From a Friday drive

Happy Saturday.

Last night, in the name of getting out of the house since I don’t do that very much, we went to pick up some pizza and drive around town.

There were people rehearsal dinnering, walking, taking pictures. One chick was walking a little chihuahua with a purple sweater on.

There was also one lady who was standing under a tree staring up into the branches. Just staring. Unless she lost her bird I’m not sure what the deal was, but hey, I don’t judge. Maybe she loves the tree.

We came home and ate our pizza, which was freaking delicious.

Then I went to bed. Nine o’clock on a Friday night and I went to bed. We’re crazy around these parts. CRAZY.

I was thinking last night during the drive about how much I miss having a job.

Josh was telling all these stories about work and his days, and I realized it’s this whole separate life he has. People and work and places to go. I wouldn’t call how I feel jealous, but I am a little bit wistful.

I remember being good at something. Having definite purpose during a given day. Talking to adults.

But then I think about how much I’d miss Lucy. How much I’d miss peekaboo and cheese sticks.

So I guess you could say I’m torn.

It’s not like it’s really even a choice right now. No one is exactly breaking down the door for my phone answering expertise and sarcastic wit at the moment. But maybe one day I’ll have an opportunity, and who am I kidding – we all know I’ll take it. And then I’ll whine about missing being at home.

Because that’s what I do.

Friday night glam

Josh and I have said countless times how we were going to go to high school football games.

The weather’s perfect, football’s great, lalala.

We have maybe gone to one high school football game (aside from when we lived in Jackson and we were ALWAYS at those damn private school games).

Last night we intended to go, and then we went to eat and Lucy would have none of anything but coming home and going to sleep.

So that’s what we did. Josh worked on a website and I knitted, and after we were finished wringing the dregs of life from our Friday night, we went to bed.

Sometimes I think we’ve turned into such duds.

I mean, where’s the zing? The romance? The spark?

Is there a female alive who would turn away a little bit of corny sap from the person they love? No. However, I happen to be married to Ray Barrone and his mind apparently doesn’t work that way.

And then I realize that twenty years from now the kids will (maybe) all be gone and perhaps we won’t still live with Dan, and we’ll have all the time in the world for zings and sparking.

So for now, I think it’s okay. I’m saving up to buy stock in blue pills and bathtubs to put out in the forest and on the beach.

Things I’m embarrassed to say

You may think I don’t get embarrassed by much.

For the most part that’s totally true.

But at random, inopportune times, I get weirdly heady and self conscious and it’s vastly unpleasant.

Yesterday, I went to the doctor. Issues with my ear.

It was an impromptu stop in, and I knew I’d have to wait for a while, so I took one of my textbooks to read.
When I went in to a room and the nurse came in (after weighing me and here’s the first embarrassment – 150 pounds), she naturally saw my book.

“Going back to school?”

It was a simple question, friendly and pretty obvious – but it made me feel like a moron. Like the ash reeking, mall banged, tanning bed woman who used to sit next to me in English Comp I and Hermioned every question until one day she had to quit because her factory job got to be too much.

I don’t know why. I mean, I AM back in school. It’s not a secret.

But I felt stupid. Like I’d gotten caught stuffing my bra.

So that happened.

And then I came home and I started wondering why I get bothered by some of the stupid crap I do.

Like how I can feel great and glammy and then I get among people and feel like a donkey in drag.

I think I’ve said all this before. Now I’m embarrassed.

So, to avoid any further confusion, here are some things that embarrass me.

I drink Diet Coke out of the 2 liter bottle.
I suck at games.
I can eat a whole package of cookies.
Speaking of school, I’m taking all the subjects in this one semester that I never took in all my prior semesters because they were difficult. And now I pretty much know I’m not going to have this fab Dean’s List gpa. I totally won’t fail, but I’m not going to blow the doors off like I thought I should.
I have hairy toes.
I don’t really know how to put on makeup.
I worry I’m not interesting.
I fear my perception of people is sometimes off.

