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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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This started as another post for the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign 2008 (a benefit for RAINN ), and turned into something completely different. Please visit their website and see how you can help raise awareness and support the cause.
The ocean.
To my 35 year old self, it is so beautiful, so powerful. It opens the mind and calls to the soul. It is heaven on earth.
To my headstrong teenage self, the beach was a place to party with my older sister and her boyfriend. A place to build a campfire and hang out, away from mother's watchful and judgemental eye.
The teenage boys who joined us were in good spirits, seeming to have also broken free of their parental chains for the evening. Though none of them had stellar personalities, we enjoyed their company. They seemed to like me, and one in particular was very attentive. His name was Steve.
As the evening wore on, Steve and I chatted up a bit and decided to find someplace more private. I wanted to be kissed. I wanted him to like me. It never occurred to me what he might want. When our kissing became necking, and necking became petting, my heart started to shout to me to stop. My body didn't want to go further. My mind didn't want to go further. But my mouth said nothing. My actions said nothing, but continued. We had sex.
While I greatly regretted that decision before following through with it, the events of that night cannot be called rape. They cannot be called non-consentual. While I had no business doing so, I most certainly consented. The only question is why. Why did I go that far when I knew I didn't want to? Because after my behavior all night-the flirting, the kissing, the petting, I knew it was expected . Steve had an expectation, based on my behavior, that he was not going home with blue balls. I spent the evening letting him know in no uncertain terms that I was easy and would go alltheway. I sacrificed another piece of myself because of someone else's expectations of me. I was a slave to those expecations then, and I still am today.
Currently, there are a countless number of expectations placed upon me. Create my website, please, and make it perfect. Support my business with your lovely graphics and printing. Be my personal assistant. Be my mother. My sister. My wife. My maid. My cook. My friend. My lover. My everything .
And internets, I am buckling.
A phrase was introduced to me recently that perfectly describes how I feel: The circumstances in my life have outgrown my ability to cope with them.
I can be a graphic designer. Maybe not a great one, but decent enough. I can be a mother to my children and take care of their every need. I can be a Fibromyalgia patient and learn to live with the limitations that entails. Even learn to live with the pain. I can be a worship leader at church. I can be a wife, a friend, a lover.
But it would seem that I cannot do them all at the same time.
I would love to end this post by saying that I have found the answer to my problem. The Holy Grail, if you will. But I haven't. I am still struggling with how to find the solution, some way to deal with the business that has taken over my life, the 10 year old that is now stealing, the husband who is at his wits end with his job and has nothing to give me, and the illness that makes all of it that much harder. Right at this moment, I believe wholeheartedly that there is no answer. My mother's voice is in my head, whispering, "Just buck up and deal with it. You are stronger than this!" But Mom, I'm really not. I never have been. It was all a facade.
Right this moment, I am that teenager on the beach. All I really want is to be held and loved. And all around me are people who mean well, but really want something from me. Something I cannot give, because there is nothing left of me to give them.
And no amount of self-destructive coping mechanisms can change that. It's my own expectations-of perfection in every arena-that lead to such great disappointment and despair. Expectations are a bitch.
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Actually, I am caught GREEN handed.
Let me explain.
My hands are covered in a sparkly green substance. It smells like old shrimp and is a horrid color of green. I believe it's called "Chartreuse". Not only are my hands covered in this gawd-awful substance, but also my clothing. And, I do believe, there is a sparkle or two on my face as well. I am dressed like a man in my jeans, hiking boot-type shoes, a flannel and jacket, with a hat and red sparkly scarf. And gloves that match. Yes, my friends, I am a sight to behold.
While I am the first to admit I am completely off my rocker, this is not a new fashion statement, or an outward expression of my inward insanity. There are lots of other ways that comes out. I don't have to dress crazy to BE crazy. Ask the Mr. My reasoning for ignoring my keen sense of style is obvious.
I've been fishing. The green? It's power bait. Chartreuse Sparkle Power Bait. The trout love me.
Every year about March, I get the fever. I run to a large box-store chain and get my fishing license and fresh supplies, and start hitting the lake as often as possible. While women anglers aren't particularly rare in Oregon, women anglers whose husbands are not really sportsmen is unusual. Mine prefers his PC to a fishing rod and will only be dragged to the lake, kicking and screaming, a few times per year. Thankfully, I don't need no stinkin' man to show ME how to fish (with some exceptions). My van is usually pre-loaded all season with a rod and tackle box in case the opportunity arises.
