Next Time Around (Or Mid-life Crisis)

I have decided what I want to do either in my next life or in the event of a mid-life crisis.  I am going to become a  rockabilly guitar goddess.  I will play a big ol' Gretsch Anniversary, or maybe a Gibson 359.  Maybe both.  Whatever suits my fancy.  (But the Gibson needs to be blue.)  I will rock out in 4 inch stiletto peeptoes and never, ever get my red lipstick on my teeth.  The victory rolls my red hair will be done in will be flawless.  I will not get stage fright, and every riff I play will be ingenious.

Fame will not be my goal; my goal is to let the outer me match the inner me. I am a totally glamorous rocker-chick on the inside.  On the inside I am confident and can pull off rockabilly style with ease.  I can play my air-guitar so well Chet Atkins would be jealous.  In my inner-confident fantasy world, I NAIL it.  I am the female Johnny Cash.  My swagger is legendary.  In my own mind.

I think maybe Joe should pray his mama never goes through a mid-life crisis.

Time Marches On

When I was a teenager, Tracy Lawrence released a song entitled "Time Marches On."  I hated that song.  It seemed so stupid to me at the time.  Of course time keeps moving; what else is it supposed to do?  You are young, time moves, you get older.  Duh.  Now, more than 15 years later, I understand the words and the meaning in the song better.

I found my first grey hair on Thanksgiving.  I know that to some this is not a big deal.  My mom was more than half grey by the time she was 35, and my 30 year old brother is half grey now.  (Other than that, he looks like a teenager.  Not fair.)  Charlie has plenty of grey hair of his own.  I didn't.  My dad didn't start getting noticeably grey until into his 40's.  I take more after him, and I was hoping that I could look younger than my real age, like he always has.  It's not a vanity thing.  It's a denial thing.  I don't want time to march.  I want it to crawl.  It seems like the last decade hasn't marched, it ran.  Joe went from being a baby to darn near a teenager; I went from being a dumb 20-something to an full-fledged 30-something adult.  I don't know how it happened.  Before I know it Joe will be in college and I will be an empty-nester.  Holy cow.

I'm not the only one unsure as to where the time went.  Charlie is going to be a grandpa this coming summer.  He keeps telling me that he doesn't feel old enough; that he doesn't feel any older than 30.  It doesn't seem right that his daughter is closer to 30 than he is.  It makes me think about the next decade and how different life will be.  Joe will be in college.  I will be in my 40s.  Charlie will be in his 50s.  He will most likely have more than one grandkid.  I'm pretty sure he'll still not feel his age, though.

Like the song, I will call myself a sexy grandma and my brother will probably be on a diet for high-cholesterol.  Time marches on.

Jury Duty

I am at jury duty. I am jammed in a room so full of people we are literally elbow to elbow. We are all bored. Some people are sleeping, some are reading, some are making small talk. We are, and I quote the judge "the lynchpin of the judicial system". I think maybe that was a poor choice of words on his part, but if he is even half as bored as I am, I forgive his lack of better vocabulary.

I unerstand the importance of an impartial jury. I understand that every person should have the right to defend themselves to the people that decide their fate; people that have no vested interest in the outcome.  I staunchly support that. What I do not understand is how squishing 100+ people in a room that is not reasonable size makes a jury impartial. It makes a pissed off mass of humanity. Sitting here, literally rubbing elbows with strangers, I do not see impartial people. I see bored people, irriated people, people that may need a jury themselves at some point.  Not one person is enthusiastically cheering on the judicial system. Most are annoyed that some dumbass got arrested for something that warrants a trial. Impartial that is not.

I will admit that this could be an excellent people-watching opportunity. Since we are all so packed in, however, it would most likely come off as creepy. "Did you see the lady in the pink sweater and black skirt just looking around all day?  She didn't open her book or play with her phone or nothing. She skeeved me out a little."  So instead, I read a little, play with my phone a little, observe a little. I'm pretty sure an extra-marital affair is brewing a few people down from me.

Dear Mike

Dear Mike,

Today is our son’s 11^th birthday.  Tomorrow marks 11 years since you took off, but I still see you daily.  I see your mannerisms, your facial expressions and your physical attributes. You left and forgot all about the people you left behind.  You have no reminders; you got a new life and a “do-over.”  Your family chose to follow you into the sunset.  Every last Germain abandoned one of their own; they walked away from the most helpless of their family and instead backed the one that should have been an adult.  None of you see what I see.  I see pieces of an 11 year-old you.

Was it easy to erase all memory of me and that tiny person you left in the hospital that night?  Do you ever wonder how he is?  If he’s happy and has everything he needs?  When you don’t pay the support you are supposed to, do you ever wonder what he has to go without while you are at the ball game, drinking your third beer?  Does anyone in your family?  Is your current wife even aware of his existence?

I can assure you that while I see bits and pieces of you in him every day, I also see the polar opposite of your personality.  He is the most positive, hard-working, happy and likable little kid I have ever met.  He never gives up when a challenge arises; often he is so determined to overcome the obstacle that he forgets to take a break.  He would never, ever insult or belittle someone because he knows how much it hurts.  He is loving, conscientious, forgiving to a fault and sharp as a razor.  No one says a remotely unkind word about is mama in his presence, not even his granny, because he will get testy.  “No one says anything bad about my mom!  She’s the best mom in the world!” he will angrily tell them.

He has musical and artistic talent far beyond anyone in your family, even your professional artist mother and professional musician step-father.  I find it very ironic that the very person you walked away from possesses all of the traits your family holds in high regard.  My child is the rock star of all your family’s children and you have no idea.  No one in your family does.  And yes, he’s MY child.  You reneged all claim to him when you left.

That boy is my sunrise and sunset; my universe.  I am thankful that he is mine.  I am even more thankful that you left; I have no doubt that he would not be the kid he is if you were a part of his life.  You would see the good parts as a weakness.  I realize that they are actually a strength, and part of that realization came from having you walk away.  My loving, hard-working baby boy will never do what you did.  I have absolutely no doubt about that.

I suppose I should thank you.  If it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t be here and my world would be very different and empty.  I don’t think you deserve a thank you, however.  What you deserve is to be an old, lonely man with nothing but time on his hands to reflect on his hollow, shallow, self-centered life and never know what became of those who would be there for him if he weren’t such a poor excuse of a human being.

I do have two things to tell you, though.  First, even though I’ve had a child, I am still thinner and hotter than your current wife.  Second, your son hates Jimmy Buffett.  Poetic justice of sorts, I suppose.

The Voice

I was listening to my iPod today, and a recurrent thought popped into my head:  "When I grow up, I want to be a black male soul singer."  Totally.  I want to be Sam Cooke, Otis Redding or Solomon Burke.  Yes, I realize they are all dead and I am a white woman, but if I had my choice, I would be them in their heyday.  Two of my most favorite songs ever are Otis Redding's "These Arms of Mine" and Solomon Burke's "Cry to Me."  They are the quintessential "make-a-chick-melt" songs.  (Baby in Johnny's room in "Dirty Dancing," anyone?)  I can only imgine how inoxicating that kind of hold would be.  Voices that can sing like that are the sexiest thing in the world to me.  Look at Barry White.  He was one UGLY mofo, but he had more women that one man could reasonably handle.  Why?  His voice.  Hearing him say "Hey Baby" was probably akin to a roofie in your drink exept you liked it and remembered everything.  I daresay that if every lingerie store only played music like that, more women would buy more stuff while they were in there.  A man's voice like that just makes a woman FEEL it into her toes.  She'll walk differently, smile differently and probably spend more money.