I know everyone has things that embarrass them. It’s my hope that if I put them out there like that, there won’t be anything left to worry about.

So if you see me out and I look like a glammed up chubby ten year old, just know that I already know that. And that’s ok with me.

I’m out. Time for Twizzlers.

Maybe I was a little bit dead

Hello.

There are some people who are sick a lot. People with diseases and sickness and they are much better people than me.

I really don’t do well with being sick, maybe it’s because I’ve been really lucky to have a mostly healthy life.

In the past few years I’ve developed allergies. Because I’m getting old. I’ve accepted it.

There is also this one spot on my left nostril that gets super sore and red whenever the weather changes, and only today have I figured out what helps it.

Hemorrhoid ointment.

There, I said it. I’m typing this post because I wrote nothing yesterday. I’m snotty and gross and I have ass cream on my face.

I didn’t write yesterday because I legit thought I might never feel good again.

Josh has been achy, snotty and sick.
Lucy has been stuffy, grumpy and gross.
And me, well…me too.

So that’s what’s up. I feel better today. My dad gave me some Sudafed (you guys, it is straight up stupid that it requires a prescription now. Meth heads ruin everything.) and it’s helping. I went on a date last night and that was fun. I slept for longer than fifteen minutes at a stretch last night. I was gently awoken this morning by my sweet and lovely husband (he sat on my feet and then said ever so musically, “WHY THE CRAP ARE YOU STILL ASLEEP, IT’S NINE O’CLOCK.”) as he headed off to play practice.

Also, Dear Director Caleb – rehearsals on Saturday mornings are stupid. Please rethink it, because it’s misery. I can say that because what are you going to do to me? I am immune to your evil.

Oh, and guess what? Thanks to the kindness and understanding of the Dean of Students at Northeast, Josh and I are both students.

That’s right. We even have IDs. And I’m so freaking excited it’s a little ridiculous.

I suppose that’s all the random I have for today. I don’t even have a picture. Sorry.

Be sure to tune in on Monday, where in honor of National Relaxation Day I have a guest post by an honest-to-god yogi, and maybe she will inspire you to contort your body in unnatural ways.

You may hate me after this

I had something else scheduled to talk about today.

But I need to tell you about yesterday.

First you should know about my two oldest kids, though. They are beautiful lovely lights of my life, but they are loud as hell. They also have this uncanny knack for choosing the MOST inopportune times to interject themselves.

Prime example:

The entire family went to see UP (minus Lucy, of course. Also, if you haven’t seen that movie, do it immediately. Don’t even finish reading). We sat, left to right, thus: Josh, me, Max, Dan, and Ava.

Dan and the kids had already seen this particular movie once, but they’d come again for the 3D.

The movie commences, and we reach the part of the touching intro where a weeping Ellie is slumped over on an exam table while the doctor looks sad and Carl looks lost and helpless.

The entire theater was quiet, soft.

The lady in front of me was sniffling.

I lost a few tears. My throat was thick.

And in the wake of that beautifully sad, artfully conveyed, wordless moment that tore every adult’s heart right out of its’ casing, my daughter leaned over her dad’s lap, 3D glasses all akimbo, and stage whispered,

Mom? MOM? SHE’S CRYING BECAUSE THE DOCTOR SAID SHE CAN’T HAVE A BABY AND SO SHE’S SUPER SAD.”

Yeah. We pretty much have a repeat of that on an hourly basis.

That’s why yesterday morning, when I heard a timid knock on my bedroom door, I did little but roll my eyes emphatically. Lucy had had an awful night (molars are a bitch) and she was finally sleeping, and I was not about to call out to answer whoever was at the door.

So I was quiet.

Ten minutes later, knockknockknockKNOCKKNOCK.

Again, I was quiet. Surely they would get the message.

Nope.

knockKNOCKknock

So I did a stage whisper of my own: “what???”

