the things we do

You know, I was never *really* sure if I would actually, literally, stop what I was doing instantaneously – INSTANTANEOUSLY – if Kellan needed me.

Then, one day not so long ago, I left Kellan on the floor in the family room to go to the bathroom. All of a sudden, I hear a strange sound and then…silence…and then….the panic cry.

You moms know the panic cry.

I ran out of the bathroom before A: I was finished and B: my pants were on.

He was fine, by the way, as were my pants and legs, after a thorough washing.

Also? Tim has witnessed me throw food – haphazardly…no, maniacally -that I was juuust about to eat because, mid-bite, an emergency started unfolding with Kellan (are you choking????) and my hand automatically let go of the fork/spoon/food.

Where did it land?

I have no idea but I’m positive I saw the pea come out of Kellan’s mouth.

Then, the other day I was literally on my hands and knees in the grocery store to dig out the last box of his favorite crackers, probably mooning everyone within sight.

You must understand.

He only likes THESE SPECIFIC CRACKERS.

Apparently, I’m not below getting down and reaching into the depths of the shelf for the last box of crackers.

I see why, now, kids think their moms are embarrassing. Look at me, running out of the bathroom sans pants, jumping up and throwing food everywhere whilst contorting myself into yogic positions to barely reach your most favorite crackers in the very, very, very back of the bottom shelf.

(Dear Grocery Store: Your shelves are entirely too deep. My arms are abnormally long and *I* could barely grab those crackers. Imagine if I was of average height?)

Newsflash: We’re doing all these crazy things for you, kid. I’m honestly not a fan of peeing on my own leg, either.

30 days…

I’ve decided to participate in the 30 Days of Thankfulness this month. I’m not entirely sure where it started but that’s neither here nor there.

My day one, which I didn’t share yesterday, was this:

1. I am thankful for the ability to run. ”Running is one the best solutions to a clear mind.“ Sasha Azevedo

Today, I am thankful for Tim’s never ending sense of humor. Appropriate, inappropriate, all of it. He makes me laugh even when I don’t want to, which is the best kind of laughter sometimes…exactly what you need…though you don’t realize it until after you’re laughing.  ”You can turn painful situations around through laughter. If you can find humor in anything, even poverty, you can survive it.” Bill Cosby

I am trying to make a point of being less detached from everything and instead jumping right in and feeling the emotions in the moment (versus not realizing how I feel about a particular situation until later, when I’ve had time to stew or ponder or dissect). It is much harder than I thought and I’m still much better at figuring out how I *really* feel after the moment has already passed.

I suck in arguments because of this.

During an argument, I basically sit there, staring at the other person going off and making all kinds of zingers while I’m desperately trying to find the words but can’t because I don’t even know what they are yet, since I have no idea what I want to say in the first place. Give me half an hour and I’ll have a much better retort that doesn’t sound like I’m sputtering inaudible consonant sounds, like you hear me doing now.

I hate arguments because of my inability to argue.

This is much of the reason I write. This is how I figure out my emotions and how I feel about something. I’ll just start writing and by the end of it, I’ll have figured it out. I’ll know how I feel, even though while I’m writing I’m not thinking about what I want to say. It just flows out…there is no stopping it. I don’t plan or think.

I just write.

When I’m given constraints or a DON’T WRITE ABOUT “X” —- it kills the emotion and shoves it farther back into the recesses of my brain and I have a much harder time getting it out again. Many times, I just write things and then email them to myself…no one else reads them but it makes me feel better to know I got it out. I couldn’t say – literally – the same thing on a whim like I can write it. My head gets fuzzy and thoughts get jumbled and it doesn’t work the same way.

Tomorrow…I should probably be thankful for the ability to write.

Just a hunch.

a sleeper…hit

Yay for blogging motivation (aka YOU)! I feel like I’m one of those TV shows with a cult following but never really *makes it* to mainstream and gets canceled. Like Friday Night Lights. Best show ever.

So…a story for you.

Back since…well, forever…I’ve always been able to express myself better with the written word versus the spoken one. For some reason, even though I type just as fast – if not faster – as I talk, the words tend to flow better when I write. I get kind of stuck and tongue tied when I talk. I mean, actual, coherent words and sentences *do* come out…they just don’t sound as good. The flow I have when I write is missing.

Back in the day, I preferred to write notes to my middle school boyfriends versus actually talk to them.

Granted, I did *speak* to the boys. I just felt more comfortable asking/saying the harder stuff on blue-lined, college rule notebook paper.

