thinking out loud

2010-07-29T15:43:00.000-05:00

originally written july 29, 2007... reposted in honor of Marvin Zindler. Eye. Witness. News. Thank you Marvin ...

I pretty much gave up watching television news after 9/11. A couple of years ago, though, I realized that I liked to listen to Channel 13 six o'clock news while I cooked dinner. I have a tiny black and white sony TV on my kitchen counter, I think it's from 1978—looks like it was made to go on the first manned space flight, but I digress. I'd pop 13 news on while the skillet heated up, and listen as Dave Ward punched his mid-sentence delivery and Bob Brandon lilted out the weather. It felt familiar. It was comfort news.
I'm a native houstonian. Channel 13 has always felt like my hometown news—remember the millionaire movie every day at 3:00? Pre-oprah. And even though Dave Ward, Don Nelson, Bob Brandon, even cutie Bob Allen have gotten older and rounder, 13 News sounds (if not looks) as it did when I was a kid. And then there was the prime minister of the semi-circular table: Marvin Zindler.
**If you're not from Houston, or just never paid attention to the news, Marvin Zindler gained national attention for his major role in shutting down the Chicken Ranch, outside of La Grange--which was famous for being the favorite destination of college boys and local married men for a little female companionship. Best Little Whorehouse in Texas cast Dolly Parten and Burt Reynold's in a flagrantly romanticized story of the hick-madam and good ole boy sherrif. Dom DeLouise played the Zindler character: wig and all. **
While the news droned on and my work progressed from chopping and checking to setting the table and putting ice in glasses, I didn't pay attention to the screen, maybe I'd put eyes on the week's forecast, it's like your horoscope: you don't believe it, but you can't resist reading it anyway. But when it was time for Marvin, I'd stop and watch. Something about him. that he was still on the air… at his age! with that hair! those suits! those blue glasses. … after all these years, I had come to respect his adherence to the accouterment of it all. Moreover, I loved to see what he was up to. He was forever walking into dilapidated homes, holding the hand of toothless woman in a wheelchair and putting the IRS in their place—to say nothing of the roach droppings, improper temp-a-too-ur food and SLIME in the ice machine. And always with a reliable sign off. MARvin ZINDler EYE WITNESS NEWS.
Marvin died tonight. Over the years I've run into him at Pino's or Kingwood Country Club. Always cordial, he was sincerely everything he appeared to be. A flamboyant character dedicated to the little guy, in pursuit of help for those who couldn't find it, and on a quest for a clean kitchen. When Dave Ward announced his passing tonight, I teared up a bit.
Another little piece of my history is gone.
I don't miss day-glo watches or paper-sack top jeans. I don't miss Flock of Seagulls, Wham or Devo (okay, I do miss devo, a little..).
This Friday, I will miss getting my weekly sign-off fix from the man in the big white hair.
To you old man: good tennis, good golf and everything that makes you happy.
Dave said it best, "Thank you, Marvin."

Here's to love .. Whatever it is...

2010-05-23T12:00:00.003-05:00

and here's the second bit ...

more about the wedding tonight (second marriage for both bride and groom) .. for obvious reasons, it got me thinking about what i really wanted in a long term um, ... okay, wedding. ugh. there i said it.

it's been a long time since i've been a wedding guest; not exactly my favorite occasion, a bitter divorcee' , some may say-- although i deny it (every time).

i'm not down on marriage, especially for people are who married. as i've said before: if you're married, stay married: hunker down and be there for each other. laugh. cry. do the work. make it work. because it's worth it. seriously.
BUT.
if you are not married, or 'lucky' enough to have been through the marriage juggernaut and come out the other side relatively unscathed. well then, my friend, i say stay there. marriage is hard work. it's one of those things like italian creme cake: it looks better than it really is.
but i digresss....

so i go to this wedding. i am a guest of the bride. we are casual friends, at best. our daughters are long-time schoolmates and we had comradery in that we were both single mothers with relatively young children in the middle of suburbia. as a minority, we stuck together. truth be told, i'm sure if not for my daughter's connection with bride's daughter: i would not have been invited, let alone attended.

she's been dating this guy for about a year. that's all i really have to say about that. what i came here tonight to discuss is the wedding itself.

**as an aside i have to add: if there was every any question in my mind (which, there really wasn't), i now know with all certainty that i will never do the white dress and train with a veil thing ever again. she did. and that sealed the deal for me.**

i sat there and listened to the preacher bind them together til death do they part. yada yada yada. unity candle. traditional vows. what can is say dear reader? it made me squirm in my satin-covered chair knowing as i do, that she's already done this song with another partner. death did they part? fairly ugly divorces on both sides from the way she tells (told?) it. so.. death, not quite. but. this is her day. .. .. again.

then the reception: grand entrance. first dance. daddy dance. toasts from the four groomsmen. i felt my eyes rolling..
what are we, 23 years old here?

where is the realism? where is the part about : this is it fellas. no more dancing around the truth. we're here to take it to the next level, so both of you better be ready to cowboy up and ride this bull. because as you both know: it's a torn up road. so take a minute and think about it, because this is the last chance you have to take a step back without threat of serious repercussions from which you may-or may not-fully recover .. .. makes you wish sometimes it was as easy as holding onto bucking reigns for eight seconds.

i don't begrudge her this pomp and circumstance, but it solidified an attitude in me that i will not go back and say the same words. the same way. with the same hollowness. my crystal-crusted wedding gown didn't make a damn bit of difference a year from that day. by the time i got on the plane for my honeymoon, i could barely put together the fragments of memories from my wedding. it was a swhirl of snapshot moments in my mind. what exactly did we promise? it wasn't a moment of commitment, it was a lot of fluff about ... nothing. but this is only my experience.

i admit that i sometimes think what my 2nd wedding would be like. i can't see it, it's a vague idea.. but the images got clearer after tonight:
* it goes without saying that the dress code would be comfortable. the mood would be free and open. i'm not (necessarily) talking bare feet or cut offs in a city park .. .. i just mean the event would be momentous, without formality.
*then, the vows. in the comedy version of my vows, i say things like: "i promise never to gripe about the toilet seat and try my best not to one day hate you." because that's how i roll.
if i had to think about a real promise, i wouldn't repeat rote words from some preacher. this time, i need a spell i can trust.
maybe .. : "i like you so much i want you to be my family. i choose you because you see me better than i see myself, even when you look at the real me."
Romance and intimacy, yes, but there would be a sense of business at hand. i see the vows as a pact: an agreement. maybe we'd even sign a contract: that we would try to stay together. we would admit to each other that whatever it is that draws us to this place, to make this spectacle of our relationship: whatever that is: we agree here and now to explore it, nurture it and respect it. We acknowledge that there is strong love when we work together, and at this moment we enter into a partnership to foster that love. "for as long as we can possibly stand it. "

but that's just me. maybe i'd feel different if i'd walk a mile in her custom-dyed pump.

there is only so long you can re-gift.

2010-05-22T00:05:00.001-05:00

I went to a wedding tonight that turned out to be blog-fodder gold...
here's the first bit.

i have an antique chest that i call the gift closet. you may have a gift closet: your backstock-- your re-gifting stash. my gift closet is where i collect the birthday, christmas and miscellaneous gifts that either a) we don't want; 2) we can't use; or c) we're just not in love with. and throughout the year, i pull out these never used, unopened items and wrap them up for someone else, usually another kid, just like mine. rarely, are these gifts for adults.

however: we were invited to a wedding tonight. i turned to the gift closet with a creative hopefulness. there in the back, i spotted a silver and glass "jam set", which by luck would make a lovely wedding gift, seeing as how i had received it as a gift for my own wedding. but. never opened it. (it's a jam set. what the hell am i supposed to do with a jam set? if i need jam, i'll dig it out of the jar then put it back in the fridge.) i knew it was time for the jam set to find a home in a new gift closet: one with a happily married couple to care for it.
so i plucked it out and dusted off the box.

somewhere between drying my hair and cutting the silver wrapping paper, i had the idea to check out this jam set. the cellophane that kept the box taped was sticky and felt old as i carefully pried it up. the box showed wear, no doubt. it should, considering it's been moved three times. as i noticed the delicate, white paper protecting the trivet-part was kind of yellowed, i started to do the math on this potential re-gift. let's see: i've been divorced for seven years... married nine... oh god, this thing has been in the back of that chest for sixteen years!

the numbers made me laugh, as i pulled the pieces out of the box.... ... only to find a tiny envelope atop the white-wrapped silver spoon. "on your wedding day" the card read. "To tony and julie, we wish you many happy years together." ... name with held to protect the innocent.

this clever lady had put the card INSIDE the gift so it wouldn't get separated in the moving of the gifts from the reception to the ... wherever. SIXTEEN YEARS AGO. thank god i checked it, i thought. how freakin embarrassing to give an obvious re-gift, but with the original card. wow, would my face be red.

but the worst part is: the silver was all tarnished. can't save that.

re-gift: fail.

check in tomorrow for my take on the ceremony and reception ...

same song second verse... no, twelfth...

2010-05-10T15:35:00.007-05:00

here's another classic blog, originally written sept. 25, 2007....no, i'm not being lazy about posting... i'm just being... um, frugal -- using what i already have before getting new ...

I get so irritated with my daughter at the dinner table. Every single night she sits sideways in her chair and every single night she ends up spilling food on her lap, or dropping her cup off the edge of the table or something. All just because she's not sitting up straight paying attention. I tell her the same thing… every night. It's like she doesn't learn. I can't imagine where she gets it. Irritates.

So reader, as you may recall
when last we left this weary life traveler, i was feeling a leap coming on… forward movement
in the game of life lessons. I was looking for it; ready…to grow.

the problem with setting out to learn something new about yourself is… well, you learn something
new about yourself. something that is not usually cool. besides, by now, I already know all the cool things about myself.
I've spent the greatest part of my waking life glorifying, magnifying and generally extolling all the cool things I thought about me.
so I guess
now it's time
to move on

I talk to God.

I think one of my first mistakes here, was asking God to teach me how to be more loving. sounds good, doesn't it? I thought so. I didn't think
of it as such a challenge to master. in fact, I just dropped it into my prayers between wisdom and patience…'make me more loving'
... a sweet filling between the two biggies.
Mmm..warm fuzzies to me…muah! Love.

God has the ultimate sense of humor.

My second big mistake is being a slow learner.
I should know by now, that if I want more of something in my life,
like love.. or respect ..or acceptance.. I have to purposefully
do/give that thing for/to other people.

This is life 101: do unto others.
It's karma.
The great, goes-around-comes-around.
duh.

Conversely, if you find yourself not getting
something you want from this life;
logically it follows
that you are not giving enough of that thing.
Want your boss to be nicer to you? then bring the maintenance man cookies.

it's the universe man, wake up. Its real

So I shoulda known
when I wanted more love in my life
that He was going to show me
all the ways I act like an ass.
Yea. Fun lesson.
so much for fuzzies...

So I ask God to show me how to be a better person and he drops a dime to the universe and says, "hey man, go ahead and put it all in motion.
She wants to show more love and have more respect for people, so she's gotta learn lowliness.... This is going to be fun. I love this one."
(that's me paraphrasing God… I can still hear Him kind of giggling …)

I will not go into the myriad ways over the last few months that I have made a fool of myself and then had it served to me on silver the next morning at breakfast. I will not further shame myself regaling my public embarrassments; the times I was taken down to where I could see just how hurtful I can be to other people. I won't replay the times I've stumbled over someone's feelings or cut into someone's self esteem with clean-sharpened sarcasm. more times than not, I was made to answer for it. sometimes for the first time.

And in my misery; in the darkness of disappointment
and self-realization that I'm such a bitch …..
the universe whispered in my ear:
"You have to respect first,
before you are respected.
It doesn't matter if you think it's fair.
It's the game."

I'm learning to be more loving,
because I've see what a bitch I can be.
And that's not cool.

so…I've softened, I'm trying to be softer… girlie, if you will.
Holding back on those trademark sarcastic additions. snarkiness no more. Conversations with me will be dusted with colored sugar
punctuated by frosted muffin tops. No more piss and vinegar
from this little lady. Mindin' my Ps and Qs.
yes sir, mr. God sir… I done learned my lesson.
No more schoolin… please….

seriously

I'm begging you. stop.

This was a tough lesson, but i think i broke into bedrock; which is very cool. for now, I continue to offer apologies in my wake and walk the property nailing up boards I kicked out of the fencing around my bold, some might say strong, personality. and if out there in this anonymous web someone who knows me and maybe even loves me is reading this: thanks for loving me even when I'm a rude, conceited jerk. I hope you'll have to work less at loving me from now on… but I can't make any promises, I still can't get my daughter to sit up straight at dinner.

Mothers Day Past...

2010-05-08T15:00:00.005-05:00

originally written May 13, 2007 ... look for more "classic" blog entries as i finally clear out the old myspace blogs in preparation for the big move to Wordpress... enjoy. and thanks for reading.

On Mother's Day morning many years from now, if God grants me the time, I'll roll over and wake up to sunshine coming in through gauzy bedroom curtains. I'll wrap a downy soft robe around me, then shuffle into the clean and orderly kitchen to make a pot of strong coffee. I'll sort through a fat, dew-kissed Sunday paper, setting aside a stack of coupons and flyers to savor that evening. I'll leisurely dress for church. My daughters will call with good wishes for my day. Maybe they'll even invite me to brunch where I'll eat with sticky grandchildren on my lap and have a tall, glossy slice of chocolate cake before waving them goodbye in carseats and SUVs of their own.

For now, I languish in the tentative years. As Sunday approaches, a dull ache creeps up my spine into the base of my brain as I an anxiously try to imagine the plans my beautiful, well-meaning daughters have for me this mothers day. Probing questions give their schemes away: "how many scoops do you put into the pot to make coffee?" the 8yr old asked me on Wednesday. "do you think M&Ms would be good on a waffle?" She pondered out loud Friday night. And then, tucking them in last night my youngest asked: "four is not too wittle to cwack an egg, wight mommy?" Note to self: hide eggs in the vegetable crisper.

But no eggs were harmed in the making of this Mother's Day morning. Fate had a different plan: this year, the girls would be sick.

As is our usual Saturday night ritual, they slept in my bed... My second grader began nursing a cold yesterday; by last night her congestion and rhythmic coughing kept me on the couch past 11:00. Finally, i succombed and went in to scoot feet off my pillow and retrieve the top sheet from a crumpled mess at the foot of the bed. After what felt like about 10 minutes of sleep, the little one awakened me with the tell-tale sounds of a stomach virus. Casualties were heavy. Sheets, bathroom rugs, the couch, even the living room floor took a hit. Each of us was splattered in collateral damage. After deftly avoiding another missile, I wiped her little mouth and adjusted the chilled eye mask wrapped around her forehead. With flushed cheeks and red lips she looked up and said, "all bedder now mommy." Something about it made me laugh out loud. I looked around at the mounting pile of soiled stuff. This is what mother's day is all about.

By four AM the house was quiet again. The three of us were toe-to-toe in my king-size bed, nestled in clean sheets and new pjs. The washer rocked with its load, the dryer hummed, foretelling my afternoon of folding. As I drifted off, with one ear open for a rumbling tummy, a chubby hand reached out for my face and rubbed my cheek. I heard the long, slow breath of a truly content child, secure that she was in the arms of a mom who was going to be there should sickness return. And as night creaked into dawn, my soul filled up with pride and Godly thanks in the assurance that I'm a good mom. Her sweet touch was, at that moment, the best mother's day present I'd ever had.

On my fantasy mother's day many years from now, as I retrieve my half-eaten slab of chocolate cake from the fridge and sink into an evening of coupon clipping in a quiet house, I'll wax nostalgic for these early mother's days. I'll smile with memories of restless mornings hearing the bump and crash of little chefs exploring my kitchen. i'll remember the squish of over-glued homemade cards and tissue paper flowers on my serving tray, with a cup of coffee grounds floating in lukewarm water. i'll laugh at the challenge of cleaning the trail of syrup from the kitchen floor to my bedside. And I'll remember this mother's day with it's sour smells, pale-faced children and piles of laundry—and I'll hope my girls will one day have a mother's day as rich as this.

embarrassing is not funny when it's you.

2009-11-05T12:50:00.007-06:00

in elementary school when they wanted you to write an essay, seems like it was always something so stupid, like "what did you do this summer?" or "talk about your happiest memory" or "what is your most embarrassing moment?" all of these were as pointless now as they were to me back then. i was in the 4th grade people. my happiest memory? i really liked the cocoa pebbles i had this morning? give me a break. embarrassing moment? this one is fraught with possible disaster to me, as i'm sure there had to be moments of pee-in-pants and throwing up in front of the class that had to go through little minds with this one. i never really had an embarrassing moment, so i usually made up something asinine like grabbing a strangers hand at the mall because i thought it was my mom. wow. was my face red. ugh.

you have to get some life on you to understand what it's like to be truly embarrassed. to walk out of the bathroom with your dress tucked into your panty hose (BTW can i please hear it for bare legs coming into style? good lord how i hate panty hose...anyhoo). but more often that not, embarrassing shit is hard, hurtful stuff. Calling your guy by the wrong name. twice. getting caught at a bar by your pastor. forgetting to pick up your kid and the teacher has to sit there with them in front of the school. it's embarrassing. and it's not cool to be embarrassed.

this morning i was listening to a blurb from the interview diane sawyer did w/ Rihanna (which not matter how you spell, still reads in my mind like diarrhea, sorry Ri..) anyway, she was talking about getting abused and even i can't make something funny out of that. i've never been hit by a man. actually, i don't think i've ever been hit by anyone ever. once in the 8th grade i was supposed to fight some butchy mean girl, but i was so terrified that i hid in the bathroom and let her think i was a total coward, which i am. although in hindsight, i doubt i would've gotten hit even then; i went to this tiny baptist school and i'm sure there was a teacher or a coach or a preacher or someone who would've broken up the whole thing before anything happened.

so what i'm saying is: i can't relate to Rihanna getting punched in the face.

but she said something that i can relate to: she said she was embarrassed. i can't find the transcript of the interview, so please don't sue me Ri if i get this wrong, but she said something like, "i am embarrassed that i fell in love with a man who is like this. that i fell so far in love with someone like this, it's embarrassing."

i totally get that.

my ex never hit me with his fist. but having to tell people that he left me, moved out of state and was living with his then girlfriend while i laid in a hospital bed having his second child--was embarrassing. it still is. he hit me with his words. his abandonment bruised me. gave my girls a black eye. you just can't see it. i selected this guy. do you? i said yes, i do. i'm not proud of it.

people tell me: it wasn't your fault. he's a jerk. i would say the same to Rihanna--he's a jerk, it's not about you. but the fact is: it is about her. she picked him. i picked mine. we CHOSE to be with these guys. you can't pick your parents, you're just stuck with them, but i loved this man. i had children by this loser. and as much as my incredible friends have stuck to their guns about hating him and his name is synonymous with asshole in every conversation, at the end of the day most of my regret about the whole thing is that i fell in love--so completely in love--with a man who was capable of leaving his family in the blink of an eye, for a piece of ass. it's embarrassing. but it is what it is. he's gone. life rocks along. lesson learned: you never really know someone. love as if they'll never leave. because it's all about you. one way or another.

so rihanna: hang in there. the great thing about life is that there's always tomorrow. another chance to get it right. least you don't have to worry about our bare ass hanging out of your panty hose anymore. and if i ever get stuck in an elementary school writing class: i totally have an embarrassing moment to write about.