This is why I have a bass tattooed on my back.
I'm going to have the words, "Fish On!" added to it soon.
So why am I telling YOU this?
Well, to explain my absence, of course! You mean you didn't notice? I can hardly say I blame you. But for those three people who might have wondered where I was, I have five words for you:
I caught my limit today.
I am about to get up and clean those suckers, then find some suitable recipe to cook them up and
The only time it ever crossed my mind that maybe I should have thrown them back was when I pulled the stringer out of the water, tossed the beautiful rainbow trout in a grocery back and put them in the back of the van, watching them suffocate. Okay...that might have bothered me a little bit. But not enough to stop.
Besides...I can't have them telling all their fish friends about the freakishly dressed woman in the red scarf and gloves and her "special green fish food". That's a secret worth dying for. The fish, I mean.
I shall report on their exceeding deliciousness in the coming days. Meanwhile, the lure (ha!) of the lake has lessened slightly with the day's success, and I return to the land of the...um...technology obsessed...with a renewed sense of purpose and a teeny weeny hint of sun on my cheeks. And the smell of fish cooking in my kitchen.
Good times, internets. Good times.
For your viewing pleasure, a related 80s flashback:
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So I’m a webmistress of sorts.
He he he, I said mistress. Brings to mind all sorts of naughty things! Moving on…
Knowing just enough to get myself into trouble with a website has been useful, especially when I found myself in a position to barter goods and services. Electrical work? Hey, do you need a website? 10 year old wants to join travelling soccer? Hey, I bet they need a website! I am thankful for the amount of skill I have, and that is has proven helpful over the last ten years.
Today I want to discuss the soccer website. When the 10 yr old wanted to join travelling soccer, I got all the forms and such ready and was about to sign them when I saw it. The total. $250. DOLLAHS , people! For soccer ! This is horrendously akin to paying $400 or more for a kids birthday party . Just blows my mind! As I tried to explain to the girl with the alligator tears how we weren’t rich like her friends who live up on that hill there, and that was not as easy to come up with as the $19.99 for new shoes (when she has holes that let the water in, mommy!), one of the moms suggested payment plans. Then they sent me to the website for info, where the light bulb above my head started to glow, albeit dimly.
So the deal was made. They had this:
I gave them this:
Here is where we branch off to the part of the story I really wanted to talk about.
I thought for sure when they saw my amazing talent in graphics and design (compared to whatever crap they had previously) that they would be in awe and wonder and see that there is something redeeming about me, after all! You see, these women (mostly women) have ostracized me for the last 5 years. When we were in city league, all standing in the rain watching our girls clusterfook (hi Lisa !) the ball, it looked like a commercial for deodorant. They were all gathered around one another laughing and smiling, and I was under my own umbrella, alone, away from the crowd. Sure, I could tell myself it’s because their husbands all wanted me and they were horribly jealous, except they were pretty much all sizes 2-6 with Caddy SUVs, acrylic nails and their hair professionally done. I wore a baseball cap and, before I quit, had a cigarette hanging out of my mouth.
The essence of hotness, folks.
The truth is, I simply had nothing in common with these people, so they chose not to talk to me. They chose not to include me or my daughter in their plans or conversations. I admit, I let it get to me.
When travelling soccer began, it became a whole different ball of…well, something soccer-ish! When I was late because of work (heaven knows they all could rearrange their schedule for the team…I think they might have all been in real estate or something), or when I didn’t get her to a game once, she was scolded. They questioned her dedication. This from the people who called me up and said she needed to be on that team because she is just so good and loves the game!
The next game, I felt as if I were Josie Grosey You know, that girl in high school that, for one reason or another, is a total outcast. For my daughter’s love of the game, I tolerated it and counted the days until the season was over, vowing to not enroll her in travelling league ever again.
However, I did continue to do their website.
This last week, I have received multiple emails with updates they want done for their spring registration. Then emails pointing toward the emails. THEN phone calls and more emails. I’m working on the site this morning, but I have to say. I’m seriously tempted to put some flash animation in of kids playing soccer while the moms gossip about the one mom that “doesn’t’ fit”. Just because I can. And because my sense of outrage wants justice.
