A Room of One's Own

Just slap some Mrs. Butterworth on my head.

I'm waffling. And I'm really sorry for that last crack. That was bad. Very bad. Okay, I laughed.

My best friend came over this morning to the following sight: I am trying to make breakfast, child WAS watching Wa Wa Wubzy but had decided to shift gears and paint her fingernails (read: whole fingers) bright red. As I attempt to gain control of the situation, child screams, clutches nail polish applicator brush, falls to ground in heavy writhing heap, still screaming. The breakfast I was making is now scotching on the stove. Somehow, I have saved child, self and furniture from becoming "Chick Flick Red." I waffle. My daughter knows what not to touch and what she needs her mom's help for. But, I left the bottle right there on the coffee table. I waffle. I'm a bad mom because I leave trouble right in front of my unattended daughter. I'm a good mom because I actually make her homemade biscuits and gravy on Sunday morning and play her Mahalia Jackson.

This has been my whole weekend. I'm a good mom. I suck. I'm a good mom. I suck. I sent this clip to my friends to gauge if it was horrible that my kid sometimes acts like this. Or, perhaps worse, that I sometimes act like this. One said something very interesting. I may see my kid and I this way but others may not. Last week, I had to go the the mall to pay a bill that got screwed up from my move. I had to take my daughter with me. It was after swim lessons, she was tired and hungry but I had to get this errand run. In the chaos of trying to keep her by my side and order Chinese food at the same time, I did not see the paper sign that the debit card machine did not work until I got to the checkout with a tray full of food in front of me. I had no cash on me. The kind woman behind me, who saw me trying to wrestle my kid to my side using my hands and clenched teeth, paid for our lunch. Just touched me on the arm and said, "I've been there." I honestly tried not to cry. She didn't see a hellion or a horrible mom. She just saw life happening in front of her.

I'm trying to let that idea evolve. I sometimes feel I walk a fine line between negligent parent and overbearing mother. Yesterday, we went to spend the afternoon with the guy I'm seeing, we'll call him Dave, and his son at their house. My daughter has decided not to be potty trained anymore. She wet herself three times, once all over his nice hardwood floors. If I thought for a minute that he saw a hellion and her overbearing mother, I would not be dating this man. And, let me tell you there were a few times yesterday I felt like we deserved the titles.

Somewhere there is balance. I'd like to move from being a waffle to a pancake. If you have any idea what that means, let me know. I haven't the foggiest idea.

Eva Longoria and I are BFF!

Eva Longoria is my sister. My small breasted soul sister.  We have some serious solidarity in being women sans ample cleavage. Please see the illustration below:

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                Look. No boobs. There's a whole lot of nothin' going on. And I love her for it. It's why we are BFF.

I thought of this as I was walking down the marketplace where my office is after having gone to the store for some lunch things. I saw this woman who was very thin. Very. She had huge boobs and they were not moving. I understand nature and biology. Very few skinny women have naturally huge boobs. We all know this. And, most of us know that God would give you pleny of junk in the trunk should he bless you with that kind of luggage rack. Otherwise, the whole car is going to be off balance. Yes, I'm still talking about boobs.

These silicone lollipop women are everywhere. Then there's my BFF. She doesn't care if half of Hollywood has had their boobs done. She was named sexiest woman of the year once by Maxim. Disclaimer: Honestly, I hate Maxim. It's crap.  Ladies, if you are at a man's house and he is a love interest and you find Maxim, run like hell. Just book it. Guys - the same goes for women and Cosmo. Just high tail it. That's just a whole lot of insecurity wrapped up in a magazine subscription. I digress...

She is proof that women don't have to have big fake boobs to be sexy. And, let's admit it, she's a serious hottie. So, I'm sticking with Eva. We, and our B cups, are going to takeover the world. I'm not sure how or why, but we could. We understand that spending $50 on a really awesome bra that give us the illusion of bigger boobs is so much easier and more convenient than silcione rocks. We're smart like that. We, and our Victoria's Secret Angel's VIP Cards, control our cleavage. We can wear tube tops and not look like porn stars. This, my friends, is a good thing. Solidarity, sister. Solidarity.