Maybe it was a cop out…or immaturity…either way it continued through my adulthood. When it came to the m harder stuff, I wanted to write it out and have someone read it instead of facing then head on, in the moment.

It’s like I felt like I could get my whole point across without being interrupted or forgetting what direction I was trying to go.

Because that’s what would happen to me every. single. time.

I’m terrible in an argument or heated debate. Eventually I’ll mumble something unintelligible, which is probably everything my brain wanted to say in one, fast breath, and the other person will be like, “Was that even English??” And then I’ll be all, “I have no idea. You win.”

I guess my brain doesn’t flow very well in the heat of the moment. It sees colors and waves and those crazy little birds flying over my head in circles…but it doesn’t see words or have forethought or the ability to conjure up a solid defense. All that important stuff will come later, after I’ve already lost.

But give me a minute to write it out and I’ll blast your ass to the wall with a (written) verbal barrage of daggers. Or fluffy, furry baby bunnies. Whichever.

Depends on the conversation.

That was how I liked to handle things. It was safe. Easier. Something I was good at.

Enter pregnancy.

I decided I wanted to be able to express myself more freely…verbally. I didn’t want to leave all of my emotions on the paper. I wanted the person they were meant for the hear them and feel them…see them coming from my mouth and dancing all over my face.

Why did pregnancy do that?

I wanted Kellan to have a good example of how to verbally express his emotions…verbally express things that are uncomfortable, embarrassing or difficult to talk about.

Writing out your feelings is all well and good…but I’ve been learning that talking about and dealing with what is bothering you IN the moment is so, so powerful. SO powerful.

Is it harder that way?

A resounding YES.

Do you feel more satisfaction, more relief, more of a weight lifted off your shoulders when you air it all out in spoken words?

A deep, exhaling, goosefraba Yessssss.

Going to therapy a few years back showed me that. I guess it took having a lasting impact on another human….raising a child…made me want to put it into daily practice.

Except…(yes, I had to go here)…writing is like MY THING. I love, love, love sharing through writing like musicians like sharing through songs. It’s just who I am and to deny myself that is like telling me I could no longer do something athletic and competitive…like running. Granted, I am competing against myself versus another opponent like I did back in my basketball days, but, still. I sweat and I feel accomplished after a long run or a hard run or finishing a race I had trained for months to run.

My body and my psyche need that, live for that, crave that exhausted, sore muscle (in a good way) feeling…just like it does when it comes to writing.

I guess what I’m saying in a really roundabout, circuitous way is that I’m not going away.

the state of the vaj

It’s been….entirely too long since I’ve updated anyone on my post-rocketing-a-baby-from-my-bits progress.

And he absolutely rocketed. That isn’t an exaggeration.

So, the positive…I only have about ten pounds to go before I’m back to pre-baby weight. I’ve read that some women hold onto those ten pounds until they stop breastfeeding.

I’m hoping that isn’t my body.

Oh, right. I probably forgot to mention that I gained like, forty pounds.

So much for the desired “I’m only gaining 25-35 pounds.”

Granted, ten pounds or not, my belly is still all sorts of sadface. It’s ah-mazing what almost nine months can do to your abdominal wall (read: zip. zilch. nada). Lately, I’ve been putting Kellan in his crib to talk to his stuffed animal friends while I lay on the floor in his nursery and attempt to fire off a few rounds of reverse crunches and sit-ups.

Some days he cooperates and some days my abs continue on the road to remain flabby.

I’m pretty positive my butt and my thighs are still ginormous. I made small progress the other day when Tim asked if I had lost weight because he thought both looked smaller.

Bonus points to you, dear, whether you were serious or were just trying to make me feel better.

To combat those? Walks with Kellan in the stroller.

I’ve yet to be cleared to run because…………

My ass is still broken.

More accurately, my perineum.

This is the part where it gets into TMI territory. Fair warning.

For whatever reason, the area right before my literal hole where the poop comes out isn’t healing. According to the OB….begin tangent….My OB who I currently want to kick in the teeth because she isn’t helping me. At. All.

After examining my sutures last Friday from the 3rd degree tear and telling me it was still open/not healing I looked at her all, “Well, I have no idea what to do about that.”

And then she looks at me, dead pan serious face all, “Me either.”

Uhhhhhhhhhh……………..what?

To top it all off, her nurse person who weighed me added an extra pound because I was *almost* at a higher number.

