Becoming Me
I don’t ever remember a time when I thought I was attractive.
I was a normal, skinny toddler. I have the pics to prove it.
Around the age of five, I started plumping up. By the time I was seven, I had boobs. By ten, a bra. Period at eleven. Every year brought more weight gain.
I have a cousin who is 2 months older than me. She didn’t gain weight. She was blond. Thin. Popular and cute as a bug. I spent my entire childhood trying to live up to that standard.
Boys didn’t notice me. Unless it was to make fun of me. They seemed to find it endlessly amusing when I had a crush on a boy at my school. The sideways looks. The bursts of raucous laughter as I passed them in the hallway. I can still feel the heat stinging my cheeks, the nausea that hit my stomach.
I used to fake illness to stay home some days because the ridicule would become too much to bear.
It’s tiring and it wears you down.
I let it wear me down. And I believed it when that boy told me I was a hideous fat cow and that it was insane to think he would ever go out with me. I left that party in tears. Humiliated by him in front of dozens of people I had to face in school the following Monday.
In my early 20s I tried really hard to lose the weight. I succeeded for a while and was down to a 12/14 for a good while. I thought that being thinner would get the attention of the opposite sex.
It didn’t.
What I realize now is that it’s not my weight that was the problem.
It was me.
I didn’t believe in myself. I didn’t think I was attractive. So how could anyone else?
You would think that divorce would only reinforce those thoughts in my head, but in fact it seems to have had the opposite effect.
I am taking a look at myself in ways I never have before. I have examined so much of my past and the decisions that got me to where I am currently. I expected that to make me feel even worse about myself. What is surprising is that even though I don’t like who I was, I am much more comfortable in my own skin now than I ever have been in my entire 38 years. I’m figuring out who I am.
It’s ok to just be me.
I took a picture of myself over the weekend. I uploaded it to my computer and for the first time ever, and I mean EVER in my life, I thought to myself “Hey, I’m kinda cute”. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to embark on a life of narcissism and thinking I’m the prettiest thing ever and expecting men to fall at my feet. But for me to acknowledge that about myself, TO myself? Huge.
And you know what? I am kinda cute.
And?
It’s ok to just be me.
A Letter to a Smart Kid
I wish I could tell you that your life will always be easy. I wish I could tell you that your brains will always open doors for you and help you make the right decisions. I wish you could hear me now and change things. Change things so that the you of 20 plus years later doesn’t feel the need to write this letter.
You’re a smart kid. You always have been. You knew it when you could read, and read well at four and your parents lauded this to anyone who would listen. You knew it when your teacher sat at her desk in your first grade classroom, with her mouth wide open, astonished at the speed with which you were able to plow through a book. You knew it when she quizzed you on your retention of said book, and again gave you that same intense look of surprise.
You figured you were different when you were moved to the gifted class. You were given an IQ test to see if you qualified. You heard your parents talking with the teachers and you heard the words “genius level”. From that moment forward? Your life changed. It changed in ways that would shape you and alter every decision you would make for the next 30 years.
Your parents became focused on your “smarts”. So focused, in fact, that it’s all they ever noticed about you. Or cared about. Your grades. So much so, that you began to see yourself in that same, one dimensional way. It was all you had. All you were. Your cousin was the pretty one. The one who was popular, and had boyfriends and tons of friends. The one who was a cheerleader, and could roller skate. She was the one who the family gushed over. You? Got asked about your grades and when you were going on a diet to lose some of that weight. You buried yourself in books and puzzles. You studied for tests. You felt you were boring. Because the grades were all that you had. And grades don’t make you popular or make you friends. You made up stories about yourself to try to seem more interesting. To get someone to notice you. But it never worked, because they knew. They knew you weren’t telling the truth.