After the sugar comes this big crash

2009-11-02T12:05:00.013-06:00

Is everyone comfortably seated and safely strapped in? because halloween is over people. clear out the little plastic gravestones from your yard-- it's time for the wild ride toward YEAR END.

yahoo. but pooor halloween. every year it gets more crammed and shoved into one stinkin lousy day. this year Wal-Mart had their halloween stuff 50% off the day before halloween! they were literally stocking wreaths and santas on the shelves as they were cleared of obama masks and fake blood. so in honor of halloween, here are some pics of halloweens past and present, in homage to my parents who were the most awesome costume-makers ever!

What a cute little clown i was back in 1974. the picture-in-front-of-door motif would be picked up again many decades later when i would pose my own dressed up kids at the same place. well... not the SAME place. different house. different door. same location within a different house. jeez. do i need to explain this? hell no.

Halloween 1977 - that's me as cheerios. mom and dad positively LOVED to make us wear boxes. strangely, i don't remember complaining about it. whereas my six year old daughter won't even wear a fairy skirt because "it's too itchy." i spent my first ten halloweens with my arms hanging straight out all night. Here's my poor sister in her box that year: MILK. the parents were very into the whole go-together costume ideas. Cheerios and Milk. One year i was a mailbox and she was a package. me: cracker jacks (cracker "julies" actually) and she was popcorn. possibly the most tasteless costumes they came up with was during the bicentennial -- in which my sister and i were both bicentennial fire hydrants (did the whole country do this or just texas--where the fire hydrants were painted in patriotic colors to celebrate the bicentennial?) anyway, we were bicentennial fire hydrants and my parents were: yep, you guess it: dogs. somehow, the photos, classic as they are, have been misplaced over the last 800 years but i did find this. you can just sense the joy on my dad's face.

Now let's fast forward to my own little darlings, who i allow to wear good old, store-bought costumes that require little, if any, intervention or box-cutting on my part. this was my very first costume as a mommy for my little darling: a flower. both my girls wore this to absolutely rave reviews. Dang, i wish they had a baby costume contest i could've entered them in. this was so incredibly easy, it was back when all that Anne Geddys crap was real popular and i looked at making a flower costume a'la anne geddys for my then 10mos old. but sista mary and the baby it was complicated, i was like screw this. so i went the craft store and bought a bunch of silk flowers on long stems. took them all apart and hot glued the pieces in the right places on a footed sleeper i had. the hat is an amish bonnet someone gave me as a baby gift, covered with hot-glued blossoms. evidently the bonnet was handmade by some woman who rode around town in a black horse-drawn buggy. ah, backstory.

Circa 2002, this was (is) a custom-made raggedy ann costume with my daughter's actual name stitched onto the front apron. i made that yarn wig myself. you can't see it here, but she has red-ringed leggings on, also made by me, by wrapping pieces of red duct tape around her little white-tighted legs. she was three. and just LOVED it. actually, she hated it and couldn't wait to tear off this whole getup. but my dad is happy. no dog costume for him that year. by the way, if you happen to have a 2 yr old named bailey elizabeth *call me* have i got the costume for you in 2010.

obligatory snow white. notice the front door. it's because that's how MY mommy did it. i guess. now this year i was able to talk them into a little "couples" costuming with this: snow white and the witch! get it? but of course you do. My attempt to set up a little vignette: notice the apple? jeez louis that is one cute snow white. lordy. then there's this... not the most well thought-out pose, i grant you. again, in front of the damn door. why?

Blogger seems to be cloggered right now.. probably with everyone trying to meet their NaBloPoMo quota... current pics to follow... looks like i'm gonna get another post outta this! take that daily posting rule! ah HA

hold that bandwagon, i want to jump on

2009-11-01T00:01:00.000-05:00

the blogosphere is packed today with a bunch of posts from people that i follow who haven't posted in about as long as i haven't posted and i just figured out why--its' that dangnabbit NaBloPoMo time again.

this time i want in on this action. for months i've been mercilessly beating myself up (on the inside, scars you can't see) for not writing more. ... as they say, i'm not writing any more, i'm just not writing any less. so, without further adieu, here we go.

and yes, this counts as a post so bite. me.

do you see a pattern here?

2009-10-19T16:53:00.002-05:00

i still haven't actually committed the time to write a full blog. but lemme tell ya, i've got a torn-out piece of spiral paper sitting in my purse with some ideas that'll make your little head spin.

eh. not really. except the torn paper part. that's true. it's the head spinning part: not so much.

but i have been sticking in a little here --too long for twitter and too ..um, much.. for facebook.

here's another.

so i'm reading my blog rolls today, and come upon this little gem: Recipe for Wine Vinegar.

i scrolled back up a little shaggy doo-like "wha huH?" i actually feel kinda sorry for a woman that takes this much time to come up with vinegar. and also--an ear of corn? relax lady. have some of that wine before you let it spoil.

i gotchur recipe for wine vinegar right here:

1. open a bottle of wine
2. drink about two thirds of it.
3. go to bed
4. leave bottle on the kitchen counter for about a week.
5. voila! wine vinegar.

enjoy.

mom math

2009-10-14T21:10:00.001-05:00

how many moms does it take to change a lightbulb?
one.
but she's really got to be in the mood to do it.
so you may have to walk down a dim hallway.

for a while. like a month.

it is what it is.

so...how many moms does it take to change a smoke detector battery? right.
now stop complaining about that beep.

shit. there it goes again.

goodnight kiddies. mom loves you.

collecting my thoughts for the moment

2009-09-16T17:41:00.002-05:00

its not that i don't want a partner. i'm just not sure i can swing my heart out on a line again.
can you really love like you've never been hurt before?
it is possible to forgive AND forget?

i want my mamma (gram)

2009-08-17T12:00:00.004-05:00

i flat out refused to be nervous about it.

oprah's guru says, Always work with it, not against it. whatever it was: it was meant to be for my good, eventually. i was determined to hold onto my shit, even if it turned out to be something shit-losing worthy.

it's earlier than i'm usually out the door and i'm in a waiting room drinking coffee, whose aroma and color remind me of dirt. my ipod plays Superman by REM. the words come into my ear like someone talking to me, "i am superman. and i know what's happening. i am superman and i can do anything." i recognize that it's god talking to me. i almost start to cry.

about two weeks ago my gyno had been rooting around on the boob like she does every year. we were in the middle of our usual, meaningless annual well-woman chatter. "I found a lump," she says, looking over her shoulder as she washes her hands. my world flashed black. "You whah...?"
"it's squashy, i almost missed it," she wiped her wet hands and looked me in the eye as i lay there trying to shield my vulnerability with a paper sheet. "i would tell you if i had a bad feeling about it. I don't. It's not hard or immovable. but let's look at it. I'll schedule a mammogram."

so here i sit. drinking dirt. listening to god use michael stipe to mess with my head.
"i am superman and i know what's happening." i got this one, god was saying. i wasn't sure what it meant for the results and i caught myself choking on ~~fear~~ tears.

a woman sat beside me, studying credit-card sized jesus pictures, with a prayer on the back. she had a little stack of them and sometimes would hold a couple of them side by side and just whisper her prayers. then cross herself. her eyes were watery.

i was flat out determined not to be nervous.
she was freaking me out.
so i moved.

then i got called to the back. it is a surreal experience to sit in a waiting room topless with other topless women. all three of us in a row. in jeans. black lady to my left. older, gray-haired woman to my right; we sat in silence, clutching our open-in-the-front hospital gowns and staring at the little television.

this was my first mammogram and it wasn't as bad as i thought. i pictured the machine as a huge refrigerator door into which each of my boobs would be ceremoniously slammed. it wasn't nearly that violent or painful. but as i stood there, with the young tech maneuvering my breasticle between the plates, like a fresh-caught fish, i was aware that i was terrified. She gave no indication of what she saw except to say (after i asked), "yes, i see it. it's white. that could mean it's nothing. or it could be cancer." wow. thanks for that.

she took the scans to the radiologist and told me to wait.

i had no contact with the mysterious radiologist, but i had the distinct impression that he was much like the wizard of oz--somewhere behind a curtain, with the little techs coming to him like the citizens of the emerald city, asking for answers.

whatever he saw, the great radiologist ordered a sonogram.

the sonogram tech was not gorgeous. not plain. not write-worthy, really in any way except for the bollywood movie soundtrack she played and sang to while she rolled her sticky wand over my boob so hard i jerked back in pain up a couple times. "is that it?" she'd say. "um, yeah, can't you feel it?" i answered. like duh, you're hurtin me here. "yeah, i can see it," she said, "i just didn't know what it was." nice. isn't that the whole freakin reason i'm here.

from there, she cleaned me up and sent me on my way. by now, the initial terror had worn off with so much boob goo, stilted smalltalk and indian melodies.

i believe that words give power. So i didn't tell anyone (almost) about the lump. only one chick pal, who had gone through a lot of similar stuff and ... i told The Guy. The two days following the mamma/sono were surprisingly calm. What's done is done, i kept telling myself. The Guy comforted me in his no-bullshit way, which is the only way i can accept comfort. "It's just a picture," he said, "from there, you might do a needle biopsy. Then they might remove the whole thing to look at it. you might not know for a month. Don't waste your energy worrying about. not yet, at least."

The lump, it turns out, is a spectacularly unsexy calcium deposit. A degenerative calcium deposit, to be exact, which not only implies stony boob bumps, but OLD stony boob bumps.

when i hung up from the doctor's phone call, i felt my diaphragm expand. i realized i'd been holding my breath for two days. i haven't come up with a snappy ending for this one. maybe there's not one.

i totally got drunk with the dooce at blogHer and all i got was this crappy post

2009-08-03T21:30:00.002-05:00

i know, right? made you click. i'm going to start titling all my posts with some reference that only the really truly cool blogees will know about and those minions will consistently click, driving up my hit counter higher. and higher.

First things first: i did not get drunk with the dooce. i mean: duh. she just had a baby. okay, that's when most women start the really serious drinking. but she's totally mormon. do mormons drink? i actually don't know any mormons. when i meet the dooce, i'm going to ask her if she drinks. and if she does, i'm totally gonna challenge her to a shot contest. or at least buy her a shot. i not only didn't go to the BlogHer conference, i'd have to google it to know where or when it was. and what it is. or was.

but you're here now and that's what counts.

this blog has become like a dorky little kid that follows me home from third grade.
pesky blog: hi jewels! you gonna write something soon, huh? you think you'll write something? i sure do like it when you write something. you wanna write soon, Huh? do ya? huh?
me: beat it kid
pesky blog: you're so funny jewels! you're hilarious. i like your new shoes. are those new shoes? they sure are nice. you think you're gonna write something soon? do ya? huh?
me: beat it kid. i got laundry to chastise. kids to fold. very important appointments to run late for.

it's been a long time since my last post (which i can't even remember, so i'm certain it was el lame-o. however: a very cool sidenote concerning my last post--and part of the reason why i'm writing now--i got a comment from (get this) BOSSY. i swear i almost peed a little when i saw her name in my inbox. Freakin' Bossy~ read my blog. and left a comment to prove it. Listen, i'm not cool like yall blogHer people. i don't have a badge on my blog. wouldn't know how to put it on this thing anyway. i'm just a writer. sitting in my living room. watching infomania. and out of nowhere Bossy reads my blog. so cool. wish it wasn't such a lame post. anyway... what was i saying? oh yeah, long time since last lame post. well get ready kiddies. here comes another one. sort of.

see, the thing is, i get a lot of great ideas for posts. all day. well, some days. but i can't decide what to write about. and they're starting to pile up. which intimidates me. and makes me not want to write even more. (makes me less want to write?) which makes this pesky little kid hang around my daydream brain. i told you about it. jeez. pay attention. so you decide. you're a cool unknown, random person at a screen. you know where blogHer was. you know i didn't get drunk with dooce.

or did i?

i'm not in the right clique to do one of those awesome random contests, where you get cool free stuff for leaving a comment at the right time on the right day. not that any company would send me free shit to give away on my blog. and let's face it, even if they did i wouldn't give it to you. i love free shit. mine baby. but like a little boy in mommy's nightgown, i can pretend to be beautiful. and i'm giving you a chance to tell me what to do.

so here's a list of a few things i'm mulling around in my blog-brain. take a look, and let me know what you wanna read about. and i'll write it. maybe bossy will read it. and if black hockey jesus leaves a posthumous comment, i may soil myself. with joy.

Blog Bit #1:
It was a surreal moment. i'd been lost in a flashback triggered by facebook comments from names i used to yell down high school hallways. watching johnnie carson. listening to flock of seagulls. barettes. the grassy wet smell of a football field about 7:00 on a friday night in october. sitting in the backseat. i look up and see my kid. "hey, who's the kid in my apartment" then it hits me: i don't live in an apartment. high school was like three big blocks of memory lane behind me. i'm a grown up. i've gone to the dark side. these are the days i used to tell myself about in college. this is : One Day.
remember?
one day i won't be able to lounge around and do nothing, so i think i'll skip class today and smoke pot.
one day i'll have a budget, so today i'm gonna go out and blow my last twenty bucks on a B-52s album and jack in the box.
Today is One Day. and that's a pretty scary day.

Blog Bit #2
i flat out refused to be nervous about it. accept: then act. it's what oprah's guru says, but i like it anyway. it's earlier than i'm usually out the door and i'm in a waiting room drinking coffee, whose aroma and color remind me of dirt. my ipod plays superman by REM. a lifetime fave, but the words come into my mind like someone is telling me something, "i am superman. and i know what's happening. i am superman and i can do anything." i recognize that it's god. i almost start to cry. god pumps on my faith. i got this one, god was saying. i wasn't sure what it meant about the results. a woman sat beside me, studying credit-card sized jesus pictures, with a prayer on the back. she had a little stack of them and sometimes would hold a couple of them side by side and just whisper her prayers. then cross herself. her eyes were watery. i was flat out determined not to be nervous. she was freaking me out. so i moved.
the sonogram tech was not gorgeous. not plain. not write-worthy, really in any way except for the bollywood movie soundtrack she played while she rolled her sticky wand over my boob so hard i teared up a couple times. "is that it?" she'd say. "um, yeah, can't you feel it?" i answered. like duh, you're hurtin me here. "yeah, i can see it," she said, "i just didn't know what it was." nice. isn't that the whole freakin reason i'm here.

Blog Bit #3
so what i'm sayin is: if you're married, stay married. dig in your heels, give it all you got. tomorrow will be better. stay connected with sex and laughing. it's worth it. if you can stick it out, you'll have something truly sacred to be proud of by the time you check into assisted living. love your spouse. accept him. tell her she's sexy. be faithful. relationship is the most rewarding, single most important investment you can make while you're on earth. and the payback is priceless.
but if you've made it this far without getting married, or by circumstances beyond or totally within your control, you've gotten out of a marriage: stay out. it's not as good as it looks. you wake up wishing he was someone else or going to sleep wishing you were. even though you're lonely every once in a while and it feels weird going on vacation by yourself, it's still better than having a three-day discussion of what television you're going to buy or enumerating the pros and cons of mexican vs chick fil a.

Blog Bit #4
so as a willing, anonymous pool of intelligence, i ask you, exhalted reader: what should i be when i grow up?
1. Private Investigator: i'd name my company 'Confidential Observations' with focus on cheating spouses and match.com background checks.
2. Quirky Home Chef Guru: my recipe-laced memoir and irreverant blog build a buzz. I lead the 8 o'clock hour on the Today Show (oh Matt, you're just a big flirt, aren't you?) and i'm the last guest of the night on Jimmy Fallon (well of course i brought the wine, silly boy) . eventually Food Network offers me my own show which i tape from my spacious hill country kitchen along the Frio River.
3. Music Publicist / Restaraunt Critic: both require a huge ego and taking delight in the unwarranted criticism of others. check and check. my lifelong experience as a good ole boy bullshitter only enhances my resume for this one. a strong contender.
4. Stand-up Comedian: not sure if i have the balls for this one, but like bungie jumping, i'm thinking i'm gonna have to do this at least once before i check into the assisted living.
5. Secretary. oh wait, i already am this. if i had it to do again, i wouldn't. assuming i first didn't kill the brain cells where the memory of this crappy job live. and let's face it: these are the first i want to go.

Blog Bit #5
So even though i didn't have venereal disease, it's still an uber-embarrassing story with a high gross factor. i try not to think about it, but i don't know which is worse, knowing The Guy will always have this little gem to "pull out" (so to speak) when he needs a good dig or the fact that i had to tell my father. ugh.

Okay folks, there they are. i don't have any fancy software to randomly choose the winning comment. based on past experience, i'll just have the two of you giving me your opinion. which you would anyway. because you're my friend. and you read my blog even when it's lame. especially when it's lame. and i love you for it.

and bossy, if you read this. call me. we'll do shots.