One of the things that initially drew me to my boyfriend is his voice.  I absolutely love it.  Half the time I have no idea what he's saying; I've stopped registering words and am just listening to the sound.  He could be telling me that he hates what I made for dinner, that he just got a tattoo of a car on his ass or that he's actually a Russian spy and I would have no idea what he just told me.  I just smile like I have a clue.  Good thing he's patient.  

Time For A Change?

I heard something very interesting at work today, but not from my boss.  A competitor is closing, and they are right in my back yard.  I live literally 10 minutes from this place but an hour from my job of going on 12 years.  This struck me in a couple different ways:

My boss didn't tell me.  (He is, however, looking to purchase things from the person that is closing.)  I believe he is concerned that I will finally leave and go on my own.  The place that is closing leaves a void in my county that will need to be filled; why not by me? If I leave, my current employer will be left in the lurch.  I am the only person within the organization that can do my job.  A lot of revenue is both directly and indirectly dependent on me.  It will also be difficult to find a replacement.  Work could be contracted to someone, but of course at a higher rate than I am currently being paid.  There would also be no one to answer customers' questions like I do now.  I am not surprised that he neglected to tell me of the closing.

I have been doing some serious thinking about what I want to do with myself.  I have been unhappy at work for a very long time but I couldn't see how I could change jobs and still support Joe and the bills.  Three weeks ago, I was one more complaint from leaving.  It didn't matter if it was a co-worker or a customer.  I was tired of being in trouble over things I could do nothing about and had absolutely no control over.  I wondered if I was even in the right career anymore.  I like what I do, but the circumstances in which I have to do it are sometimes crummy.  People can be especially rude, no matter how hard you try or how honest you are.  I got home that night and got a phone call from someone needing my help outside of work.  My answer was clear- I need to keep plugging away and make a break when I can.  Build a base on my own and leave.  

So does this mean I should risk it and try to go on my own now?  I have two signs that I should be independent, but is now the right time?  If not now, when?  I'm not completely clear yet.  I guess I have some homework to do.  








AND- Blogger is making my first paragraph look stupid.  Guess I have homework to do on figuring out how to fix that, too!

Reasons Why I'm Awesome

http://blog.pigtailpals.com/2011/08/waking-up-full-of-awesome/


In honor of this blog, I am thinking of reasons why I am awesome.  Here I go...




1.  Because I'm Joe's mama!


2.  I'm fricking hilarious sometimes.


3.  I'm a good cook.


4.  I am searching for my own pair of ruby red slippers.  They HAVE to be glittery.


5.  I "owned" a drill by age 6.  I used to drill holes in the porch.


6.  I know all the words to Donna Summer's "Hot Stuff," which was Number One the week I was born.


7.  I invent new words on a regular basis, a lot of them dirty.


8.  I can tie 3 knots in a piece of licorice with my tongue before it gets too soft and falls apart.


9.  I am telepathically connected with one of my cats.  (He may be a mind-reading alien.  I'm not sure.  The other cat is just absolutely adorable but rather useless.)


10. My legs have literally stopped traffic at Station Square on a Saturday night.


11. Dirt doesn't scare me.  Neither does grease or spit.


12. I'm honest to a fault.


13. I know a LOT about pop culture as it pertains to music.  So do a lot of my friends.


14. I wear plastic frame dark green glasses.  Sometimes I wear plastic frame dark purple glasses.


15. I have a friend with the college nickname of "Flounder."  I love him to pieces and his wife is the closest thing to a twin I'll ever have, right down to the swearing.


16. My blog has an awesome name.


17. I broke a tooth while singing along with Grace Slick to "Somebody To Love" at the top of my lungs.


18. I had a lady stop me at the grocery store today to tell me my shirt was hilariously awesome.


19. When I break something, I do it with style and mess it up real good.  ($6000 deer damage to my car, anyone?)


20. I have a pink chrome-y piggy bank.


And the last one...


21. Because Charlie said I was.  (I cleaned that up a little.)

Oh Holey Wall

There is no longer a me-sized hole in my living room wall.  It's fixed.  I didn't do it, though.  Charlie did.

I had fully intended on fixing it myself.  I was going to turn it into a bookshelf.  As it turns out, I didn't think that through very well, and it would have been the world's most shallow and useless bookshelf.  I told Charlie last week that I wanted to finally fix the whole over the weekend.  I left it there for four months for two reasons: I had been pretty much gone every weekend since Charlie and I met, and I wasn't ready for it to be repaired.  I spent many hours looking at that hole and pondering all aspects of my life.  I thought about where I've been, where I'm headed and how I got to "here."  I defined vague goals for the future and decided that the future would always be "someday" if I didn't decide to change the "now." I changed my attitude.  I changed my direction.  I stared at the hole and cried; I stared at the hole and laughed at the fact that sometimes it literally takes a wall crashing down around me for me to get the message.  I'm no dumb cookie, but sometimes I can't see what is right in front of me.  I needed the hole to stay in front of me for a little while to absorb it's meaning.  I ran the gamut of emotions while my wall was broken.  My spirit was broken, then I was ANGRY.  So angry.  Then I was sad and embarrassed.  I had let this happen because I'm dumb and not worth anything better.  After that came a slight show of humor.  I could sometimes joke about my holey wall.  I began to see the strength within that hole.  I was strong enough to break the wall but not my back; I was strong enough to break the self-inflicted chains of my situation but not forget how I had put them on.  I also began to see the re-construction of that hole, both the wall and my soul.  The wall could go two ways- I could leave the scars visible on the wall and my attitude, or I could rebuild the wall like it never happened and change my attitude like I was never hurt.  Neither change the fact that it happened, or that I remember it all, but I think maybe that is part of the point.  Not everyone needs to see the events that shape you as a person, and wearing them on your sleeve isn't always necessary.  All that matters is the positive effects of those events on you, and how you are with other people.  I am more patient with myself now.  I am more relaxed, also, and that has made me much easier to deal with.  Very few of my life's stressors were of monumental consequence, and I fnally let them go.  It doesn't matter if my laundry is wrinkled.  I have a dryer and can un-wrinkle them when I want to wear them.  It doesn't matter that I have 47 different colors on the outside of my house.  Nothing needs repaired and I'll finish painting everything someday.  I'll plant bushes and more flowers and all of that.  It's not worth losing sleep over like I used to.

This past Saturday, Charlie and I went to Lowes and got a sheet of drywall and all the other junk to close up that part of my life.  I needed direction on how to do it, but I was going to fix it.  Without ever saying a word about it, Charlie did.  He quietly and gently took over the job without me realizing he had done it until he was almost done.  He asked me if there was anything I wanted to put in the wall; any reminders of Nick to seal away.  I said no, but I did have one thing- the calendar page from that fateful day, the one that was in the frame hanging beside the hole.  It read "Life begins after you dump the damn psycho."  I thought about the irony of the whole thing.  One man literally tore me (and my wall) down, and without saying a word, another very unexpected one built everything back up.  He fussed and fretted at finishing the wall just like he fusses over me, quietly, gently, intently and very deliberately without me realizing what he's doing.  He is part of that hole now.  He has helped me turn something very ugly into something beautiful.

But You Gots Blood In Yo' Eyes!

It's almost 1AM and what am I doing?  Typing.  Why?  Because I'm stupid and decided to watch something creepy at bed time.