And so you retreated farther into yourself. Until speaking to anyone, sometimes even people you knew, was painful. Then came the day you had to go to college. Terrifying, wasn’t it? Meeting new people, ALL new people. No familiar faces in the crowd. In some ways, it was easier that way. You didn’t have to talk to these people. You didn’t know them. So instead of reaching out and trying to make friends, you withdrew. Some of that was probably attributed to the loss of your dad just two years prior, a loss that would take you almost 20 years to finally accept and put behind you. And when the grades didn’t match up to what you were used to? You went into a tailspin. You had no idea what to do. Being smart was all you had. All you were.
Or so you thought.
But you were wrong.
There was so much more there. There was kid who was funny. Who was good at so many things. Who loved to read, and cook and play games. A kid who loved helping out her dad and spending time with him. A kid who could be generous and kind.
A kid who would grow up and finally see that the grades didn’t matter. When you’re 38, nobody gives a damn what your IQ is, or what grade you got on your seventh grade biology test.
What matters is how you act and how you treat your friends and family.
I haven’t always been the best at that. I’ve made many huge mistakes in that area, and I have paid a huge price for it.
If I could go back and tell you one thing, it’s this: You are more than those grades. You are more than an IQ test. You are more than “the smart one”. You don’t need to make up stories about who you are, or what you’ve done to make people like you.
You are enough.
You are enough.
The people that truly matter will see that.
I just wish you had.
New Normal
Last night I slept alone.
It was time.
Gone are the days of turning over at night, taking comfort in knowing there is someone there beside me. Someone who would hold and protect me. Someone with whom I could share my fear after a night mare, or to talk me down during a panic attack.
Truth be told that person hasn’t existed in a long time. We’ve just been two people sharing a bed. No true connection.
As much as I would like to turn back the clock, and have a do-over, I have to keep moving forward. If I allow myself to keep looking back, it will paralyze me. I can’t allow that to happen.
I spend my evenings alone, in quiet solitude. Sometimes with the television, sometimes with my iPod or Blackberry and Twitter to keep my company. Ava goes to bed early, leaving me with several hours to fill before it is my turn to fall into slumber. This is my new normal.
Mornings are spent in silence. Sitting beside someone who is at once familiar, and yet a stranger. No words are spoken, not even good byes. The new normal.
In the weeks and months to come, there are going to be so many more changes that will usher in the beginning of a new era. Papers will be filed. Our home will be going on the market. I will begin the process of finding somewhere new to live.
I am both terrified and oddly excited at the prospect. Terrified to be doing it alone. Nobody to help me make the hard decisions. Terrified at the thought of weekends and nights without my daughter. But excited to find a place that will be mine. Excited to build a home for her, and for me, that will be warm, inviting and safe.
I hate that we are about to turn her world upside down. Not just one new place, but two. The days of having both her parents under the same roof, giving her reassurance when she is anxious or frightened, gone. I don’t want her to have to come to terms with a new normal. Life as she knows it is all about to change.
God, don’t let us fuck it up.
Quicksand
Yesterday I lay on my bed, staring out the open window. Outside there is a plum tree and tiny little birds were zipping in and out of it’s branches, chirping. I wondered how many more times I would get to see their little show.
I spend a lot of time on this bed. It’s one thing that will remain mine after this messy division is complete. I am clinging hard to it. It is concrete in a world of quicksand. Crushing me as I sink deeper. One minute something is mine, the next I realize it is not.
The fridge I have taken for granted for almost 9 years. Will I soon be dependent on a small one, part of a new apartment? The wall of DVDs in the family room. Will any of those remain in my possession? The TV that I know is coming with me…what on earth am I going to set it on? Do I keep the curtains or let them go with the house? That freezer out in the garage…will I have to cram food into a tiny freezer above an even tinier fridge?
Eleven years of accumulating things. Things acquired as part of building a life. I was able to paint my walls. I love my walls. The colors were soothing to me. I used to love coming home. Now I dread it. I hate it. I feel as though I am simply living on borrowed time. And indeed, I am. Soon enough this house, this life that was lived within it’s walls will be nothing but a memory.