You’re supposed to subtract a number. Not add one.

For clothes.

I was not happy.

This was the second time I’d gotten a non-answer about how to deal with my issue down below. The only other words of wisdom she gave me at my six week check up were “No sex” and “No running.”

Awesome.

How about no pooping because that still hurts like a mother. I cry when I even have the slightest urge to go because I know how badly it will hurt when I actually do the deed. It’s like part of the sutures re-rip every single time, regardless of the “softness” of the poo.

(related: Colace doesn’t work for, well, you know. That is unless you’re aiming for harder poo than normal)

And then? It hurts “down there” ALL DAMN DAY.

Sitting after pooping is absolute torture. There is a semi-permanent donut on the chair at the kitchen table where I sit. I have to nurse Kellan lying down because I can’t handle sitting in any position that involves my butt cheeks touching anything.

It’s like my ass aged fifty years in one childbirth.

It’s like my perineum “trauma” – because that’s exactly what it is – has taken away my two most favorite activities: running…and pooping.

(and you thought I was going to say sex)

(you’re all liars if you say you don’t enjoy a good poop)

….end tangent. Kind of.

Point is: I’m currently looking for another OB to get a second opinion and to also switch to because I’m not driving ALL THE WAY INTO DENVER FOR YOU TO TELL ME YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO FIX IT and to come back in another month.

Because time heals all wounds, right?

Fail, OB. Massive, massive fail.

Anyway, I don’t even remember where I was going before that tangent….right. According to my OB, she has no idea why that part isn’t healing and I should just rub a whole bunch of A&D ointment on it because, obviously, diaper rash team will do the trick.

Choke me with a Cheerio. Gag me with a Fruit Loop.

I had no idea the recovery phase would take so long.

It’s extremely upsetting because I figured I’d be off and running by now. That was my fail safe weight loss ka-blam!

My perineum has taken away, or at least delayed, the ka-blam! potential.

And that is no bueno.

I’m afraid of a subsequent childbirth and third degree tearing incident. I’d rather not lose the capability to “hold it” and have poo literally falling out of my hiney.

Hiney is way more appropriate than my other option with a two month old in the house.

Just sayin.

blah

Sometimes it’s hard for me to write anything because in the back of my mind, I know family members read this. Friends back home read this. Tim reads this.

Generally speaking, I say whatever I feel like saying. Not generally speaking, I hold a lot of things back because of the aforementioned readers. It isn’t like I have something bad to say…I just know if I say things like I’m about to, I’ll get emails or phone calls or someone might take the words out of context.

It’s so muddled…yet they’re only words…

So, Kellan and I went to our first play group yesterday. It was mostly pointless for him, since it was outside at a park (the older kids of the other moms had fun, though). I did meet two first time moms who I plan on getting together with outside of the “Moms Club” (that’s what it’s called…), so all was not lost. The “seasoned” moms were all, “One is EASY!”

Yah…once you know what the hell you’re doing. I’m sure you weren’t saying that during your first ride on the baby-merry-go-round. You were right here, in the trenches with me.

I also got sunburned on my chest, somehow.

Yay.

Thankfully, I kept Kellan covered up so he’s fine. He also slept the whole time, which was nice.

Anyhow, I am pretty sure I had a segue into this next part but I’m so wiped out and exhausted, I forgot what it was.

I’m so, so tired. I need a break. I need ‘me’ time. I haven’t had any since Kellan was born and though I love him to pieces, I need a minute or an hour where I don’t have to worry about changing a diaper or handling nap time or entertaining an almost ten week old.

This is so much harder than I ever thought it would be. I’d be lying if I said I never cried…if at the end of the day I couldn’t wait until he fell asleep so I could sleep myself and escape from reality in my dreams..and then hope and pray he falls back asleep when he starts waking up only a few hours after he’s fallen asleep.

The falling back asleep thing rarely happens.

He also rarely naps and if he does, I have to be laying next to humor holding him. The entire time.

It’s overwhelming, being a mom. It’s hard and utterly exhausting and I haven’t slept through the night since I don’t even remember when. Once your bladder starts getting squished by your ever growing uterus, it’s all over. Goodbye sleep.

And I loved my sleep.

I never realized how difficult it would be to have to function as a human being and entertain and care for a baby, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week while severely sleep deprived. I’m so tired sometimes that it’s beyond frustrating. I want to sleep SO BADLY but I can’t because I haven’t gotten Kellan to sleep yet or because he isn’t tired or because something needs to be done around the house or because my brain is going a million miles a minute all, “Am I doing enough?!”