The door opened, and in walked a child. I didn’t have my glasses on at that point, so I only halfway thought it might be Max. While I fumbled around for my glasses, I told him how it was.

“My lord, Max, that was three times, can you not TAKE a HINT that maybe some people are still resting and don’t need you being all loud and…”

Glasses on. And then I saw him. Standing awkwardly in the doorway, not sure if he should leave or stay, balancing a perilously flimsy paper plate full of something.

“I…I realized that we haven’t really given you a day off since it’s the summer and so I brought you breakfast.”

Hello, world? It’s nice to meet you. In case you don’t know, my name is TOTAL DOUCHEBAG.

He quickly forgave me when I gushed apologies and told him how wonderful he is, but the guilt will live on healthily in my heart for a long, long time.

Writing prompt #134



Begin with “I wish someone told me…”

I wish someone told me…

  • life is not a Disney movie.
  • marriage is not so much romance as it is backbreaking labor, and you have to like the other person enough to love, forgive, laugh, cry, forget, overlook, remind, endure, apologize, and so much else.
  • loving your kids does not mean they will never irritate you so much that you want to flick them in the forehead. Repeatedly.
  • the cliche that friends are rarer than diamonds and gold is not a cliche at all.
  • even if you love someone to the bone and back doesn’t mean you won’t hurt them.
  • saving money is hard.
  • being broke is harder.
  • religion is often a mask worn to hide from truth.
  • following your dreams is perhaps the hardest thing to make of your life.
  • finish college.
  • be a whole person alone before you try to be whole with someone else.
  • movies lie.

Things I’d say

I’m really not sure why I am so afraid of saying what I think sometimes. I know I have a tendency to spill my TMI all over the web, but in reality there’s so much rattling around this bean brain of mine. And I can’t say it.

I’m not sure why. I’ve always held tightly to the notion that you have to be who you are, and those who don’t like it can either kiss your ass or learn to love you. But as much as I believe that, it’s not doable.

It’d be the easiest way to live, no doubt. Saying what you mean, meaning what you say. Living without fear of getting caught in double talk or accidentally seen rolling your eyes.

To say to the insufferable brat, “Someday you’ll have your righteous rant only to realize what a dumbass you look like,” and then to go on like nothing because after all, being an insufferable brat doesn’t make me not love you. It just means you suck sometimes. We all do.

Wouldn’t that be great? Total, unencumbered honesty. Like The Invention of Lying, right?

That’s not how it works, and so I’ve become pretty adept sometimes at just going along.

Except I’m not, not really.

I ache inside to say things I should never say.

you’re crazy as hell.
how are you able to live two lives?
do you realize what a hypocrite you are? because everyone else does.

I know thoughts like this only breed negativity and sour your soul. It’s why it’s hard for me to admit I constantly harbor shit like this in my brain.

But I do. And now you know.

I don’t feel any better, because I feel like everyone else has some secret that I missed. Does everyone think all this and just ignore it? Because I can’t.

It’s why I think I’m so antisocial, because I suck at hiding my feelings. If I hate you (my mom never let me use the word hate. Never say hate, never say never), I just can’t pretend I like you. It’s a mental block and it’s probably why I never made it to broadway (that, and the chub. And getting married at 20).

I feel really alone (except for Josh, and that’s why we’re married. We are both completely inappropriate. I just hide it better than he does). If you harbor similar inappropriate thoughts, please tell me. Even if it’s anonymously.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to hide from my thoughts.

Problems with [redacted]

Normally this is not a “mom blog,” but today…today we make an exception.

In the name of not being exploitative of my family, I will not name any names.

I will, however, say that a certain almost-nine-year-old fruit of my loins who lives in the house with my family is having some issues.

He can be a total dream. Sweet, loving, sensitive, and so, so smart. Sometimes he’s even funny.

One day last week he came into the kitchen to get an after-bedtime-putting-off-sleep drink of water, wearing nothing but his striped briefs. The ones he outgrew, oh, last year sometime.

