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Look at her expression. She is thoughtful. She seems happy. The smile, however, is only a half-smile. Underneath I can tell she is wondering if this will be the last time her daughter embraces her out of love. She wonders if this child is going to break her heart again. She holds her close to her heart, inhales deeply, and remembers every moment of that child's life leading up to now. How did we get here? She wonders. How did this girl become a teenager who cares nothing about anyone but herself? How did I raise this?
In her face is the certainty that this moment of connection is fleeting, soon to be replaced with shouting matches and rebellious rhetoric from a woman-child.
When I look at that photo of my mother and I, I feel a deep sense of regret. I was so hard on her. She did the best she could, raising us alone, and I never gave her credit for the amazing job she did. Our relationship is distant now, and I blame myself. Still, with all these miles separating us, to see her I need only to look in the mirror.
Mom used to sit at the kitchen table every morning with her coffee and her cigarettes, staring out the window silently. The first hour she was awake we usually left her alone. Now that I am a mother and wife, I find myself doing the same thing. Sitting out front, staring out at the sky, thinking so deeply that I hardly realize when someone is talking to me.
What did she think about? Did she wonder if her marriage was going to work? If her children were going to live through their teenage years? Did she go over hurtful words I had said to her over and over in her head? Was she pondering her existence and its importance? Did she think about her mother?
I do.
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It's nearly 4 p.m. on a Sunday and I am still in bed. Small beams of sunlight peek through the edges of the dark blue blanket that should be sealing the window. I am toying with the idea of spending twenty minutes to rearrange its placement so that I can properly seclude myself in my darkened bedroom. I suppose if I am to mourn appropriately I should cover the mirrors as well, but that's just too much effort right now. On the shelf above my bed sits a half-eaten jalapeno bagel and a cold cup of coffee which would have served me better had it been spiked with Velvet. Next to the coffee sits my phone. My painfully silent phone.
On any normal Sunday at this time, I would be enjoying a glass of wine with one of my dearest friends, watching Nascar and talking about nothing. And everything. On any other day like this, she would be sitting on my bed telling me to get dressed, that we were going to her house to sit outside and talk. That her husband would cook us a fantastic meal and we would relax and just "be". But not today. Today I get up only to step outside and smoke. Then it's back to bed. Back to solitary confinement. Back to mourning. Back to episodes of Deadliest Catch and Swingtown that I haven't seen yet. Then I'll probably start on the CSI Miami's and eventually the downloaded movies as a last ditch effort to avoid the bouts of tears that keep catching me off guard whenever something on screen reminds me of the friendship I have lost.
Through a series of misunderstandings, mistakes and miscommunications, she has begun confiding in someone else. I'm not her go-to gal anymore. I don't know what I am to her, actually. A mistake, I think. Someone she trusted with her inner-most thoughts who abandoned her when she needed me most. Though I didn't, but that isn't the point here. Wherever she is now, she doesn't want me there.
The Mr. swears that my friendship with her has changed me. Damn right, I say. I learned to be stronger than I thought I could be. Learned to pick my battles, but be ferocious when necessary. Learned that it was OK to stand up for myself. Stand up for what I believe in. Most importantly, I learned that I might possibly have some redeeming value. That loving people right where they are isn't a curse, but a gift. Unfortunately, I am now left to wonder if any of these revelations matter as the tables have turned, leaving me as the outcasted girl in high school. You know the one-as soon as she walks away you hear "I never really liked her anyway".
Which cuts me to the core.
There is nothing that went on in our friendship that should have brought us to this point. Yet here we are. I made some choices. She made some choices. I wasn't planning to leave her behind, but it would seem she would prefer it that way. I suppose I didn't really realize that until last night.
I long for those days when I believed wholeheartedly that nothing would ever come between us. That whatever came our way, we were honest enough with one another that we could get through it, and be stronger in the end. I expected to still be the best of friends in 20 years. Now am left wondering what conversations are being had at my expense when I'm not there. Nevermind years from now.
I don't see healing on the horizon. Only loss. And so I mourn.
