New Attitude
Perhaps smack in the middle of a very unpleasant cold is not the best place to be making decisions, but nobody ever said I was the sharpest knife in the drawer.
But something clicked in me this morning.
I need to bump the negative out of my life. The sour grapes. The whiners. The complainers. The chronic malcontents, who, no matter what are always determined to find the dark side of everything.
I’m not saying life is all sunshine and rainbows. I know it’s not. I’ve done my fair share of twitter bitching, for sure. But you ever notice that for some folks, that is ALL you hear? Nothing is ever good enough.
Well. ENOUGH.
I’m done with it.
I’m going to focus on the positive. The people who are kind, loving and helpful. The people who engage and participate in give and take, and not just take.
I’m going to say a kind word when I see someone who is having a genuinely hard time. Instead of skipping over it like I am all too often apt to do.
It’s time to encourage and lift up my fellow man. Even just a simple “I’m sorry you’re having a rough time” can mean so much to someone who is having a crappy day.
So, who is with me? Let’s start supporting and encouraging each other.
This town
This town is flags hung from front porches.
This town is manicured lawns neighboring tall grasses and unkempt flower beds.
This town is church bells ringing out on Sunday mornings, softly interrupting the silence.
This town is friendly cashiers, saying they missed you when you didn’t stop in for your daily soda run.
This town is old homes and tree lined streets.
This town is big pickup trucks and motorcycles parked on lawns.
This town is downtown deserted by 9 pm.
This town is big Sunday breakfasts and quiet Sunday nights.
This town is picnics in the park and classic car shows.
This town is about family.
This town is my town.
This town is home.
Imagine
Imagine a world in which your children only were tucked into beds under your roof two weeks out of every month.
Imagine a world in which mornings did not always include a sweet sleepy face saying “Good morning Mommy”.
Imagine a world, in which your baby did, said and tried new things for the first time and you hear about it afterwards.
Imagine not being able to see or touch the soft hair of the person you gave birth to, because the court says it’s not your day.
Imagine walking out of a house, hearing your child screaming for you, sobbing, and having to just keep walking. Because your parenting time has ended for the week.
Imagine having to give up all your carefully laid plans on raising your girl, because now you only have control over her environment on pre-planned out days.
Imagine worrying that her parents living in two separate places and no longer functioning as a family will harm her in ways you can’t even envision yet.
Imagine you go days without physical touch of another human.
Unless you’ve been there. You cannot imagine. You cannot know the heartbreak. You cannot know the tears that are shed, the sobs that echo off walls. You cannot know the longing for the feel of her little hand tucked into mine. You cannot know the twisting of my heart as I smile for her, never letting her know my sadness.
When I say I cry, when I say I shed tears over something, don’t tell me I’m silly. Don’t trivialize my pain.
You don’t know my heart. You’ve no right to judge my heart.
Be grateful for your life. If it’s as good as you say, you don’t need to tear down my already battered emotions with your superiority.
Imagine that small words, tucked into sentences, have the power to hurt.
I hope all you ever have to do is imagine.
Not a step back, but maybe to the side
It’s no secret around here that I struggle with self esteem issues. I have for 38 years. I’ve made some remarkable strides in dealing with those. Life’s circumstances have me facing the world on my own, and a new-found self confidence has been emerging.
However, it’s fragile. Tentative. Which almost seems like an oxymoron, but that’s what happens when you feel inadequate and just LESS than for your entire life. Changes don’t happen overnight and for someone who struggled for so long, it’s not hard to experience something that will knock me back a step.
I’ve been learning how to accept help. I’ve been learning how to take a compliment gracefully. I’ve been learning that who I am is ok, even great at times, and lousy at others. I’ve learned that it’s ok to fail, and to not try to appear perfect.
Today I feel like I just took a leap backward.
A simple comment on a Facebook post. The implication that my daughter’s father is her primary caregiver. The implication that the child doesn’t even HAVE a mother. I wanted to yell, scream and shout at this woman. “SHE HAS A MOTHER! AN INVOLVED MOTHER! A mother who sings her baby girl to sleep every night. A mother who takes her on shopping trips and to the playground. A mother who worries over her, watches her play. A mother who helps her learn things and then stands back to watch her attempt them on her own. A mother who prepares her meals and gives her her allergy meds every morning.
I know it’s not this woman’s fault. Somehow, it’s what she was led to believe.
I don’t have to justify myself to her. Or to anyone. I know what kind of mother I am. I’m a really good mother.
As usual, I have my friends to thank for helping me put it all into perspective. I love that they will tell me when I’m freaking out over nothing.