Women can be bitches. I can be a bitch. I know that. But in my heart, I would never treat someone as if they don’t belong in my “group”. I talk to everyone, even the ones who have hurt me at one time or another, because everyone deserves that respect. Everyone.
I would love for you good people to offer suggestions for revenge. I will likely never carry them out, but reading them will make me feel lots bettah. Also? Lots of “gawd what bitches!” is expected in comments.
Thanks a bunch!
**JUST ADDED**
This was just sent to me. I had to include it. Thanks, Dawn!
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Seems like everyone and their sister's brother's cousin are doing a "Things About Me" meme. Because I am nothing if not a total follower, I thought I should join in. I mean, if they're doing it...yeah, you get the point.
I have been thinking about this for several days and wondering what juicy tidbits I should share about the mystery that is TSM. I don't want to do the 100 things, because, let's face it...I'm just not that narcissistic. Shut up, Dawn. What I've concluded is that I am decidedly whacked, and you all should petition the state of Oregon to take me into protective custody. Barring that, here are some interesting little-known factoids about me. Here is the food and drink section:
1. If we are dining together and you take a spoonful of sour cream to put on your declicious mexican food, you had best not leave ANYTHING attached to that spoon other than sour cream. No cheese, no lettuce, and forgodssake no beans! Otherwise, I will scoop all the offending sour cream out until it is clean and white again. Even then, I might feel kinda icky about eating it.
2. When I order a latte, it's always too hot to drink. I have to wait 20 minutes before I can drink it or I burn my tongue. I know this, it has never changed, and yet I don't tell the barrista to please make it non-scalding. I don't know why.
3. I am obsessed with "the perfect bite". If I am eating pot roast, I try to make each bite have a little meat, a little carrots and a little potatoes. And also just enough of the broth so that it all is "even".
4. Along the same lines of the sour cream thing, I always check the mayo jar before using it on my sandwich. I cannot STOMACH when little particles of tuna or bread are in there and end up on my sandwich. Like the sour cream, I will scoop it out until it's clean. Same with peanut butter, FYI.
(Are we seeing some OCD going on here? Methinks so!)
5. I am so afraid of getting sick from bad food, that I will throw away entire containers of food if it is questionable. Even if the date is still fine. If it even enters my mind that that might be an issue, I'll chuck it rather than risk it. This comes from my fear of vomiting, which we will discuss another time.
So now that you are sufficiently convinced that I am in need of medication, what are YOUR odd little habits in regards to food? Leave them in comments, or post your own and link to me! Let me know so I can go comment!
Cheers!
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Please excuse the abuse of exclamation points in this post. They are, as you will see, WARRANTED!!!!!!
Why is this woman crying into her Northern bathroom tissue? Not because she's too cheap to buy Kleenex, though that would also be accurate. No, she just received some heartbreaking news.
Best I can remember, I was returning from a grueling day of cleaning my van. This required removing and replacing the hundred pound seats, vacuuming and steam cleaning them and doing the same to the ugly maroon carpet that was matted down from having one too many lattes spilled and not cleaned up properly. Because that's how sweet my ride is.
I was utterly exhausted and in need of some relaxation. I thought a hot bath would be fantastic.
*On a side note, in case you haven't figured it out yet, I take hot baths almost every night. It soothes the aches and relaxes me for a good night's sleep. I know it wastes water. My daughter's science project said so. But my take in it is that I will happily let my children solve the environmental issues that my hot baths have created when I'm wearing diapers and can't remember my name. It works for me.
I walked in my
"Mom, the dog ate your vibrator."
Let us now go over all the ways in which that statement is just WRONG.
First of all, yes, I own not one, but several. I am a married, healthy 35 year old woman and it is not illegal for me to possess bedroom accessories. If my husband isn't threatened by my
Second, my youngest is TEN, people. Even if she happened to come across a phallic toy
Third, how did the dog GET to it? I mean, all our toys are in a box under our bed. UNDER OUR BED! Our dog is too big to fit under there! I don't even want to consider all the possible scenarios on how this happened. I also want to deal out some punishments to children for allowing the dog in our room in the first place! She has been banned since we had to buy new underwear for the entire family after leaving her in the laundry room unattended overnight. Of course, if I stopped leaving my dirty underwear on the floor, she would probably stop eating the crotch out of them. I'm just sayin.