I hope she finds that friend she's looking for. I hope that she looks back and treasures the good parts of our friendship and what it meant. I hope at some point she stops seeing me as the bad guy. Above all, I hope she finds that happiness and fulfillment that makes her life complete, whether I'm in it or not. Contrary to what she thinks, she really does deserve to be happy.
Maybe someday I will, too.
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The Mr. has a creepy family secret. And I am going to reveal it here on my blog. To you. I trust you. You won't tell anyone, right? Right!
When he was young, and asleep, he didn't stay in bed. Not only did he not stay in bed, but he wandered around and did things as if on Lyrica completely unaware that he was awake and... doing things.
His parents once witnessed him walk in the kitchen where they were at the table, open the dishwasher, and proceed to use it as a urinal. Can't blame a sleepwalking kid, right?
Well apparently this trait is genetic.
The first time I was aware of it, our youngest child was sleeping at my sister's townhouse. At some point during the night, she felt she needed to open the second story window and shimmy out on ledge above the front door. It was then, while perched precariously twenty feet above the cement walkway that she woke up completely and realized she was in a bit of trouble. She attempted to jump across the walkway onto the semi-soft grass and landed with one foot on the cement, breaking it in three places. Her loud wailing woke the neighbors before it woke us. The pounding on the door woke us .
It was 3 a.m. when we arrived at the Emergency Room with our daughter (yet again...she has a frequent flier account there). I had no experience with this type of thing. My mom assured me that it was probably isolated. She was just really tired. Wore herself out playing with the cousins.
Okay, I thought. That makes sense. I'm not freaked out. I'm okay. Really.
Thankfully, I've only since seen her have conversations and do harmless things like feed the dogs in the middle of the night. I send her back to bed and she giggles, remembering nothing in the morning. Besides, we lock the dishwasher. I'm not takin any chances. Although, I would love to see the look on the Mr.'s face when he grabs a cup for water in the morning...or maybe the Boy since he's the one that doesn't empty the dishwasher at night when it's clean.
My point, before I got slightly sidetracked, was that while it wasn't completely isolated, it seemed harmless enough. Until...
Last night, she spent the night at a friend's house. This friend lives on some acreage next to a small farm. They have horses and goats and geese and such. It's mini-Redneck heaven.
At some point during the night, she was informed, she sat up and didn't know where she was. In the dark, she panicked and ran up the stairs. Thankfully avoiding the window, she unlocked the front door, walked outside and across the yard to the farm next door. Where she knocked on the door at 2 a.m. It was about the time they answered that she woke up completely and realized that she not only knew where she was, but knew whose door she had knocked on. She apologized, explained and went back in the house.
When she awoke the next morning, she thought she had experienced the strangest dream...
Until her friend called ten minutes ago. And told her she hadn't been dreaming. She had tears in her eyes as she relayed the story to me. I can tell she was a little frightened.
I am too.
I'm going to spend the next two hours Googling sleep walking children. For heaven's sake. The child obtains enough injuries when wide awake. I shudder to think what could happen while she's asleep.
Anyone have experience with this? Anyone have tranquilizers? No, not for her. For me. I'm going to need something to put in my wine tonight if I'm ever going to sleep. Like ever again.
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This morning, I visited a new fishing spot. A local river with a steep downgrade of large boulders followed by a steep path where I continually hit my shin on the same sharp piece of a log, resulting in a 5 inch diameter bruise. Lovely.
However, well worth it:
My love for fishing and my necessity for Vicodin occasionally (Fibromyalgia is a bitch) led me to be watching an infomercial while I was particularly medicated one afternoon. I was entranced by a whirlwind advertisement for a BRAND! NEW! FISHING! LURE! SYSTEM! Internets, I was hooked. Pardon the pun. I grabbed my credit card and called the number. Sap that I am.
And all for $19.95! What a deal!
Here's where our story really begins.
I haven't called to order anything since "Songs for Worship" back in 1999. Back then, it was real people who answered. Yes, they tried to get you to fill out surveys and buy more stuff. But it was easy to say no and they gave up easily. Most of the time.