Thank you for reminding me that what anyone else thinks does not matter.
In Which I Become one of THOSE Bloggers
I normally don’t enter contests very much…
1. I just have very little faith that most of the contest holders are legitimate. You know the ones I’m talking about. These shady fly by night dot coms that swear you’ll win an ipad, a new TV, a European vacation…..just tweet, and retweet and retweet….and nobody ever wins.
2. I’m not what you’d call a lucky person. I go to Vegas and breaking even for me is considered a huge accomplishment. I’m the chicken that cashes out after I win $20.
But today, a blogger I trust is holding a contest to give away an iPad. I really want an iPad. I dream of holding it, caressing it, whispering sweet nothings into it’s microphone….Wait. What? Doesn’t everyone anthropomorphize their electronics?
But with the price tag of these suckers, it just isn’t happening on this newly single mom’s budget.
So? I’m blogging about this contest being offered by Brad’s Deals and Sweetney to garner myself a few extra entries.
P.S.
I still don’t really think I’m gonna win. But I had to try!
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.
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!
GTT Was Hacked, So I Took This Opportunity To Bitch Instead
I was planning to participate in Girl Talk Thursday this week, but it seems that the site has been hit by the Word Press Apocolypse that’s going on so, instead I bring you this random collection of rants.
It’s been almost a week since I’ve posted here. I’m having a hard time coming up with things to say.
Actually, that’s bullshit. I have lots to say, I’ve just been too lazy to deal with it. I wanted to write a birthday posts for Issa and Liz, but I never managed to get it done. Hell, I barely got their birthday presents to them in time. This from the woman who overthinks and overplans EVERYTHING. I leave work on Friday, and I mentally map out the entire weekend on the drive home. On Monday, as I’m headed back to work, I look back at the weekend and think to myself “Just what DID I get done?” Ususally the answer is nothing.
In general, I’m pissed off at the human race in general at the moment. From the jackass who almost hit me this morning, because when merging lanes, even though I was the last car in the line up, she HAD to be in front of me and not behind me. To the dumbass kids in my neighborhood who play ball in the middle of the street and then refuse to move out of the way when anyone drives down the street. Seriously, they wait until the last possible second before moving off to the side. I swear it’s like they have a death wish. But then again, they are kids, with no real sense of mortality yet. I pray they don’t learn the hard way. Some of our neighbors drive well over the 25 MPH speed limit down our road. One day…..
I’m sick of Facebook Pages that are full of hate and violence. I’m horrified when I see someone I know join them. I’m in the middle of a cull of friends there because of it. I’m all for freedom of speech. I believe in civil rights. I don’t believe in calling for someone’s death simply because their political beliefs are opposite of yours. On his worst day, I never wished for the death of G.W. Bush. At many, many times I wished he wasn’t the president. I never wished him harm. I guess what I don’t understand is how all these people calling themselves Christians, the ones who are anti-abortion, but yet pro-death penalty, the ones who claim to love God, how you can stand on this earth and spew violence and hate toward your fellow man. Whether that man be white, black, gay, straight, Democrat or Republican. All of you with those “WWJD” bumper stickers on your cars. Do you think Jesus would approve of death threats? Do you think Jesus would turn his back on a man in need of help, simply because he was gay? Mother of Pearl. And people wonder why I left the Church.
I’m irritated that my housekeeper just up and quit on me. So now I’m back to cleaning my own damn house. And yeah, I know most of you are rolling your eyes right now, thinking “Oh, the poor wittle princess has to scrub a toilet”. It’ s not that I think I’m too good to do it. Hell, for 5 years, I cleaned OTHER people’s toilets. I would much rather pay someone to do it, while I spend that time, oh, pushing my daughter on a swing. Or coloring in a book on the floor of her room. Between my job and my commute, I have precious few hours left during the day. I want to enjoy them.
I have just flat out had enough of people who expect more from me than they are willing to give me. Oh, and seriously? If you’re going to act childish about me leaving Twitter(and yes, I did. yes, again. Yes, for good.) and act like if I’m not on there, I can’t be your friend anymore? Then BUH-BYE! Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, ok?
And speaking of social media, you know what else I really hate? When people copy their twitter updates to Facebook and never use Facebook for anything else. It really flies in the face of the whole SOCIAL part of the social media thing. What incentive do I have to reply to you if you never respond?
Allright, I’m stepping off my soap box now. If you want to take the opportunity to leave a rant of your own in the comments, feel free.
Have an awesome fucking day, ya’ll.
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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