Lastly, and assuredly most disturbing, is what she DID to the poor thing:
She chewed the tip clean off.
Did I mention it was my favorite? I am now going to retreat to my happy place and start thinking of all the ways I can save up the eighty-something bucks to buy another one. Maybe I'll even buy one of these:
Whatever the case, there is a great weeping and gnashing of teeth in Oregon tonight. Light a candle for me and my poor, dead vibrator. Funeral arrangements to be announced.
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As I prepare to draw a hot bath and drink Sake, let me start by saying how heartbroken I am for Lisa . Let me also state how determined I am to make sure that more people know about her fight, that cancer is a total bitch and that life is incredibly precious. So precious , friends.
Today, long before I heard the news of Lisa’s prognosis, I was driving around town, enjoying the first real sunny day of spring here in the Pac NW. I was at the stoplight in front of Dairy Queen trying really hard to ignore the fries and Blizzard calling me from the drive-thru, when I heard a smaller voice. It said,
Look at that man pushing his shopping cart. He pushes that cart all through town. He’s done it for years.
I wondered about the man. His cart was protected from the unpredictable Oregon weather with a wrinkled blue tarp, tied down with old bungee cords. He had several items visible above the tarp, including a very brightly colored woman’s hat. I wondered who it was for, and then began to think perhaps the man was mentally ill. That inevitably led me to think about the mental health profession and my brief experience with it. My mind expanded as I pondered mental illness on a grander scale, then the human brain and on down the line until I settled on death. Those who know me are completely un-surprised.
My musings regarding death were not dark and deep, as one would expect, but peaceful and light. I was taken aback by how clear everything suddenly seemed. That moment last week when I was in so much pain (both emotional and physical) and felt there was no way out of it except to resort to my old coping mechanisms (we’ll go over that another time) felt so very far away. So far, in fact, that I wondered how I could have allowed myself to get to that point. With the sun shining on my arm, hanging out the driver’s side window, I couldn’t imagine feeling such pain. I thought about depression and my darkest days a few years back. I thought about the times I wanted to end my life, but somehow didn’t. And that’s when it hit me. My moment.
When I am in my final moments, I want to look into the eyes of those I love. I want to give and be the recipient of ultimate forgiveness. I want to know that all my past pain has been released. And when I am in that moment, I somehow think that it will have nothing to do with my treatments for depression and self-injury, my fibromyalgia or any other infirmity that strikes me. Those things will disappear, and all that will be left is the love. Love for life, love for people and love for the chance to experience it all.
Warm days like this one, my children smiling and hot, HOT baths…catching a huge trout and getting another awesome tattoo…his hand on my face and the way he makes love…sharing the light that shines in me with everyone I meet, and knowing that the reason anyone likes me at all is because that light lives inside of me. That’s what it’s all about, peeps.
My moments of clarity are few, but I’m planning to share several with you over the next few weeks. Be patient, for I am not a writer. Be understanding, for I might become emotional. Be tolerant, for you likely will not agree with my viewpoint. But be here. Because I couldn’t share it if you weren’t.
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I do not write this specifically to any one of you, because you are all equally responsible for the fury which I am about to unleash. Please grab whatever protective gear you deem necessary and take cover. You have been warned.
Let’s start with this morning.
After walking across the kitchen floor, layered with fruity loops and cat food, then working for several hours in my cramped, crowded office, I decided that two days without a shower is simply enough. While in this glorious, hot shower I reached for the soap and discovered, in its place, a quarter inch thick piece of gooey soap film. At least I hope to GOD it was soap film. Can't be too sure when you have teenage boys in the house. When I reached outside the shower curtain to grab a fresh bar of soap, I found not one, but TWO empty soap boxes in the shelf where our supplies are supposed to be. I left them in the shower for you to wash your nether regions with on your next shower. You can use them while you are waiting for the Coochy cream to moisturize your hair, since nobody told me the hair conditioner was empty. I also used your razor to shave my bikini line. Dad, you'll thank me later.
While we’re talking about my bikini line, I want to tell you that I am not wearing underwear. While it really is quite “freeing” to go to church commando, the absence of the usual undergarments in my wardrobe is primarily the result of having not one pair of clean panties to be found anywhere in the entire house. Except Dad’s. And that’s just WRONG, people! I find it troubling that whomever is responsible for laundry in our house has miraculously forgotten either how to do laundry or that it needs done at all. Please let me remind you. I am placing your clothing (yes, that Abercrombie sweatshirt you worship) in the wood chipper in the morning if I don’t have (clean!!) panties to put on when I get up. And yes, I sleep nude. Deal with it (Pssst…me and Dad…we also have….SEX!!!)
