I labeled “Chronicles of My Jaded Broken Heart.”

I’ll admit I still look at it all a little wistful and wonder what is it other women have that makes them loveable.   However, this year is a little different for me.  I’m not completely sure why it’s different. I’m not dating, which actually takes the pressure off. There’s nothing worse than starting a new relationship around Valentines Day or any holiday for that matter. There’s the awkwardness of do we have to celebrate and if we do celebrate what is the expectation.  I’ve come to realize if a man runs with his tail between his legs and doesn’t acknowledge it (or any holiday) then he’s probably not into me anyway.

I think I am less cynical and melancholy about the approaching love fest that surrounds me because of my declaration this is my year of transformation.  Part of my transformation is to take an official break from dating.  After years of dating Mr. Wrong or Mr. Maybe and ending up sad and a little more broken than I was before I’ve decided I need to withdraw from the game for a while.  The year of the horse is my year to focus on self-love, not to be confused with selfish-love or selfless love.  While I am as independent and self-reliant as they come, I was raised with the old school mentality you need to be this and that for a man to love you.  Couple that with my accommodating easy going personality when I am dating, I end up doing foolish things and sometimes even self-harming things to make myself fit into his world.  Last fall I had that epiphany moment after a night of driving around at insane hours of the morning so I could mesh.  I was hit hard in the face with the realization the only person who cared about my personal safety and well-being was me.  We’ve all been “That Stupid Girl” at some point (http://www.broadjam.com/artists/songs.php?artistID=6085&mediaID=472458)  

It was the moment I recognized, as much as I adored the man I was dating, I loved me more. 

Only a month and a half into my journey and exploration for self-love/self-care I have discovered a whole new world of happiness.  I am transforming to the fullest extent.  I am spending my free time away from curriculum doing the things I enjoy and make me happy: learning to play the banjo, learning to paint, spending time with friends and family, doing little house projects, going out and listening to live music and just appreciating all of the beauty that surrounds me.  I think my discoveries will make me a better partner when it is time to start dating again.  

I am encouraged by my song of inspiration for the year, “There’s Always Time for Life,” by Randi Driscoll (http://www.broadjam.com/artists/songs.php?artistID=6085&mediaID=570680 ).   

Whenever I get sad or I start longing for the pieces I feel are missing I listen to it and am reminded to focus on the gems in my life. 

Why are you so caught up on the things that make you mad?


All the things that make you bitter used to make you glad. 


Why are you so fixated on all the things that you don't have? 


Look at what you do have.

I am also less sarcastic about Valentines Day this year because I’ve rekindled the sociologist within me.  I am taking extra time to recognize and observe all of the beautiful couples I know.  It’s uplifting to admire them, learn from them and celebrate their love. 

So bring it on St. Valentine…I’m not afraid of you anymore. The world of couples will be celebrating together and me…well, I’ll have red spoons in hand and will be having the time of my life listening to Cowboy Mouth with my dear friend Jen.  Fred will certainly remind me “I’m glad to be alive.” 

Surf City Marathon—Michael’s Race

For most runners Surf City is just another marathon, but those 26.2 miles have a very special place in my heart. You see two years ago I decided to take on the Beach Cities Challenge, 3 full-marathons (Surf City, OC and Long Beach) in one year for a special medal.  Surf City 2012 was my first marathon in the series.  I vividly remember that race. A fire sparked within me, my pace was perfectly in sync.  Somewhere around mile 13 a ladybug landed on my arm. He hitchhiked right there for about 2 miles. For those who know me well, you can appreciate how magical that moment was.  The stars were aligned and everything seemed to come together perfectly.  I set a new PR that day.  I was flying high and on top of the world.

The message I listened to on my phone the next morning instantaneously grounded me.  The words I heard were a grave reminder how curious life is.  In being alive, like a roller coaster, there’s a slow climb to the top and then without warning in the blink of an eye we are plummeting toward the bottom of the hill.  The downward descent takes our breath away, holding on tightly we can’t help but feel a little helpless and hopeless. We’ve all been there before.  In our existence we can’t always predict when the wind will be taken out of our sails or how long it will take us to get back to the top. We can only pray by the grace of God our moments at the bottom are quick and painless as possible.

The news I received that my cousin Michael had passed away just a few short hours after I had finished my race left my heart (our hearts) shattered and broken with a gapping hole that will never be repaired.  Knowing that Michael took his life with his own hand still haunts us, family and friends, who loved him dearly.  There are so many what ifs.  What if we would have told him how much he meant to us and how much we loved him? What if we could have showed him like a roller coaster ride, we all fall down and even if it seemed so impossible our arms were there ready to help him stand up again?  There are so many whys.  Why didn’t we see the signs?  Why didn’t we call him and check in more often?  Why did everything seem so wrong?  Why couldn’t he hold on until the storm passed?  There are so what ifs, whys and questions that forever remain unanswered.  All we are left with are our cherished memories of his laughter, his smile, and his loving and kind heart, the tears in our eyes and our broken hearts we know will never quite be the same.  

Yesterday’s race was my second since we lost Michael.  I have to admit it was a very emotional start and finish.  I was already feeling sad and the images of sheriffs walking around with bomb sniffing dogs, a reminder of the Boston Marathon victims, engulfed me into another wave of sadness.  I didn’t fight my heartbreak; I didn’t even try to stop the tears that rolled down my cheeks. 

There weren’t any hitchhiking ladybugs to provide me with inspiration, but inevitably whenever I started to feel like I couldn’t run another step Michaels song, “A Warrior’s Call” by Volbeat, randomly played on my iPod.  Every step, every mile, every minute, every hour I thought of Mikey.  I dedicate my finish to his loving memory.