“So, son, don’t you think you should put on some pajamas?”
“I’M WEARING UNDERWEAR.”

Nothing with my son is calm or serene. He is constantly on caps lock, ALL. THE. TIME.

“Well, it’s more like the underwear is wearing you, but I meant really you should put on at least a shirt or something if you’re going to be dancing around the house.”
“I’M NOT DANCING, AND WHAT DOES THAT MEAN, MY UNDERWEAR IS WEARING ME?”
“Don’t worry about it. Good night.”
“WELL GOOD NIGHT, I GUESS.”

Things like this I love. His quirky personality and his absolute certainty in himself, it’s priceless and I treasure it.

What I don’t treasure are nights like Sunday night, when he floored the gas and went from quirky kid to scary ass monster child in about six seconds.

I don’t want to get into fine details, but basically what happened was:

Milk was left out. Neither kid claimed it.
Said milk was subsequently knocked over, and after further investigation, its ownership was determined to be of the almost-nine-year-old male variety. Not before he was completely content to let his always-guilty-acting sister get punished for it, though.

He was punished, and oh em gee.

Screams. Fury. Huffing and puffing and sent to take a shower.
In the shower, he was banging something – a fist, a shampoo bottle, his head, a dismantled chair leg – against the wall to demonstrate his anger.

The fact that he was angry isn’t what worries me. Every kid gets angry when they’re punished.

It was the INTENSITY. The sheer instant takeover. He was immediately, completely, inconsolably angry.

So I’m at a loss.

Do we beat him? Sell him? Medicate him?

Someone please tell me this is a passing phase.

I’m asking for a friend.

This is a recording.

This may be hard to say

I looked at my pill bottle the other day.

Every morning I take some vitamins, birth control, and another pill that hasn’t been around on my medicine rotation for as long.

After Lucy was born, my doctor asked if I’d had any problems with postpartum depression.

I had never been diagnosed, but after Max was born I quit my job and went back to school, and after Ava I got a divorce, so I’d say maybe there were some underlying issues.

So I told the doctor I might be a little at risk, and she gave me a prescription for sertraline (Zoloft), just in case.

We filled the script the day we left the hospital.

After some initial adjustments, that medication changed my life.

Seriously. I embellish none.

I had perspective on things I’d exploded about in the past. I was able to slow down, pace myself, and while there were a few times I wanted to run and hide from everyone and everything, they were manageable. Obviously I didn’t get too far.

So life has gone on for the past year. My meds incorporated themselves into my routine and the fireworks and fanfare have been minimal after that.

Until I looked at my pill bottle.

My prescription runs out in a couple of months.

Not only do we have no insurance (want me to start in on universal healthcare? Yeah, I didn’t think so), but I’m totally lost as to the mechanics of this.

“Hi, yeah, I think I may have had postpartum depression and just the thought of not taking my medication makes me want to kill pandas, can I please keep taking it?”

I’m pretty sure the fact that I can form that sentence in all seriousness means that I should never stop taking those pills. Ever.

I mean, I know that my OB-GYN isn’t necessarily the person to depend on for my mood altering medications, but what happens when I want to stay on those meds?

Do I go to a shrink? Do I talk about my childhood and my mom and my birth order?

Do I just go to my family doctor and say, “Look, this works, please just continue to give it to me until I die or become immune,” will that get me on the drug seeker list?

I’ll readily admit that I don’t really like that I’ve become so dependent on chemicals. I don’t like that the first thing Josh says when I get upset about something is, “Have you taken your medicine?”

It’s not that it isn’t a valid question, but sometimes I find myself on the outside, thinking, “Am I crazy? If I were normal would this still bother me? Pills or not, am I inventing problems? Am I crazy?”

But then I think about not taking the pills and I realize that if I didn’t, I WOULD be inventing problems. I’d be tearing up and pulling out my hair because there was fuzz on my shirt.

No, I’m not kidding.

For now, I’ve got some time. I guess we’ll cross that bridge later.

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