Also, the faerie who magically fills our cupboards and refrigerator seems to be missing. I don’t want to worry you, but I can’t remember a time when we didn’t have at least top ramen and mac and cheese to tide us over until the faerie returned, bringing fresh fruits and veggies, and even cooking a meal or two so that we didn’t have to survive on fast food and freezer burned hot dogs. I don’t know where she went, but I have it on good authority that she won’t be back anytime soon, so I think you had best start learning how to replenish those supplies and fast. I know how quickly you wither away when you cannot find nourishment within a 20 foot radius of your sleeping area, and I don’t feel it would be prudent to invest in Carl’s Jr. stock. I’m just sayin.
Speaking of sleeping areas. I am curious-do any of you happen to know when the last time your bedding was washed and replaced? I know that at one time, the boy (almost man) had a white comforter, but last time I ventured into his room, the only thing on his bed was something that resembled a yellowish green color. I hope to God that is a different comforter altogether. There are several missing animals in our neighborhood. You might take a safari in your bedrooms and see if you run into them during your adventures.
I think we can all agree that the house is completely out of control. The cats refuse to use the litter box because they might “catch something”, and the dogs would rather be outside because it is decidedly cleaner. I realize you are all very active people, but the rock climbing, playing in the dirt and obstacle courses? Yeah, those are supposed to be OUTDOOR activities. I don’t buy the Windex, Fantastic and Pledge because I am powerless against good advertising, folks.
These white pills? Oh, those are Vicodin. They’re pain pills. People normally take those when something hurts. What hurts? Every single frickin’ molecule in my body. My pinky finger? Yep, it hurts. My eyelids? Yeah, they hurt too. My ass? Ohmyfreakinggawd. Ok, remember Indiana Jones when she says “Goddamit, Indy, what DOESN’T hurt?” and he points to his elbow? Well that hurts too. This isn’t the flu, folks, and it is not going away. I won’t feel good enough to get back to doing all the crap I used to do anytime soon, so unless you all want to starve or wander around looking like orphans, you had better figure out how to take over the jobs I tried so hard to train you in when I knew I was getting too sick to do them myself. Quit whining. There are worse things, and as my new tattoo will say (very soon!!) PAIN IS RELATIVE. Yeah, I feel like I have a horrible case of the flu every single day. But you know what? I’m not dying. Not yet. So count your blessings. Or not. But do the damned laundry.
And for the other adult in the house…You know that leisurely drive I took today? Yeah, that was to pick up my stepdaughter. Did I mention that, since she moved within an hour’s drive of us, I have ALWAYS been the one to pick her up or drop her off? To entertain her? To make all the plans for vacations with her? For, like, the last three years? Also, that I am the reason she has visited at ALL in the ten years we’ve been married? I might be WAY off base here, but I think a “thanks!” or maybe oral favors might be in order. Should be really easy to reach, considering I don’t have any underwear on.
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This is a post meant for the Grassroots Blogger Book Marketing Campaign 2008, and is meant to generate donations for RAINN -The Rape Abuse and Incest National Network . You can visit the page for all the information you need about RAINN and the campaign.
Happy HUMP Day! Pun completely intended!
I want to talk about sex. If you are a family member, someone I worked with in the past or just someone who doesn't like that sort of thing, well, first of all, I'm sorry for you. Second, probably go read something else because I'm going to talk about SEX. More specifically, the sex I like, the sex I have, and the sex I want. So, consider yourself warned!!
I am 35 years old. When we're talking about sex, please keep this in mind. This means I am at my sexual peak. Right...(looks at watch)...NOW! Never have I wanted it more, thought about it more of demanded it more from the poor Mr. I believe he is taking vitamins as we speak and receiving condolences from his coworkers on his way out the door to come home. Poor sap.
These last few years, I have come to realize that my attitude toward sex is very frank and to-the-point. I've had enough of it to know what, to me, is good and bad, and have been blessed to not have any experiences so bad that it tainted the rest for me. For this, I am truly thankful. I started as a teen and just never could stop. On the positive, I’ve learned a great deal about myself and my needs. On the negative, I’ve been called a few choice names.