There was an automated answering system. The inventor of which should be hung by his testicles in the public square. I'm sure they still do that somewhere, right?
The exchange (if you can call it that) went like this:
Recording: Congratulations for ordering the Mighty Lure 5 Senses Fishing System! Unconditionally guaranteed to catch more fish than anything else in the whole wide world! Because you have spent your hard-earned money on this crappy system, we are offering you MORE crappy systems for five bucks less! But only if you order them now! To order them NOW, say "yes" or press 1!
Me: Silence
Recording: I can understand your hesitance. But you might consider buying another set or five for gifts, to irritate your husband with your credit card debt, or to hand out to the homeless. To order more kits, say "yes" or press 1! If you do not want to order more kits, please press 2 or say "No".
Me: NO!
Recording: I understand. Well, in addition to your lure kit, and any others we might convince you to buy before you hang up, you might want to get accessory kits and refills for the smelly stuff. Only nine-ninety-five! To order an accessory kit, please say "yes" or press 1!
Repeat the first process. About fifty times for fifty different "offers". I was afraid to hang up for fear they would take that as a YES and run my card for a thousand bucks. So I stayed on the line and did my duty, saying NO to every five-ninety-nine add-on they offered and spending a good 30 minutes on the phone.
By the time I hung up, my meds had worn off and my buyers remorse set in. We'll have to see how I feel when my package arrives in 6-8 weeks.
So what I really ended up buying was a chunk of manipulative merchandising and a heaping helping of frustration. All for the amazing price of $19.99 plus shipping!
Will keep you posted on how the lures work. And I'll totally eat my words if they work like they claim to. The fish? We'll see...
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I made a choice not long ago. To follow my faith and leave behind some people and places that contradict what I believe and want to stand for. It's been painful, to say the least.
Today, I received what I believe is a blessing for my efforts.
A stimulus check in the mail that I didn't think we'd actually see.
In the exact amount we needed to catch up.
God is good. I'm tellin' ya.
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Tonight at 7:00 p.m. Pacific time, I will be on the Jester Show on Talk Shoe!
Subjects will range from Vicodin to Religion to (as usual) sex! So please click over there and join in the fun!
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Yesterday I wanted to blog. I had a great post all laid out in my head about the new fishing lures I bought. Yes, it would have been incredibly entertaining, and I promise I will get back to that story. Later.
Right now I don't know what to say.
I'm full of such conflicting emotions. Pride mixed with fear. Excitement mixed with fear. Love mixed with, yes, fear.
You see, my son- my only son -is joining the Marines today.
He's been talking about it for years now. They sucked him in with the phrase "Pain is weakness leaving the body". He's tough like that. Or likes to think he is.
We looked into all the branches of the military and for a while he was talking about becoming a Navy Seal. But he did his homework and found the Marines had everything he was looking for, including the skills for the jobs he wants when he finishes his enlistment. So the Marines it is.
The boy still has another year of high school, so he's going into a delayed entry program which will help him with some of the skills he'll need in boot camp.
My baby will be in boot camp this time next year.
As a mother, I'm terrified. Of course, I completely support what he's doing. I think he's perfect for the Marines. I think he'll do very well. I feel strongly that my support is vital for him to succeed, and he's got it in full. I am fiercely patriotic and on some level feel that it is my duty to offer my son to serve my country. And so I will sign those papers without hesitation.
But we are still at war. And I'd be nuts if I wasn't afraid. Just a little.
Sure, there's the fact that he's growing up and spreading his wings. That's hard in itself. I think I'd have a similar version of the same emotion if he were getting married or having a child.
Maybe if I had waited to have kids I wouldn't feel so unprepared at 35 to give up my son. To watch him leave, knowing that he's headed for a life that will challenge him in ways he's never known. Maybe not.
Either way, I'm incredibly proud of my boy. My little man, who is no longer little at 6'1". He's off to find his future, and probably the most frightening thing is how little his mom will have to do with it.
Here's to learning how to let go.