Amazingly... its barely my fault

2009-06-04T21:09:00.007-05:00

okay. me and The Guy are on the skids. there. now you know. and i'll tell you why.

he travels in his job. also, he likes to travel. a global nomad, he calls himself affectionately. he likes the idea of it. moving all the time. i admit - it works for him. for a long time, i liked that about him too--he's not around all the time. so he is usually gone for 3 - 10 days at a time about once a month. its not unusual that he'll schedule a series of short trips. A three-day business trip then home for a day, to fly out the next day on a 5-day pleasure trip.

so he's gone for sprints at a time. often.

from the beginning, now almost a year ago, he becomes invisible while he is out of town. i say that i become a stranger whenever he gets on a plane. it's an exaggeration, somewhat. he texts. irregularly. usually he will call once. sometimes he won't. so not a total stranger. but an acquaintance at best.

it's weird, because when he's home, we talk all the time. text back and forth all day. meet for lunch. squeeze in an hour of squeezing in the hour between work and my getting the kids. he'll talk to me up until the seatbelt sign comes on in the plane. when he's here: we're good.

but when he's gone, he's gone. our lives swim in a river of technology from texting to email to skype. but still. he doesn't return texts. sometimes for days. lately when he does text, he doesn't even send "i miss you" or any sweet little nothings, like he used to. i feel disconnected from him. i question if this is a one way feeling and i'm the only one going that way.

plus it just irritates me. it hits my "don't-trust-this-guy" button.

this is not a new issue in our relationship thingy. he knows it irritates me. he knows about the button. he knows i feel like he doesn't care... we've passionately discussed this subject ad nauseum.

and every time he says he understands and he's not going to do it next time. ANDs he still does it.

but this time. i don't know. this time when he did it. i was done with it.

he's been gone 7 days. i've barely been in touch with him at all. aside from a few short texts--mostly informational texts (water temp is nice here, our show is going good...bleh bleh ) we talked once on skype. which was nice. but he won't answer my texts. then texts "sorry" he was out til 3am with clients. he's in latin america in a beach resort hotel overlooking the water. what do you think i think about when he says he's out till all hours? yep. my button's going off. you know what i'm sayin.

then yesterday we had a text tiff.

you know, i sat down and started writing this post so i could pour out all the thoughts that keep clogging up my brain. and now that i'm sitting here writing it out. it seems ridiculous. but nonetheless. we had a text tiff. a fight. by text. yes. it is childish. i see that now.

he said i remind him of his ex wife. i said to call me when he gets over his ex wife. he said 'be more positive'. i said, 'come get your shit'. all in text. that was yesterday about 3:00.

so now he's back in the US. not home yet, but on american soil, texan soil even. he text when he got to IAH (his usual "got back ok") and he did call. feeling me out. he'll be back in houston on sunday. i'll have to fish or cut bait at that point.

on Saturday, my kids leave on daddy duty for two weeks. traditionally, i have dubbed these two weeks a summer as "the debauchery tour". i'm thinking it will depend on how much fun i'm having between kidless saturday and The Guy Returns Sunday as to how i'll play this hand.

i'm open to suggestions. it's been six years since i had to manage a relationship. that didn't go so well.

am i rambling? it seems like i'm rambling.

because i have to post something

2009-05-20T22:24:00.007-05:00

when you haven't posted in a long time and you know you want to, sometimes you just gotta throw something out there to get back into the groove; take the pressure off the "first post after not posting forever" post.
so don't get frothy. yes, i'm posting. but: it will suck. it's the first pancake.
now that i'm free to mediocre. let's begin.

current obsessions

music:
she&him Vol. 1 - this is Zooey Deschanel and M Ward. you recognize her. she was in elf. she's pixie-ish, but can also be kind of creepy in a The Shining sort of way. certainly not profound or groundbreaking material, but i can't stop singing Sweet Darling... also the cover I Should Have Known Better, worth hearing.

Short, Sharp, Shocked--Michelle Shocked. early 90s i think. maybe earlier. i used to have this on cassette and would listen to it in between Upstairs at Erics and The Go-Gos and The Judys (if you have a copy of Washarama--LEAVE A COMMENT. i want to talk to you.) i got turned onto michelle shocked with her campfire tapes, but this one is better. Run to Gladewater my current anthem. look for an upcoming post about this song. it'll be deep. but funny. you'll like it. probly.

Day and Age--The Killers. this is my first killers album even though i've been kind of a closet fan since that somebody-told-me-you-had-a-boyfriend-that-looked-like-a-girlfriend song. they seemed constructed in a lab to me. i didn't get a lot of authenticity from them. but by the time this album came out i decided to give them a fair shake. still strikes me in the vein of a poor david bowie wannabe ... but they are catchy little tunes. gotta love catchy. and i do. Spaceman. Are We Human.

Technology:
Facebook -- i don't say this lightly... i never say this, but: OMG. its like sticking your head into the genie bottle where everyone you've ever met got stuck the day you forgot about them. this kind of thing is like putting a bowl of trailmix with m&ms in front of me. i keep digging around to pick out the good stuff. but in the meantime, i've had my hands on a lot of...nuts.

Twitter -- okay, not officially an obsession, but you can't say i'm not open to try new things. i get it. my own quotes, by me. it's funny. i like it. ... i guess. but i have to ask... really? regular posting isn't enough to live up to. now. twitter pressure. the concept is awesome, though and i'm not going to get kicked off the back of the wagon just cuz i'm not with the band. follow me?

Wireless -- oh yeah baby. this is the maiden voyage. the awkward virgin. this is the first post from my new laptop. i am writing this ... from bed. and i am naked. nah, i'm not. but i could be. because i am in bed. with my computer. i am making sweet technological love to this little slab of computerlicious advancement. there aren't words to describe my infatuation and total adolescent-like devotion to wireless internet. but i wish my kids inspired even a fraction of this love. i'm just sayin.

Miscellany
The Guy -- this will probably get its own post. eventually. but The Guy is still around. i know. can you believe it. and he's my favorite current obsession. obsession in a good way. not in a 'got his bunny simmering on the stovetop' kind of way.

Monty's Screenplay -- unfortunately, i'm bound to secrecy by a privacy clause that's only enforceable in states where marijuana is legal, but i can tell you it's a pretty fuckin funny little tale. naturally, neither him nor i have the vaguest clue as to how to write a proper screenplay, let alone shop it, pitch and eventually in some acid-laced dreamworld get it produced, filmed and ... good lord... distributed. but i'm having fun writing about crazy pot-shit. and i like talking to monty about something fun.

My Vacation -- i'm broke. i'm fat. i'm broke. but fuckitall, i'm going on vacation and i. can. not. wait. don't know where. don't know how. but i took a week off. (i've been here for 11 years. please, come kill me. if you loved me, you would) and i know it's going to be more than 2 days. it will not involve any family bonding time (this vacation not approved for general audiences). it will not require air tavel. (ew. planes are derty) and i will be relaxed. more on this later.

you still here? wow. you are cool. bet you have a rockin facebook, doncha.

Somewhat Silent Saturday

2009-04-25T08:29:00.002-05:00

Benihana Birthday

2009-04-24T14:05:00.006-05:00

big time fam fun at our benihana birthday last night. i have no idea why this pic is so small...most irritating because we look so dang cute.

Stall Etiquette

2009-04-20T16:43:00.004-05:00

Okay, so i'm in the bathroom at work. i'm in my stall, doin my bidness... and someone comes into the bathroom. click, click, click... i hear the heels so i know someone's there. she's crying. i can hear the sniffling and the deep breaths. it's not sobbing, not big boo-hoos, just a little office crying, broken up with a few deep breaths--like "okay, get your shit together" deep breaths. and i'm listening. i'm done with what i'm doing. but ... i can't just walk out tucking my tank into my skirt... ta-da! i heard you crying. i'm just going to wash my hands and pretend i dont' see you there blowing your nose.

i can't do that.

so i sit. and she goes into a stall and pulls some toilet paper. at this point, i realize she doesn't know anyone else is in there. so now i'm paranoid about making noise. about that time it hits me that i need some toilet paper. silent toilet paper unrolling is a little-known skill of mine. it's a chick thing. why do we not want anyone to know that we poo? have you ever been in the stall with your poo-time and someone comes into the bathroom and time stops? you sit there, holding your poo (or worse -- your poot!), waiting for sally someone to pee and pull up her pantyhose and get the flock out of there so you can poo in peace? what is it about chicks and silent poo syndrome? blog fodder for another day.

so i sit.
sounds like she's about stabilized by now and then the stampede hits--quarter til five bathroom rush. with all the hub-ub, no sense in me sitting there trying to ~~avoid her~~ be polite.... i get out of there with little more than a "glad monday's over" from the chick at the sinks and i'm free.

yet i'm left to wonder -- why do we hesitate to let someone know we're there... when they might need us?

even if just to spare a square.

Resolution Revolution

2009-04-15T21:56:00.019-05:00

get out your #2 pencils kiddies, time for a Pop Quiz:
who remembers my new years resolutions?

anyone. anyone. bueller.

i remember them. they burn in my belly like midnight jalepenos. reminding me of things i regret. eating at me.

yes fair weathered blogosphere buddies, it's time to revisit the resolutions and take inventory of my inventory.
It is
End of First Quarter - 2009
Actually, April 1st was the end of the first quarter, but like the good procrastinator that i am, i put off assessing myself until now... tax day. and it is a taxing process. but necessary. avert your eyes if voyeurism isn't your thing because here's your peep show into my own private idaho. well not really a-ho, just a girl. my own private idagirl.

New Years Resolution List 2009
First Quarter Overall Assessment = C

* Clear Your Workspace : B+
Bright Spots:
--Kitchen is organized and working well, as hoped for.
--Daughter1 has a freshly painted and organized room, although there are no pictures on the wall and given that D1 is a typical tweenage slob, the room continues to look like an experiment in wall-to-wall clothes as floor covering.
--Breakfast room has new table and full walls. Looks great.
Gloomy Spots
--My closet is cleared of clutter, but still bursting with out-dated, non-fitting or unwanted clothes. Needs Improvement
--Desk still piled with shit. Must sell desk.
--Must take down christmas tree before it goes up in a pine-scented spark.

*Celebrate Your Beauty : C
-- Weekly beauty treatments lasted about ...well, a week. rather than google new music from pandora all night i need to carve out an evening every week to plunge my toes into hot wax, put a healing, rejuvenating mask on my face and polish up my little piggies. needs improvement, but you're still an adorable little sex kitten you.
--Hair needs work. Color. Cut. and don't go to the beauty school again. ever.

* Get to Your Goal Weight : C-
--okay so the thing about getting that gym membership is that you actually have to GO TO THE GYM for it to work. damn. that's what you call the fine print. read it. live it.
--i've said it before, but it warrants repeating: i am sick to fucking death of not liking my body. sick. to. fucking. death. i am considering trashing all other resolutions in pursuit of losing 30 lbs. so that i can NEVER DEAL WITH THESE BODY ISSUES AGAIN. ever.
--in the meantime, i try to cultivate and nurture a slight case of anorexia, since that's the last time i felt really good about my body.

* Workout at the Gym -4xs- a Week : F
--see above. and also, bite me.

* Be on Time for Work : F
-- Needs Improvement. Nuff said.

* Grow your Blog : B
--even though the blog itself hasn't grown much, i've put a few things in place and that can increase traffic in the coming months...i'm just waiting until i get situated on my admittedly super-sized ass and post some shit i can be proud of.
--along with grow the blog, my intention in this resolution was to grow my writing, and that is working. i had a small article published locally last month and i'm working on another. although i have no goals in place, i'm not a very goal-oriented person, so as not to set myself up for failure.
--keep up the good work.

* Eat Breakfast Every Day : A-
--i don't feel the need or desire to expound on this, but for you true voyeurs. i know you. i am you. typical breakfast is bran buds with milk or a poached egg on a toasted english muffin. soak it up people. this is my life.

* Bedtime 10:30pm / Waketime 6:30am : D
--dang i hate that i'm so bad at this one, but ain't it cute how how the colon and the "D" make a smiley face. most twee. anyhoo...i either go to bed about 9:30, slothed out and spent, or i stay up til 1am smoking on the porch and googling music off of pandora. i know no middle ground.
--so far, 7am is getting up early for me... typical roll-out time is 7:30am...unfortunately school starts at 7:50, so i'm totally out of the running for mom of the year. like those tardies are what pushed me over the edge. right.

* The Sacred Dinner Table : A-
--I had set a shooting target for 3 days a week to eat at the table with no television. if i can count the tables at mcdonalds, chick-fil-a or chili's, i'm pumpin an A on this one. By sacred dinner table though, i mean home-cooked, quiet meals at the new kitchen table surrounded by recently hung pictures that used to grace my closet floor. so there's a little room for improvement.
--The key to success on this one is meal planning. if i know WHAT we're going to eat, i've got a better shot at putting that stuff on the table for us to eat it.

* Movie Morning Every other Saturday : A
--Although there have been several Saturdays when we've been busy, the girls have been out of town or we've had to be somewhere for something at sometime...all in all, we've been pretty faithful to the every other Saturday movie committment.
--in that vein, can someone please make a movie that my kids will like that isn't boring to me, or makes me want to shove straws into my ears out of stupidity.

* Sunday is the Sabbath : C-
--the grade looks kinda bad, but i've got high hopes for the future here. We have started visting a church (okay twice) and prospects seem good for return visits. I definately chaulked up some spirit-points over "holy" weekend, hitting church both for Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Next weekend is D2's birthday and the next they'll be gone (halleluah!... but what's the point of going to church if i don't get kid-credit), but along with church, i've tried to make sunday a day of rest. rejuvenation. and having sex if the kids are gone.

speaking of sex, which i encourage whenever possible, keep an eye on the blog for an upcoming update on The Guy. by The Guy, i mean the guy i've been having sex with... see the tie-in there?

up on my soapbox

2009-04-15T21:07:00.006-05:00

what the hell are all yall out there yelling about? taxes? really?

i get cranky at the world. but i don't get cranky about taxes.
taxes feel like investments, but opposite, i guess. taxes is money i earned that i never see, that i never sense in my bank account and that never feels like mine. i remember when someone told me they tithed their before-tax money and i was like, "before taxes? that money was never really mine, so i don't feel like i have to tithe on it...and also, how do i know my before taxes salary???"

naive, i know. but without a little self-imposed ignorance i'd never sleep. know what i'm sayin.

so when a few in my circle of influence got their flag on today and milled around city hall in protest of taxes... i opted for the pass. i hate taxes as much as the next guy, but i don't feel it every month. i don't feel the burden of my tax every 2 freakin weeks when i pay my bills. you know what pisses me off. every month. without fail. credit card interest. this vinny-the-loan-shark of corporate america. i'm talkin to you compass bank you degenerate whore.

once i had a $18 balance on my compass bank card. i paid it late, got a $39 late fee and because it was late, my interest rate went from 9.5% to 24%. 'cuse me? just break my kneecaps. thanks.

over the last three years i've needed a little extra income here and there and i've used my credit cards to fuel my need for all things luxurious and extravagant... like my electric bill last august. and the air conditioner i had to replace. and the pipes that leaked, staining the ceilings and ruining the carpets... that had to be replaced. and also going out to eat about a hundred times.

it's really not the debt itself that is the problem. had my interest rates remained constant, i would be way ahead of the game, having not used credit in the last year... (i had a 0% with MBNA before they sold to bank of america, who are filthy booger-eating mom-hating poo-heads. after the transition, my interest rate went to 14%. from zero to 14%. for no reason, this time. i hadn't even paid late.

seems like the more i pay, the less gets credited to my debts. what the fuck. i have two credit cards at 25%. twenty five percent!!! what the fuck people. that's like charging me $25 for every hundred dollars i owe.

this is bullshit. these credit card companies are making shit piles of money off of me and everybody else and it's time we stood up and said, i'm not going to pay you such high interest rates, it's just sinister.

suze orman can kiss my fica score. look, i have debt. the very last thing that is helpful to me is for YOU to make me feel like i'm dumbshit for having debt. it is what is, oprah. now someone lower these fucking interest rates. ...hey, hand me that foam finger. you got a map to city hall?

Anatomy of a crappy day

2009-02-19T16:05:00.008-06:00

it is rare that i have a super duper stellar day. i'm not exactly sister mary sunshine, but i also don't mope around bemoaning every little irritation that scrapes my skin.

most days are status quo. not so bad. not so great.

yesterday was bad.
crap. shit. suck. fuck. bad.

it was a normal morning. ran a little late for work (status quo); forgot to bring my lunch (sortof on purpose). i was kind of dreading, kind of looking forward to an evening of steaks with The Guy and his roommate and the roommate's latest bar find. i was a little pissed at myself for being too lazy the night before to put together the Thai Shrimp Bisque i wanted to bring. i love to cook and impress people with my (let's face it) impressive cooking. but i had slothed out after work. so i was going to grab a bag of salad. not impressive. let it go.

about noon my sister called my cell phone. that alone is a weird flag. i work at my dad's office. she knows that number in her sleep. my mom was being taken to the medical center. she was unable to put words together and had some cognitive "issues". both of us suspected stroke. sis was in the car on her way to Methodist. i snapped the phone shut, had a momentary head spin, then composed myself. grabbed my purse. hit the freeway towards the med center.

the downward spiral begins.

insert about an hour with me sipping a crap cocktail of snarly freeway traffic, navigating downtown streets, playing bob and weave with the light rail, then basking in the joy that is a multi-hospital parking garage.

and nothing quite compares to the wondrous adventure of spending an hour or three and a half in a busy downtown emergency room. with your mom. nervous mom. who has now been restored with the miracle of speech. which she is using. a lot. ah, thank you god.

after a bunch of blood work, an EKG (eh?) and a pretty cool conversation with Dr. Finkelstein (i kid you NOT). mom was released and i headed back to the sweetest little town in texas. in rush hour traffic. yee ha.

then it was dinner with The Guy, his roommate and roommate's latest bar find. Said bar find happened to be a 44 yr old chick with a brick house body complete with real boobs. and they were fantastic. it was like spreading a frothy layer of shit frosting on the ass cake of my day. as i sat across the table, sucking on 64 calorie beer, letting it sink in that i was about to turn 40 and could probably wear this chick's belt for a headband, she regaled us with positively fascinating stories of her ultra-athleticism. golf? yes. swimming? butterfly,thank you. tennis? her best sport. "i'm not really into marathons, but the occassional 5k is fun, if i'm not too hung over." puh leez. there i sat with the coordination of a newborn calf -- and the ass to match. i decided to get drunk. not always a good plan, but always a reliable back up.

about that time, the babysitter texts me: "no rush, but i told my mom i'd be home about 8:00. Will u b home soon?"

soon? seriously? i just left at 6. you think i'll be home at 8? i thought i was the drunk one.

now i'm not sure what kind of cosmic misunderstanding might have taken place between the time i explained how to put my kids to bed AT EIGHT THIRTY and her belief that i would be home at EIGHT. but it really didn't matter because at that point, i was not only the chubby one, i was the chubby one texting the mystery person and getting pissed off in the process. The Guy was just thrilled with me. i'm sayin.

and yes, i will have another glass of wine. just hand me the bottle. thanks.

i suppose my liquid courage gave me the gumption (really? what am i sixty, now? gumption? ugh.) to call another babysitter and cooerce her to play tag-team with dumbshit babysitter number one (good luck getting that $20 bucks out of me, sister).