I recently decided to see what all the hype about "True Blood" is.  Like I had a dose of "V," I got hooked.  The first season was a little creepy but more campy.  I've watched all but the last show of season two, and the last episode I watched kinda freaked me out a little.  The people in the town are under the spell of a maenad, and they have creepy black eyes.  Not black and white eyes, black eyes.  All black, like a bug.  The eyes are stuck in my head and making the back of my neck itchy.


This would not normally bother me if I had watched this through the day or even with somebody.  Like an idiot, however, I decided to crawl into bed and watch this.  Vampires crying blood tears (which is gross and makes my eyes water) and creepy black-eyed empty brained robot people is not a comforting thing to watch all snuggled in bed.  Add to that being alone and in the dark...  I should have known better.  Not even the southern accents of the creepy people were helping.


Now if you will excuse me, the dishwasher suddenly sounds like it may have been taken over by a demon.  I'm going to put earplugs in and hide under my covers until morning.

Super Organizational Wonder Carrie

I couldn't find my camera.  I knew it was around here... somewhere.

See, I have the BEST ideas about organizing my stuff and how cute and neat it will all look when I'm done, but...  Follow through is not my strong suit.  I'll start on a mega-organization spree, get overwhelmed, take a "break" that lasts anywhere from a few days to a few years, and mess up what was already done.  I am a Type A personality to the Nth degree.  At any given time, I have dozens of projects flying around inside my head.  Most if the time I grossly underestimate the time needed to complete each project.  Then I feel like I am behind on my self-imposed schedule and get frustrated.  Throw in a dash of perfectionist, and not only am I behind schedule, I'm not happy with what I have done.  I realize that most of the flaws I see in my finished product are only visible to me, but I see them like a neon sign at night.

In some ways, my juggernaut personality has helped me.  If I decide I am going to learn something, dammit, I WILL learn it and be better at whatever it is than most.  I'm too stubborn and cranky to be anything else.  I learned how to give great pedicures because I couldn't afford to pay someone else to do them for me.  You would never know I did my own french tips and I have zero calluses on my heels.  Yes, I am so stubborn that I learned how to file my own nasty dead feet-skin so that I could have toes that looked like I spent $50 on them.  That's pretty damn stubborn.

In other ways, though, my overzealous perfectionist has not helped me.  Case in point: the camera.  I knew where I had deemed it to live during my last organization spree, but it wasn't there.  Nor was it in it's previous place.  I knew that I had used it when Joe and I went...  I don't know where.  We went somewhere and I had it in my purse.  My purse!  Okay.  I checked the last three purses I used.  Not there.  Holy cow was this frustrating!  If only I had the perfect, most organized house Martha Stewart could dream up.  (Never mind that I would get distracted and leave stuff out of it's place.)  I vowed to finish my purge and organization just as soon as I found my stupid camera.  And put the junk I needed the pictures of on eBay.  Then, with more junk purged, I would take pictures of it and put it on eBay!  Yes!  I was pumped to not only find the camera but clean, organize and put nameless, faceless junk online.  Never mind that it was already 10 o'clock on a Tuesday night.  My perfectionist self is usually not rational in how things are in reality.

After looking for another half hour or so, tearing my bedroom, dining room and den apart in the process, I hit a wall.  I was tired, cranky, hungry and irritated.  I hadn't eaten dinner because I was too wrapped up in my evening's projects to remember to eat.  I decided dinner would be dry Mini-Wheats as I looked at a gossip magazine.  (Dinner of champions for the body AND mind.)  By the time I was done, I could barely keep my eyes open.  I crawled into bed, and you know what my last thought was before I fell asleep?

The camera is in the book bag in the closet.

Prince Charlie and Princess Wussy Chicken‏

So it seems as though my knight in shining armor, my prince on the white stallion, may have appeared.  Except, though, he was a guy in a t-shirt, jeans, white tennis shoes and an old ball cap on a white golf cart with green flames.  Me, being the princess that I am, was wearing a bikini top, jean shorts, flip flops, no makeup and my hair was a crazy mess.  I was swearing like a sailor and setting up a tent when he saw me.  Yep, I always make quite an impression.

It took a little longer for me to notice him; he's far more reserved than I am.  The first thing I noticed was his smile.  He has THE best smile I've ever seen.  He was joking around with some of the mutual friends we were camping with.  Then I heard him talk and thought to myself "Holy shit that dude has a really nice voice."  I shook my head and re-routed my thoughts.  I was there to camp and have a good time, not meet a guy.  I was done with guys.  They were nothing but an annoyance at best, abusive at worst.  I was better off not to notice any, no matter whether they had nice voices and great smiles or not.

The evening went on.  We all had a lot of fun, probably a little more than we should have.  At one point, everyone decided to get on the golf carts and see the other campsites around.  We were at a biker rally, and there were some pretty elaborate set-ups all over.  Everyone divvied up between two golf carts.  Since I am a girl, they didn't make me hang onto the back of the golf cart, they let me have a seat.  I was the only girl on this cart.  The other one had the other two girls on it with their guys.  As the universe would have it, I was on Charlie's cart, sitting right next to him.

I was laughing at something the guy hanging on the back of Charlie's cart said.  So was Charlie.  He looked at me, still smiling, and said "Oh, by the way, I'm Charlie."  I replied with "I'm Carrie."  He nodded and said "I know."  I was hell-bent on having a good time and ignoring the butterflies in my stomach.  I succeeded in having a good time and almost succeeded in forgetting the butterflies.  Almost.

We camped as a group for three nights.   By the second evening, I had began to wonder if Charlie liked me.  He seemed to make his way over to sit or stand near me often, and every time he got on his cart to go anywhere he asked if I wanted to go.  I thought "Well, almost everyone here has someone with them, but we don't.  And I'm the only one who doesn't own at least part of the other golf cart here, so he's probably just being nice."  Besides- I certainly wasn't "on" to impress anyone.  I was being loud and rude and relaxed like anyone is with good friends.  I didn't let the fact that he was a stranger (a cute stranger) keep me from being myself, and even if I had tried to tone it down, my friends weren't about to let me get away with it.  Inside jokes and good-natured insults were flying all over the place, and I was just as much a target as the next person.  To be more polite than usual would have made it all the more noticeable I was attracted to someone within earshot of the ribbing.

On the morning of the third day, Kay, Ellen and I were talking.  Kay said "Um, I think Charlie likes you.  Have you noticed how he's kinda always around where you are?"  I told her I had noticed it, but thought maybe it was just me.  After that, Ellen kept grinning any time she saw him walk around me or talk to me.  She agreed with Kay, apparently.

That night, Charlie asked me if I wanted to go and hear the bad karaoke like we had the last two nights.  I told him yes and got on his golf cart.  Two other guys went with us and we rode all over the campground.  It seemed like Charlie was trying to get rid of the other two, though.  He was driving fast and hitting a lot of bumps, making it hard for them to stand up and hold on to the cart roof.  They complained and he laughed.  When we got back to our tents, they jumped off the back and he turned to me.  "Wanna go?" he asked.  I laughed and nodded.  He hit the gas and we took off.

I was so nervous!  Here I was, driving around a biker rally with a guy I had known a couple of days.  What in the hell was I thinking?!  All I kept telling myself was "Have fun.  If he were that bad a guy, you wouldn't have friends in common."  Then he remarked it was getting chilly.  I actually was a little chilly.  He put his arm around me.  I laughed because of the blatant cheesiness of his move, but so did he.  He didn't move his arm, either.  We did go listen to the karaoke, and then we drove around more.  I think we were gone about two hours.  By the time we got back to the tents, everyone had gone to bed.  We sat on his golf cart with it's silly green flames.  We talked.  We watched some of the people a few campsites over.  Then, he leaned over and kissed me.  I was a little shocked, but he truly was sweet.  