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I was having a great time. It was 10 a.m. and I had consumed two drop-shots of Blue Cuaco and grape Vodka dropped in Guava Rockstar. Followed by one more. I had only had four hours of sleep the night before and our first match in the APA Pool tournament? Let's just say I bombed it. Which explains the drinking. In a room full of 25 pool tables and over 150 people, I sat with my team, drinking, celebrating, and hoping beyond hope that we would play well enough to qualify to go to Vegas.
One of my teammates was considerably less sober than I and was chatting up some hot young stud from our first match. We all played and laughed and some were flirting with decidedly less-than-harmless banter. When she began putting quarters down my shirt for the benefit of aforementioned gentleman, I thought perhaps I should go find something else to do and excused myself. I mean, out with my husband singing karaoke is one thing. But alone in a strange town with a drunk gal putting money in my bra? Probably not where I want to be.
About an hour later, I looked up just in time to see her enter the restroom (a 2-stall restroom in a bar full of people) with this young man in tow. His friends dutifully guarded the door. His team captain was standing next to me and I relayed the information to him, letting him know I was headed over to deal with the situation and that he might want to have a conversation with his team member. Because a bathroom? Just yuck.
I walked in just in time to find another woman had entered and left, then grabbed a manager. We all arrived at the restroom at the same time, to a very pink-cheeked teammate of mine and her current boy toy exiting the stall. After cutting them both off (at 11 a.m.!!) and threatening to kick them out if they did it again, we all settled back in to our tables and got back to the job of shooting pool.
This is when I really got to consider what had just happened and how it had the potential to affect me and the life I want to live. Because I have chosen to associate myself with her, and because several folks had seen me talking to her (and her putting money down my shirt), I can't imagine what folks must have thought of ME. My morals. MY mindset. MY sobriety. And then I got upset. At myself.
While I am not usually one to care about what people think, there are times when it really does matter. Standing in front of 1200 people leading worship music at church, for example. Granted, nobody is sitting there thinking I shouldn't be leading because I sometimes go to (Gasp!) a bar for karaoke. That's not what it's about. But certain behaviors cross lines and if the folks I spend time with cross those lines regularly, what does that say about me?
I've tried to find myself in that environment. I've tried to fit in without breaking boundaries. I've tried to be the fun-loving redhead without crossing the lines I have drawn in the sand in my head. Wait. I don't have sand in my head. Mostly just rocks. Anyway, trying to fit someone else's idea of who I should be, whether in church or in a bar is not part of my whole plan of liking the person in the mirror. I'm not going to pick up strange men. Or women. I'm not going to drink until I throw up. I'm not going to be rowdy and raunchy (ok..maybe raunchy) and treat the men in the room as toys. Because while those may be good times, the path I'm walking leads away from all that. And toward the one thing that gives me true joy that lasts. True satisfaction. It completes me (tear!). And no amount of good-timing can compare to the feeing of being smack dab in the center of my purpose in life. It's pure bliss. And I won't give it up.
I walked through the forest and saw two paths in the road, and took the one on the right. The one with all those cool folks cheering me on and handing me a fresh drink. The one where everyone was having so! much! fun! Then, a bit down the path, I found it wasn't as fun as I thought it would be, and through the trees I can see, just barely, the other path I should have taken. And I really think I can get there from here. It's just through those trees.
The most difficult thing about leaving that part of myself behind is that I leave the people too. And some of them? I am pretty darned attached to. There are some that I know full well I will spend time with in other situations where I can stick to my guns, so to speak, and still be tight with good peeps. But some of them? In a few weeks they'll wonder where I've been. Why I don't come around. If I stopped caring for them. And that is where it hurts.
Come with me. There is so much more to life than the weekends at the bar. The dynamics of our relationship have to change. No question about it. But losing you competely? It's what has kept me from leaving the path this long. But if I don't go now, I will be left behind. I don't want to sit on a barstool when I'm 60 with a cigarette in one hand, a Jack & Diet in the other watching fishing shows on the teevee and wondering what happened to all my grand plans of changing the world.