Sleep comes before food. That’s where I’m at right now.

I live minute to minute. I can barely have a coherent conversation because I’ll forget what I was saying in the middle of my saying it. That and I’ll mumble. Even my tongue is exhausted. Sad.

I know it sounds like I’m being whiny….I am. If that bothers you….I’m too tired to care right now. I don’t mean that in a mean spirited way, since lately these days I have been saying things that come off as mean when I’m really just saying them…no real emotion behind them because I hadn’t even thought to put an emotion to my words – unless tired is an emotion.

I know it will get better. I know this is only a phase but WOW.

I’m struggling.

the cute baby conundrum

Tim: How do we know…like KNOW…we have a cute baby?

Me: Because we do. We have the most adorable baby in the entire world.

Tim: You’re his mom. Of course you’ll say that. I mean…how do we know other people really think he’s cute?

Me: Because they’ve said so.

Tim: But…who ever tells someone their baby isn’t cute?

Me: But…then why would people who’ve never even met us say he’s cute?

Tim: Because no one ever tells you that your baby fell off the ugly tree.

Me: OMG. You can’t say that about a baby!

Tim: You’re making my point for me.

Me: I’m just saying.

Tim: Not ALL babies are magazine cover worthy…so how do we know Kellan is really cute versus people just saying it?

Me: Umm…because they’ve said so.

Tim: You’re missing my point.

Me: That he’s obviously cute?

Tim: No….that we’ll never know if he really IS a cute baby versus people just telling us he’s cute when he really isn’t…

Me: But he IS!

Tim: To us.

Me: To everyone!

Tim: You’ll never be able to know that for sure…since nobody would ever tell someone their baby isn’t cute. Are you following?

Me: But…everyone – even people we’ve never met – say he’s cute…so, obviously, he must be cute to more than just you and me.

Tim: [face palm]

the not so glamorous side of pregnancy

Not to try and discourage anyone from creating life because that’s obviously entirely more important and awesome than anything else a person will ever do, but just a friendly little PSA:

These things are real and if you find yourself knocked up, they will absolutely happen.

To you.

After your boobs get past the OMG. RAPID GROWTH PRON STAR QUALITY but OMG OUCH! DO NOT TOUCH phase, they will begin to leak. And sometimes, particularly after having a dream about a baby or, even better, YOUR future baby, you will wake up to a cold, wet half dollar (do they even make those anymore?) sized puddle on your shirt.

Your vaj? Always leaky. Always secreting something. The best remedy? Change your panties.

I’m a huge booger-phobe. As in – I cannot even stand my own – and pregnancy has given me the most disgusting, blood tinged boogers that make me want to gag every time I get out of the shower and blow my nose.

If you have any moles, they’re going to get bigger and there’s nothing you can do about it. Then, one day, while you’re going to shave, an inconspicuous mole that used to be flat is going to catch in your razor and you’ll scream like you’ve just been nailed in the shin by a swinging baseball bat.

NO sexy time because your husband…well, suffice it to say that once you can no longer ignore the fact that there is, absolutely, another person inside of you, you just aren’t the same “woman” anymore. Once you can feel actual body parts moving across your stomach? It’s over.

Almost from the word “PREGNANT” your brain is in a constant fog and you’ll forget you said things, forget where you put everything and need daily reminders plastered on your forehead.

And then? Your whacked out hormones, which have removed the brain to mouth filter, will have you arguing with anyone who tells you that you were wrong about anything.

Then? You’ll burst into tears when you realize they’re right.

Repeat cycle. Daily.

At some point, you’re going to get a case of the ‘roids. Hemorrhoids that is.

Uhh…the obvious: weight gain. More than likely, you’ll eventually outweigh your husband.

Stock up on toilet paper because you’re going to go through more rolls in nine months than you have in ten years. The bathroom will be your new home and when you’re out, be sure to know where the nearest one is located because when you have to go, you have to go RIGHT. NOW. There is no “holding it.”

You will be tired. All. The. Time. (except somewhere in the second trimester – hello ridiculous energy!) and those bags under your eyes? They’ll probably get bigger. And darker.

Heartburn will help you decide how much you *really* want to eat something…or not.

You’ll be reduced to sitting on puppy pads and towels on the couch and the car and the bed will crinkle every time you roll over.