I have also noted that my affinity for the bumping of uglies is not always shared by those nearest and dearest to me. In fact, some of my girlfriends find me downright freaky. Shocker.
In preparation for a ladies romantic accessory party recently, this fact became very clear to me. I was surprised how many women, good friends of mine, wrinkled their noses and said, "Um...no thank you. Not my kind of thing." when I tried to hand them their invitation (These were the same women who couldn't speak when they learned what I'd had pierced). What do you mean? SEX is not your thing? You have children, no? Were they conceived immaculately? I don't understand what you could possibly mean. For God’s sake-it’s the propagation of the species!! Sex is EVERYONE's thing!
But, in fact, it is not.
I have learned that I have close friends that view sex as a horrible, dirty task they must perform to keep their husbands happy. Friends who will not have sex with lights on and will certainly not discuss it with me. I even have friends who have *gasp* never! had! an! orgasm! EVER! Not even by themselves! I, of course, feel that they are the ones most in need of a girlie party, but got the distinct impression that the conversation was most definitely over. If I could corner them and have 20 minutes to spew my sex-crazed agenda at their poor, undersexed ears, I would first spout the words of the philosopher, George Michael:
Sex is natural, sex is good
not everybody does it, but everybody should
Sex is natural, sex is fun
Sex is best when it's one on one
(See the video HERE )
Preach it, brother!
It is my firm opinion that every woman should have in her sexual aresenal three things:
1. Full knowledge of her own body-her likes and dislikes
2. The secure knowledge that sex with her partner is a safe and potentially pleasurable experience and
3. A really good alternative (with fresh batteries) if she doesn't have a partner. Like the Cone .
Somewhere along the way, someone gave these women misinformation about sex and its purposes. I imagine they were told not to touch a man’s winky and to just think about quilting until he stopped breathing heavy. Then they could clean up and go back to things they enjoyed. Or worse yet, they were told nothing at all. Is it me, or is that just sick and wrong? I cannot imagine not wanting to look into my lover’s beautiful eyes and tell him what he means to me, while I kiss and caress him. I cannot imagine not wanting him to touch me and please me as an expression of that bond. For what it’s worth, I also cannot imagine sticking to missionary for life. Sex and intimacy, under the right circumstances, is an intoxicating, addictive and insanely beautiful thing. And let’s face it…orgasms feel GOOD, people!
I want to launch my own campaign. One with fliers and commercials and anti-conservative slogans about sex. Something like: SEX: Invented by God-Perfected by My Husband. (Stop feeling sorry for him…he knew what I was like when he married me! And I already quit smoking, what more do you want?). This campaign will reach women of all walks of life who have not been properly informed of their duty as a woman to make sure the sex she has (IF she chooses to have it!!) is exactly what it was intended to be. It will sweep the nation and cause an awakening of an entire generation. Can you see it now?
I will call George Michael tomorrow.
Meanwhile, promise me you will talk to your daughters. Your sisters. Your mothers, if appropriate. Let's dispel the myth that our bodies are icky secrets. Let's bring sex (and the talk of it) out of the bedroom and, above all, let's start GETTIN' BUSY!
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DONATE TO RAINN HERE .
When you donate, please make sure you reference “GBBMC2008,” and include my name (Tracy Mort) and blog name (TSM).
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Codependency-"A set of *maladaptive, *compulsive behaviors learned by family members in order to survive in a family which is experiencing *great emotional pain and stress. Codependent people have a greater tendency to get involved in relationships with people who are perhaps unreliable, emotionally unavailable, or needy. And the codependent person tries to provide and control everything within the relationship without addressing their own needs or desires; setting themselves up for continued unfulfillment."
Tellmeaboutit.
I have often wondered what on earth fuels my need to make everyone's world spin. Was it that one boyfriend back in 8th grade that insisted that my hair should be a different color for him to love me? Was it the one in my 20s (who went to jail twice, cheated on me-perhaps even in jail-and left me with all the bills) that told me if I would lose 10 or 15 pounds, he would never let me go? Was it growing up without my Daddy? Whatever it is, I have this need-this compulsion, if you will-to make everything OK for everyone else, at all costs.