The mirror isn't quite what I'd like it to be. Yet. But without you? I'm not sure I would like the reflection any more than I do now.
Crossroads suck. Which is why there are so many movies about them. And teevee shows.
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First of all, I wouldn't be a Follower if I didn't...well...follow somebody!
I do appreciate my readers! I know sometimes it doesn't feel like it, mainly because I blog sporadically and don't really follow any kind of pattern regarding subject matter. But to me, this is a reminder that my blog has successfully accomplished that which it set out to do-serve as a vessel for anything and everything I think and feel so that at some point I can look back and
I recently spent some time in my archives and began to wonder who had written these posts. First of all, some of them were funny! Actually humorous! As I read, I found some interesting insight into myself and my reasons for blogging. Because there is so much being said right now about it, I wanted to use my personal platform to express my personal views. And guess what? They're not about anything in particular. Just random stuff.
1. The tone, humor and subject matter of my blog seems to be directly related to what blogger I'm currently blog-crushing on. What does this say about me? That I'm a good mimic! I wouldn't have learned to sing if it hadn't been for mimicking Barbra Streisand records! And yes, they were those big vinyl kind. I know!
2. I don't go too deep. Unless you count the gash on my leg (which is healing slowly, but is a horribly disgusting deep hole in my shin nonetheless). The content of my posts rarely goes the depths to which I wish it would. I hear you, in your best Picard impersonation, say "Make it SO, number one!". I'm givin' her all she's got, cap'n. There are simply some things I can't share here. This is both a blessing and a hindrance, and I'm working on it. Like so many other things.
3. I need a better blogging platform. I know, already.
4. The very coolest folks come here and leave me encouragement. While I always say it's not about people reading me, but rather me writing me (if you follow!), it's always nice to hear that I'm not necessarily more than a few cards short of a deck and there really have been others who have felt like me. Just like me!
So thank you for sticking around. Thank you for not deleting my RSS feed. Thank you for your encouragement and your laughs.
Please know that I read all of your blogs. I try to comment on those who comment here, even if I have nothing witty to say. I support what we're all doing, no matter what our views are.
Little by little, you're all teaching me. And maybe...just maybe...someday I might be able to return the favor.
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I've come to realize, and please don't laugh, but I believe that true happiness is a fleeting emotion. And also? That there's nothing inherently wrong with that.
Like when you're driving to the lake at sunrise and you sit quietly, alone, on the bank watching the first thirty minutes of calm water as the sun creeps up over the mountain in the distance, bathing first the higher points, then the shadows with the warm and beautiful sunlight.
And then as you enter cell phone reception, you have four messages from your children begging you to come! home! now! because someone is bleeding or about to meet an untimely death.
Or that moment in the car with the man you have loved with your whole heart for the better part of thirteen years, and he looks at you with those big, brown eyes and smiles a smile that makes your heart melt and puts very naughty thoughts in your head. Then, like an idiot, you ask what he was thinking and he tells you he was contemplating going in to work early on Tuesday because some big wig is coming in and the store has to be in tip top shape. Fleeting, I tell you.
The kicker here is that we're fed such a line of crap. We're supposed to be in a constant state of bliss or there's something wrong with our life. It just isn't so, and don't you believe it.
Those moments when your heart is full and about to burst, those moments are the cherries on top, the diamonds in the rough...those are what make the rest of the rubbish worth trudging through. Those are the moments that we hold onto when we think life as we know it could come to a screeching halt. And those? Those are the moments I want to take with me when I go.
If life was comprised of nothing but everlasting joy all the time, how boring would that be?
Something to chew on...
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So I should totally be working. And I will. I promise. In a minute. I have things to say. And...well, I have a BLOG, so why not USE it! Novel idea, I know!
First, I must introduce you to the newest addition to my collection of permanent ink. Here is what it looked like freshly done (yes, it hurt!):
And here is what it looks like today, but don't judge the circle because this was taken at an odd angle, since the tattoo is on the back of my neck:
Here is what the logo looks like. I have written the folks at Brown University (it is the logo for their newspaper) to ask them what it means. I'm thinking I might have thought of that before having it permanently added to my body. Maybe.