Speaking of rolling over, you will wake up every single time you need to do so to remember to keep your knees locked together. There is no spreading of the pelvis unless you want to cry out in pain when it feels like a knife was just shoved up your hoo-ha.

Your hips? They’re going to get wider and they will ache for no other reason than the giant belly you’re lugging around.

Your lady garden? Butcher shop. After awhile, you’re really just guessing and hoping you don’t shave off something important.

Saggy pants and sweatshirts = BFF

Prunes and/or milk of magnesia = BFF

If you have issues burping or farting in front of people – or your husband – you may as well go ahead and get over it now because both will happen and you will have had no idea that either were coming. There is no longer a “dainty” burp option. They’re sneaky and will shock everyone, including you, with both their force and magnitude.

The new form of communication around the house will be grunting. Even if you try to avoid it, you’ll soon learn that without that extra oomph, you’re never getting up from anywhere.

You will celebrate every single time you manage to take a decent poo. You will also announce it to your husband like you’ve just own the Nobel Prize.

Walking is reduced to waddling.

(So far, I’m fortunate to not have any stretch marks (knock on wood) or out of control acne (yet), so I’m not even going to tempt fate, but both…completely possible).

At the end of the third trimester, you’ll begin to get excited about looking for a snot like substance in the toilet a la mucus plug because that means “things” are happening.

At some point, probably at 3am when you cannot sleep thanks to pregnancy insomnia, you will accept that things that only seem normal in a horror flick are about to pop out of your vaj, you are going to be spread eagle for someone other than your husband, multiple sets of strange hands will be going in and out of you all over the place, at some point, you will probably make noises that sound like a mating boar and you might just take a dump in front of a room full of people.

No biggie.

(been there, done that moms: feel free to add more in the comments!)

commitment

Let’s talk commitment, shall we?

More specifically, relationship commitment.

I really should save this post for next month, but meh.

I like now.

Why next month? The ‘why’ is coming…

If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you’d already know that “commitment” wasn’t really something practiced by my family…namely my dad…who decided another family/woman/person other than his blood were more important than, well, us – his family.

I grew up almost expecting guys to cheat on me…I thought that’s just what happened…that’s just how it went: I bend over backwards and he takes advantage of me.

Obviously, that is not at all how a relationship is supposed to work. It took me a long, long time to develop enough faith and belief in “the other person” to trust them and not be suspicious if they were late or didn’t call or what have you.

To this day, the only “other person” I have ever trusted implicitly is Tim. Granted, it didn’t start out that way…it started out completely the opposite. It started the same way it always had in the past: I didn’t trust him farther than I could throw him – and that wasn’t very far. At all.

It took years – YEARS – of him having to prove himself (for lack of a better phrase) to me. I really can’t even imagine how that must have felt for him…I was too wrapped up in my own insecurities to even notice how my non-trusting attitude affected him. It did get better, though. I learned to trust him. I learned to not “assume the worst.”

Once that happened? I was free! I felt like I was flying. I felt more freedom than I ever have in a relationship. I don’t really know why it feels like freedom when, really, you’re letting the other person free…out of their trust cage…but that’s exactly the sensation.

And it was wonderful.

Then, like the cruel joke life is sometimes, I soon realized that fully trusting another person is just step one in a myriad of phases that never seem to end.

Trust is just the beginning of a long, winding road that takes you through more twists and turns than you’d think was reasonable. Once you learn to trust someone, that’s the easy part.

Where it gets difficult and tricky and muddied is with commitment.

It seems like trust and commitment go together, like peas and carrots, and they do, to a degree. What I’ve learned, though, is that you can trust anyone.

What you can’t do as easily is commit to that person. Committing to someone requires a hell of a lot more effort than trusting them. Commitment is an on-going, daily task that requires lots of work and time. When you slack off commitment, it slacks off on you. You slack off on each other. Everything just starts to go into autopilot and autopilot doesn’t allow you to see any of those twists in that road I was talking about earlier.

WHAM!

We’re all hit by a bus because no one was paying attention.

It’s at that point you realize you haven’t been practicing commitment like you should be and that realization usually stems from some kind of tiff or disagreement or full blown argument. It is so easy to slide into autopilot and just keep on living like you always do…taking the other person for granted and turning into a sour puss because you don’t feel like you’re getting what you want or need or both – all because you’ve been neglecting the thing that keeps you fulfilled: commitment.