I'm am not Bridget Jones

Though, I must say that the scene in Bridget Jones where she's drinking wine, smoking and singing All By Myself just kills me, I have decided for a the opposite side of the coin today but I'm certain that if there was a camera in my house the scene would have been just as ludicrous.

I am having, unlike like my photo negative Bridget, a highly productive day. I have no idea what has gotten into me today but I have found myself a groove. Worked, had a long lunch with a lady I've known for years. We tried to solve some world problems (okay, fine, community problems). Works some more. Went to the gym with my friend Joey, who really can't hang but bless his heart he tried. I ran five miles while we had a delightful conversation about how horrible local newscasters look. Grocery store, home, dinner.

This seems mundane. I know. But, I had bought a whole mess of berries to make jam but got sidetracked Sunday by retail therapy. So at 8:53 I set forth to make mixed berry jam. I have lost my mind. Bridget is into a whole bottle of wine and singing into a magazine. Where am I? In the kitchen in my underwear mashing up fruit. I'm in a good mood that can only be created by boiling the shit out of fruit. No one may understand that last sentence, but trust me, it's a weird kind of euphoria. I can't explain it. Either trust me or go boil your own damn fruit. I also have my music going. And I'm chatting with my girlfriends on-line.

The music is important. That's where anyone would have thought I was a crazy woman. I'm dancing in the kitchen to Lady Marmalade (I was in my underwear, it seemed appropriate), and various songs by Lauren Hill, Salt N Peppa, Beyonce and Amy Winehouse. I am sure I must have sang into a spatula, I'm not certain. Good times. Good times. I had a blast. Some people may think I'm nuts and I frequently get called out on being over ambitious but, really, what else was I going to do? Watch TV?

What I learned today

1) When you go to the gym and workout and then go ride the recumbent bike for a half hour, be aware of your surroundings. Grab innocuous magazines and make sure you know what is going on around you. Do not, grab a copy of Women's Health, based on the articles advertised on the cover, and proceed to pedal away to your heart's content while reading "5 Fun Things To Do in Bed NOW." You especially don't want to do this if one of the opposite pages has a large picture of something inappropriate and includes the words LUBE written in large red letters. You REALLY don't want to do this if the guy biking next to you is one of your residents...

2) I cannot shop with the young chicks. I have no game. They have a force field around them that prohibits you from interfering with their shopping, even LOOKING at the rack they're near. But still, I have recently made a resolution that I think I'm kind of cute and that I should be dressing like that more often. I believe strongly in age appropriate but in 15 years I'm going to look back and ask myself why I didn't dress cuter when I could. Oh the hell with that. I plan to be like Felicity Huffman. That woman has 15 years on me and look fabulous. New goal: be Felicity Huffman.

3) My daughter can do a mean impression of the man I'm dating. We'll call him, say, Dave. What? It could happen? He was generally silly with her last night and she so wanted to repeat the whole thing only this time she wanted to be Dave. It was funny. She is funny is a way that only smart 3 year olds can be. Now, I now the odds are very slim that if would ever happen, but would it be amazing if I could get him to come and wash my dishes so she see him doing it and, therefore, wants to do it too? Ahhhh, a girl can dream...

4) My powers to will things to me are dwindling. A year and a half ago I sat in a hotel restaurant, hungover, in Jackson, MS and after eating a large amount of carbs for breakfast, proclaimed I wanted cantaloupe. Presto! Lisa comes walking up with cantaloupe. It was freaky. Sadly, I have not been able to will sex and pancakes to my house today.

 

One year ago.

One year ago today.

I went to work with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I got nothing done. My mind was somewhere else completely. I said an email about mid day to Shari and it said, "Tonight, when I go home, I'm asking for a divorce." Part of me had to type that so it was out there, like I was now accountable to someone.

I was living about 35 miles from work and that drive was long and I dreaded it for several reasons. For the six months prior, it was harded and harder to get home because some part of me just wanted to keep going. Just drive right past that house.