The next morning, it became apparent very quickly that some of our friends had still been awake when we got back the night before.  They had also witnessed Charlie kissing me.  Aside from a few knowing smiles and teasing whispered at me, everyone was surprisingly normal.  I had expected them to give me/us a way harder time than they did.  We all went about the business of packing up our campsite and car by car leaving.

Charlie and I were the last to leave.  We sat around talking for at least an hour after everyone else had gone.  He asked if he could see me again.  I drove home on the proverbial Cloud 9.

Over the last couple of months I've come to realize that Charlie is genuinely a good guy; probably the only one I've ever dated.  He is kind, considerate and wants my family to like him.  He puts up with my dog eating his flip flops and couch cushions and cleans up after her when she pees on his rug.  He treats me like a princess, even when I'm swearing like a sailor and dressed like a bag lady.  I've never seen or heard him come remotely close to losing his temper, even after blowing a trailer tire at night going 65 miles an hour on a busy highway and not having a spare to change it with.  He takes me to his camp, lets me sleep as long as I want and doesn't complain when we get to his breakfast restaurant and can't order breakfast because I slept too late.  He spoils me in a way that only someone that's been treated badly can see and appreciate.  I do see it and I do appreciate it.  I only hope that I do for him what he does for me.

Oh, and the seat on the golf cart is mine now.  We drive it around his campground every weekend and listen to whoever is singing that night.  :)

Texting, The Internet And Stupid People‏

I've had something rattling around in my head for a few weeks now.  It may not be pretty, well-written or even interesting, but here goes.

1. Exes:  If you are so unhappy that you feel the need to send dirty messages to someone who you are not married to, maybe you need to spend the time you are chasing illicit tail to evaluate the state of your union.  Maybe, just maybe, you are slightly at fault, too.  As far as I can tell, marriage is supposed to be about compromise.  Is it out of the realm of possibility that you are not holding up your end of the compromising?  And how in the world is texting an ex that you miss sleeping with them helping ANYTHING AT ALL?  Also take into consideration the ex; if that person has a spouse/ significant other, you are now casting suspicion into that relationship.  If you have a regret from something you did in the past, don't let it cause a regret in your current reality.

While I'm on the subject of exes- plastering your opinions, regrets and whining about how you want someone back all over the internet is not cool.  Neither is talking about how awesome that person was in bed (even though it is flattering), especially in graphic detail.  Sending things to their house isn't wise.  Putting how pissed you are with your brand-new wife on an internet forum and then sending stuff to an ex's house really isn't wise.  You made your metaphorical bed, lie in it.  Sucks to be you; sucks even more to be your wife.

2. People who want tail but are not dating someone:  Texting pictures of your junk IS NOT A TURN ON.  In fact, it is a major turn-off.  Believing that someone may put out if they see a picture of your garter snake is insulting, too.  Equally as offensive:  When someone knows they have a text and open their phone to see it without a warning.  No, no matter how you try to justify it in your horny little head, "Maybe I'll see you this weekend" does not mean "Send me a picture of what happens to you when you stalk me on Facebook."  I have a friend (who is a lesbian) that claims her phone came equipped with a cock-block.  They all should. I'm willing to pay extra for it.

3.  Cyber-stalkers:  Most of you fall into one of the two categories above, but there is another category: the ex's new woman.  I know you all stalk the old flame.  Some people (like me) can even see it in their website stats.  Since some of you live in relatively small areas OR from a very distinct area OR Google someone's name and address and then land on their website, it's pretty easy to figure out who you are.  Duh.  You really need to get more creative in your cyber sleuthing.  And, just so you know, I am indeed skinnier, prettier and have way better legs than you do.  I chose to use those fabulous legs and walk away from that dude you picked up.  I do genuinely feel sorry for you.

As you can see, I'm feeling a little snarky and preachy today.  Sometimes people just need to be beaten in the head to get the message, and today I've got a ball bat.  Hope those of you who needed this were wearing a helmet.

Death Defying At The Farm Show

It's the beginning of August, and around here that means one thing- Farm Show time.  Joe was so excited to go, and I thought about how excited my brother and I used to get as kids.  I can only imagine how annoying he was to our parents; I, on the other hand, was a model child who practically raised herself.  That's my recollection, anyway.

Joe wanted to ride rides.  Once upon a time, I would have ridden almost anything.  In high school, my best friend Linette tricked me into going on the Magnum at Cedar Point.  At that time, it was the world record holder for most pants- shatting drop ever (or something like that.)  I vividly remember screaming every swear word I knew, inventing some new ones, and maintaining control of my bowels at 4000 miles an hour.  Linette laughed the entire time I was screaming.  I think she got more enjoyment out of my reaction than the ride itself.  I was just glad that I got off, in one piece, with clean undies.

We used to ride all of that stuff; if it went fast and looked like we had a chance of flying out and dying, we rode it.  We'd get out of the death-trap seat, me wobbling slightly and Linette practically hopping with excitement.  I was always the wussier one.  I swear Linette could ride a tornado and think it didn't go fast enough or turn as tight as it could.  She would still ride all of those rides even now if a back injury didn't prevent her from it.  

I don't ride those things anymore.  I can't.  One little thing served as the catalyst for my aversion to death-trap rides- Joe.  Ironic, isn't it?  He will ride almost anything without fear.  If I so much as look at some of them, I want to vomit.  I discovered my new found aversion to carnival and amusement park rides after he was born.  All I can attribute it to is being pregnant.  I know my behind did not return to it's previous placement once he arrived, and all I can assume is that my internal organs did not either.  I know that for as huge as I became, the only place my stomach could possibly have been located was between my ears.  That's a lot of ground to travel.  I've wondered if my guts are actually anchored by bungee cords, and once the cords had been stretched that far, they could just not possibly shrink back to previous proportions.  Kinda like over-stretched sock elastic.  I've tried to ride like I used to.  I've put valiant effort into still being fun.  I just can't do it.  It feels like my stomach flies around inside my body from my throat to my knees.  Sometimes it feels like the contents inside it will soon be outside, too.  I swore I would never be one of those wussy moms that wouldn't ride with her kids, but that was before I experienced the miracle of pregnancy.  Now I'll ride the more tame things, but the flying death-traps take off without me.  I hold the stuffed animals, drinks and sunglasses as I sit with the other moms at the exit.

Last night I was one of those moms as I watched Joe fly around on a magic carpet and then on some thing that went around in a circle and had half-naked mermaids painted on it.  Charlie went on that one with him.  I stood there, watching them zing around in a circle, holding the drinks and sunglasses, and I smiled.  I may not be able to ride those things anymore, but I get to sneak more junk food and pop in while my riders defy death.  I think I got the better end of the deal.

Real Versus Normal Versus Me

I went over to Granny's last night.  My aunt, uncle, cousin, her husband and their adorable baby are in town for a few days, so I stopped to visit.  Granny was in a really bad mood.  (Full disclosure:  I haven't been feeling too stellar, so I may not have been a peach, either.)  To listen to Granny, I pretty much couldn't do anything right.  My hair was wrong (I just dyed it and it came out really dark), my dog is bad and I need to get rid of her (yes, she is bad but she's learning), my washer is broken and I need to do something about it (the part costs almost as much as a new washer and I can't afford either right now), but worst of all, and I quote, "Your taste is men is as bad as your taste in dogs."  Then she went on to lecture me on how I don't need to drag Joe through yet another relationship; he's seen enough and been hurt enough by the men I drag home; he doesn't need a dad he needs a friend.  I'm sure there was more in her fountain of opinion that I was too upset to hear.  I tuned her out partway through the mean speech.