The ironic thing about this freaky trait is that it is connected to ME. You see, I learned early on that doing what you were told was not much fun. I took every opportunity to express my distaste for authority and reluctance to submit to it. I was a REBEL, peeps!
I was tattooed and pierced by 15 (the tattoo was done by a friend's friend with a home-made prison-style tattoo gun):
I wore little to no clothing most of the time:
I was the total "stoner chick" back in the day:
Me? Make YOUR world better? Um, notsomuch. Unless, of course, I got something out of it. I would say that my position was not necessarily the definition of selfish, but most certainly self-serving, propelled by my youth and inexperience. It was all about me, long before Happy Bunny was a glimmer in his mother’s sister’s cousin’s brother’s eye.
Somewhere, about 5 years or so after these photos were taken, that girl disappeared.
She wasn't posted on milk cartons or Amber alert signs on the interstate highways. Her parents and friends weren't interviewed on Oprah and Tyra. In fact, the only person who mourned her was me. And it’s only now that I have even really registered that she’s gone.
That free-spirited, independent girl has been replaced with the worry-wort, high stress woman I am today. This woman peels her cuticles when she's tense, furrows her brow and regularly uses the words, "Are you OKAY?". She is terrified of flying, carnival rides and anything that looks like it isn’t built very well or might fall on her. She occasionally breaks down in the elevator heading up to the rooftop bar. But at least there’s a bar. I hate that woman .
Now, don't get me wrong. She still has a little rebellious streak. The self-made tattoos have been replaced with real ones (these are just a couple of them):
There are new piercings (Sorry, but there will be no photos of THAT piercing. I get enough freaks to this blog already!!) and subtle jabs at authority (I didn’t wear my seatbelt to the corner store! Stickin it to tha MAN!).
At 35, I am realizing that my obsessive tendencies have kicked into overdrive, and fear-of loss, pain, and being alone-has begun to control me. My desire to please everyone and make sure that those around me have all their needs met has become a driving force. Silence means you are angry with me. Having dinner with other friends means you don't want to have dinner with ME anymore. Standing in front of you naked and hearing you say, “cool. Let me just finish this one thing really fast” means you need to turn off the damned computer and come to BED already! And it all affects how I view myself as a person, and whether or not I have any redeeming value.
I remember the days when I didn’t care what you thought about me. If I blogged back then (before computers were invented, by the way), it would be chock full of obscenities, heavy metal music references and lots of ‘Awesome’ and ‘Dude’. Now? I want to impress you. I want your undying love and devotion. I care if you think I write well or am witty. FYI-I do, and I am. But you already know that, or you wouldn’t be here!
I suppose I will just kick off this mid-life-crisis by saying that, while I do love me some of these pre-menopausal womanly traits, I miss that girl I used to be. And not just the perky breasts, either. I miss her spunk. I miss her freedom. Most of all I miss her courage.
Speaking of courage, let me send you over to my new friend Lisa’s place. Lisa is an amazing, courageous and stunningly beautiful woman who is, AGAIN, entering the fight of her life with Ovarian Cancer. For the THIRD time. I am honored that she would share this experience with me, and in turn, with you. Please head over there and see how she’s doing, and maybe help her fulfill a dream for her family. Also, tell her to fill out the damned application for Extreme Makeover already.
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Me: These damned newsletters keep comin back with pages ripped off. They aren't secure enough to go through the mail machines.
Him: So find another way to mail them.
Me: What about these baggies? Someone told me they use 6x11 baggies with pretty imprints to mail their newsletters. Is this a 6x11?
(I hold the bag up to him)
(He puts his hands into a 'hang loose' sign and holds it up to the bag)
Him: No, that's about 8 inches or so.
Blink. Blink.
Me: Oh. My. Gosh. You did not just do that.
(He laughs)
Me: 8 inches, huh?
Him: I've measured, okay?
Gotta love hangin loose with the Mr. on a Thursday morning.
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Sometimes, it's difficult to say what I really think or feel on this blog. Mainly because my husband and some family members occasionally stop by, and I can't have the folks who know me best being all offended and such. So then, when my thoughts and feelings are directly related to them, I tend to clam up in this space. Seems slighly ironic, but there you have it.
And so, I find that being as general as possible while bearing my soul appears to be the best option. Aside from taking a long walk off a short cliff with some Vica-candy and my buddy Jack Daniels. Because that's just not really an option, now is it?