One month, exactly, from today, marks Tim and my seven year “meet-a-versary” – which is really the beginning of our “dating” (waaay back) in 2004. I asked him if that date still counted, since it’s not like we officially became exclusive on that date…and he retorted, “Did you see anyone else after that?”

me: No…

Tim: Me either. So. Yes. It counts.

(He actually called and cancelled a previously scheduled date with some other chick after he and I went out for the first time…talk about timing. What if *I* had been the other girl who had the later scheduled date?)

I really can’t believe we’re coming up on seven years…so much has happened and so much has changed since then. We’ve grown together and figured out how to live with each other without killing the other person. We know how to deal with our faults and weird quirks. Though, personally, I think Tim is better at dealing with me than I am with him…even though I’m trying to improve…

Point is: we’re still learning how to be committed to one another each and every day. It’s not that we aren’t 100% on board with marriage and with the idea of FOREVER, it’s more like we have to navigate around obstacles that arise and learn how to best handle each one in a way that still keeps the other person in perspective. Sure, we could go off and just do it “our way” and say screw it…but that isn’t commitment. That isn’t what marriage is about.

The girl (me) who likes to compete in every.single.thing. in life is still learning that marriage isn’t a game where you keep score. Keeping score pulls you farther away from being committed and puts you into this box where you are still trying to be an individual in a relationship. I mean, yes, you’re always supposed to be yourself…stay individual…grow together…but what I am (unsuccessfully) trying to say is that if you’re always looking at your relationship – your commitment – as YOU versus HIM, then you aren’t really committed…are you?

The change in me is happening slowly – much unlike Tim, who seems to do a better job of staying present and thinking of us as the “whole” instead of the sum of its parts. I’m going to say his progression is because he has thirteen more years of life experience than me…or something like that.

Maybe I’m still trying to grow up.

Maybe it’s because I still have the daddy baggage.

Maybe it is something I don’t even see, yet.

But through all of those maybe’s, I have realized what it means to be committed and where I may be slacking off and not trying as hard as I should be. I see where I may need to make a course correction and I can see, usually in hindsight, where I was wrong and should have been the (first one) to apologize.

I think that probably counts for something.

honesty…not always like, well, fun.

I had to add an update…because I totally made Tim “look” like a short person in the # 1 (it’ll all make sense…promise)…it’s at the bottom – which is the most nonsensical place for an “update.” That’s why I’m telling you about it here. It’s like an advertisement, only without pictures.

Apparently, we’ve already forgotten that THESE ARE NOT AWARDS.

THEY ARE PUNISHMENTS.

It’s like saying to a kid, “It’s Saturday and I’ve got something fun for you! Go clean out the garage.”

Shit.

Anyway, I received this “award-that-is-not-really-an-award” – aka “Honest Scrap” (which I’d like to rename Honest Crap) from Shannon over at lovedyoumore.

This one’s all about honesty…no threatening questions like the last one. At least that’s a step in the right direction. Here’s the little “official” picture…no idea where it came from…but maybe it looks familiar to you. It looks like it’s been hit with more than a few bullets…I guess I can’t really blame the shooter.

Can someone please give me a REAL AWARD? One that equals accolades and lots of recognition where the most I have to do is smile and give an acceptance speech? I’d *really* like one of those kinds of awards.

So, honest little bits and pieces about me…other than the fact that I’d really like a REAL AWARD…that I haven’t already shared…hmmmm…

It took me awhile thirty minutes to come up with anything because I lay it all out here EVERY DAMN DAY…I bear my heart and soul…I give out lots of information that even the mailman doesn’t know about. And that’s saying something because the mailman is privy to EVERYTHING.

Anyhow, I’ve stalled long enough…here we go:

10. I really suck at having friends. There are MANY people I’d love to be friends with…both via cyberspace and regular space…but I am THE WORST at keeping in touch, following up, sending condolences or congratulations…making plans…anything that would maintain a friendship…I suck at. So, more than likely, you are just one of those people…and I want to be your friend…I just don’t know how. I need a starter-friend who is willing to like, yell at me when I don’t respond or when I act like a complete moron in a public setting.

9. That last one might be tied to the fact that, as a child, I was PAINFULLY shy. I wouldn’t go over to my little friend’s houses…I’d actually start crying at the thought of leaving my house or being away from my house. I preferred to play outside with my brother over my friends. That shyness stayed with me through college. I got over the whole “away from home” thing as a kid but I didn’t make any lasting friendships in college because I never opened up to let anyone get to know me. Ever. So weird, now that I think about it…because those who read this blog probably know more about me than those who spent almost every day of the year with me during college…in the flesh.