Here is what Granny and pretty much everyone else doesn't realize: Yes, Joe has been through many failed relationships with me.  I am a failure in this area as a mother.  However, through all of this, I was trying to find Joe what he should have had at birth- a father and a "real" family.  I felt that he didn't have what he should have because I picked a crappy father that ran away when he was born and I needed to fix it.  I needed to find that for him and give him a "normal" family.  I was encouraged to start dating again when he was less than a year old.  Granny was the first to suggest it and she bugged me until I finally gave in to her fixing me up on a date when Joe was 14 months old.  It was disastrous.  The guy was a complete jerk.  I had begun on the road, though, and I was trying to come to terms with my life and fix what I perceived I did wrong.  I was only 23, and most men my age were really just adolescents in men bodies still.  I had two boyfriends that were more interested in race cars, toys and Saturday night more than being part of a family, but that was normal for the ages we were.  I was the abnormal one.

At 25, after joining eHarmony and being on there for several months, I met someone who also had a little boy.  I thought "Finally!  Someone who will understand where I am in life."  Almost a year before meeting this man, Joe has been diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder.  Had he been "normal" things may have been slightly different.  Had I not become clinically depressed things would definitely have been different.  This man wanted to have a family unit when it fit his parameters, but when it didn't he was pretty mean.  I was so intent on having the "real" family, though, that I kept hoping things would get better, that he and his child would stop being mean to Joe and I when things didn't go their way.  Mean became controlling also, and he wanted me to give Joe to my parents.  I couldn't do that- he was my child and my responsibility.  Yes, Joe could be difficult, but it was because he didn't understand and he couldn't explain that.  Later Joe told me that when I wasn't around, this man would hurt him.  The guilt that I feel because of trusting this man and now knowing I let him hurt Joe is insurmountable.  (I should also add that he proposed.  I thought I was doing something right.  Joe was going to have a real family.)

I was with that man for three years.  Six months after I left him, I met another man.  He had a quiet demeanor and had friends, two things which the last man did not have.  He was also nice to his mother, and the last man was not, so I thought I had met a winner.  He did not have children and was raised by a single mom in a situation very similar to my own.  At first he seemed like he would fit; like he might be the missing link.  What I didn't realize yet was that I was still on the rebound and desperately looking for a dad for Joe and any other children.  I still wanted more, but Joe was now seven and I was running out of time to give him siblings that he would be reasonably close in age to.  I overlooked that fact that this man was "self-employed" and bought the line of "It's just not a busy time for me right now."  Truth was, he wanted a mommy to take care of him so he didn't have to work.  He wanted to do what he wanted when he wanted, but he also wanted to be free of responsibility for himself.  He wasn't mean to Joe, he pretty much just ignored him.  I dealt with his immaturity for almost a year and then walked away weeks after he proposed.

By this point, my man-picking ability was the butt of many jokes.  I swore I was done to everyone I talked to, but secretly I hadn't let go of the hope I would have something close to normal, close to the nuclear family I grew up in.  I met a man who was exactly my age and was divorced.  He had a good job (on the surface).  He had very similar interests to my own.  I had an inkling he drank too much but I brushed it aside.  I should have listened to my gut.  As time went on, he became more controlling, but I was so beaten down by my search for normal that I pretty much gave up.  I let him be mean and berate Joe and I.  I'm not proud of it.  One evening he told me he wanted to get married.  I did not.  I told him that I didn't think I ever wanted to marry again.  I should have seen that my desire to stay unmarried was a sign of my backbone coming back, but I didn't yet.  Later that night, he beat me up and put me through my living room wall.  That was three months ago.  Joe has no idea I was assaulted.  He was not home.

I'm still healing from my last experience.  Physically I am healed, but mentally and emotionally I am not.  I have good days and bad days.  Some days I cannot believe I allowed myself to become so weary that I put up with the crap that I did, other days I am proud that I stood up and fought back as he was hitting and choking me.  I am embarrassed by the whole relationship and that I was willing to not only allow myself and Joe to be treated that way, but that I allowed the whole world to see it too.

The guilt over every crappy situation I have put Joe into in the last almost 10 years is crippling sometimes.  I don't need to have it pointed out; I worry about my suckiness as a mother almost daily.  I have done therapy on and off for six years.  I think I have gotten all I can out of it, but I still don't have the golden answer I have been seeking from the doctor.  I have come to realize that is isn't a succinct one-liner but rather an evolving book.  I have finally given myself permission to be a person and not just Joe's mom.  I don't need to find him a family- he has one.  A rather large, adopted one.  He has more people that treat him like a grandson than most kids have real grandparents, even if they get step-grandparents.  He has more "aunts" and "uncles" than he would have even if his father's family had been involved in his life.  He's happy.  He would like the mythical, fairy-tale version of a dad, but he doesn't really seem to miss having one in reality.  His real grandpa and his real uncle step in and do the "man things" when he needs it or when he says he wants to do "man things."  (Yes, he says "man things."  They involve chopping up trees and driving golf carts and grunting, I think.)  Sometimes his real uncle and some adopted uncles teach him the things moms don't want their kids to learn, but it's all in fun and it's good for him.  I am pretty proud of the family we have managed to accumulate while I was floundering trying to find him a "real" one.  I love all of them and I cannot express how grateful I am that they consider us family, too.

So where does Charlie fit into all of this?  I don't know.  He appeared out of nowhere.  I really, truly had decided to be single.  I turned a corner when I went through my wall, and I decided I was okay by myself.  I just wanted to enjoy my life for the first time since Joe was born.  I wanted to become a real person again, not just someone's employee and Joe's mom.  Not a worker drone or a robot.  I wanted to laugh.  I wanted to experience the things that other people do but I hadn't because of my state of mind and path I felt I needed to take.  I will admit that a lot of the crap was my doing.  I couldn't see at the time that I was trying to make up for something someone else did.  I felt that I had picked Joe's father and it was my fault he was gone.  It wasn't.  His father made the choice to leave.  I couldn't fix that, no matter how hard I tried.  Once I came to terms with that, I began to be a real person again.  I met Charlie while I was doing just that.  I was laughing, in fact.  It felt so liberating.  I allowed myself to be me, and I didn't care about what strangers thought.  Charlie says it was my smile he noticed first.  I find that ironic because it was missing for many years.

Joe has met Charlie twice, both times very briefly.  I'm not interested in the nuclear family anymore.  I'm not looking to fill a void anymore.  Joe and I are fine the way we are.  Charlie is a friend that I go to the movies with.  He holds my hand and kisses me goodnight.  I enjoy spending time with him, and it doesn't have to be anything more than that.  I tried explaining this to Granny once she finished lecturing me last night, but I don't think she understood.  I don't know that she ever will.  I just hope I can begin to not feel hurt when she points out my past mistakes.

Pass Me The Cashews Or I'll Punch You In The Nuts

Martha Focker.  This HAS NOT been a good night.  G is in the hospital.  She and the baby aren't doing so well.  Of course, consequently, those of us that care about them aren't doing so well, either.  I don't know how anyone else is dealing with this, but I can tell you what's up in here.