Finally ten-thirty rolls around and The Guy follows me home. i tell him to stick close because i've now polished off a whole bottle of wine and my week's allowance of diet beer. i then speed off leaving him to actually come to a halt at stop signs and not skid through the turns.

from here: i'm unclear, but i will say as far as i can remember my day did get a little better.

tomorrow. tomorrow. i love ya... tomorrow. and diet coke. i love ya diet coke.

Best. Valentines. Ever.

2009-02-16T11:04:00.008-06:00

first, i write this with apologies to my bloggin buddy bejewell, who i wholeheartedly support in her recent sweater-lady assault...and second, i quantify this whole thing by saying that i've had many a year when i'd like to hang the founder of valentines day by a couple of nipple clips over a murky louisiana swamp.

But not this year.

for this year, oh anonymous blogfan, was the Best. Valentines. Ever.

i think we're all well aware of what makes valentines day suck..... so what makes for a wonderful, memorable and delightful valentines day? having a guy like mine helps.

he didn't go for the cheesy roses in a vase, which shows he knows me. he didn't overdo it -- no hundred dollar meal, no limo rides and thank god, no wacky over-the-top surprises like waiters bearing gifts on a tray or finding jewelry in my dessert. which shows he understands where we are with this thing, wherever that is, and also that he has good taste.

everything he planned for us was punctuated by an undercurrent of thought and consideration for me. okay, and him... he's lucky that our thoughts sync up, so he has the advantage of figuring out an evening that he would enjoy, then just tweaking it with a little front seat hand-holding, throw in some dirty smooch time at the end of the night and i'm as happy as a little girl.

quick detail summary: couples reflexology massage in little vietnam (i love that he didn't take us to a boring spa in this stepford-clone town i live in; besides those asians are serious about workin you over); then dinner in chinatown: hot pot with shrimp, kobe beef and a pile of noodles and vegetables.

there were little extras to the night that made it special for me. freakishly hot chinese tea waiting for us when we came out of the massage room. perfect for the transition from the tranquility of the dim room to the evening street lights. chatting up the tiny asian fireball that owned the restaurant where we ate, letting her order for us, getting over-the-top, but comfortable service and giving her big props for jacking up the cool-factor in her little place.

then there was the recognition. the acknowledgement that this evening represented. i'm his girl. he's my guy. it's out there now.

the next night, we did the traditional valentine thing: nice dinner, romantic evening. movie. overflowing bubble bath. sex. cards. flowers. all the typical stuff that couples do. on valentines day.

This V day, i started out ahead of the game in that i have someone. just having a some one in my life seems to slightly elevate the plane on which i operate from day to day. the fact that i like to be with him more than i like to be away from him, is better than box full of chocolates. any day.

Vive Les Resolutions

2009-02-11T12:55:00.005-06:00

i wrote a new years resolution list. my first one. i was inspired by a wonderful friend, who we will call The Guy. The Guy evidently writes a list every year. and while he sat scribbling in a quiet room on New Years Day, i sat in the living room thinking: i'm bored. guess i'll write a list too.

so i did.

i've decided to let you in on my list and every few months or so i'm going to give myself a check-up: a status report.

and you , oh you lucky little anonymous blogfan, get to know how i'm doing.
sound boring? it's my blog, i can do what i want to.

***drum roll in the distance* trumpet fan fare ---dum da da da da da DUM...

ladies and gentleman (there's only dude that reads this), it is my honor to present to you:
New Years Resolution List 2009

* Clear Your Workspace -- declutter the house, declutter my mind. This resolution includes cleaning out my closet as well as disconnecting permanently from a few people in my life that are nothing but clutter. this is a year-long goal; eliminating distractions (like worthless stuff, negative people, junk mail...) so that i can work and think clearly.

*Celebrate Your Beauty -- take time to pamper your beautiful self. do the hot wax pedicure; get a massage, pluck your eyebrows. weekly beauty time for hair, face and nails and monthly beauty days for max treatments.

* Get to Your Goal Weight -- i've been talking about this number for -3- years. i'm not going to tell it to you, but it is my goal weight. it's funny how i can talk about sex, my divorce, how i sometimes want to abandon my children: all these really personal and serious things, i just put out there on the open inter-lines for all to see. but my weight carries an anchor of shame around it's neck. guess that's part of the problem. i'm sick of talking about this number. i'm either going to reach it this year, or put "Accept Your Fat Ass the Way it is" on next years resolution list.

* Be on Time for Work -- pretty self explanatory. i am super duper lucky and love love love that i have a boss who doesn't jump my crap every time i'm late. dad's cool like that. but he would like me to be on time. and so would i.

* Grow your Blog -- i resisted the urge to set a number of posts per week, or month, whatever. the purpose of this resolution is to keep my writing in the present. write more. write consistently. along with "grow blog," this resolution includes -get back into freelancing-. This will be replaced with "Write the Book" on next years list.

* Eat Breakfast Every Day -- again, not a complicated goal here, but way off the mark for me. i've never been a breakfast eater, unless you count the occasional gluttonous sunday brunch buffet as breakfast. Breakfast: it's good for my metabolism, starts my day off right and sets a good example for the rug rats. eat it. just eat it.

* Workout at the Gym -4xs- a Week -- easily written, tough to do. i got out of my workout routine after the hurricane (yes, that was september...takes me a while to get back on the bandwagon). i miss that time with my ipod. i miss the feeling of sore muscles. i miss being able to see my feet when i look down. .. ..

* Bedtime 10:30pm / Waketime 6:30am -- of all the resolutions thus far, this one has seen the very least success. building routine into my life will help the other pieces of this self-help puzzle fit together. plus, i don't sleep enough. but i love sitting up late at night and shit i hate to miss colbert report.

* Movie Morning Every other Saturday -- movies before noon are five bucks every saturday. small price to pay for a little family bonding, especially when i fill my purse with booty from the candy drawer. i committed to this and i've only missed one saturday since the year started...

* The Sacred Dinner Table -- my goal here is at least -3- times a week. Dinner at a table. no television. food cooked in my kitchen served on non-disposable plates. milk. there are some old fashioned ways that should never get modernized.

* Sunday is the Sabbath -- Remember Sunday and keep it holy. easier said than done. sunday is our day to sleep late (sorry god) and go to IHOP (hey, breakfast!). then we usually run errands, get gas in the car, maybe wash it. laundry. shopping. but sunday should be the first day of the week. recharge day. rest. be quiet. go to church for god sake.

So there it is people. Bask in its beauty. soak up it's bounty of wisdom and potential for a kick ass rockin new life in this kick ass rockin new year. what do you think?

did you make resolutions for change in 09? are they as cool and smokin as mine?

Sayonara Singapore

2009-02-10T11:15:00.006-06:00

He walked into my office one afternoon in the summer of 2007. He was short, his graying hair brushed his shoulders from beneath his wide black cowboy hat. he wore jeans and a pressed yellow cowboy shirt. i was drawn to him instinctively and as he sat at my desk, talking about insurance, i sensed attraction from him as well.

but it didn't jive. he was way older than anyone i'd dated. the spark must be just my imagination.

we talked at my desk for nearly 2 hours. he told his whole story. he was leaving for singapore in August. expat. no wonder i'm attracted to him. like a flame to vapor, am i to expats. he had just finalized his divorce. been diagnosed with prostate cancer about 5 months ago. he said a lot that day. mostly really personal stuff about trying to find his way to a new life path. he loved Big Bend. had spent years in Russia with Fluor. a texas native from Victoria, where most of his 6 brothers and sisters still lived. he'd never had kids during his 25 year marriage. too late now. he made the break-up sound like it was motivated by her completely; and not at all what he wanted. he cried a little. he laughed. i laughed and fell for his folksy way that mixed so well with worldly experience.

when he left that day i gave him my card with a handwritten email address on the back and squeezed his shoulder (i'm telling you, he's short). i asked him to email me, and he promised he would.

i thought about him a lot that next week. he had popped open a can of emotions inside of me and the aroma of attraction lingered in me. i talked about him, but after a month or so with no word, i dismissed the man i had begun to refer to as "my old cowboy guy."

then one late afternoon in August he called the office. "Remember me?" he said. i remember. he had sent several emails, all returned he said. "guess i couldn't read your writing." he was in town for a few days; was getting his truck out of storage. wanted to come by and get new ID cards for the glove box. "will you be there?" i remember feeling a flush when i said "i can wait for you."

it was going to be a rare kidless friday night for me and i was eager to hit happy hour. i had assumed this whole thing was a one-sided crush on my side. it was the expat thing. and the cowboy thing. maybe i have some kind of grandpa complex. whatever it was, i was determined to be all business when he got there and had the IDs ready when he walked in around 5:00.

when he looked at me, it was like listening to my favorite song, that i hadn't heard in a long time.

i don't remember what we talked about that afternoon, or how long we sat there in the empty office. i will always remember standing next to him in the elevator after he'd stood behind me as i locked up the dark office. and watching him walk away when we got to the parking lot, having a feeling that i should follow him. i didn't.

and that's how it started.

i'm going into such detail of these first encounters mostly because they made such a strong impression on me, and also because these were the only times i had any contact with him beyond words on a screen. over the next four months, i would convince myself that i fell in love with this man, through emails and IMs. no phone calls. no face-to-face contact.

his first email was from sedona, where he'd gone on vacation before leaving again for singapore. it was touristy-chatty stuff about the mysticism of the area and how the new agey-ness of it made him roll his eyes at the place. i liked reading his words. he wrote long emails, which i like. i wrote long responses.

the emails got more frequent, and their arrival predictable, until we were emailing on a daily schedule. our time zones were flip-flopped. his 5am was my 4pm. he wrote to me while i slept, and visa versa. eventually i downloaded an IM program. i knew his schedule as well as my own. i knew when he would wake, and shoot him a good morning. he would respond. i knew when he got into the office, when he broke for lunch. our conversations carried from one day to the next and soon i found myself typing long hours, sometimes until daybreak, as our relationship was forged on a computer monitor.

it was crazy. i know that now. like falling in love with a character in a book. you read about him, you imagine his mannerisms, create his voice in your mind. the emotions feel real, but he's just a character. the love is not real. and neither was mine.

but it was the first time in long time that i had a relationship whose primary source of existing was not sexual. and i clung to that. it was all writing, reading. it almost felt like talking. i convinced myself we were building a solid foundation. he would be "home" for good in April. (as if expats are ever home.) i wasn't worried about the cancer--minor irritation--he'd beat that. he was thrilled to play daddy to my red-heads. they would love him. once they met him. my head swam with possibilities. there was talk of building a house in the country. a lake in the back. four-wheelers for the girls. a sunroom for me. this could be the new beginning he was looking for. this could be the man i was meant to find.

it was a lovely fantasy.

he arrived in houston Dec. 21 2007. it was the first time i'd seen him since that August afternoon in my office. i was like a smitten schoolgirl. i hung on him and gushed over every word he said. we spent two days together like a little family. him toting my youngest on his shoulders and dazzling my oldest with stories about his travels all over the world. we ate at the dinner table together and went looking at christmas lights with hot chocolate and popcorn.

it was a lovely fantasy.

by Christmas Day the facade of the fantasy had crumbled to reveal an unbalanced, emotionally immature, and quite possibly dying man. he had a lot of trouble getting through a day without having to rest. he had a sharp temper that was easy to set off. he didn't show up for christmas night like we had discussed. refused to answer my calls or texts, with no explanation as to why. he didn't call me. he did send a cryptic email that said he "could not do this". and would not speak to me because i'd "talk him out of it".

what? it was like my sam elliot had been replaced by tiny tim. our last conversation had been good.. pretty good. but now he refused me. it was the holidays, my kids were gone. i threw myself into a vortex of pity mixed with embarrassment and utter contempt. a mantra echoed inside my head: i'm an idiot. i will die alone. this just proves it.

we officially stopped the madness during last years AFC playoff game btwn the Patriots and the Jets; jan 2008. befitting our relationship, the breakup--so to speak--was a heated IM session, laced with colorful all-cap words on my part and pathetic childish apologies on his. at that time, he was going to stay in singapore and marry the woman he had been seeing there.

it took me some time to shake the dust off my ass from being bucked off the white horse with the knight and the armor and my hair blowing in the cool, country air.... but i eventually got used to walking my path again. i wrapped my heart in crinkly tissue paper and put it back into it's banged-up, rusty little box, and plucked it into the black hole from which it came. i got pissed off whenever i thought about him. even the idea that i fell for it, just burned me.

i got an email from him last july. he was in alaska now. god, he's such an expat. i had a few hot flashes here and there at the time. but i was in a rational place. i knew him now. i wasn't going to fall for the hype. but we did strike up the old banter again. this time phone calls only. no email. IM was long ago deleted from my computer. we talked about his cancer treatments. his job. the cold up there. all surface stuff. my heart was safely tucked away and didn't flutter. almost not at all.

then The Guy came along. we went to baseball games and the beach. we sat on the couch and watched Boston Legal. we laughed at the same things. it's been 8 months. he holds my hand and kisses my skin. he calls me after work. he burps. he farts. he's real. it's not the freefall, enveloping passion that i had with singapore, but then again, my life with The Guy isn't a fairy tale. did i mention the burping? The Guy is not my knight in shining armor. he's my best friend.

the other night i talked to singapore. he's just returned from LA for his latest clinical trials. the cancer continues to win the battles, it seems. we talked for half an hour. about my girls. the weather. his cancer. the snow in alaska. i thanked him for the big box of gifts he sent for christmas and the accompanying check to buy us each something special. after several minutes of talk i asked him if he was ever coming back to Texas. "i don't think so jewels." i could picture his face as he said it, "just nothing there for me anymore. and the project is so busy here, i can't ever see me going anywhere except maybe back to Singapore." he's an expat. all the way through.

i realized after i snapped my phone shut, that i had read all the chapters in this book. it was time to put it back on the shelf; let the years mellow the memory of the fairy tale.

so it's sayonara singapore.

goodbye alaska.

you win some and learn some.

Internal Conversation

2009-01-23T10:12:00.016-06:00

Myself: you should blog more
I: yeah, you should
me: i should blog more. if i had a laptop i'd blog more
I: you're all about excuses. when's the last time you went to the gym? you're lazy.
Myself: yeah, you are lazy
me: i'm trying to get organized around here. remember "clear your work space" ?? New Years Resolution List #1. i can't do everything
Myself: don't be the victim, puhleez
I: yeah, don't be that girl
me: i'm not being a victim, but i can't do everything at the same time. i can do anything, but i can't do everything. at least i made new years resolutions this year. i wrote them down, i'm working the list. that alone is big for me. i'm working a list.
I: thought "blog more" was on that list
Myself: i remember "lose 30 lbs" that was on the list
me: i don't like staring into a corner with that new computer. i can't get my writers groove in that space. i need a laptop. i'm doing other stuff right now. i'll get to the blogging. for god sakes, give yourself a break. i'm eating breakfast almost every day. baby steps people
Myself: still, you should write. at least read something
me: i've reorganized and de-clutterfied the kitchen, redecorated both kids rooms and the dining room and cleaned out my closet for the first time in 6 years. i will blog when i get a laptop and i will read when i can get through more than two pages without falling asleep
I: reorganized the kitchen? really? come on, you reorganized MOST of the kitchen. redecorating the girls rooms is a work in progress. you'll never have the money for a laptop. nobody reads your blog anymore anyway. its boring. you used to be funny. you're not funny anymore.
Myself: yeah, you're not funny. wedding dress? not funny.
me: i am too funny. i'm freaking hilarious. and the kitchen is reorganized. redecorating is a big job. there's the painting and moving the furniture and new sheets for the bigger bed. carpet cleaning. it's a lot. it is a work in progress, but it is progressing. i've been reading that vampire book, doesn't that count?
Myself: not really. that book sucks. ha... get it ..vampire... sucks... i'm funny
I: now we've lowered ourselves to reading best sellers. pathetic. you don't deserve a blog. what's next? listening to top 40?
Myself: yeah, you blow
me: i do not blow, well i certainly don't swallow--see, i AM too funny. i'm taking it one thing at a time. for once in my life i'm starting a job, finishing it then moving on to the next job. no more half ass -ed- ness. i've been single for 6 years and it's time to take control. i'm not going to live like this anymore! this is my house! this is my life! i'm the only one who is going to be accountable for it. and this time damn it, i'm going to do the shit i say i'm going to do. and i'm not going to let myself talk me into a depressed little pity pit
Myself: chill sister. you're doing a good job. i just want you to write. there's that book in your head, if you don't get it out, you'll drink those brain cells away and not even know it
I: it's not a pity pit, i'm just trying to keep you real. the house does feel awesome. for the first time... ever. and the girls rooms look really good. who would've thought blue and orange? with purple? you totally rock. your ass is big, though
me: i know i need to get to the gym more often. for my ass and for my peace of mind. i need to write. i need a laptop. i need to read--actual literature, not candy bar novels. but hold on a minute... this is the first forward movement i've had in 6 years. SIX YEARS. and i have a guy. yes. me. i.have.a. man . like an actual man that lives in the same town i do and we see each other. it's a real relationship. he's not even an expat. officially, i mean. so give me a break. i'm not going to cower down to these little voices anymore. get onboard with the pep talk ladies. go me. go me. go me.
Myself: yeah, you rock. and you are funny, but this post isn't very funny
I: not too funny
me: at least it's a blog

Myself: not funny, though. you're just going to drive right past the gym, aren't you
I: lazy
me: bite me

the wedding dress

2009-01-07T22:58:00.003-06:00

The universe decided to put me on a treadmill somewhere around mid october. by december 22nd, i was going full incline at about 5.5 mph. and i'd been there for about a week.