These may seem like silly things to think about. And indeed, in the bigger picture, they are. But they keep me from focusing on the harder things. The things that send me into a spiral of tears and lead me to the floor of the bathroom at work. The things that I know I will have to sort through, work on and get over.
Right now, I just want to lie on my bed and hope the quicksand doesn’t take me.
Waffle Waffle Waffle
I’ll admit it. I can be a waffler. I make decisions when I’m feeling emotional, and then I come to regret them later when I’m not knee deep in the throes of a pity party.
Taking this site private was not an easy decision to make. I knew what it involved and how difficult it would be for me.
In the end, it is more difficult than I imagined it would be.
So.
Having thought about it for a couple of weeks now, here’s what I’ve decided to do. I know – you’re on the edge of your seat, holding your breath right now, aren’t you?
I’m going mostly public again.
Some posts will still be private, and if they are, and if you have a membership here, you will still be able to read them. All five of you. 
I love my baby girl. I love writing about her and I want to share that love with everyone.
Thanks for bearing with me as I figure this all out.
Real post to come later, I promise!
Oh Shoot!
We have most definitely entered the “monkey see, monkey do” phase of toddler-hood with Ava.
Anything we do is intently observed by her, and I can almost see her internal Rolodex filing the information away for future use.
Her favorite phrase at the moment is “I try”. Yes, baby girl, you can try. And most of the time? She succeeds. She can put her shoes on all by herself. Getting pants on is still a work on progress.
The hardest part for us has been curbing our rather blue language. After so many years alone in the house, we are trying to get used to saying fudge instead of fuck, shoot instead of shit, so on and so forth.
And then? There are the moments when something happens and it flies out of my mouth before my brain has a chance to censor the words.
Normally, when I take my jewelry off each evening (earrings, two rings, a watch and a bracelet) I place them on a shelf in the bedroom that is out of Ava’s reach. Being two, small and shiny objects naturally hold great attraction for her. But last weekend, I sat on the sofa, tired after a really long day, and without thinking, placed that pile of shiny temptation on the sofa table. The next morning Ava and I were playing on the sofa when she spotted the goods. She made a lunge for them, and I turned my head to see what she was after. Without even thinking I yelled “OH SHIT”. And promptly knocked the whole pile to the floor in my fervor.
Ava jumped down from the sofa and was under that table in mere seconds. And all the way over to the table? She was repeating “oh shit” “oh shit”. Great. Unfortunately, I was laughing too hard to correct her and by the time I stopped too much time had passed. So for the moment we let it go.
The next morning I was putting a diaper in the diaper pail when I accidentally ripped the lid off completely. This time my brain managed to redact the bad words about to fly forth and with Ava behind me I exclaimed “OH SHOOT”. And of course that was repeated. I am hoping that SHOOT sticks in her head, while SHIT does not. At least until she’s an adult. Then I will have fun watching her try to curb her potty mouth in front of her kids.
Things I Don't Miss About Twitter
I’ve been gone from Twitter a couple of months now, and I can honestly say I don’t miss it one single bit. I made a great group of friends, and they are still my support, my sanity, and part of my heart, even though we all may not talk every day. Twitter brought me my very best friends. I am not in the least bit regretful of the time I spent there.
I thought I would miss a lot of things after I left. In truth, I don’t. It’s actually awesome as hell to not have to put up with a bunch of crap on a daily or weekly basis any longer. What could I possibly be talking about, you ask? Well, I’ve never been shy about voicing my opinion, so here you go. Warning: If you are still on Twitter and you do these things, you may get pissed off here. So, read ahead at your own risk.
1. Foursquare. Fucking Foursquare. Jesus Christ in a row boat. I don’t need to know where you bank, do your yoga, got a smoothie or the location of the vet that is currently expressing your dog’s anal glands. One day a thief is going to rob your dumb ass because all those places you keep telling everyone about? Only mean one thing: You ain’t at home, pal.