When I got home I nearly felt sick. I made dinner, I put our daughter to sleep. I knew he had to go to work but if I didn't say what I had to right then, I knew I may never. Those were some of the worst words I have ever spoken, but they have made me so much happier. 

I went back and looked at this blog form a year and a half ago. You can see it coming. You can see it build and you can see me trying to put a name to my sadness. When I started to see Lynn the Therapist, I told her I was there because I wanted to save my marriage. I was wrong. I needed to give myself permission to end it.

So a year later. I have my own home for the first time in my life. Choas reigns over it, but it's mine. I have my own space. I have my own time and I choose how to spend it and I spend it well.

When the past comes knocking

I got a letter in the mail today from the Virgina Piper Center for Creative Writing announcing the first opportunity to sign up for the same writing conference I went to in February of this year. I am certain I mentioned how amazing it was. Holed up in a room with Mary Sojourner and a few other writing students, laughing, writing and living. Sharing as many laughs as I could fit in with Tania Katan and Laurie Notaro. Basically, a good three days of being solidly artistic and forgeting the real world for a while. Sitting outside with a beer and a laptop.

The year's line had another familiar name on it. Would you believe that my very first creative writing teacher, the one whose class led me to my only stabs at fiction, which were total shit, is on the list? I am very excited about the idea of seeing her after 15 years for the sheer nostalgia of it. At the same time I am so thankful that it has created absolutley no spark in me to even remotely venture into the world of fiction. I still believe that on most days my life is stranger than fiction and you couldn't make half of this shit up.

So in the next few days, I'm sure I'll be signing up for another week of feeling 19 again. I'm sure I'll commit myself to another 8 hours of solitary confinement with Mary. This time, though, I am dragging my college roommate with me just to make the whole experience that much entertaining. When I call her with this proposal there will be a definite yes attached. I don't consider it living in the past. Just appreciation of new life. That's all. It's the jolt of literary life that you can feed from for a year. Gotta love it.

One happy girl

Why? Because I actually have to admit and type this: I got haircut today and then every just seemed right with the world.

I have a long history with my hair. I alway wanted long flowing Catherine Zeta-Jones hair. Many years ago I went to a stylist named Robert (pronounced like the Colbert Report). He would was also a painter and lived downtown and I'd have a margarita while he cut my hair. He was very gay and was a victim of a horrible hate crime and spent 4 months in ICU. He couldn't cut hair again because of the damage to his motor skills. So I needed a new guy. I love men who cut hair, they just love your hair more than should be legal. The salon gave me a new guy and the short story is that he had masacred my hair. Oh, yeah, and I was nine months pregnant.

Finally two years years later, I had achieved the Catherine Zeta-Jones hair. It was lovely. Then I got divorced and lobbed it all off. We're talking at least 6 inches of hair. I went back to my natural color, too. I did it because my ex-husband loves long hair so much and that I knew I had lost so much of myself in that damn marriage that I couldn't remember if I even liked long hair. Stupid but necessary move. Turns out I like it. It looks much better on me. But, I've spent the last 9 months or so not quite looking like me.

Today, Jennifer, stylist I love so much, spun me around and when I saw my new hair, I almost cried. It has grown quite a bit but it has always looked a little off because it looks like I'm been growing it out. Finally, for the first time in 9 months, I looked like me.  I gasped. I did. I looked pretty. And more than that, I looked happy. And I really noticed it. I looked right there and happy just stared back at me.

I left the salon on my way to get my daughter. Found a great song on the radio and just sang real loudly, smiling the while way. At a stoplight I actually looked around and thought about my life. Everything in it. Everything not in it. Everything I've made happen for myself and everything I've just let happen. Damn it, it just felt good.

A-back to therapy we shall go!

Yep, I did it. I made an appointment with Lynn, my trusty, sweet counselor. I do so love her and I have to say that just the mere sound of her voice made me happy happy happy.