8. I DESPERATELY want to be a good singer…but I suck. I’ve tried. I’ve even recorded myself to try and see where it goes wrong. The answer? The first damn note. But to be able to belt out a song…ANY SONG…and have people say I sounded amazing…that I had an incredible voice…it is my dream that will never be realized. Unless they do complete vocal chord replacement surgery. Then maybe I have a shot.

7. Second to my desire to sing is to have a hot model body. Tim always tells me people would kill for my body…I think he’s just being nice…waaay too nice. I know I’m not overweight but I’m not thin as a rail nor am I like, rock solid in all areas. Again, Tim says these extremes are unattractive. I say look at a magazine. Any magazine. Actually, check out any form of public media. Fat people Any normal person with more than 2 ounces of fat and five freckles are only the main attraction if they’ve lost weight, are losing weight, are having some crazy experiment done on them or have so much fat on their bodies that it required something so drastic it became interesting. And NEVER do they show overweight people as sexy, desirable women. EVER. It’s crap. But it’s also twisted my mind, I’m well aware…it doesn’t stop me from wanting it though…my problem is that I like dessert too much. Damn the person who invented baked goods.

6. I like to pretend that Tim and I are like, super important when we’re travelling somewhere. I have no idea why…but it really comes out if we’re doing something that has us in first class seats, a classy hotel or being transported in a Lincoln Towncar. It’s like I want people to notice us…and for them to wonder what it is we do for that kind of treatment. It’s totally snobby and unrealistic because we’re probably the most uninteresting people on the planet. I think part of me hopes that one day I won’t BE pretending. Ok, I’m being a snobby bitch again. Moving on.

5. Little noises REALLY bother me. I mean, they make my insides boil like Elmer Fudd where his face gets all purple from sheer frustration because Bugs keeps outsmarting him. It will get to the point I become so agitated I’ll explode if they don’t IMMEDIATELY CEASE THE NOISE. The noises can be anything from someone snoring to having some random, dry booger stuck in your nose that makes a whistling sound when breathing or smacking gum or drumming a pen on a desk… It makes me CRAZY and I’ll continue to give them the evil eye all, “STOP MAKING THAT NOISE. I’m warning you. It will not be pretty if you continue to whistle FROM YOUR NOSE.” Sometimes I actually vocalize my irritation in a loud, audible huff. Now, in their defense, these people usually have no idea that they’re even MAKING a noise…but I hear it…and it drives me INSANE.

4. Since forever, in order for me to feel like I’ve had a successful, productive day, I must do something that caused me to sweat – like running or lifting weights or climbing to the top of a mountain. It goes back to having basketball practices 6 days a week for YEARS…so now, if I have days where I do absolutely nothing that is physically active, I feel like my entire day has been wasted.

3. Though I secretly shun Martha Stewart, I actually LOVE her. I want to have our house be like a Martha Stewart house…all neat and clean and pretty. I look through the home magazines every single time I’m at the grocery store with envy…even the one’s with the amazing spreads of food on the cover that look like it took a month to create or the one that always has the super cute decorations for the holidays…but I refuse to get a subscription because I’m ashamed of anyone knowing I want that…the “white picket fence” life. (That totally sounds like something that should be on Post Secret…and that’s really scary).

2. When I’m really, really hungry, I’m a total bitch. Stay away from me unless you have food. I’m serious. I’ll rip out your eyeballs if you walk up all, “let’s sit down and have a nice cup of tea” when all I want to shovel cookies into my mouth. I think this also goes back to #10…why I have no friends.

1. When I started my dating life, I refused to date anyone shorter than me. EVER. It was like an unwritten rule I NEVER BROKE…because dating someone shorter than me was embarrassing and just…wrong. It didn’t feel right. I broke this rule only ONCE…and I ended up marrying him. How’s that for poetic justice?

***Update for # 1 ***

I’m amazon woman tall, remember? Towering at 5’10…but it’s not like I married a midget or something. Tim is 5’9.

Not that I have anything against midgets.

I don’t.

I think I’m supposed to call them Little People.

Damn…not “them” like “them” is some discriminatory category…those that are shorter than average…Little People.

I realized I *might* have offended any little people by capitalizing the L in little and the P in people.

I really have nothing against short or tall people…or regular, average people…

I’m going to stop now because I’m just digging myself a deeper hole.

my response to why i tell the family about the blog…

Everyone had such great points why NOT to divulge my little haven…that I felt an ENTIRE POST was needed to respond.