2. Yelp. See all of the above reasons for Foursquare.
3. Blip.fm If I wanted a personal DJ, I would hire one. A tweet with a song title and a link. Repeatedly. Now, some folks only do these once in a while, but I’ve followed people who “blipped” ALL. THE.FUCKING.TIME. Dude, ever hear of iTunes? Cds?
4. Twitter hashtag parties. The one sponsored by big corps. Tweets and RTs all fucking night long, that are basically nothing more that free ads for the companies involved. Yeah, I really want to spend my night reading about how great Rayovac batteries are and finding new uses for them. They’re fucking batteries. They make things that take batteries to run work. I think we got it. Moving along.
5. The fall Tv season – new episodes. Which of COURSE brings out the whiners and bitchers about spoilers. Websites devoted to shows post spoiler information all the time. I would gather that if you don’t want to know that information you probably don’t visit those sites. You don’t write the author complaining about his or her content, do you? Well, maybe some of you do. I don’t know. But shows elicit emotions and people are social creatures about emotions. They will want to share what they just saw and felt. It’s natural that they turn to social media to do so. Frankly, it’s rude to expect people to bow to your will. If you don’t want to read something about a show…stay the fuck off Twitter and Facebook till it’s over in your time zone. For over a year, I avoided Twitter on certain nights until I had a chance to watch my shows. It’s that simple.
Those are my top 5 things I don’t miss about Twitter. Every time I think about going back…all I gotta do is look at that list.
The One In Which I Whine. Again.
In the grand scheme of things, my life is pretty good. I have a nice house, a nice car. I have a beautiful daughter, who is healthy (other than a rash caused by her Pampers, thanks a lot for that, P&G), a husband, a good job. From the outside, one might look in and think I have it pretty good.
However.
Ahem.
I have had a serious case of super bitch going on this week. I’m tired. I’ve been battling some kind of creeping crud that just flattened me for a day or two. Flattened being a relative term, seeing as how I had to work anyway.
Work. I’m stressed about work, which is about to have a major change after 8 years of constant. 8 years of routine. At the heart of my worry – I don’t know exactly how things are going to change. It’s the uncertainty that I am having a hard time living with. I can’t do anything about it. All of it is out of my control. I do not like this. Being out of control is terrifying for me. I like my feet on the ground, my hands on the wheel. To know where I am going, confident because I am in charge of the route, is what is comforting for me. This? Is not comforting. This is free-falling from a plane, bobbing up and down in the wind, swirling round and round. I know soon enough, I will land. The problem right now is that I can’t see where it ends. Will it be soft? Will it be hard and unyielding? Only time will tell.
I find myself feeling useless. My close friends are going through things far more difficult than my petty problems. But they are so far away and I feel helpless to comfort them. Words on a computer, a text, an occasional gift, that must be delivered by a stranger. This is all I can offer them. It feels very inadequate. And then I feel terrible for feeling terrible about it. It’s not about me. It’s about them.
I find myself getting overwhelmed very easily these days. I thrive on order. Lately my life has seemed filled with anything but. I struggle to make dinner because the kitchen is still in a mild state of disorder from the night before. I snap at my husband in the car because the stereo is too loud and it’s one more noise filling up the already too-crowded space in my head. I start to clean dishes and have to struggle to keep my feet planted and not just run away. Again, I bark at Darin to put away some of the clean ones already. I know my tone is too sharp. I hear the words coming out and I just can’t stop them.
I don’t know where to go from here. I have some idea, but it’s a huge step, and one I’m not sure I’m ready for. One I’m not really ready to talk about..at least here.
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On a semi-related note -
When I write posts like this, I get lots of wonderful, supportive comments. I appreciate every single one. So much you cannot imagine. I read them all. I know I don’t usually reply to them, because I just don’t know what to say. I get tongue tied. Just know that I am grateful for all of you.