I'm just feeling like I need to check in. Just peek my head in. I don't plan on staying long. It's just been a long year. I was thinking about it yesterday and realized that it's been an overwhelming year. But, I am so friggin' pround of myself for how far I've come in the last year. It's not been easy. It's hard work. I think way too much about way too many things. It's interesting, I've become a very cerebral person. I think that's one of the best things that seeing Lynn in the first place did for me. She taught me to look at my life and what I do and think clearly about it. I look at the "why." I love that. I just think there are a few whys I still need to figure out. I'm sure there are some whys I haven't even gotten to.

Here's the cool thing about the whole therapy deal. A good counselor will never give you the answers, they'll help you find your own answers and teach you how to keep doing that. It's beautiful. At this point, I've worked through a lot. This time last year, I knew there needed to be some serious change in my life and I couldn't possibly go on living like I was. A year later, I am a completely different person. Completely. I just owe it to myself to check in on me.

No plastic daisies for me!

A few years ago I had a boss that was a total idiot. Picture actually working for Michael Scott. In reality, it's not funny. No amount of Jim Halpert cuteness could ever make that situation better. He liked to bitch slap me down. Yes, I am talking figuratively, folks. My former boss gave me a great piece of advice: Stick up for yourself because you can't assume anyone else is going to do it for you. I did. I high tailed it out of there and made sure our HR department knew what a stupid idiot he really was before I left.

That was the last time anyone needed to tell me that. Last week, I was basically told I was a hot head. Someone had spoken to me in a manner that was not even befitting for an animal. The tone and statements were entirely belittling and disrespectful and I was not going to tolerate that. When I mentioned how absolutely ticked off I was that he yelled at me like that, it was pointed out that I yelled back. Well, of course I did! It's wasn't "yelling." I'm much more like Dixie Carter in Designing Women when I tell someone to go to hell. But, what was my option? If I didn't fight back and send a clear message that his treatment of me was unacceptable, then I was allowing it and even encouraging it. So, yes, I went toe to toe and held my own. As a matter of fact, when I got done saying my piece there was a good long silence on the other end of the phone. I think I stunned him.

But, I'll tell you this, I saw this guy today and he was down right friendly. Didn't say a thing about what we had talked about. Nothing. We went back to the jovial kind of relationship we had before. I am pretty certain I had earned a bit of his respect in taking him to task. And, I don't think he's going to talk to me like that again. So, I think I did well. I'm proud of myself even if other people saw me as being hot headed for doing it. I would have loved someone to say, "Right on" but that didn't happen. I think I'm okay with it. I'm also okay with the label of hot headed. It's so much better than doormat.

Why does Fry's hate me?

Can't they just cut me some slack? I tell you, they are on my list and I may not be shopping with them anymore if they keep this up.

I go shopping tonight. Of course, I have a list. I plan out my meals for a few days because if I don't, I'll be standing in my kitchen eating popcorn for dinner at 9:15. Not pretty. This should not take me long. Oh, wrong again. I have decided that Fry's, Kroger for those of you East of the Mississippi, does not like single people.

I want ground sirloin, pork chops and a steak or two. What is so hard about this? I don't know if they were planning for the Duggars to come by but everything was family size. I'm at a loss. Here I am standing in the meat section and I just want a damn filet. Can't a sister get one filet? No. She can't. She can get three of them. Three HUGE filets. I could take one of these bad boys and spread eating it over two days. I hate frozen meat so there is no chance I'm going to buy all three and freeze two. Nuh-uh. I end up buying a steak I don't really want but at least there just one.

It gets worse with the pork chops. I want a few thin sliced ones. A couple for dinner and the next day's lunch. Yeah, I plan for leftovers. So what? My choices for pork chops are three chops that are about and inch and a half thick or 9, yes 9, thinner sliced ones. What the hell? There are no chops in the butcher case just hanging out by themselves. As a matter of fact, the only thing they have in the butcher case is a vast array of meats stuffed with other crap. I don't want something stuffed. I just want a steak.

I need to have a conversation with these people. I felt like Diane Lane in Must Love Dogs. If you've not seen it, she yells at her butcher because she only wants one chicken breast and he always tries to sell her the whole chicken. She is reduced to screaming about being divorced and eating dinner over the sink. Now, I begin to wonder if her dinner wasn't microwaved popcorn.