Anyhoo...
The tattoo was in honor of a dear friend's birthday! He got the Loomis fish (said since he can't afford their fishing rods, he'd get their logo!). Happy Birthday, Lee! No, I am not posting that picture of me highlighting your hair. I would never imasculate you like that.
So other than scarring my body for life, what have I been up to of late? Working like a mad woman, fishing as often as possible, and watching far too much Deadliest Catch. I simply love that show! Those guys...it's like watching Axe Men. Yowza! Okay, so some of them aren't exactly total hotness. But some of them are ! Plus I feel really good about my life when I'm snuggled up all warm in my bed til noon watching guys throw 800 pound crab cages around in extremely rough seas while it's snowing.
Speaking of television, Nashville Star premiered Monday. It was harder to watch than I had expected. As my aforementioned dear friend said yesterday, "You said yourself you didnt' bring your A Game when you auditioned in Nashville...but you will next year." Point taken. I kicked serious ass in Portland, but when we were in Nashville, I was totally intimidated by the amazing amount of good-looking (and younger!) talent and let it get to me. Bottom line, I wasn't good enough to make the show. Not this time. Monday night's episode brought some tears and inspired a day of self-pity, but I think I'm pulling out of it enough now to fiercely attack the rest of my life and make it what I want.
So that's the last thing. I'm finished letting my life be out of control. There are aspects to it that I may not have total control over, but for the most part, I have allowed those things to take over and control me. No more, people! I've shown in the last year that food doesn't have the hold on me that it used to. So now? I'm going to alter the few meals I eat and see what I can do with this body! I'm going to try to get a little exersize so that the pain doesn't put me in bed for days at a time. I'm going to put plans in place for all the things that overwhelm me so that I am no longer caught off guard.
And most of all? I am going to make sure that the person I am when I go to bed at night is someone I like. Which is much different than liking the person I am in bed WITH at night. He's pretty awesome, if I do say so myself. And his butt? Wowie! Love ya babe!
So, while I am off to a grand start, you all are probably well aware that I tend to bite off more than I can chew sometimes, and I am expecting some aspects of my 'plan' to have to be altered. We'll see how it goes, but for now? I'm full of hope and ready to ROLL.
Here we go!
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Otherwise entitled, "In Which I Become A Momentary Daredevil".
Oh, Internets. I have neglected you. And for that I am truly sorry. But here! I have something to make up for it! A fun-filled post about completely inappropriate happenings and a disgusting picture for your viewing displeasure!
It began last September when my dearest friends invited us up to the mountains to go camping for Labor Day. Camping to them means REAL camping-no toilet, no water, no limits . At least, once the kids go to bed, that is.
My Jeeping-virginity was taken by a smooth talking man at camp who suggested we ride a trail. What he didn't mention was that a sports bra was most definitely required. And ride that trail we did. I whooped and hollered and squealed like a little girl with each bump we flew over and each time I swore we were going! to! die! a very grisly death by falling off the edge of the earth in that old Jeep. It was spectacular. On one particular trail, there were some very expensive rigs up top on the large rocks with a broken axel (when Jeeping, broken axel=BAD, especially on a trail). My friend driving looked up at them, looked back at me and smiled. I smiled my Thelma & Louise smile and said "Left side looks good!". And in that 1945 Willy we crashed our way up that black diamond run.
I tell you this to explain how I found myself at the same camp this Memorial Day weekend. I'm impressionable, you see. I have also begun watching Nascar, rediscovered my mad shotgun skillz and love me some cheap wine. This weekend, my neck turned a deeper shade of red.
After a few drinks and watching the boys ride those darned dirt bikes up and down the main road, I pleaded with one of them to teach me. After all, I learned to ride a quad in one afternoon:
Clearly I should be able to haul my huge, Fibromyalgia-ridden ass onto a dirt bike and ride like Evil Kneivel, no? Apparently the overwhelming answer to this questions was NO.