I want to eat.  I want carbs, sugar, grease, salt...  Anything but a raw or steamed veggie.  Deep fried cheddar cheese filled soft pretzels sound perfect.  So does pie.  Any pie.  And HoHos.  And chocolate covered pretzels, but only the thinner ones with lots of salt on them.  If I eat the way my stress is directing me to, by the time the baby is born G and I will BOTH have baby weight to lose FROM THE SAME BABY.  Hell, if he stays in there long enough, I may need gastric bypass by the time he sees daylight.  I certainly hope he's in there long enough for that.


There is nothing I can do to help her (or him, for that matter).  I have enough nervous energy to run to California and back, but I can't think of a way to make it useful because my brain is too scattered.  The only thing I know to do is pray.  I suppose it's the most powerful thing I can do, also, but it just seems like words right now.  I want to do something concrete; something I can see.  Something I can hear.  Something that puts this nervousness to good use.


Shit.  I'll probably just end up making elaborate cupcakes and then eating them.  Jenny Craig, I'll put you on speed dial.

A Letter To Lola

Dear Lola,

You've been my new roommate/project/supposed companion for almost five months now.  I knew that at first the rules would be difficult to follow, but you seemed to be very smart and I thought you would learn.  I'm not sure if you are at fault or I have supremely crappy puppy judgement.  All I know is that when we met, you were so calm and sweet.  You didn't run like your tail was on fire or chew up flip flops like they were Doritos.  You had bathroom accidents, but you were just a baby.  I know grown men that have bathroom accidents.

Was there some traumatic experience that I need to be made aware of?  Does a cat torture you when I am not looking and cause you to run like a horseman of the apocalypse through the house AT ALL TIMES?  Do you have some sort of rubber/plaster/book vitamin deficiency that causes you to eat my shoes/walls/reading material?  Can you not see people's faces and you only jump up to see who you are dealing with?  If that is the case, I am more than willing to get you doggy glasses.  And vitamins and cat repellent.  If none of those apply, can you please see fit to modify your abhorrent behavior?  I have cruised Amazon and found some "re-enforcement" that I am 100% sure you are not going to like, so I am asking you to reform your ways before they arrive.  Otherwise, well, you will receive presents you will not like.  None of them are chicken flavored, either.  And if they don't work, I do believe a bus ticket to San Jose will be in your future.

Love,

Joemama

Of Donuts and Dr Sous

Donuts.  I love them.  LOVE them.  If there were only two foods I could eat for the rest of my life, the first would be tomatoes and the second would be donuts.  My favorite is Dunkin' Donuts' strawberry frosted.  I could eat a dozen this second, with a cup of really strong black tea.  I'm slobbering all over my keyboard thinking about it.

It really is a wonder I don't weigh a thousand pounds.  Food is comfort to me.  When I'm happy, I eat something new and exciting.  When I'm sad, I eat comfort food.  Tomato soup or macaroni and cheese are two big go-to's.  When I'm stressed, I eat a lot of carbs.  When I have PMS, I eat everything in sight.  I cook to relax.  It's my hobby.  I don't stress about how something will turn out when I experiment; I can usually make even the worst mistakes edible.  There is something methodical and soothing about chopping vegetables to make a soup or watching as something sautes.  Recently I learned how to decorate cakes.  It's difficult to do well, and I practice a lot, but I'm getting better than your average amateur.  The repetition and the attention to detail make me temporarily forget whatever is weighing on my mind.  While I am creating something, be it a dinner or a dessert, I am completely immersed in making it the best I can make it be.  If it's a flop, no big deal.  Nothing was riding on it.

Ironically, my brother is a chef.  I used to work with him a lot, and I loved it.  He was the boss, but he didn't give me a hard time about anything.  He just told me what he wanted, answered my questions about how he wanted it done, and left me to do it.  I really liked doing wedding catering with him.  I never felt stressed while we were working.  I know he was, but I never felt it.  I just did what needed to be done, cooked what needed to be cooked and ate what I could.   And I looked snazzy in my black chef coat, of course.

I think the next food I will attempt to conquer is donuts.  Mom sometimes makes them, but I want to learn on my own.  I want to figure them out and then make my take on them.  After I'm done I will probably need to join Jenny Craig, but it will be fun.  Hopefully I don't burn my kitchen down.

#$^%*^!!!!!!‏

Just about everyone that knows me knows that when I have an opinion, it is usually a strong one.  Most of the time I use profanity in expressing my opinions.  I don't think that's necessarily a flaw; words are weighted and the dirty ones are like a ton of bricks in a conversation.  That being said, I don't have to be profane.  I can, and do, have intellectual conversations where I would never need to be censored.  In some ways I think that is a hallmark of intelligence.  I have a large and diverse vocabulary, and I understand when, where and with whom I can let it fly.  I would never tell my granny to kiss my sweet ass, but I would tell my cousin that in front of her.  I would never, ever swear in front of my other grandparents because they would probably pass out if I said it near either of their good ears.

My dabbling in bad words started very, very young.  My father has a cousin that always said "Hi Carrie!  How the hell are ya?" when she would see me.  She did this from the time I could utter any words on.  (She still does to this day.)  Well, how do you think I began greeting her?  Apparently at less than 18 months old, I did just that at the top of my lungs in Kmart.  My mom was slightly appalled.  She has a cousin that taught me to call boys "dickheads," among other things.  At age two, I went to Sunday School and called a little boy that.  (I remember it.)  I got into trouble.  Ironically, now, that little boy is a pastor.  He got a calling, I just ate a lot of soap.  A LOT of soap.  

I employ my extensive vernacular especially while driving.  I am also very adept at driving, eating and gesturing at the same time.  Recently, my son was riding in the car with my mom when she called some other driver an "asshole."  Then she must have said something to the effect of "Whoops, that slipped."  My adorable, not-so-little cherub said "Don't worry, Grandma.  My mom says that all the time.  Sometimes she gives them the middle finger, too."  He's so darling.  What he doesn't realize is how well-educated he is in the English language.  When he gets to college, he will impress many of his guy friends with the colorful words and phrases I have taught him.  I know that in my predominantly male field of work, my potty-mouth had garnered me much respect.  If I am talking to a rep and they ask me about repairing the latest and greatest doo-ma-flatchie their company has out, I pull no punches.  I will not hesitate to tell the boss if I think that new product is a piece of shit and why I think so.  I have also learned that when you are repairing something, as I make a living doing, the broken junk tends to respond better when you swear at it's resistance.  Several times a week I resort to calling things names that would make my former sailor Grandpa blink.  (I do think, though, that he spoke to the things he was fixing at work the same way I do.  He just didn't let any of us hear it.)   I refer to my self-censorship as my "filter."  One of my co-workers told me "I love it when your filter is turned of.  I've never heard a girl talk like that and it's hilarious."  I don't think of this as crude or unintelligent.  I am just using those words as a way of expressing my present emotional, physical or mental state, much as a painter paints or a composer writes music.  If there were a profanity hall of fame, I would be in it.   The picture would probably be me holding a bottle of that nasty soap Mom made me eat.

Wussy Chicken Goes On A Date (And Does Not Die)

I did go on a date with Charlie.  I was afraid that Kay and Linette would beat me up and I would chase off Charlie if I didn't.  I was completely scared out of my wits and wanted to hide under my bed, but Charlie seemed like a really nice guy and chasing him off would have been a shame.  (I didn't take into consideration that if he wasn't scared by the end of the weekend we met, maybe he was made of tougher stuff that I had given him credit for.  Or he was brain-damaged, in which case it made sense he would hang out with Bear, Ted, Jim and Waffle.)  To distract myself from being nervous, I made cupcakes.  Red velvet, which in hindsight wasn't the smartest move.  Cream cheese frosting does not like heat and we were going on a picnic.  Whoops.