there are spider webs of all the little and big monsters that threatened to inhale me during that time, but i'm going to go down only one path: since it seems to lead somewhere.

i see now that it was test. god loves the holiday test on me. i crack Him up and let's face it, who doesn't need a good laugh at the holidays. my richter-scale breaking stress level tested my resolve not to flee. run for fun country. drown myself with self-indulgence and neglectfulness. in some ways i did. but in the important ways: i didn't. i held my ground and tread water, with my head firmly out of the sand, and walked through it.

i see now that i'm on another side. not the other side, that i keep thinking i'm going to, but just a different area. an other side.

the wedding dress made me see that.

i had leaky pipes. it's a whole blog unto itself: "my house, my beloved nemesis." but that's pantry stock in the blog drafts. i had leaky pipes. this is not a revelation to me. recently, my leaky pipes leaked into my closet. it's a big story with a short ending: a $750 plumbing bill and a moldy, nasty closet from ceiling to floor.

today the insurance adjuster came out to assess the damage and go through the formality of telling me i'm screwed. to uncover the full impact of the mess, i cleared out my closet. of everything. now, you probably have your own show on bravo and keep your closet rotated out with seasons, your sweaters uniformly folded resting on clean wooden shelves; you have a special drawer for scraves: but let me tell you: you ain't me. i had maternity clothes in cleaning bags. sweaters so long on the hanger there was a layer of dust on the crease. dust people. i had dresses i would never wear, but were given to me and so i kept them there: hanging.

the wedding dress took up the far back corner. where the brunt of the mold took hold.

the insurance company said to keep all the personal property that was damaged for the adjuster to see and properly tally the perpitude of my screwed-ness. so today, my 8ft walk in closet was totally clean for the first time since i moved in: save my wedding dress hanging on the long wooden pole. matted with black mold and water spots along the hem and up the back.

i went on vacation after christmas. the guy promised to take me somewhere. and the guy is always good for keeping his word. we spent four days together. it was a great time, but the thing was that it was time for me to be me, which is what gave me the clarity to come back. the treadmill came off incline, and then eventually slowed to a manageable pace. by jan 2nd, i was clearheaded and breathing normally again. i started surveying the experience, and saw the test. began thinking on the significance.

then today i saw the wedding dress. in an empty, molding, stinky closet.
and i realized how far away i was from the person who wore that dress.

i had a great wedding. it was beautiful. i was happy. everybody got drunk at the reception. it was absolutely anything and everything i wanted in big bad ass party. but the marriage: not so much.

i had a group of friends in college that became family to me. all of them were in my wedding. it was a given. even though i still love them like family: i have to admit that i really don't know them. i don't know what they order at mcdonalds. i don't know that outfit that they wear all the time. their kids would treat me like a stranger. our intimate friendship is gone. now we are bound by the sheer power of our collective experience. they don't know me either. and i am different than i was then. i see that now.

the wedding dress made me see that. i'm on another side now. it seems like the right place to be. for now.

because one day this dog is gonna die

2008-11-23T03:33:00.012-06:00

my dad is a sensitive guy. he cries at weddings. he cries at commercials during the olympics. he still cries when tiger wins the open. he's a sensitive guy. when my dad was a kid he had a horse named captain. one day captain got sick and died and dad buried him. three years before i was born, my older sister died and my dad buried her. when i was in junior high, we got a poodle. my last year of college, the dog died and my dad buried her.
at the mere mention of these memories, my father gets that teary look in his eyes. he's quiet for a minute. or more. he still mourns. the wounds aren't fresh. but deep. the ache of losing someone you love is a pain that lingers. becomes part of you. i've learned that by watching him.

my kids want a dog.

you might say i've never been great at romantic relationships. i've been the instigator of many'o break up in my pre-marital days. and even though by almost all accounts i was the "blameless one" in my divorce -- that may stand as the exception that proves the rule as i go into this dating world and attempt to forge a meaningful and possibly even, significant romantic relationship.

i'm still seeing the guy. yes. the same one. i'm scared...like seventh circle of hell scared.
why. because
one day this dog is going to die.
in my past life, i liked guys that travel. plenty of space. which i need. lots of give on the relationship tether. the guy travels. quite a bit.

friday night the guy left for a 10-day business/pleasure/holiday excursion to the west coast. saturday night, i had a date. and for the first time (as in first time ever in my entire dating life)--i felt.. .. .. weird about it.. weird? guilt. is that what guilt feels like? about halfway through our fantastic dinner, i was full-on antsy. we kissed a little on the walk to the theater for a comedy show. laughed our butts off. it was great. waiting for the valet, he put his arm around my waist and suggested drinks at a sports bar. i felt myself push away (just a little). i said i was too tired. he took me back to my car and i cut out early. watched the end of the Tech game with my parents. what's up with that.

i don't want a dog.
not because i think my kids are irresponsible or because we're not home enough. but that's an issue. not because i don't like dogs and worry about him chewing up all my shoes, crapping on the floor and tearing out into the street where i'll have to chase him in my pajamas, screaming his name like my idiot neighbor. although i do worry.

i don't want a dog because i know that one day that dog's gonna die. and that will hurt me. it will hurt my kids.it will bring pain into our house. i will have to deal with the ugly matter of body disposal and caring for his memory. i'll probably even cry.
i prefer to avoid that.

saturday night showed me what i didn't want to see. i'm into the guy. let's face it: i'm never too tired for a drink. like. not. ever.
whether the guy is just not that into me or he is or whatever; i realized on my drive home from "the date" that i've already buckled the seatbelt in this relationship jeep and i've got no choice now but to hold on. and ride.

through no conscience decision of my own, i can't date "other men" anymore. even when the guy is out of town. unless i'm willing to feel guilt. not for cheating; (i'm still under a non-exclusivity clause); but i'm taken. even if only in my own mind. and it's not cool to seem available. when you're not.

the whole idea of getting into a *gulp* committed relationship gives me jumbo jitters along the lines of walking down the hall to the room where they do the lethal injections.
i'm terrified to be the girl to the guy.
he's awesome. i'm into him. i should want this. but i know.
this dog is going to die. one day.
i prefer to avoid that.
don't i?
or do i?

is it really better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? really? i mean, i might come out of this as 'A Girlfriend.' good lord. i might actually have 'A Boyfriend.' holy crap.

last christmas my step-mom wanted a dog. she picked out a breed and a size. told my dad what color she wanted. looked up breeders.talked about names. my dad put his proverbial foot down. no dog. essentially he said: "i am not bringing anything new into my life that i might have to bury. i've buried too many things that i love already."

i'm a commitment-phobe.
because i know one day this dog's gonna die.

fam friday

2008-11-21T18:00:00.003-06:00

a is for allie.

the younger of my kidlets had her thanksgiving feast in kindergarten today. i'm no PTO mommy. but, this kind of shit really warms my fuzzies. here's a little peek into my real life.

the good and wonderful stay-at-home mommies who volunteer at my daughters school had the cafetorium decked out with tee pees and pumpkins with turkey feathers. it was cute and not overdone (too much, i mean. given our suburbian standards).
Here is allie's "feast." you'll recognize from that first thankgiving: popcorn, fish (in this case, goldfish crackers), pretzels and a pb&j shaped like a turkey. capri sun to wash it down. they also made butter out of whoop cream and spooned it out to the tiny first americans from a ziploc bag. allie dipped her pretzels in it and wanted to know if we can start making our own butter. fuzzies warmed.

i sent a white pillow case the week of halloween. the teacher dyed them brown and cut appropriate holes. then the kids painted their "vests." she made her own headdress, notice the droopy pink feather (my favorite); the headband is decorated with colored triangles marked with PT. .. .. why? because that's what the indians lived in mommy: pee tees. and by the way, we were clued in to the PC lingo when the teacher released the pilgrims first to the feast, then the ~~indians~~ native americans.

did i mention i live in Stepford ? sugarland moms sometimes creep me out with their incessant conformity to uniformity like some kind of grown up sorority (ok.i'll stop now.) but they do a lot at school to make it fun for my kid. and theirs i guess. they also make it kind of fun for me. to people-watch.

besides, a standing prescription for xanex comes with the zipcode. so i got that going for me. and did i mention turkeys..made from pumpkins?

here she is in her

pilgrim attire.leave it to allie to do a wardrobe change in her kindergarten thanksgiving feast. seriously. the other kids picked one and stuck with it. she's a hoot. i'm dead in the water with this one. mark.my.words.

after school i took her to get a haircut at one of those little-girl salons. they have a "full service" salon, but mostly they do birthday parties. it's the kind of place kiddie beauty pageant moms dig on. my 5-yr old come teenager sat in a girl-crush stare as the birthday girl (who we didn't know. thanks lord for small miracles) and her party-girls pranced down a runway in their blonde wigs, glitterly eyeshadow and high heels. what's next? silicone insets on the dresses. sorry folks. this kind of stuff totally creeps me out. god help me. my kid loves this place.

romantic? ... that's what SHE said

2008-11-18T10:58:00.006-06:00

i'm not a girly-girl. high maintenance:yes. frilly:no.
* i've never read a cosmo magazine.
* i've never gone with a gal pal for a mani-pedi.
* i've never bought a pint of ben&jerry's to get over a breakup.
however
* i do wear sweats when i get my period.
* i cry at the end of steel magnolias.
* i love to get flowers
think of this as back story. on with the blog.

my friend is in love. she's in that kind of teenager-y love where absolutely everything her boyfriend does is adorable and she can't drop his name often enough in conversation.
-he sent her flowers for their six month 'anniversary' of their first date (sweet)
-he starts to text her every fifteen minutes if she's out to lunch w/out him longer than 90 minutes (kind of weird)
and check out this little gem.
-every night while she brushes her teeth and does her womanly pre-bed routine, he lays on her side of the bed. then, before she crawls in, he scoots over: so her side is already warmed up for her.
swear i felt my breakfast bubble up on this one. you say romantic. i say revolting.

but then again. when i fall in love, i go kicking and screaming. maybe that's why i find gooshy, head-over-heals love so ... um .. repellent. or maybe i'm just completely uncomfortable with sweet, soft and loving, outward displays of compassion. probably a little of both.

anyhoo.
after she told me, i suggested (through my bwahahaha-ing) that maybe this was something she wants to keep between him and her. like when he wears her dresses.
i had to say it. mostly because i felt so uncomfortable hearing about this weird and private ritual, but also because i think it's a little disturbing. the thought behind it is sweet, (i guess, if you're into that kind of thing) but when taken in the context of this guy's tendency to be.. shall we say, overbearing... i think the whole laying-on-your-side-to-warm-it-up thing to be kinda creepy. frankly.
and this opinion (which i now realize, i should have censored) offended her.
shocker.

guess i'm on probation now...

2008-11-10T13:44:00.010-06:00

i went to the thing yesterday. the thing with the tailgating party that started at 10:30. the tailgating party with the open bar.with absolute citron. anyway, i had a great time at the thing. but we didn't win the thing, in fact, it was embarrassing how pathetic we lost the thing, so dad and i decided to go have a few drinks at the country club afterward. to talk about how crappy the thing was. but how much the tailgating rocked.

by then, i was absolutely absoluted. and that's when my judgement got clouded.

i've learned the dangers of DWI. many is the morning, i've dragged my groggy, throbbing head across my pillow to look over to my nightstand and know i had committed a crime the night before: dialing while intoxicated. i've matured. done my time with the drunk dialing. it's a quick offense with a long punishment phase, in some cases.

but i was absolutely absoluted; i was tempted to DWI. the guy was out of town. i hate calling the guy on a trip. lord knows its a miracle if he calls me (that's a whole different blog) . trip calls should be important, meaningful; involve flight plans or detailed stories of checking into a hotel. DWI compiled with the pressure of a trip call could have drastic implications. i mean, it's not exactly a concrete relationship as it is.

i had impaired judgement, but not so impaired that i was willing roll the dice on this one. he was in vegas. the last thing i needed was for him to be thinking "jeez. she's drunk a thousand miles away and still finds a way to bug me." not what i want floating through his mind while he flies home. DWI was out.

but i couldn't keep my drunken little fingers off my phone and so it texted him: about 75 times. okay 72, but only the sent box is counting. texting while intoxicated is the lethal mix of thought and speed. i think it. i type it. i send it. then i think something else. send. another thought. send. send. send. send.

luckily, the guy is not the 'easily-irritated-by-drunken-silliness' kind of person. obviously, considering he's put up me for more than 2 consecutive weeks. and he didn't even mention the myriad (and meaningless) texts that i filled up his phone with while he tried to play video poker.

i'd love to bestow upon you the rare and wonderful gems of wisdom that flowed out of my absolute-soaked mind that night. but as is my ususal post-TWI habit, i rolled over the next morning, grabbed my phone and erased my sentbox. problem solved.

supermom strikes again

2008-10-30T11:08:00.025-05:00

Dear Boss,
i was awakened last night by the noise of my adorable five-year old daughter practicing her linda blair impersonation for halloween. i stumbled into her room to find her head spinning around and the ravioli she'd enjoyed at dinner spewing from her tiny lips.

i quickly threw off my pajamas and donned my supermom cape (and tights) to swoop in and save the day...or, um, night. i deftly maneuvered the landmines surrounding her bed, plucked her from the mucky mattress and within mere minutes had her stripped down, cleaned up and re-jammied. as luck would have it (hers, not mine) my bed was otherwise unoccupied last night, so i laid her now feverish head gently onto a pillow and began haz-mat cleanup of the toxic waste.
Soon i too was re-jammied, cape safely tucked under my pillow for quick access; we slept.

The morning came like any other...after hitting the snooze alarm thrice, as is my usual routine, i awakened daughter2, who would have to speed-dress in order to catch a ride to school with the neighbor, as i happen to know she actually leaves the house on time (~~bitch~~ organized woman that she is). shoving cheese crackers in a bag for snack, i heard a strange and ominous groan from within the bowels of the house...which gave me pause. i stopped, like an gazelle on the savanna, assessing the danger as it approached. supermom save me! cried daughter2. all i could make out from her tiny yelps as i tried to secure my cape was "toilet."

i found the great porcelain beast gushing like niagara falls. i reached under the spray and turned off the water valve as i called for help from daughter2: "run to the laundry room and grab me as many towels as you can." for a split second i mourned the freshly-folded towels sitting in a basket on the washer, as i knew daughter2, famous for her laziness and general apathy, would grab the first thing she saw. i took the armload of towels from her as she waded into the bathroom. "good job!" i praised her, she brought a good bounty. i tossed out the towels, unfurling them across the sea of sewage as something caught my eye flying from the fabric... what was it? ... ah, half-digested pasta... she indeed had grabbed the first towels she saw, those laying in a heap in front of the washer...ravioli towels.
now along with the flood, i had tiny pieces of vomit to pick out of the corners of the soaked baseboards...and also discover squished into the wood floor and between my toes (tights didn't make it this far).
As i worked in the bathroom, hauling heavy-soaked towels from floor to tub, a surge of self-pity welled up inside of me, trying to penetrate the steel-belted awesomeness of supermom.

my eyes taunted to betray me, the blurry sure-sting of tears threatened to break me. but i refused to surrender to helplessness.

i chanted my mantra:
you can do this.
focus.
heroes don't cry (in front of the children).
put on your supermom underoos and save the day.

so i did.

daughter2 is off to school. tiny linda blair is sleeping soundly and i am writing to you as my washer rocks with the third load of soiled linens.

wednesday writing practice

2008-10-08T15:57:00.014-05:00

i'm a people-watcher. actually, i'm a people-judger-story-maker-upper. i zero in on someone, watch how they're interacting, etc. then make up a story ... that i know is true, because let's face it: i know people. it's my gift.add it to the list.

like this:
it's wednesday night at chik-fil-a. a guy--about fifty--sits with two teenagers (girl and a boy). the girl has a salad and a book. she's tall, maybe 16; volleyball uniform. the boy is lanky, pimples...needs shampoo. he's got two chicken sandwiches that he eats still wrapped in the foil bag and shoves waffle fries in with the bites. the man sits at the edge of the table. he has a coke. he smiles at the boy, kinda. they say a couple words between the man scamming a waffle fry here and there.

you got it? sure you do: weekend dad, the later years. kids are getting too old and busy to make the weekends work, but they still do dinner together on wednesday nights, your basic standard visitation order circa 2001. probably been coming here for years. daughter used to climb in the playground while son and dad talked baseball stats.... it all started when dad left for his secretary, she's not around anymore. transferred. married. then dad got depressed, moved into an apartment. he drives a hyundai and says things like "so, how's your mom these days..ever ask about me?"

now here's one for you:
Chili's Galleria. Christmas Eve. about 4:30. a man sits alone at a 4-top table on the patio looking out onto the ice rink, which is packed with kids in bright red jackets. plaid scarves. he's drinking miller lite from a long-neck. there's an empty one in front of him as well. two plates with half-eaten meals sit across from him. there are chips and salsa on the table that he picks at. every once in a while a woman walks from rink-side to the patio railing in front him. she's a hottie. but not a pricey one. she has on red-plaid pants that she had to lay down to zip up. short black boots with spike heels and tiny leather ties on the ankle. an oversized gold cowl-neck sweater dips just low enough to catch his attention when she leans over and gives him that "please come out here" kind of look. on the rink, two little boys -- 5 and 7 skate to the plexiglass. they are not smiling. the seven year old reaches down to hold the little one's hand. they wait for the woman's attention. she shakes her head at them, gently. gives them the "go ahead and skate a while" look. they skate off.

..guess i kinda got a dudes sitting-a-restaurant vibe thing going on today. but that's your problem.

now discuss. comment. write.

full disclosure and why i fear it

2008-09-29T14:41:00.018-05:00

so.. how do you tell your sorta boyfriend that even though all your friends are reading it, (because it totally rocks) you can't send him a link to your blog because you already wrote a long post about his fake hair complete with pictures of dogs and babies wearing wigs. and you're afraid that once he reads it he'll never speak to you again, which might be okay, but the not speaking to probably also involves not having sex with you, which is not okay.
mommy has needs.

i don't have the balls to tell him; i like him too much to take a chance and just send the link, but i'm a stubborn fool, so i also refuse to take it down. even if he doesn't go all the way down to his post, i'm guessing the wig ads along the banner will clue him that something's going on. at least my mom has the good sense to choose not to read me. she hates even the thought that i cuss and talk about sex. (your writing doesn't need to use those kind of words just like bill cosby doesn't need to use them to be funny) i think she still sees me as the girl in cable-knit knee socks lecturing kids at my baptist school that i can get high without alcohol or drugs. ah, those were the days.

however, my guy doesn't mind the occasional shit or fuck in fact, he loves fucking. and he's asking about the blog. a lot. i don't know how adept he is at googling, but come on; it don't take a genius to find what you're looking for if you're willing to click around for a while. and he's no genius.

here's what i've got on tap just in case he comes over tomorrow night and says "i read your blog. put your bra back on."

but honey....