I donned the helmet. I learned to turn the bike on. He pointed out each of the contols and compared it to a bicycle. And a quad. And I was confident. I slowly pulled away from him and felt...amazing! I was riding a dirt bike! I would be popping wheelies in...uh oh..whoa...left...right...no!!! And over she went. Only as she went down, somehow the throttle revved up just as a group of offroads were coming by. All those good ol' boys jumped over to help a lady out and soon I was back on the bike, ready to try again. I ain't no quitter!
This time, I was a bit more cautious. I tested my leg strength to make sure I could hold the bike, and bounced a few times on the seat. You know, because I've seen them do it in movies. I revved a little and inched forward. I was good! So I moved a little faster. As I went to slow down, the bike once again couldn't decide which direction to go so it went all directions at once. Then it fell on me. And I fell on the rocks. Why I was trying to learn to ride a dirt bike on rocks we will discuss another time.
I jumped up and threw my arms in the air to say "I'm okay!!" and laughed, completely embarassed that I couldn't become Easy Rider in 5 minutes. But, I did it. And I was proud. I felt great. Until I realized the leg of my pants was wet. And it wasn't raining. I looked down and found blood. My shin did hurt a bit, so I thought I best go take a look. About that same time, I realized my hand was starting to throb as well. Flesh wound, the leg, I'm sure. And the hand? Just jammed. I'm sure.
I walked over to my 'First Time Jeep Man' who was sharpening his chainsaw on the trailer bed (Did I not say the word REDNECK, people?) and was coincidentally bleeding all over the chainsaw and trailer bed himself. He turned funny colors as we lifted my blood soaked pant leg and found (CAUTION-gross picture!) THIS:
That is a gash or gouge if you will about an inch and a half long with road rash on either side. I wont be shaving that leg anytime soon, folks. We butterfly bandaged it up and changed bandaids about every 10 minutes until it stopped bleeding the next day. My hand turned pretty colors, too. The other knee is scraped and bruised (as is my hip) and I have a bruised handprint on my ass. Don't ask.
Battle scars aside, I'm completely proud that I tried it, and will do so again, only on softer ground. I shot large shotguns, went on jeep runs, drank excessively and had the best time I've had in a long time. We got crazy, several people disrobed (or were disrobed by others), some very questionable photos were taken that I expect in my inbox any day now with demands for oreos in exchange for secrecy and I found out some things about myself that I think will change the direction I am currently moving in. And? I remembered a sports bra.
I hurt like hell and will be in bed for a few days. But friends, I wish you had been there. I'll post some of those pics when the are emailed to me. But...only some of them.
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Anyone who knew me 'back in the day' (you know, before, I grew a personality) thinks that the Metallica reference is entirely appropriate. Interestingly enough, that song came out long after my Metallica (and free!) days were over. By then I had two screaming children and a rotten divorce. And the idea that "Nothing Else Matters" was simply ridiculous, because HELLO? This dirty diaper? lemmetellya it matters ALOT! Like, right NOW!
I digress.
Earlier today I was thinking about that which has grasped my attention of late and how it has affected my life. I drifted to the lives of my children and what they would become, then wondered whether or not my current level of interaction would affect that future. As I thought of the future, I began to wonder about the presidiential race and was disheartenend that, no matter who wins, we all lose in some way. It was discouraging to think that, while at one time "one man can make a difference", I don't believe that to be true anymore. While I still believe that there is another theory of relativity to be discovered, the idea that one person can affect change seems about as far fetched to me as taking my summer vacation on Venus this year.
(Mental note: UNDO function on laptop? Yeah...that deletes that last 10 minutes of writing your deep, thought-provoking blog post. Don't DO that!!)
Would I be worried about President Obama if I lived in a war-torn country? Or would I wonder how I was going to feed my family? If I were a member of a primitive tribe somewhere in the jungle, would it matter to me what the teacher thinks of my parenting skills? Or could I just have her for dinner? Does this high-tech, advanced society make things more complicated than they need to be? What really matters?
