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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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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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