Charlie picked me up and I was SO NERVOUS.  I'm pretty sure he was a little, too.  We drove out to Moraine, a state park about 20 mintues away.  It seemed like everyone in town decided to have a picnic there, too.  We drove around for another 20 minutes looking for a place to sit.  Charlie was very careful to find a place in the shade so my ghostly white skin did not turn crispy and red.  I thought that was really sweet and considerate of him, especially since he's tan and it's obvious the sun does not have a vendetta against him like it does me.  Once we found a place to go, he unloaded the car.  He had indeed brought everything we needed.  I will admit that I was impressed- most of the time when a man says he'll take care of everything, he means "I'll drive through somewhere and if it ain't in the bag, we don't need it."  He even had a blanket so my ass didn't get dirty from the bench.  I don't think I would have remembered that.


Charlie was so sweet and kind the entire time we were out.  I'm not used to that.  We ate, talked, people watched and walked the Frisbee golf trail just to see how far it went.  It was nice.  I wasn't nervous anymore- we were just being two people having a nice time.  I could handle that.  I tried my best not to be self-conscious and almost succeeded at that, too.  It was a good day.


Day turned to evening and we went to watch the fireworks at the local fair.  We parked outside the fairgrounds and he held my hand while we watched the colors shoot across the sky.  We could hear the kids behind us yelling and the parents chattering.  All seemed right for the moment.  I've learned that sometimes that's all it needs to be- moments where all is right.  No deeper meaning, no need for the moment to lead to another.  No need to look for longevity because longevity can come from good moments in succession.


I did invite Charlie in when we got back to my house.  I was slightly worried because the me-sized hole in the wall is still there from Nick beating me up, but Charlie didn't say anything about it.  I've decided that the hole is going to stay- it is a physical reminder of me turning a corner in my life.  I am going to turn it into a built-in bookshelf.  I am going to put meaningful things in that hole, just the same as I do in my mind and my heart.  I am also going to build it myself.  I can fix the holes in my heart and mend my spirit, and I can fix the hole in my wall and mend my mind.  I am beginning to see what happened to me as a blessing.  I needed to change paths to find happiness and peace of mind, but I didn't realize it.  The calendar page from my desk calender for April 21, 2011, the night I was beat up, is already in a frame hanging beside the hole.  It will be the first thing to go on my shelf.  The page has a lady on it saying "Life begins when you dump the damn psycho."  How true, how true.  And I am eternally grateful for the life-changing experience I have had.  I am stumbling down the road toward happiness, and I can see it.  It is the journey and the moments, especially the good ones.

I'm A Big, Fat, Wussy Chicken

My friend Aaron sent me a message regarding a blog post from a few weeks back.  I thought I should share it with you.  It is on of the most beautiful, sensible things I have ever even read, let alone have been written to me.  (Yes, I used his read name.  He deserves the credit.)


"Though my experience hasn't been exactly like yours, I've been through a bit of what you're talking about (plus I'm a man-child). After 10 years, and a daughter together, my spouse left us, and I've been single dad-ing it for over a year now. 

Perhaps what has improved my life so significantly is allowing myself a paradigm shift in what I expect in a relationship. After such severe heartache, and crushed dreams, I started to think of something one of my teachers said to me:
"We live in an age of serial monogamy... We're faithful to someone as long as we are happy, and then we move on to be faithful to someone else...and so on."

I guess after going through what I had, I have kind of taken comfort in that... and started to think of it as a solution to a problem in my thinking......"that I need to find someone to spend the rest of my life with." 

I suppose this might sound cruel, or indecent, but I really don't think it is. I think it has given me the chance to stand alone. To take a little bit more responsibility for myself, and yes, to enjoy myself a little bit more... I wouldn't presume that everyone would be fulfilled in taking my route, though.

Since then, I've started seeing this girl, and right away, expressed that I have no interest in ever marrying again. I told her that I am the type that will never cheat, and that I would expect the same. I also told her that I don't want to live together, and don't want her to be a mother to my daughter. I want to enjoy her company, be great friends, be great lovers, go on trips, have lunch together, watch movies, whatever we enjoy... without planting huge expectations on each other. I told her that I'd rather miss her once in a while, than wish she would go away once in a while... In short, that I want to be happy and I want her to be happy, being two separate people... who love each other. And I must say, this has been the most stress-free year of my life... partially because our relationship was not grown from a seed of expectations. It has NOT been perfect, but I did want to share my thoughts with you...

I don't see you leaving a trail of man-children in your wake, because you just don't seem that type. But who knows? Perhaps there's some young guy out there that you'd REALLY get along with. Someone that might start right out expecting to just have a ton of fun with you, and not be burdened with marriage, fathering, co-habitating? I know I would have!!! You're a gorgeous lady, and "sharp as a razor, soft as a prayer"... Hope this doesn't sound weird! I hope the best for you, and don't think you're done having fun OR experiencing romance...
-Aaron."

I'm sitting here tonight typing this instead of sleeping.  I have a wonderful friend who is here for a visit, but she is leaving in just a few short hours.  A few more hours after that, I have a date with Charlie.  I am scared shitless.  I don't know what to think or do.  I just know that he seems like a really decent guy and I don't know yet if I am in a place to deal with the opposite sex.  I believe that Aaron's approach is exactly what I need and will do regardless of what man I may date, but am I just going to be a jackass and screw things up anyway?  Am I even interesting enough to keep a decent guy's interest? I am excellent at learning new skills- it distracts me from problems.  I can fix things, cook things, bake things, write things...  But what do you do with a person?  How do you know if you are screwing a good thing up or propping up a bad one?  Am I okay after dealing with the Nick situation?  Should I just chicken out and not go?  I really like this guy.  I want to know him better, but I am afraid I can't handle a real, decent man.  I'm used to selfish, defective man-children and taking care of them and their messes.  The messes distract me from dealing with the truth- I am uncomfortable with better.  I feel unworthy of a decent man, but why?  I know all of the psycho-babble reasons, but what is the blood-and-guts reason?  I am still not completely sure.


I have been told by my two closest friends that I should go on this date; that I deserve this.  I deserve to have fun and be treated well by a nice guy.  They both pretty much gave me a little hell over being hesitant.  I think it was not because of being hesitant, it was over me being wussy.  A chicken.  It was pointed out to me that I could not ever be happy in a relationship if I didn't go out to eventually have one, and nice guys aren't exactly a dime a dozen.   I needed to seize the opportunity (and to be honest, the attraction.  He's cute).  I guess I will fill you in on the details of my date after I have it.  Cross your fingers that I don't do something to screw it up.

I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends‏

Holy cow.  I had a weekend that was, well, perfect.  If I didn't have the friends that I do, it would have been completely awful, but they are awesome and so was my weekend.

A couple of months ago, after Nick beat me up and while I was dealing with the aftermath, I went to the movies with Kay, Ellen and Ellen's mom.  We were talking and Ellen said "Hey, why don't you go camping with us in June?"  I knew they went to this specific event every year but I had never gone before.  I hemmed and hawed for weeks about going but then decided "Hell with it.  I might as well go."  They go with a whole group of bikers.  The thought was intimidating, but I knew most of the ones that would be at their campsite.  I would be safe and who knows- maybe I would have fun.