1. when i wrote the post this summer, i had every reason to think that you would be nothing more than a blurry memory and maybe a potential drunk dial by the time the new season of Ugly Betty started... but on the upshot: now that it's been four months, you're definitely on the short-short list for the "Stuck Around the Longest" plaque i'm forging out of all the watches and glasses left behind by those before you...

2. even if by some lapse in rational judgement i would have thought that you would be long-term (anything after 2 dates is long term to me... yes, i've been to therapy. shut up.) i certainly would have thought that by now my abrasive, albeit charming personality would have forced me to say "hey, will you take that hair off so i can see how it's put together and also check out what you look like bald?" because that just sounds like me.

3. i was talking about someone else. YOU have a hairpiece too??? wow, i never noticed.

wasting wednesday

2008-09-24T10:56:00.006-05:00

i have hurricane fatigue. i am sick of hearing about it. sick of talking about it. sick of seeing piles of tree limbs and fencing along my streets. sick of people texting me "Got Power! woo hoo". i'm done. i'm an insurance agent. you do the math. i started working about 17 hours after the storm blew in. i'm sick and tired of being sick and tired.

so i made a goal.

that goal is to sit at this desk today and read blogs. play games. google lovers--potential and past. and generally waste this wednesday until i can leave this hurricane hell-hole and hit happy hour.

thanks be to god that the children leave tomorrow for three days. i have a mountain of laundry. a sink overflowing with dirty dishes and toys, DVDs, PSP crap, shoes. all kinds of shit piled up all over my house.
i only hope that while the little darlings are gone i can stay sober enough to get it cleaned up and fill the refrigerator so that next week i get back to some kind of normal-ness.

art or not

2008-09-22T07:40:00.002-05:00

hi. my name is jewels (hi jewels) and i am a word snob.

an editor lives in my brain. she corrects or approves everything i hear & read from the latest oprah novel to the menu at Chili's. i proof-read junk mail. i find mistakes all the time. i take my liberties with punctuation; capitalization and the occasional incorrect word usage, but it is for EFFECT. i misuse because i know the correct usage and want you to be dazzled by my quirkiness. dazzled yet?

however. the average jane can't spell or write her way out of a myspace page. usage is pathetic and spelling is a freaking joke.

which brings us to our blog...

for purposes of this blog, the term "writing" refers to the art of stringing words together in a creative, effective and inventive way. it does not mean writing in the benign definition of putting letters into words on paper and/or another source of material onto which one may write.
so: "writing" means a form of craft. not just scribbling stuff to say.

Writing: What Counts?

1) is texting writing?
i am a mad, crazy texter. love the texting. with hurricane hysteria at it's peak the past few days, texting has been the most efficient way to communicate. i know you've got limited space in the text communicae, but seriously people--don't abbreviate things to the point of confusion. my guy is the king of the too little text. he sent me a typical text yesterday. all the screen said was "b". now, (and this is the really scary part), because i'm so used to his crazy abbreviations, i knew that he meant "beer."

I, on the other hand, (depending on the potential impact of the text) will take half a morning to work out exactly what i want to say in a text, saving it in the draft-box to come back and tweak it until i feel ready to send it out like a little bird to it's intended phone.

here's what i sent him back : "hv i ever told you ur text shorthand mks me crzy? i taped news 4u. purple cow not good." the purple cow was a beach-side cafe where we had a first breakfast-date...ike ate there. now it's gone. i try to use just the right sprinkle of shorthand with words-you-can-use to relay my message. in a related note, i've been tweakin a breezy, break-up text to him all morning--still sits in the draftbox. just can't decide where on the tacky scale a text break-up might fall... internet, is the text blow off classless and unacceptable... ? comment please.

for me: texting is not writing. but it should be readable.

2) is blogging writing?
if you're sitting there reading this, you probably think that blogging is writing. i think blogging is writing, but there is a line. and being the novice blogger that i am, i'm not sure where the line becomes too bold to cross. i'm speaking, my anonymous internet readers, about editing.the red-penciled lady that sits at a desk in my head, reading and marking up everything.a million times.

* once i post it, can i still edit; then repost? ?tacky scale level?
i'm a quick turn-around blogger. i get a thought, maybe have a few pictures in my mind to wrap words around and i shoot. but then, a few days (or hours, or minutes or months) after i hit -Publish Post- i start to dissect it. tighten it up. have second thoughts on writing about my boyfriend's toupee.

so,

* what is the rule on pulling down a post?

i would think that once it's out there, it's out there. especially after you have comments, or at least know it's been read. you can't unring a bell. you can't unshoot a bullet. you can't pull down a crappy post.or one that blew up in your face. or can you? it kind of feels like cheating somehow.chickening out. i'm no yella-belly. but then again, i didn't know he'd be my boyfriend. i thought he was just a date with a good blog on his head.and "hurricane chubby" might be a little dirty for the oldsters in my audience checking on my IKE coverage. maybe i should edit. or maybe i shouldn't. is blogging writing? yes.no. sometimes.

3) are emails writing?

personally, this is a definite yes. i don't care if you're responding via your blackberry, take 5 seconds to spell "the" correctly. i have conducted intimate and semi-successful relationships based in totality on emails (see singapore). a well-written email can be every bit as effective as a touching hand-penned letter. emails are the written correspondence of the modern age. i know handwritten thank you notes are the gold standard, but think about it: a well-worded and sincere thanks in your inbox means as much as one found in your mail box. and be honest, how often do you check that mailbox compared with your inbox. i would like to go on record at this point firmly against the "touching" email that plays kerplunkety music with pictures of dogs wearing sunglasses and kittens hanging off of tree branches with a cute look on their face. but i don't shoot off emails flippantly. (that'll blow up on you. i promise). one of the 73,456 things my divorce taught me was, don't pop off pissed off emails. it feels anonymous, you feel sheltered and strong, but words have power. and like a tattoo, emails never go away. it there. someone's got it somewhere. and chances are, if you pissed him off enough (or her) it's printed.and in a file.in her attorney's leather bag. email is writing. sucker.

ridin the storm out

2008-09-20T12:00:00.003-05:00

welcome to the other side of the storm.

ike was a trip

leaves started blowing off the trees early, around 7:30 or so. it was really cool; there was a swirl of clouds around the house with this view from my front porch.

and black, scary clouds swirling from the back of the circle behind my house. (pic didn't come out on that... sorry.)

i've heard some people lost power as early as 8 o'clock, but ours played possum surging off, then back on for several hours until finally at midnight we heard the loud groan and clunk of the transformer just give up on the whole idea.. .. and we were in the dark. i had a battery-powered television, but wanted to reserve battery life. so we went to bed.

i slept pretty soundly until the wind woke me up around 2am.

the really serious business of ike started around 2:30. the craziest thing i'll remember about the experience was the sound of the wind. i had a chair on the front porch where i sat and watched the trees whip around in the wind and the rain. then i'd go inside for a while to listen for breaking windows, drips and also to check the girls. who were frothed up in a panic from my bed.

more than a few times i got a tight chest when i opened the door and walked in the house because it sounded like someone was in my backyard yelling (like WOOOO HOOOO or YEEEEE AHHHH) and--like a dumbass--every single time, i would go running back there, thinking some looter was roaming in my yard acting like an idiot only to figure out it was the wind. it sounded human. that was freaky.

also freaky was the darkness. the house was dark, but not like usual when the lights are out, because ALL the lights around me, street lights, neighbor's bedroom lights, everything was out. and i was continually suprised by the deepness of the darkness. i ended up hanging the strap of my flashlight from my wrist, because if i set it down anywhere, it disappeared and i was left groping around for it like a blind woman.

once the storm was in full swing, i kind of set up a command station at the kitchen counter.

by 3:30am i had a small circle of texting buddies which included my dad and my brother-by-choice, t-vak. i'd flip on the TV every 20 min or so and send out "eye-location" texts and also any big news i could find... jp morgan chase buildng hit bad.desk chairs flying out brokn windws....i think brennans is burning down :( ...eye over galvstn now.about 40m wide.goodlord....

i crashed at 4:30am. between the 2 shots of vodka and the fact that i'd slept maybe 2 hours in the last 24, all the sudden i felt like dorothy in a field of poppies. couldn't hold my eyes open.

my cell rang at 7:30am. ex-mother-in-law calling to ~~get gossip~~ check on the girls. with just a modicum of composure, i would have let it ring. but dumbass me answered. by some natural disaster-induced miracle, we had a few words conversation then i slept in the now noticable sticky non-airconditioned bed until about 9:00am. we got on some shorts and headed out to survey the damages

neighbors were out in the streets. two doors down had a lost a tree in the front. i had two fences down (no big whoop) and other than that no damage at all. the street was green with leaves as if it had snowed big green flakes.

by mid-afternoon, it was obvious that God had covered us up during the storm. neighbors had trees uprooted a street away from us.

a house just around the corner lost half their shingles.

we were more than 60 miles inland. the coastline is a destruction zone. these pics are from chron.com of the boliver pennisula about 72 hrs after ike paid them an ugly visit

Power was restored at our house by 3pm Saturday. as i write about 40% of sugar land, including many friends in this neighborhood, are still without power. we have friends in the woodlands, spring and conroe that aren't expected to get power before next wednesday.

this was my first hurricane as a single mom and i'm pretty proud of myself. i was a little over prepared--we didn't sleep in the closet bunker and the piles of towels i had ready on window sills ended up being put on the entry floor to catch leafy, muddy flip flops, as i had a steady parade of friends and neighbors who still sat in the dark. it was awesome to be able to hand them my stock-pile of ice and batteries, let alone television and air conditioning. my girls are still out of school and it's yet to be seen how (or if) they'll make up the time lost. lord knows there's no getting back the sanity i've lost with them underfoot and at my office all week.

i'm glad to be on the other side. a little wiser, a little sleepier, but a lot more grateful for the little things like a cool breeze from the vents, a light on in the darkness and a secure roof over my family.

just bear w/ me

2008-09-18T22:41:00.011-05:00

i'm working on a post. ridin the storm out. it's coming.

Shelter In Place

2008-09-12T15:05:00.031-05:00

listen cowboy, when's the last time you had a big steamy bowl of texas hurricane hysteria? Well then, that's too long.

as i write, Hurricane Ike is swirling it's magic concoction in the gulf .... and Galveston sits there like tina turner just waitin to get smacked.

we live in ft. bend county. suburbanites nestled in our planned community about 60 miles inland, it is one of the best places to live in the US... but we'd suggest you make your visit another week.

i spent 7 hours on the road in the nightmare that was
running from Rita back in 2005

we're not bugging out for Ike. sometimes you gotta hold your ground. we're done runnin.

the really horrific traffic experience of Rita motivated the cities to rework a hurricane gameplan, and it does feel like the politico had a decent meeting at some point (miracle) and made a good plan. Unlike Rita, where they told us evacuation was "voluntary," (and we see how well that worked out) this time, everyone from the police chief to rick perry was telling ft. bend county not to leave. we are a designated Shelter In Place community. stay where you are. get some water, huddle in your closet. hunker down. btw..if i'm supposed to be hunkerin down, where is my hunk?

so me and my girls are hunkering. we're sheltering. we are in place. and like all good texans, we are prepared for a party. seems assured we'll lose power, so i've got provisions. there's pop tarts back there. oh yeah. desperate times call for serious sugar.

here is our liquid refreshment. my kids are happy with the dr.pepper. but mom needs something a little stronger if she's going to be sleeping in a walk-in closet with two hyper-nervous children. you can see i've stocked a variety of possible beverage needs from a casual pre-storm long neck to the stiff belt from my great friend Tito's during the brunt of the storm. and what says kick back and relax like a glass of wine? white or red. i've got that.

So what to do while we wait? we're chicks, man. when we're nervous, we cook. i rocked the crock to use the roast for sandwiches and also it's the only thing in the freezer that can't go on the grill.

this is what is supposed to look like. eat your heart out bejewell.

also we bake brownies.

we play computer.

we paint.

we wait.

we laugh at the weatherman with his hurricane chubby.

we're boarded up.

filled up.

cleaned up.

(and you will never see my backyard this clean again, short of a category 4...seriously. never. ever.)

and now we're ready. lay it on me ike, hit me with your best shot.

as we say in sugar land: shelter in place. i'll see you on the other side.

dropping a dime in the memory bank

2008-09-10T11:04:00.019-05:00

Forgive me, anonymous readers, for i have sinned. it has been over a month since my last blog. during that time, i have thought of myriad cool and awesome things to blog about that would have totally blown your mind. these words of wisdom no doubt could have changed the course of your life and put your feet on a path to realize your most adventurous dreams. unfortunately i was too lazy (or drunk) to write them down and now they're lost in the great abyss that is my remaining 745 brain cells. sue me. now onto the blog.

my baby started kindergarten this year. since i had my production lines clogged at her birth, she is the last fruit that will drop from my loins. praise the lord. i'm not a helicopter mom that hovers over her kids, wiping their noses and chewing their gum for them. still, i had to fight back a tear or two that morning at school when my very capable five year old trotted off with her tinkerbell backpack rolling behind her and said, "you can go. i'm fine from here." i assured her that i was expected to walk her to class the first day. "whatever." she said, and left me to follow behind. it wasn't that i was worried about her, or even sad that my little baby-magic fresh bundle was becoming just another sweaty wet-dog smelly kid... it was saying goodbye to an era. closing a chapter.

two weeks before my baby (see above) was born, my marriage fell apart. On april 12, 2003 about 10:30pm, i was hit in the gut with details of prince charming's torrid cross-country affair and the newsflash that he never loved me and would be leaving that night for colorado to be with her, as he could not stand another minute outside of her glow. oh joy. new love.

after we screamed at each other through a locked bathroom door and i threw his cell phone at his forehead, we each retired to our own corners. he passed out (three bottles of wine will do that to you). i sat up all night in bed, waiting and praying for dawn. something about driving around crying in the middle of the night seemed wrong. but driving around crying at daybreak: that seemed like an acceptable plan.
over the years that followed my baby was the mile marker of my road toward sanity and away from wifery. ... in the crazy times (which most all times were those first few years) i would comfort myself (in my drunken stupor) by saying things like "once the baby eats regular food things will get easier" ... or "once the baby starts walking.." or once she gets out of diapers..." or "once she can talk..." things will get easier. Now, five years are in my wake. she walks, talks and is diaper-free. and things are easier. and i am no longer crazy. (legally, i mean).

as i watched my little red-headed bundle get comfortable in her miniature chair around her tiny round table in the kindergarten class, it hit me: i made it. i didn't lose the house. i didn't lose my mind--legally. i didn't beat the children or abandon them to run away to cancun, (it was a plan... ill-conceived and flawed but a lovely plan for several years).

i made it.

i'm single, a little lonely, sometimes bored and occassionally resentful of being the only parent,

but gawl dangit : i made it.

so fuck you prince charming..... and thanks. i could have never realized what a capable, awesome, creative and tenatious chick i am if you would have stayed.

my kids are gone and this is what i'm thinking...out loud. duh

2008-07-25T21:25:00.006-05:00

A Word About Singapore

2008-07-22T13:17:00.028-05:00

this is an aside... ignore it. blog to follow below: i'm starting to get this blogging thing. i've just been spilling out a little trival thought now and then. but there is a method to this madness...this mommy-blogging. also, am i a mommy blogger just because i blog and i have kids? do we have levels of mommy bloggers, because the blogging,--i can excel at. but the mommy thing--we might have to talk. so remedialish mom, super blogger. ?? sound good? and i will try to pepper this thing with some vulgarity and rough language. i know how much you blog-stalkers love that shit.
okay, onto the blog.

Final sprint to the Back Forty...make that a slow jog

2008-07-07T11:09:00.019-05:00

When Harry Met Sally is of my quintessential life movies. Like The Big Chill, Talladega Nights, Mommy Dearest, Urban Cowboy...and about a dozen others, lines from that movie pop into my head as i work through this life.

Remember when Sally's ex-fiancee married his transitional person (all this time i was thinking he didn't want to get married when really he just didn't want to marry me) and she cried all night on Harrys' shoulder?
Sally in snotty tears: and i'm gonna be forty!!
Harry: yeah, in like eight years.
Sally bursting into tears: it's just sitting there! waiting!

i feel that. my eight years are up. well, in eight months they are. age is just a number--hey, i know that. have you seen the guys i date? still, 40. it's the biggie. it just sits there. like a fence-gate in the middle of the road.

ENTER OLDNESS HERE

nothing after the forty mile marker will be the same as it was up to that point. maybe it will be better. maybe not. but i'd like to hit that starting line in as peak condition mentally, emotionally and um, physically as possible.

and so our blog begins...

if i get any more out of shape, i'm afraid i'll be declared clinically dead. i never exercise. i mean never ever. walking from my car to the office is the most energy i exert in any typical 24 hour period.

the shrieks of horror from my inner being whenever i pass a mirror (or store window...or any reflective surface) tell me that the time has come. i can't get by with sitting on my ass anymore. my ass is about to crush something. it's time to move this mortal coil around a bit.

yes, this is yet another blog entry
of my attempt to work out
in order to get
better looking . sue me.

i went swimming this weekend. not walking around the pool, swooshing through the water with my head up like what i usually call swimming.
i mean actually performing the strokes. thought i was going to have a stroke.
i can't even call it swimming laps. it was swimming lap.

i've never been athletic. or graceful. or happy about moving. i'm a writer. a reader. a listener. a talker. none of these activities, to which i excel, require me getting out of a chair. and i've come to expect it that way. my only other hobby: drinking, fits well in the "sitting down" category of pasttimes that i've employed these past 5 years.

i will not take up space and time boring you with a list of all the crap i've bought as i've talked about working out. because it's just that: talking about it. intending to get into shape. constructing a plan, but never executing it.
just like so many other things i've intended to do and haven't:
Get my masters.
Start a cooking business.
Take up hoola hooping.
Write a memoir novel.
De-clutter the house.
Accept myself.

the list goes on and on. now time is ticking. i am a writer. i work on deadline. and not a minute sooner. the consumate "best under pressure" kind of person: i work about a week past deadline. so with eight months ahead until i have to blow forty...candles... i figure i'm about a year late in deciding to get started.
for me, seems right on time.

i'm not going to be a hard body. i doubt i'll even be a firm-tofu body. but before i start the second half of my life, i just want to do something i set out to do . being able to swim more than a lap; knowing i'm physically strong; liking the curve of my waist, feeling the quiet approval of my inner voices. seems like a good place to start.

it's God's same mantra to me---dump lazy and do something.
life is what you do. not what you intend to do.

so here i go. no cutesy wrap up.
oh, okay. why not.

the truth is: i can see the ME i have the potential to be--and that's who i want to spend the rest of my life with.
and... when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with a person, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible ...