I Left High School But It Never Left Me
High school when you are poor and overweight is not fun. High school when you are poor, overweight and painfully shy? Torture.
It’s always been hard for me to be in social situations with people I’m not familiar. Especially after having spent so many years of the company of people I did know who were less than subtle about keeping their distance from me. Heaven forbid one of the popular kids be seen walking down the hall with me. Or talking to me. Or sitting next to me at lunch. I wasn’t one of those kids. I didn’t fit in with the rebel crowd either. The ones who cut class, acted out, got in trouble. I was too much of a chicken. I’d try to make friends, only to be ditched when someone more popular would befriend them.
It was a little better my senior year, when I became close friends with a girl. She was on the fringe of the popular kids. She was accepted by them. She was pretty, could sing, made good grades. Her family wasn’t rich, but they lived in a nice house, had nice things. They tolerated me hanging around because I was with her. But accepted? Welcomed? No. Never. I’d hear the whispers. See the glances. I knew they wondered why she was friends with me. Sometimes? So did I.
Yesterday brought about those same old feelings of anxiety and insecurity. Darin has recently reconnected with a childhood friend, who, as it turns out, has a daughter two months older than Ava. They are wonderful, warm, outgoing people. We have had them over to our house on several occasions, we’ve had a play date at the park for the girls. It’s been wonderful having someone close to Ava’ s age for her to interact with. It’s great seeing Darin and Mark bonding again, the commonality of fatherhood bringing them closer together. Sheila and I have swapped stories of being working moms and compared notes on our girls. It’s fun having someone to talk with who is experiencing the same toddler joys and woes.
Yesterday we had the pleasure of being at their home to celebrate their daughter’s second birthday. I was looking forward to seeing Sheila and Mark again. I was excited for Ava to have some children to play with. I was terribly anxious for myself. I knew that I was going to encounter a room of strangers. I don’t do well in those situations. It takes me back to being in high school. Things started off ok. We went out back and tried to get Ava, who is going through a shy stage, to let go of our hands and go play. There was a slide, a toy house, and even a trampoline. I helped her attempt the slide, and encouraged her to play in the little house. Darin took her to the trampoline and let her bounce around a bit. We had been introduced to everyone and of course there were the obligatory “hi, nice to meet you” murmurs. One of the women looked familiar to me, and I to her but we never did figure out if we knew each other.
As is bound to happen, eventually the men end up standing outside together, talking about who knows what, while the women are in the house, chasing kids and fussing over the kitchen. One woman there must have been a really close friend of Sheila’s. She took over in the kitchen, cleaning and organizing. She kept giving me the stink eye for some reason. Maybe I was supposed to help too? I tried engaging in conversation. I would start a sentence, only to be cut off and spoken over. Every single time.
Eventually, I retreated to a corner. Found a nice cozy chair and settled back in to keep an eye on Ava and myself out of the way. From that moment on, I kept my head down and my mouth shut.
I know those women don ‘t know me. They have no idea how difficult it was for me to speak up in the first place. How my heart pounded. How my palms were sweaty. How I kept looking for my husband so I could have someone familiar close to me for comfort. I don’t know if I ended up coming off as aloof, or bitchy. I’m not any of those things. Well, I mean, I can be bitchy, but hey…
It just would have been nice to have a conversation. To have give and take. Share stories. Jokes. Not be brushed aside like I didn’t matter because I was a stranger.
I know that’s not the last time I’m going to encounter it. Ava will go to many more parties. There will always be a group of moms that I don’t belong to. I need to find a way to make it not matter so much. In 20 years, I don’t want Ava to be writing a new version of this post. I don’t want her to be 37 years old, and still carrying around 20 year old insecurities.
High school may have been 20 years ago, but the scars are still there. Right now, one of them is bleeding again.