I spent a few days before the trip trying to figure out what I needed to take.  I had not been camping in about 5 years, and the last bunch of times were at Nascar races.  I was very good at packing for those, but it was a different type of thing.  I was used to taking everything, and for two people, not just little old me.  I dug out my cooler, camp chair, little camp table, air mattress...  But I couldn't find my tent.  The night before I was to leave, I had to go shopping for a tent.  I was pissed.  I knew where the tent I had should have been, but it wasn't there; it wasn't anywhere.  Finding a little tent to fit a queen sized air mattress isn't easy, but I managed to find one for $30.  Not bad.  And I didn't have to buy the Taj Mahal of tents, either.  I began to feel better about the whole trip.

I had to work for part of the day that I was to begin camping.  I considered backing out at the last minute and using work as an excuse.  I realized that was wussy.  I don't like new, unknown situations, but I was going to be with friends.  It was only a half-new experience, right?  I could handle that.  So, after working 6 hours, off I went to the camp ground.  It was close enough to my house that I could drive home for a shower (and a nap) every day.  I checked in while Kay and Ellen waited for me in their golf cart.  I had to follow them for what seemed like a hundred miles to their campsite.  Everyone but me was already set up, and the party was in full swing.  It took me all of 10 minutes to set up my teeny tent and air mattress.  I was officially camping.

I was very surprised at how relaxed I felt.  It was immediate, even though I was in a weird place with port-a-potties.  There were also 2, later to be 3, people I had never met before camping in the same little group.  It dawned on me that if the people I knew thought they were okay, then I didn't need to be uncomfortable.  After a while, everyone decided to go for a ride on the golf carts and look at all the other camp sites.  Kay, her husband Bear, Ellen, and her boyfriend Waffle rode on the cart they had brought.  I ended up on a different one with one of the people I had never met, Charlie.  I got to sit in the front while Ted stood on the back and held on.

I was not quite prepared for the sights I saw.  Signs everywhere, lights, tiki bars...  It was like redneck Disney.  It was worse but so much better than a Nascar race.  I saw naked people while I listened to bad, bad karaoke.  I laughed so hard my stomach hurt and yelled so much my voice became scratchy.  I didn't have any stress that I could even remember if someone asked me.  The only thing I cared about was the moment, and I fully intended to live it and enjoy it.  I have such a difficult time letting things just be and not worrying, but not that night.  Not the whole weekend, actually.  We were all just there, in the moment, being happy.  The freedom to do that was intoxicating.  God knows I had more than enough to worry about, especially over what would happen on Sunday evening, but I just didn't.  I didn't think about it AT ALL.  That was a first.  I'm kind of proud of myself.

The weekend progressed in much the same manner; three nights of people watching and being in the moment.  Most of the time when we went for golf cart rides, I rode on the seat beside Charlie.  He was so unbelievably polite and considerate that I wasn't sure what to think.  I came to the conclusion that he might be afraid of me.  I was loud and laughing and quick with smart-ass comebacks to my friends, and I supposed that could be taken as abrasive.  I wasn't uncomfortable, though.  I usually am when I think someone doesn't like me, but not this time.  I didn't think about it much; I was just being.  I loved it.

Saturday night was the last night.  We had to be cleared out by noon on Sunday.  Oh, did we have fun.  I was up ALL NIGHT.  I think I dozed around 5 for a little bit, but I knew when the sun was coming up.  We all got up and were packed up by 8.  I was sad to leave but happy I had been there.  I wasn't even thinking about what was waiting to be dealt with later that evening.  I was just happy.

I went in to my brother's restaurant and helped him for about 5 hours.  Then I had to rush home- the constable was waiting for me.  Nick finally decided to get his stuff.  Had I not had the awesome weekend I had, I would have been a complete mess.  Yes, he was back where he was hauled out from in cuffs after beating me up.  He was back on my property.  I was in control this time, but it was still scary.  I will admit to a panic attack when I saw him through the window.  It was only one, though, not days filled with them.  I have my beyond awesome friends to thank for that.  They kept me from being a basket case and we had a hell of a good time.

Oh, and Charlie asked me out.  Huh.  I guess I wasn't scary after all.

Yes, I Would Take Over The World, But I Have To Go To Mom's And Do Laundry First

I don't know what pagan god I pissed off, but it seems as though almost everything in my possession has either broken, malfunctioned, crashed or been hit by a wayward deer recently.  Peruse my embarrassingly lengthy list:

1.  Washing machine- Two years old, just out of warranty.  Was not a cheap-o one, either.  I think the motor is fried.

2. Van brakes- The nifty little "Yo, your power brakes done gave up on you" light came on as I tried to avoid an old guy backing out of the American Legion.

3. Van window- The motor in the power window died one afternoon before I left work.  I rode home (an hour drive) with a monsoon blowing in my face.

4. Lawn Mower- Now overheats after doing approximately half the yard.  I realize that it has to haul my ass around as we mow, but I haven't gained THAT much weight.

5. Weed Whacker- Pieces went flying and whacked the mailbox last time I used it.

6. Oven- Light will not work.  Yes, I checked the bulb.

7. Sweeper- Quit sucking, the only thing I need it to do.

8. Weenie Wagon-Supposed to be my "reliable" car.  It needed tires and inspection.  Well, it got $600 in tires but did not pass inspection.  Apparently it has joint and mount issues.  I would suppose if I had joint issues, it would be hard for me to mount things, too.  Whatever.  It's another $500 to make my "reliable" car legal again.

9. Weenie Wagon- Yes, we were just here.  Before it can have more money put into it to pass inspection, it has to have a new front end put on it.  Some dumb-ass deer decided that I did not have enough things to fix and ran into me while I was going 50 miles an hour.  I sent him to meet his maker, flying sideways.

What is the true irony in all of this?  I fix things for a living.  My job is to remove problems, not create them.  I'm usually the one receiving the "Everything in my life is breaking and you're telling me it's going to cost what?!" calls, not making them.  I do not like the tables turning on me.  Neither does my (now very thin) wallet.  I may be selling bodily fluids to fund the next catastrophe.

Oh, yeah, and my laptop speakers just made a sizzling noise and died.

You Are A Pain In My... Eyeball?

I get migraines.  Sometimes I get them frequently.  Lately this has been the case, and it sucks.  They visit for a variety of reason, such as stress, the weather, hormones, or just because they're fun.  I woke up with one again this morning and knew it was not going to cooperate and let me go to work like the two others I've had in the last week.  I called in to work, mumbled something about "head hurty, no worky," and went back to sleep.  Kind of.  My head hurt so badly I could not sleep it away.  That doesn't happen often, but it does happen.

During my fitful nap, I had all kinds of brilliant ideas to write about.  Can I remember any of them now?  Of course not.  I even remember thinking to myself "Hey, write this stuff down," but my head did not permit me to open my eyes and see light, so that didn't happen.  Once I decided to see if I could eat something, I started thinking.  (That's not usually a good thing, by the way.)  Is it possible that I, or someone like me, has cured cancer or solved the world's problems during a moment of midnight lucidness only to erase it with sleep?  Is it like typing a brilliant piece of literature only to have your computer reboot before it was saved?  That is a frustrating thought.  The only way I can think of to not lose the idea is to not sleep, but the only people I know that don't sleep are tweakers, and they aren't very bright.  I doubt some mystery is ever unlocked within their brains.

Well, it seems as though the ice pick had decided to return to stab my right eye again.  I thought this migraine was on it's way out.  Apparently I was mistaken.  Maybe I'll have a brilliant thought while I am resting and I'll actually remember it.  Probably not.