Sorcery. Sympathy. Connectivity. and mark wahlberg?

2008-06-19T12:00:00.004-05:00

i stood at the foot of her bed and stared. fear mixed with achy sadness before i could get my bearings. then tears came and i had to turn away. i had never been in a hospital room with glass walls. it felt so exposed. like everyone was looking at me staring at her.

it was a head-on collision at the front corner of the vehicle, then the car rolled. in the passenger seat, she took the full brunt of both impacts. her husband is standing by the bed, holding her hand. he walked away with little more than a deep gash on his elbow and some bruises. the same for her son, who was in the backseat.

i watched her chest rise and fall with the swoosh of the ventilator. her hair laid straight up on her pillow, as if it was windblown. tubing from her mouth. her arms. her skull. she lay twisted and seemingly uncomfortable with both legs in casts and an arm lifted in traction. her swollen face gave no indication that the woman i knew was present. talk to her, husband said, tell her you're here. she might be able to hear us. i think she can hear me, he says. i'm not so sure, i think silently. is she in there?

what makes us who we are? when does the source of our soul expire? does it just move on? can it leave our fleshy shell for a while, then come back? if so, can we--on this side of consciousness--influence the time and speed with which it chooses to return? i wonder. we start at nowhere and for a while we are now here, then we go back to no where. is her source still viable inside her.

t-vak was with me. among the three of us we had over 17 of friendship. and we were at a loss for what to do. we prayed. we annointed her hands, feet and head with crosses drawn in holy water. we annointed her with our tears. and we summoned the source of life, the unmitigating light of love, creativity and hope to return to her. we begged that all the powers of sorcery in the goodness of the universe would come into that glass-walled room and fill up her shell with laughter again.

at the very moment the sperm snuggles into the egg, a cataclysmic miracle explodes and in an instant all you will ever be, from your hair color to your nail biting, to your gorgeous blue eyes and jiggly forearms--everything is in that particle of dna. you are a speck. like a peach seed in soil, our potential is completely present at the very moment of the cataclysmic miracle that turns your dad's spooge into you.

and if that source remains in her; as she lay twisted, bruised, incoherent. if we, on this side, try by means of prayer and holy water and positive thoughts and verbal affirmations to cooerce her spirit back to this side--to manipulate her source. are we not engaged in sorcery? i am okay with that, by the way. but... just thinking out loud.
walking with her kids out to the parking garage i was just about knocked down with feeling sorry for them. the image of my old friend twisted and mangled in that bed haunted me. hounded me. burned onto the inside of my eyelids and glowed in my brain when i shut them. tall and thin, her just-teenage son and daughter seemed almost uneffected by the scene we'd just left. daughter skipped a little. son smiled. sat in the backseat quietly like most boys his age. and as i sat with them at lunch, i welled up with pride for them, and for what great people they were becoming. i admired their strength in the face of such sadness. i embraced my own sympathy for them, while still nodding to their faith in the source to make it all right again.

nothing is solid. in a microscope, magnified to a molecular level, everything is made up particles that are vibrating wildly. there is space between the particles. what holds us together? the source of all life and creativity and beauty flows between us, holding us together and also connecting us to everything and everyone. we are seemless with each other, with nature, with sunlight, with darkness. it's the blanket theory (see i <3>Huckabees).

mark wahlberg was on the today show about a week ago promoting the new M.Night Shyamalan movie, The Happening. i'm not much into celebrities; so i don't know much about mark wahlberg. he loooked good in boogie nights. his brother was a new kid. i think. anyway, mark was there on the plaza making nice-nice with Meredith Matt and Ann. yawn. but as they were going to commercial and thanked him, mark said, "my life is good. my faith is strong and i have true happiness." i thought that was really cool, and not just something you pop off to throw it to commercial.

we're all connected. we're all connected to the source. as we embrace the source, live by the law of love, creativity, beauty, as the source does, we become sorcerers (of the source). as we are of the source, we can beckon the source to create what we want out of this life. i'm comforted to know that i'm connected to a woman in a hospital bed in austin; that i'm able to tap into the source of everything that is good and hopeful and true and clear and to know that even bloated up celebrities can sometimes be cool humans.

just thinking out loud. you may now resume your regularly scheduled life.

Sometimes singleness Rocks

2008-06-11T16:50:00.007-05:00

One thing I love about getting old is having a longer memory. I didn't know if I might actually DIE the first time I rode Texas Cyclone at Astroworld. But I didn't. I loved it. Once I'd taken the ride, I knew I could survive it. Life's like that. it takes a few long lines at the roller coaster before you start to figure it out.
You get older … and nothing kills you.
A longer memory gives you the benefit of knowing you've come out of other stuff alive.. even when you weren't sure you would. Ergo, you'll probably come out of whatever you're in now.
So don't let it stress you out.
As I get older, I have richer memories, I have increasingly richer friendships. Friendships wrapped around years of inside jokes and drunken tears tied by a string of jobs lost, raises, divorces, births, remarriages and reconciliation. friends who over our years of yellowing memory books have become my family. They are gold flecks in the air that surrounds me. they make me sparkle inside. I am grateful to have their glitz.

Now, onto the blog.

Saturday I was kid-less and hungover. I slept late, showered, then went to my buddy's house. We've been friends for like 13 years. Very casual—I didn't even wear makeup. he and his wife were going to barbecue; I'd bring potato salad. There was talk of margaritas. Easy.

I'd been there about 15 minutes when I realized that the two of them were having one of those days. I remember those days—magnetic mood days.You and your man are like two wrong sides of a magnet – he's in a good mood when you-- for no apparent reason—just get bitchy... A little wriggling, snipping at each other, something happens and you laugh. your mood shifts, your magnet flips—now you're good mood side up. About that time he curses the furniture you rearranged last week. He's got cranky surface showing. your moods are repellent. you're not going to merge properly today. In any way.

At least that's how I remember the days of magnet mood—ah, marriage. there I was with potato salad and no mascara.

Any quirky thing can turn a mediocre magnet-mood day into a full fledged 'do not touch me' evening. In the case of my beautiful friends, that quirky thing was the VCR remote. First she wanted it, but couldn't find it. Then she gave up on it. Which of course made him bound and determined to find it. After 20 minutes of admirable verbal jousting from both sides, complete with ottoman lifting and couch cushion searching: the elusive remote was found. I rolled my eyes. By now, I didn't give a shit about the movie anyway.

Sometimes being single rocks.

Sunday I had a flat tire. Now if i was married, along with a flat tire on the hottest day I've ever spent in a dress, I'd have ALSO to deal with a male ego—because lord knows I've never been with a man who would change a tire. But regardless of his handy--index, dealing with a sweaty chick in heels AND a flat tire, under any circumstance can throw a couples' day into chaos.

I was actually grateful to be alone… sitting there in my car, waiting for help. Knowing and cherishing (yes, i promise!) that I didn't have to deal with the man I loved.
He doesn't exist. Sweet.

After the flat tire, I needed a drink. I met my friends at La Strada, enjoyed a drive through the westheimer curve, peeked through some old neighborhoods, then picked up frosty's for the girls who would be dropped off soon after I got home.

How long was I gone? Don't know. Luckily, I didn't have anyone who needs to get back to watch Tiger on the 18th hole. I'm solo. Me-o

Every morning, I sleep until the last, bitter, absolute final minute before I have to race into the shower, smear makeup in all the right spots and sprint out the door. My ex used to hate that. He was a coffee in the morning before you shower kind of guy. He'd be asleep before stupid human tricks had started, but awake before willard scott. There were other areas in which we were incompatible… I just thought of this one first.

Sometimes singleness rocks.

The next morning I indulged in a little late morning lounging. I had plucked out a show from the tivo lineup and had it cued up. I arranged pillows, got the kroger flyer situated and had a book ready on the bedstand. I crawled in and reached for the remote to start my "Top Chef" marathon…and … I couldn't find it.
I walked around the bed, looked at the desk, even on my sink counter… nowhere. did I take it to the living room? Refrigerator? Where? I just had it.
I knew who lost it; I knew who had it last. It was definitely me.

Singleness deletes negative mood slinging; simply because there's nobody around to sling it at.

Being single keeps me humble. I'm forced to admit that I am a dumb ass.

I lose things.

I procrastinate.

I know who forgot to take my black dress to the cleaners.
It's the same person who will have to dab the spot off of it with a cotton ball so she can wear it tonight: it's me.

I know who drank the last beer.

I know who was supposed to get the car washed.

I know who paid the card late so there's a fee next month.

I can't get pissed off at my husband --- i don't have one.

It's bittersweet clarity, people: you have to look deep.

But once you get a nice long string of days without having your mood magnet flipped … you'll see: Sometimes singleness rocks.

Sometimes singleness sucks...

2008-06-09T16:30:00.004-05:00

Sometimes I hate being single…. is that so wrong?

if I am to have the ultimate experience, then I am convinced I am to have it with another. I can see that all experience is heightened in importance and weight by sharing it with people….but most especially, by sharing it with A Person.

And so brings us to my dilemma: sometimes I hate being single.

I am not one of those cat-hair fleckeled divorcees – with children in therapy and my ex-husband's wife as my "best friend". I am a real woman, here. Yes I get an inordinate amount of child support but I went out and got it straight from him. And I earn it.

But then again, I am your typical unhappily single divorcee; looking for love. or whatever. At least I was.

I've come to know that I'll never find the ultimate experience by looking for it—I would have found it by now… believe me. I've got no choice but to follow God's path laid out before me. My treasure awaits. Or maybe not. Regardless, …….. I know God has a plan for all of this.

i'm just not confident in my ability to wait on the Lord. You know what I mean?
I get so dang jealous. It's pathetic. I get jealous of BAD relationships.

Sometimes I think I'd rather be tangled up with a dysfunctional dude in distress than sit here in the bed alone another night. Come on people. I'm too much fun and just too damn cute to still be alone. And that's just the big ole baby inside of me getting out to cry a while.

At morning's light… and the end of even a long day, I am so grateful for my own independence and solitude. I love being me. And I'm really good at it. Being with someone would be good too.

Especially someone I thought was as cool as I am. Is that possible?

But to focus on the issue, as to pluck it out and get rid of it for now: sometimes I hate being so utterly alone. I hate being single tonight. And I'm not apologizing for being pissed off about it. I'm not gloria steinem. I'm okay with needing a man………

Once in a while.

I hate being single tonight. Tomorrow… I'm believing……will be better in the light.

Trust Me ... random notes from my journey

2008-06-01T23:15:00.004-05:00

I lie. i guestimate about 17% of my words and thoughts are lies.

I can coddle them as truth, but somewhere between you and I or just me, myself and I—it's still lies. Milk is not green. No matter how many times I tell you it is. A lie's a lie. and 17% is too high.

Here's what I'm thinking: if I don't believe the shit I say, it's only logic that I won't believe what you say. even when you are telling me the truth. and that causes problems in my relationships. {cue trust issues here, please}.

Now it's not like I tell big lies. Think about it: you lie too.

Was traffic really so bad yesterday that you were late to work? are you really allergic to shellfish?
Did you read DaVinci code? really? Yeah. I've met you.

It's the source of it, as usual, that I'm trying to uncover and take a look at. I have to figure out why I'm lying to myself so that I can trust you—and have a more kick-ass existance. while marbled veins of lie may inevitably mingle through the steaks of everyday speech; I want to dig through the dirt of my lies and uncover my big ugly truth. it can't be that bad. i might even learn to accept myself a little more.

ultimately, the rewards are twofold: I get stronger, healthier relationships —plus— I take a leap forward in my self-journey.
life leaps rock. Slides suck.
So, why lie to people; to myself? Hmmm. according to me, I'm putting a nice dent in my debt, I've lost five pounds and I'm really starting to love my job. Sounds pretty good. I like that me.

Now let's tap into some truth: every couple of months I might add fifty bucks to my credit card minimum payment. I've actually been overspending on fast food and dollar store junk. I think I gained a pound last week and if I don't get out of this job, I'll be back in therapy before I'm 40.
Ew. That sounds un-fun. I no like that me. Lie sounds better.
I lie to make me sound better than I am. Like when someone asks me how old I am and I trim off a few years. It's in my best interest. The lies are working for me, not against me… right. Keep telling yourself that one.

Purity is found only in truth. There is no value in the untruth. Ever.

Besides, real women don't rationalize.

Here's the plan. live a life where I am comfortable with my own truth. There are going to be spike strips that get thrown under my wheels and deflate my self-esteem now and then. The finesse is in acknowledging that I'm driving around with a flat tire for a while.

Sometimes life isn't all happy meals and pool toys—I've got debt that I need to take care. It's time to get a handle on my career, if I'm to have one. There's no shame in pulling the car over, changing the tire (which might take a while depending on how deep the spikes are buried), getting back on the road and confessing the whole pit stop to the world.

Here's the thing : I want stellar relationships. nothing is more important about my time here than to build connection between me and everybody else. If I only get that, i get a lot. but I can't build an exceptional connection when I constantly doubt you. or when i don't like me. I've got to be willing to let you lie to me. Maybe your lie will hurt me. Point is: the connection is worth it.

I admit it: I've got issues—I don't trust you. I don't believe you. what if I don't trust you because I don't trust me. My truth should be good enough for you. it would be, if it was good enough for me--

I lie sometimes. i'm striving for a less than 8% median.

At least I never said I read DiVici code.

It's just me. Go about your regular lives…

2008-06-01T22:00:00.000-05:00

There are some things that I am really good at. Some things, in fact, that I might even say I am the best at of anyone I know. Like writing a card; I can touch you with few words. Like singing a beatles lullaby to my daughter. In the small hours of chronic coughs and temperatures: I'm the mom you want in your ear. My chicken and dumplings are—let's face it—legendary. There are things I do well.

However.

I am inept at one thing: I'm not good with boyfriends. Not really that I'm not good with them, just that I'm not good at getting them; my procurement skills leave something to be desired. What I am good at is attracting them, then unintentionally making them think I'm psychotic. Which I find pretty funny and basically pathetic. And which they just about never find funny but do stop calling. Immediately.

I'm starting to think it's not them: it might even be me.

I'm naturally curious. I'll tell you right out about it: I'm going to google you. From that I may get a map to your house, I might find out where you work, I might even find out your wife's name. But I'm not stalking you. I'm just naturally curious. I'm interested in you. I like you.

And all that might be well and good except for my basic weakness: talk. I cannot keep my mouth closed. Even now in the middle of the night, I have to tell you what I'm thinking. And so! When I tell you I googled you: guess what? Yes, I am good at making them think I'm psychotic. And no matter how hilarious I think it is when other chicks stalk you….let's face it: I am not crazy. just a little unwell.

It's my dang boundaries, folks. I've got brick walls up where there should be shrubbery and I've got little tufts of monkey grass around my vulnerability. I would love to be able to sit here and think it through then stand up and point my finger at the reason why I'm that way. Lord knows it's not my fault. Right?

No, no. it's his fault..

He made me believe we were building on concrete then one day thought it'd be funny to tell me it was really a pool. Then he filled it up with water. and I thought I really might drown in that freaking thing. Unti I re-learned how to swim.
Yes, Everything is his fault

No, no. It's mom's fault. If she would've taken her divorce better, then I would have had a role model. I would've seen how to date after divorce. I'd never have made all these mistakes if she had done it differently. See. It was her.

No, no. it's dad's fault. No. his wife's. Whichever. Equating drunkeness and wildness with the good life. Celebration was more important than a cause for it. Even if there was cause for sadness. Let's have a drink, we'll all be laughing soon enough. Tin foil wrapped around air. Why would I be able to discern what is honest or a lie; I've never known anyone authentic.

So bring out your boxes. Of kleenex. And please cry in pity for me. I'm nothing more than a product of my experiences. i have become cumbersome. melodramatic in the shallow bits and aloof when the plot thickens. I'm bitter, but cute.

i've had enough therapy. it's just me after all. stick around a while and then you'll see...a different side of me. i'm funny as hell. i'm so smart it scares you, in the good way. and that smile. this is who i am. i'm not gonna stalk you, i just have to find a way to introduce myself so you don't run off screaming.

it took me a long time to perfect my chicken and dumplings. two words: white wine. Eight years ago when my daughter was born, that beatles lullaby wasn't very soothing for anybody. I write out what I want to say on a piece of paper before I write it on the $5 card.

I recognize the need for improvement.

maybe i should put a gate--or two, in this brick wall. i've propped up a couple fence boards around the heart I wear on my sleeve--we'll see how they hold while i put down a post. i might even keep my mouth shut…

I'm thinking not googling you, though, is pretty much out of the question

letter to an old friend

2008-04-28T23:14:00.013-05:00

jenn!

a thousand apologies for not writing sooner. i don't know how to catch up anymore, i guess. twice i've sat down to write you, and frankly, didn't really know where to begin.

it's harder to mark time when there are not obvious milestones around anymore. i remember when bailey was first walking, pulling up to things... then when allie was first able to hold a crayon and make some kind of recognizable symbol. i remember bailey's first day of kindergarten. seems like yesterday and another life all at the same time.