Last night I had an epiphany, if you will. After spending the last few weeks feeling very let-down by those closest to me, I think I went through some sort of defined process, akin to mourning a death. Now, please don't send me hate mail saying that I am disrespectful to those who have lost loved ones. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a professional writer, television actress or porn star, and I sometimes have difficulty finding the right words to express myself. This is why I am not allowed to play with firearms anymore.
The stages of this process were clear. Loneliness, Disillusionment, Frustration, Anger and Acceptance. See? Now you can stop critisize me for using poor examples, because these are clearly NOT the same stages as those who are grieving go through. At first I was lonely. I couldn't understand why my expectations were not met so often. It seemed so simple, and I was clear on my needs and/or wants and even went so far as to explain exactly how to take care of the issues. I read books, followed websites and message forums from experts, even sought counsel from those older and wiser than myself. After this process, I began to feel disillusionment. Perhaps this would never change and life as I know it is, well, my life! Was it all that bad? No, of course not. I don't live in a cardboard box, have all my fingers and toes and a steady supply of hair product. And! Cable! It's all good.
But have you ever noticed how hard it is to be nice to someone who isn't filling your bank, so to speak? I mean, there's nothing inherently wrong with the person, and they are certainly still worth your time, but because you carry this frustration around, because you have screamed, cried and
Then comes the point where I channel Glen Close in that awful movie, Fatal Attraction . "I will NOT be IGNORED!" The taker in me pretty much takes over and that little 16 year old that still owns a part of my brain says things like, "Oh yeah? Well then I'm going to smoke when I want to. Because who cares? And I'm going to eat whatever I want. Because I can!" and all other sorts of nonsensical self-destructive mantras. Lady Anger has set up residence, and she's got PMS. On a side note, I often wonder what people think when they know me well enough to see this cycle in action. Additionally, I often wonder why they haven't yet sent me to an 8x8 padded cell.
At some point, usually after a bottle of good wine and a really sappy movie, a light bulb turns on in my head and my eyes light up. I run a really hot bath and sink down into the water, letting my mind wander as the heat soothes some of the aches in my muscles, yet none of the ache in my soul. This is when it hits me. This is when the tears flow. This is when I almost lose hope.
If so-and-so knows me this well and still thinks these awful things about me, maybe...just maybe...they are true. It begins. The realization that perhaps it isn't all these other folks who have fallen short, but ME who has the bar raised unrealistically high. If expectations breed disappointment, then perhaps I am the one responsible for my own pain. The "If...then" portion of the evening begins as the downward spiral continues.
If I hurt so deeply over this thing that was said or done, and it's unreasonable for it to have affected me that way, then it's me that has the problem.
If I have taken all these steps in an effort to change into the person who is worthy of the love I so desperatly desire, and yet have not succeeded in obtaining it, then maybe I am just a loser and will never be worthy of that love.
If everyone around me is perfectly happy and I am not, then perhaps it's not everyone else that has the problem.
That's where the blackness starts. I hate the blackness. It's so... black . I'm sure I could go on and on about serious mental and emotional issues and how, if I chose to do so, I could totally be diagnosed with various things, but the truth is, I just want to feel better. That's all. If it's me, I want to fix it. If it's not, I want to help fix it.
I want the beautiful things I believe about myself to be true. And I want other people to see that. Especially those that love me and know me best. Because it's not the judgement of strangers that hurts most, it's the idea that someone who loves you and knows the real you can look at you and think that maybe you are not worthy of the love they give you. Then they might take it away. If ever there was a fear that controlled my life, that would be it.
After the bath, the chocolate and the remainder of the second bottle of wine, more often than not, my white knight will come lie down next to me and hold me while I cry. Each tear will represent my disappointment in myself, and the pain of knowing I will never live up to my own expectations. Each heaving sob will expel one more piece of the lie that says that I have to be perfect to deserve love. And when I'm done, with swollen eyes and feeling completely empty, my best friend in the whole world will look at me and tell me that I am every bit as amazing as I think I am. And then some. Because, you know, we are our own worst critic. And with one smile, my faith in humanity, and myself, is restored.
Sometimes, I think we have to hit these lows to fully appreciate the highs. Maybe, we have to hit these lows to GET to the highs. And maybe...just maybe, they also serve to help fund college tuitions for the families of those who make the blessed Tennessee Whiskey.
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