How To Drive Me Crazy
Issa posted yesterday about things she hates. I jokingly stated that I should write a list like that, but I was afraid if I started, I might never stop.
However, it being Friday, and sunny outside, I don’t feel like writing anything serious or deep today.
So without further ado, here’s a list of a few of the things I especially dislike. Hopefully, I won’t have to start another blog just to contain it all.
Websites with videos that automatically start. Some of us are trying to stealthily surf the net (OMG, that sounds SO 90′s) from work, yo. How am I supposed to hide the fact that I’m really searching for recipes when I’m supposed to be doing something for which I get paid, if the minute I open a web page a loud ass theme song or advertisement starts blaring?
Olives. Who the fuck ever decided to eat these things? Even after curing, brining, stuffing, they are inedible. Not to mention, you can’t even eat them straight from the tree. And really, how desperate was someone for something to eat that they spent THAT much time trying to make them palatable. It’s the same thing with a lobster or a crab. Both of which I like, btw. But don’t you wonder who was the first person to look at that and go “Let’s eat it!”?
Eggs on cheeseburgers. I don’t get it. Maybe it’s because I really don’t care much for eggs, unless it’s egg salad or deviled eggs. But the thought of a runny yellow egg yolk on my cheesburger is gag-arrific.
Fake buttons and zippers on baby and toddler clothing. Either make it functional, or leave it off. It drives me nuts, and more importantly, it frustrates my daughter to no end when she tugs and tugs at a zipper that isn’t going to move.
Soy sauce. Just the smell makes me nauseous. Its the main reason I have such an aversion to most Asian cuisines. Well, that and the fish sauce. And again, WTF? How did fish sauce come about? Hey, what should we do with all these leftover tiny fish? Oooh, I know! Let’s leave them out in the sun to dry and then we’ll pulverize them. And THEN! We’ll add water and let it ferment until the next town complains about the smell. Then we’ll bottle it up and sell it. People will LOVE it.
People who constantly Re-Tweet. I’m not talking about someone who occasionally does it. I’m talking about the person whose stream is 90% other people’s tweets. I mean, if you can’t come up with ANYTHING to say that’s original? Maybe Twitter isn’t for you.
People who expect more of you than they are willing to give. I’ve run across that several times lately. I don’t get it. How can you expect people to do something for you that you aren’t willing to do for them? Relationships have to be about give and take. If not? Not worth my time.
Smoking. I don’t understand how someone can enjoy something that smells so bad and is SO detrimental to your health. Also? I know I’m gonna get flack here, but…I wish there was NO smoking in public period. I’m all for freedom of expression and individual’s rights, but smoking harms people around you. Not just the smoker. I have asthma and there have been many times I’ve had to use my rescue inhaler courtesy of someone’s need to consume some nicotine.
Beer. Again, I don’t get the appeal. It takes like piss. Or what I assume piss would taste like, never having actually imbibed that particular liquid. I can’t stand the smell, the taste, none of it. I think I’d rather eat an olive. Maybe.
Pumpkin pie. Pumpkin anything, really. I know, I know…that makes me look anti-American or something, but I just don’t care for the flavor. I dread Thanksgiving coming around because I will have to make the dreaded pumpkin pie just so the family will be happy. Me? I’d rather have chocolate cake. Or cherry pie. Or chocolate cherry pie cake.
Turkey. I may have to turn in my citizenship and move to Canada after this AND the pumpkin pie thing, but I hate the smell and taste of turkey. Again, I make it every Christmas for my family. If I didn’t there would be a revolt of epic proportions. So I make Darin do most of the work. Like prepping. And putting it in the oven. And carving it. Ok, so I make him do all of it. If it were up to me, we’d have a big pan of lasagna, a salad, and some garlic bread.
Mmm…now I want pasta. Wait, where was I? Oh yes, being a hater.
Actually, I probably should stop now. So there you have it. A tiny fraction of the things that drive me crazy.
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