Allie turned five last week:she'll start kindergarten in the fall. she's able to write her name, and speaks like your all-consuming american 13 yr old most days. she's got a quick wit and is her mom in spades, which as i know more than anyone, has it's good points --and BAD. :)

tony left on april 12 2003, so there's a kind of a time marker, i guess. i feel more over my divorce than i ever have, although if you would've asked me a year ago, i would have said the same thing. maybe one day i'll wake up and forget his face. then maybe one day forget his name. HA.. i'm guessing not...

bailey is 9 now, about to finish third grade: yep, that means she'll be in fourth grade next year. you know what that means. buckle the seatbelt, pull the bar down over your knees: here comes boys. and tampons and pimples...and, .. oh my g...boobs.

okay, maybe not all of them in fourth grade, but i do feel like i'm in that dip right before you start to clack, clack, clack up that huge hill on the texas cyclone. .. you just know there's a big drop on the other side of that hill. . that hill is my daughter the teenager. she's just sitting there,like a huge hill i'll be dropped off of...soon.

let's see...what else? i'm not sure how much i told you about the 57 yr old guy i fell hard for last year. honestly jennifer, i don't know that i've ever met a man before that i felt more instantly connected to and so accepted by. it was weird,and cool and so completely un-doable... he's back in singapore these days, and we never talk anymore, but it was just enough to make me really want someone in my life, and also bring to light that i am lonely. i try to look at it as an experience and one that really gave me hope someone is on my horizon--that will really understand me, but also like me....is that possible? hmmmm....

work is... ugh.. it's just a job. i daydream about writing a quirky little novel or doing a snarky-attitude memoir about being a sexy single mom... (HA)... but in the meantime, i quote car insurance and eat food from paper plates at a desk.

all in all, old friend, i am very content and hopeful these days, all of my trademark cynism aside. i created one of those vision boards that oprah goes on about. haven't seen any of the stuff jump off that corkboard and into my life yet, but supposedly you just put the pictures on there and let the universe do the work, so i'm all in on that plan.

i wish we lived closer, so that once in a while when i get that wild rush to jump in the car, i could come visit you... course there are other friends who do live close enough... and i don't ever get that wild rush! are we too busy? or just too lazy? :) depends on the day for me.

with lots of love: past, present and future-

julie

now leaving Fun Country

2008-04-03T12:56:00.004-05:00

i am from Fun Country. years of therapy and this is what i come away with: Fun Country.

i move and work out of a 'good times' space. if it feels good, do it. if it's gonna get me tipsy, drink it. if it's chocolate, eat it. if the card works, charge it. whatever the cost, whatever the means; what the fuck, let's have some fun.

you probably lived in Fun Country during college, where you enjoyed all-night drive thrus, resin-stained fingers, hangovers on Wednesday. a stereotypical college kid sucks the juice out of Fun Country and wipes his mouth on his shirt sleeve.

after 7 years of skipping class and getting by on bullshit, i got my degree. dad joyfully forced me off the bank account and left me to decide what i want to be when i grew up. nevertheless, my native tongue remained smooth on my lips. and by not deciding what i wanted to be, i decided not to grow up. pay it when the pink bill comes. tonight, get some cash and hit happy hour. up all night, sleep through the snooze alarm. late for work again. dig out clothes from the dryer and wash a fork from the sink. life was catch as catch-can, but dangit, i was having a good time.

my divorce knocked my feet out from under me. but moreover, it was a valid excuse to embrace reckless abandon of all things grown up--and no one would give me shit about it. even in my own mind, i excused my irresponsibility in the name of "you deserve it." i felt a calling to run away from my life, and i heeded the call.

after leaving the marriage debt-free with a nice savings account, a few years in Fun Country left me with overdue credit card bills that grew exponentially with every late payment. my kids weren't babies anymore and had by now figured out that mom went from work to the bar and might come home before they went to bed, but more likely the nanny would tuck them in. and wake them up. and cook for them. i behaved like a spoiled kid... course, i come by that honestly having been raised as a spoiled child by a couple of spoiled parents, but that's fodder for another day. therapy did give me a little more than just insight into my Fun Country citizenship.

i was a 40 year old teenager, with the body of a 52 year old woman. now that ain't fun. but i partied on dude, screw the consequences.

the problem with Fun Country is that it's hard, nary impossible, to move into grown-up land when you refuse to acknowledge anything in life that isn't a good time. and while all night drive thrus are a lot of fun, 2AM french fries and strawberry shakes at midnight don't sit on a 36 year stomach as well as a 25 year old one...and the scale begins to show what heartburn doesn't. more than bumpy thighs and afternoon alka-seltzer, living in Fun Country stunted my growth--in my mind, in my head and in my heart.

my therapist put words to it, but it took another 2 years of wandering for the words to become action. but eventually, this old kid got tired of laughing in the face of reality. instead of making a resolution in the haze of another wednesday morning hangover, i made changes one weekend at a time. starting with reconnecting with my kids. then myself. writing instead of talking. moving instead of sleeping. sleeping instead of drinking.

it's been about a month since i started packing boxes and making my move from Fun Country. i've had to pack away a few friendships, seal up the snooze alarm and close up the late night kitchen full of munchies. slowly, i'm getting some distance between me and my studio apartment in Fun Country. my bills are all current. my kids wait for me in the evenings, and aren't disappointed. cabinet clutter is clearing and my vision board is up and running.

i still see the exit signs for Fun Country in my rearview mirror (let alone the evidence of living there on my waistline), but i'm focused on the windshield, looking forward. and i see an organized little house in my path.

it's cliche: you can't drive a car with three wheels. you can't sit in a chair with a missing leg. you can't ride a unicycle with a pile of bricks on your head... can you? anyhoo... you can't be an effective adult if you're make choices like a child. you gotta have some balance.

for now, i'm not having much fun.

paying bills on time doesn't always leave enough cash for vodka with the boys after work. cleaning the house and keeping two kids organized is a pain in the ass. credit counseling? there is nothing fun about that. coming straight home, waking up early, getting to work and making sure the oil is changed all on time--it takes discipline. i miss Fun Country.

there was no discipline in Fun Country, maybe a bit of endurance, certainly a dash of gusto, but no discipline. But there was also no security, no sense of accomplishment, no self-acknowledgment. no balance. to keep the pendulum in the middle, i have to swing it way far to the right for a while, because it was so stuck on the left. the thrust will pull it back to the middle and maybe, just maybe, if all goes well, i'll have a balanced pendulum in a month or so.

the key to moving out of Fun Country was admitting that i needed to live a disciplined life if i wanted to feel balanced and centered... and grown up. i had to move out of my swingers pad and into a suburban home, fit for a successful single mom and two little darlings... and a nanny. i decided i was ready to leave Fun Country, but no sense in speeding out of there too fast.

i haven't left Fun Country forever. Summertime julie will get a condo for a week in Fun Country while the kids visit their dad in july. i'll swing by from time to time, around the holidays. Fun Country is a great place to visit, but i wouldn't want to live there.

And so it begins... alone again, naturally

2008-03-03T22:30:00.004-06:00

I embark now on my fortieth year… oh, I haven’t turned 40 yet, but considering my first year was counted only in months, THIS would be my fortieth year--being those twelve months following my 39th birthday. which was last week. guess your invitation got lost in the mail.

I don’t feel 40.

I see forty as a woman with dark, wavy hair. She wears it long, just passed her shoulders, pulled away from her face to highlight a white streak off the coast of her forehead. She has little wrinkles around her lips and a sandpaper voice like suzanne pleshette. She works as a secretary in an office on the 9th floor and puts a beige plastic cover on her typewriter every day before she leaves. She has a cat named tiki that would leave globs of white fur around her spotless apartment, except that she brushes it every night while she watches CSI and then the first 15 minutes of the news before she snuggles into her queen size bed by herself.

I imagine forty as a boring, unmarried loner who smokes too much and needs a good dye job.

I was reading 7 Habits of Highly Successful People the other night. Stephen Covey used to be all over television in the early 90s. he was an organizational guru with a happy, good-looking family and a book that shot off the best seller list and into the front desk drawer of executives all over the place. I’ve had the book I guess about 14 years or so… can’t tell you if I’ve ever gotten past the first chapter. But that’s irrelevant to the point.. so…onto the point. Right.

In his introduction (I think I’ve read that about 12 times since I bought the book), he talks about perception. First, that perception is personal reality: which I am totally down with. So if perception is (our) reality, if we can learn to adjust our perception to a more positive personal reality, then we can simultaneously, begin to see our world, and the WHOLE world, in a happier, more successful light. He calls it a paradigm shift; and I get it, but paradigm always makes me think of a mail order catalog; so he might as well call it a lillian vernon shift … but I’m veering away again, aren’t i.

Anyhoo, for whatever reason, I perceive 40 as a dull, lack-luster age that doesn’t hold much promise for me as a single girl. Yet, I know that’s not me: first, there’s no way I’d sit through a full episode of CSI unless the cat had fallen asleep on my face and suffocated me. as far as that goes, when I live alone and have a furry cat named tiki, it’s time to check me into the white jacket motel.

So I don’t feel forty; I don’t look forty (what does forty look like to YOU?) and I don’t act like my idea of forty… except for just one little piece of the puzzle: being single.

Seems like, as each year rolls around on itself from start to close, I expect that to be the year I meet … “HIM” … the famed and heralded him.

But this year, not so much. at least not so far.

I’ve had a few hims sniffing around the secretary pool lately. some hung around a while, helped me cover up the typewriter. one or two even offered to brush tiki... but I’m picky about who I let pet my… ...cat. (seriously--you didn’t think I was actually going to go there, did you?)

this year, I’m not expecting, waiting for or even interested in finding Mr. Him. Because as I begin to shift in my perception seat, I am starting to see this world with my own forty-year old eyes and it’s looking pretty dang good from this unicycle. It feels right. It feels natural.

So hold onto your cowboy hats kids, we’re hitting an open field along this trail, and I’m planning on letting my horse run it out. I’ve got a firm grip on my own horn, and I’m ready to blow. happy birthday to the coolest chick I know: me.

work it out baby

2007-08-25T16:37:00.000-05:00

i am hopelessly attracted to two men who have shown little more than lukewarm interest in me. Both of these men are VPOP – "virtually perfect on paper" — and (purely coincidentally) both will be out-of-country for at least the next year.

I see this as a sign from God. So I joined a gym.

I figure--I got a year to get hot. Or more correctly: hot – ter.

Now (for those who don't know me) I didn't join Bally's or 23-hour Fitness (remember President's First Lady? My grandma belonged there in '78)…. I've had two children by C-section (if you're a woman you know what I'm talkin' about… I may never wear a bikini again…)… I joined my neighborhood gym: Lifetime Fitness.. it's a ritzy YMCA.

Anyhoo…I've learned a few things from this week at the gym.

1. My body is not as rotund and repulsive as it could be: God bless these people, PUH LEEZ. I just about had to take a Xanex when I thought about putting on workout clothes. I haven't had anything on this tight fitting since Pat Benatar was in the top 20. But I am encouraged by the courage of the people at this gym. There are people at this gym who richard simmons would adopt. I feel within-normal-weight-range here.

2. The Stairmaster is Evil: Have you ever gotten onto one of these things?! ! If you don't repent before your fateful day, I predict you will find yourself handcuffed to a stairmaster for a time dependent on your sin here on earth. The stairs keep coming down, down, down, and you keep climbing. But you get nowhere. By the end of it, you're sweating, your legs are shaky and the thought of a big drink of water makes you want to throw up. --a lot like internet dating, actually--

3. I am a female chauvinist pig: I hate exercise. I love the sauna, but I hate what I have to do to reward myself with it. HOWEVER! I've found a little secret to my torture: there is an elliptical machine strategically located in perfect viewing vacinity of the weight lifting "arena." (Arena meaning 4-walled mirrored area where dudes watch themselves lift dumbbells with scrawny shirts on).I find that if i secure that particular elliptical, I'm able to tread 3 – 4 minutes longer than I do with the dumpy elliptical in front of Fox News (now, get Shep Smith on a pull-up bar, we might be talkin'). It's a stereotype I know, but men in camouflage or full-arm tattoos just work it a little sexier. … sad, but true.

There are other things I've learned while doing my time at the gym: the fountain in the locker room has colder water than the one on the workout floor -- never follow a fat chick into the sauna if she has only one towel -- remember the stall with the dinner-plate showerhead, it makes a difference. And most importantly: don't undress with teenagers around… they will laugh. (another sad but true)

My goal is to shave the fat off this ass and be a woman who men might stalk on myspace. You've seen them: they post pictures of themselves sitting on the edge of a skiboat in a polka-dotta bikini-- they have margaritaville as their song. Bitch-es. Yeah, I want that to be me.

Actually, I'm working out so I can look good at my 20-year high school reunion. How lame is that? Who am I? My mom?! But I've got until mid-october to be 80's era – ish. like a virgin and all that ...

Then again, if just one of those two particular guys gets back next year and goes from lukewarm to tepid … I'm thinking Martha Stewart-style: it's a good thing.

The F Word

2007-06-05T13:23:00.003-05:00

When my divorce went down I was hurt. No doubt. I was humiliated, embarrassed, heartbroken. completely broken. Still -- I'd get over it. I mean, it's not like I'd never been hurt before. He wasn't my first boyfriend.
Okay, my first husband. My first…everything. Anyhoo--my heart would mend. It had before.

I'd be fine.

And I was. Life went on. Made my own way.

I did it right: two years of therapy; reunion with God; transitional relationships; self awareness…thumbs up. I carved a niche in my space of the world and I was beautiful in it. STill, it gnawed. Always I was in touch with my chunk of rotting soul meat—anger festering behind tupperware marked 'regret' and 'guilt'.

I had to. clean it out.

For me.

I'm not giving in!

He was not justified.

He was wrong.

I was right!
All of which got me nowhere.

So now, I'll tell you something: The F word.

we push away as from the sides of a pool, to swim in the murk. Anger feels powerful.
The strongest will throw it down. Clinch real freedom. Embrace the power of the F Bomb. The F word you need to know. forgiveness . All of it

I sat in a chair—not a pew—easter Sunday 2006. This little baptist church, who dropped the moniker and fashions itself non-denominational; i liked the smallness of it. The anonymity. the pastor is georgeous. So he was talking about peter, how he denied jesus. He asked us--all 80 or so--"has anyone ever really hurt you? I mean really cut you all the way to the core?" immediately I thought "hell yeah!" not exactly your typical easter Sunday sermon, but gosh, he was so cute: gotee, always cool clothes …. Then God spoke to my bone marrow: "I don't mean YOU. Think deeper."
Ugh.
I didn't want to think deeper….i like to feel sorry for myself. I HAD been cut all the way to the core. Listen to my sad story!"

He was totally wrong, and I was totally right and no one ANYWHERE at any time would dispute it! …yeah…! so …
God again,

"I'm not talking about you! ; think about
how much you hurt.
your spirit is dying from this anger."
That so hit me. Because my spirit rocks.
I had to let the gate up / hear God speak to me: "it's now, honey. It's time." silence from mind to soul. "you have to forgive them, now!" He said so clearly within me that it was my own voice. outside of me; it was me. I just threw down. "okay," was all I could really get out.

But it left me. I felt it go and I actually smiled for him… and her.
Pretty much.

So it was at this little suburban new wave church, I laid down the anger and the horrific realization of his ultimate, earth-catapulting infidelity. And you know what?

Tomorrow was totally cool. The sun came up. In fact, it was sunny and bright and perfect that whole rest of the day. I actually had forgiven my ex husband and his (now) wife for flagrantly disrespecting the vows of my marriage.

I myself have racked up quite a list of … sins… especially lately. We're human. Wow.

I dropped it in that moment. I dropped the dumbbell of resentment that hung from a leathered band around my neck. And by God, I was free.

It's not like walking on air, more taking off a heavy coat you forgot you were wearing. In june.

it's the f-word: forgiveness.

Give yourself a break. They don't care anyway.

Shrek 3: my thoughts exactly

2007-05-27T20:45:00.001-05:00

As lovers of all things ogre, we joyously rode the mcdonald's marketing juggernaut all week. Sipping diet coke from slime-green soda straws and creating disjointed dialogue between talking Shrek, Donkey and Gingy happy meal toys only served to froth my little family into a festering frenzy by the time we hit the theater Friday night for the premiere of Shrek the Third.
The film opens with Prince Charming playing himself in a dinner theater re-enactment of fighting brutal winds, blistering deserts and climbing to the tallest room in the highest tower, only to have his happily ever snatched by a roaring green ogre. He vows to smite (or is it smote?) his odious archenemy and reclaim his rightful place on the throne. Meanwhile, back at the castle, King Henry, still in his natural state as a toad (see Shrek 2), is on his death-lily pad, his family by his waterside. With his final fly-snatch he reveals that other than Shrek, there is but one heir to the Far Far Away thrown, a dude named Arthur. Go figure. Thus, the stage is set for a swashbuckling, burping, farting, butt-scratching adventure. My kids gave it a two bottoms up. I experienced an adventure on and off screen, as the singular experience of sitting with my children in a movie theater has, thus far, been reserved mostly for the enjoyment of their grandparents.
A darkened theater, Dolby surround sound, crunching on $6 popcorn – it's all part of the fun of going to the picture show, as Grandma Bowers used to say. As thrilling as it is to experience jumbo nostrils, perfectly modulated pooting and downing an Icee bigger than your face, the challenge of keeping a four year old calm and quiet in a confined area without the aid of yelling at her, can be a daunting one. We got through it with the help of Easter candy stowed in my purse, stretching out thanks to retractable arm rests and three trips to the bathroom which kept us, as well as the people sitting around us, on their toes.
Shrek the Third delivers where expected. We get to meet more citizens of Far Far Away, including Fiona's gal pals Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, Cinderella and Rapunzel. Eric Idle makes a great vocal cameo as Merlin, the slightly senile wizard who seems to have killed one too many brain cells in pursuit of peace-loving enlightenment. Justin Timberlake is the voice of Artie, the boy who would be king, and the scenes of Worcestershire High School, where he is the big dork on campus, provide lots of knowing laughs for parents, if not for little ones. Donkey gets shoved in a locker with an "I suck-eth" sign taped to his…er, backside. It's the kind of stuff that keeps this Shrek-fecta on track for two hours.
In the end, Artie accepts the crown, Fiona gives birth and I earned big mom points arming my kids with bathroom-humor spoilers to impress their classmates come Monday morning. And while I like the hype as much as the next over-consuming capitalist, I suspect in a kid-less life, I'd be just as happy to grab the DVD in a month or so and put the money spent tonight toward a tank of gas. With that saving plan, I might have enough by the end of the summer blockbuster season to fill up.