So, to bring you into my world for a minute…

Let’s start with a story.

Back in high school, around driving age, I was dating this boy.

Said boy went to a different church than me. Some Sundays, I would go to HIS church instead of the one my family and I had gone to since I was like, three.

On the days I went to the boyfriend’s church, we would bring home a program with the Sunday Sermon to be prepared to answer the, “so what’d you hear/learn/do in church today?” questions from my mom.

Because we said we were going to church. And she expected we would have some sort of information about our morning’s lifted-up-by-the-Holy-Spirit experience.

One particular Sunday, we decided NOT to go to the service. At this point, I don’t even remember WHY we didn’t go. I guess we had some sort of urge to ruffle our rebellious feathers.

Our perfectly crafted plan – developed in the teenager typical five minutes -went something like this: We attended Sunday School for Teens…where mostly you goof off for an hour…so we could say we actually WENT to church. After gossip hour, we walked by the sanctuary and picked up a program sitting in a wicker basket by the door so we’d have PROOF. DOCUMENTATION of our participation.

Then we turned our heels and walked right out of the double doors.

We drove over to his house and waited for “church hour” to tick by so we could go back to MY HOUSE for lunch. Because my mom made the good lunches. And his mom never went grocery shopping. So there was never a discussion on which house to go to.

Mine won. Always.

So, at noon sharp, we make the trip over to my house and saunter into my finished basement, feeling smug like we’d just pulled one over on EVERYONE because WE DIDN’T GO TO CHURCH but would have everyone believing otherwise.

Because we were home exactly fifteen minutes AFTER CHURCH WAS OVER.

Because we were smart enough to pick up a PROGRAM FOR THAT DAY.

We sat on the couch and watched TV. Waiting on my mom and brothers to get home from their church service.

About ten minutes later, my mom walks in, lugging grocery bags from an impromptu trip to the grocery store after church.

The first words out of her mouth weren’t “What would you like for lunch?” or “LOOK! I went grocery shopping!” or “Make yourself useful and help me with these!”

It was: “So, how was church?”

START PLAN OF PRETEND CHURCH ACTION.

AND WOW…did we feed her a load of bull shit. Completely plausible, of course, because it was all right there, in the program. Backing us up.

Then she says, “Really? Sounds like it was a great sermon!”

We smile like we’ve just gotten away with murder.

“IT WAS. Life changing, I tell you. Absolutely amazing.”

My mom drops the grocery bags, stands straight up and looks ME square in the eye and says, “Oh! Guess who I RAN INTO AT THE GROCERY STORE?”

I’m all, “I have no idea?! A clown? The Pope!? Maybe one of the Beatles??…”

She says nothing.

Still…quiet…boyfriend is no longer rattling off whatever Bible verses he could remember and is instead looking at the floor and shuffling his feet.

I start sweating…unable to make myself speak…to defend myself…to come up with SOMETHING to say.

Mom: “I ran into Joey’s MOM!”

(Joey was a friend of my then boy friend…whose ENTIRE FAMILY were members and devout Sunday worshippers at the church we skipped out on)

I just continued to stare at her…silently praying to the God I left in favor of watching TV this day to allow me this ONE chance to slide by and I swore I’d never skip out again on church or step on another ant or blame my brothers for something I did ever, EVER again.

Mom: “Funny thing, she said the sermon was wonderful…yet…she didn’t SEE either of you today at church.”

And that was it. We were hung right out to dry and suffered the consequences.

We’ll just say “lunch” wasn’t exactly served that Sunday.

Ratted out in one of the most IMPOSSIBLE SCENARIOS.

Because of course, MY MOM and JOEY’S MOM would need something from the EXACT SAME GROCERY STORE in the EXACT SAME AISLE at the EXACT SAME TIME AFTER CHURCH.

And the two churches…by the way, were MILES APART with about five different grocery store options between the two.

I never lied to her again…because it didn’t matter WHAT IT WAS.

She found out.

The “happenings” in my life are like a horribly twisted six degrees of separation. She knows somebody who knows somebody who knows the cousin of the uncle’s child twice removed who READS THIS BLOG.

So – the whole point of this story…

I tell THE FAMILY about the blog because even if I don’t…they’ll find out. And I learned in high school that it’s easier to deal with it BEFORE than to hide it and have the motherly wrath bestowed upon me.

I’ll take my punishment up front. Thanks.

Hey, at least I was honest.