I know what my basic needs are. I need food. Air, most of the time. I need my kids, but soon they will grow
I know that I need my husband. The one who swore he was finishing that chapter after I heard him start to snore. The same one who dropped his electronic book thiny on his nose when he fell asleep again. But I know that he could be gone in an instant.
These things I feel I need...the troubles of the world...my struggles to stay in the land of the sane and well-adjusted (if there is such a thing) and all those emotional issues that just never go away...do they really matter? Because in the end, won't it just be me, and whoever made me? No husband, no kids. No air, no president.
I think the things that will be counted are not my dollahs or my clout, but the love I shared and the effect that love had on others, and in turn, the world.
Kind of like Pay It Forward, only on a bigger scale and without Haley Joel Osmond.
Then again, spouting "my love will change the world" is often trying to compensate for having screwed up everything else. Which I do exceedingly well.
But I would like to hear from you. What really matters? To you?
Life. Love. Freedom. God. My children. My husband. My dogs. Such big things. Yet so easy to lose sight of.
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It hasn't hit 12 yet, so I can post this blog. It was supposed to be today's blog but I took too long. If you want to know why I'm staying quiet on Friday, ask Jester.
My post for today was short:
Watching aforementioned (yesterday's post) reality television (while drinking, of course, out of my Mother of the Year trophy-the one I made myself while I wait for the real one to arrive):
TV: Because every woman is a goddess of something!
Me to the Mr.: Baby, what am *I* the goddess of?
the Mr.: You really want me to answer that in front of the kids?
...
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This very blog you have most likely stumbled upon on your way to someone decidely wittier and more interesting belongs to a celebrity! At least, someone who is about to be a celebrity. Yes, friends, today I received notification that, indeed, I am in the top running for the coveted title of "Mother of the Year"!
TAH DAHHHHH!!
Oh the accolades! I am just bursting with pride. Let me share with you the many ways in which I am deserving of this prestigous award!
Earlier in the school year, the 10 year old child came home from school and informed me that her teacher would like to speak with me. When I inquired as to why, she had a very lengthy response.
It would seem that her teacher was absolutely in awe at my daughter's fashion sense. She had never seen a child so perfectly match one sock to her shirt and one sock to her pants. In fact, she found it simply astounding that the green in one of her socks (which later turned out to be a foreign substance, and not a color in the sock at all!) so beautifully complimented the grass stains on her pants. Also, she was amazed at our child's practicality in choosing pants with ventilation in the knees. Additionally, Ms. Teacher was nearly envious that I had managed to raise such a strapping young girl that she didn't even need a coat in 20 degree weather. In Oregon. When she learned that I trusted our daughter so much with her own clothing that I
While I appreciated the gesture, I sent Ms. Teacher an email explaining that we simply couldn't take full credit for her, and also the many ways we have taught the girl to be self-sufficient. I even told her that the girl is a strong-willed and independent child who probably wouldn't respond well to me trying to dress her. She must have been speechless, because I didn't hear back.
Yesterday, Ms. Teacher
The woman found it impressive that we had been so involved with our child and didn't notice her
I was secure in my position in the lead for this award when I received yet another
Apparently, when we lived in our duplex prior to purchasing this home (when the girl was about 3), Ms. Teacher was a nearby neighbor! Our daughter explained to me that Ms. Teacher has been
My mind raced back to those days and wondered how I could not have noticed her abilities back then. But, I remembered, I did! She was not only skilled in stealthy entrances and hasty escapes, but I believe at the time, she was dabbling in bending the space-time continuum! Yes, she would be sitting next to me one minute, and in the street another! Oh, and in her high chair one minute, and at the neighbor's the next! She was simply amazing!
While raising a child as gifted as our daughter is not the only accomplishment that qualifies me for this award, I am content in the knowledge that, whether I am the final choice for its recipient or not, I am most deserving of this honor.
So I thank the...academy?...for the nomination, and look forward to hearing the results. Right after I drink myself into a stupor and watch reality television while the kids make me dinner and wash their own clothes.
And you can say you knew me when...
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