The Friday Diary: March Wrap Up

Today is the last Friday of March, and by Sunday it will already be April, 2012. 

I can't believe that three months of this year that still feels new to me, have passed already.

It's all kind of going by in a blur, and time seems to be perpetually speeding up.

I feel like a lot has changed this year so far, and more changes are on the horizon, but I feel good about them.

This month, the 14th marked the end of three whole months at my new job.

The first three months were incredibly hard.

I have a boss who is difficult to say the least, and learning how to work with him without taking every little shitty thing he did or said personally was a huge challenge for me.

But I'm incredibly proud of myself for sticking with it, and trying every day to find some way to make that working relationship work because I have a great job. One that changed a lot for me and my kids.

I feel like towards the end of this month my boss and I made some real progress, and I even got him to laugh yesterday when I gave him a bright pink file folder, after he explained to me that he needed a folder made for something in such great detail you would've thought he was talking to a 3 year old.

He laughed a little, and I could see it in his eyes that he knew he deserved that.

As a reward I replaced the pink folder with a dark blue one while he was in a meeting.

I hope that small "thanks for not being a dick about the joke I just made" didn't escape his notice.

Also on the 14th, Bill and I marked the anniversary of three years in each other's lives. 

It's frustrating that we can't say "three years together" even though in my opinion we were together, and the way Bill puts it "we weren't dating but we were definitely in a relationship" {whatever that means}

But regardless, it was a big deal to me to look back at three whole years of managing to hang on to each other in one form or another, in the midst of all the rain storms and outright hurricanes that befell our relationship over all that time. We survived a lot, and even though a good portion of it is far too personal to talk about in detail here, if you knew everything we've been through, I think you'd agree that holding on to each other, and managing to fall in love and grow ever closer to one another was nothing short of a miracle.

Bill and I have grown immensely, I think in the last three months but the last month especially.

I am learning how to love better, and how to have a healthier kind of relationship than I've ever had.

As sad as it sounds Bill had to more or less teach me that not fighting over every single little thing that made me feel the slightest bit insecure, would actually over time make me feel more secure.

He was right, and I'm still learning.

But we haven't gotten in a legitimate fight at all this month, and I feel really proud of that.

My temper still flares up from time to time, and my insecurities still rear their ugly heads, but I'm able to let the moment pass without making a huge issue of it.

I think so, anyway. 

The kids are growing up so fast, and once April starts Jackson will be one month and 18 days from his 4th birthday. 

I feel an odd sense of sadness that his dad will miss yet another birthday, Maybe because I know that the more birthdays that pass, the more aware of that absence Jackson will inevitably become. His 4th birthday feels like the last one he'll have where he won't notice that his dad isn't there for it, or that other kids dads are there for their birthdays.

I wish his dad knew what he was missing.

And I wish Jackson never had to be aware that he is missing out on something too: a father.

As of today there are only 23 more sleeps until we leave for Italy.

Bill thinks it's funny that I count the night before we leave as a "sleep" because he knows I won't sleep a wink.

I really couldn't be more excited, and I couldn't be any happier that I'm going to Italy with Bill.

I say all the time that Bill and I travel well together, and that probably sounds weird to some people because you'd think that if you generally get along with someone in everyday life, or are close with them, that you would also travel well with them.

I've learned that this is not the case, and some people, regardless of how good of friends or how close of family members or how great of lovers they are, should simply never leave their hometowns with each other.

Bill and I travel well together, and I am very much looking forward to the adventures that lie ahead.

I'm looking forward to the rest of this year, to be honest. And that's something I haven't been able to say about the future in a pretty long time.

I have a great job that I'm actually doing well at, I have healthy kids who are growing and excelling despite the challenges they've already faced in their so far short lives, I have a truly truly amazing boyfriend, who gives me a chick flick movie worthy kind of love and makes me feel like we must really have something exceptional, because words just can't describe the respect, trust and admiration I feel for him. And I have a beautiful, safe new home in an awesome neighborhood, where the kids and I can go for walks at night and collect rocks and pine cones without being scared of getting shot.

I always hesitate to say this because it feels like I'm tempting fate {knock on wood} but life is really good right now, and I am so very thankful for what the first three months of this year have brought to me and mine.

Happy Friday.

The One Where I Almost Die Without Shaving My Legs First

So, as some of you may know {because I've talked about it before, obviously} I have anxiety. 

I don't know if I would classify it as "Severe Anxiety"...probably something closer to "Inconvenient and Terrifying Anxiety". Most of the time my anxiety is well under control, and you would never know I have it...hell I even forget that I have it, or at the very least feel silly saying I have during the times when it's so well managed. 

I even sometimes trick myself into thinking it magically went away and I will never hide in a bathroom praying I don't black out on the disgusting bathroom floor at work ever again.

I'm wrong every time.

But did I ever tell you the story about the time when my anxiety got so bad I was ambulanced to a hospital with incredibly hairy legs?!

No?!

Well, wait no longer friends, here it is!

So when Jack was a wee babe and we were living out in Surprise with my friend until we found a new place after ditching Jack's "old man", I experienced a high anxiety period. 

I was a newly single mother of two kids, one of which was an infant. I wonder why I was anxious.

Anyway, I started having trouble breathing, only at night, but every single night, to the point that I would sometimes sit in my room with my hand on my chest, wheezing and feeling like I was suffocating. My friend had a lot of pets, and sometimes I am randomly allergic to pets, so I chalked it up to a bad reaction to the dogs or cats or cat litter or air or whatever and tried to forget about it.

I took allergy meds to no avail, and found every way possible to justify only having allergies at night. Seriously, as soon as the sun went down, I would start struggling to breath.

One night I sort of freaked out and drove myself to the hospital.

When I got there they couldn't find anything wrong with me, so they sent me back home.

I was super smug about it and all like "See, clearly it's fucking allergies!" to myself, but it was starting to really freak me out.

Then one day while the kids and I were at the house alone, I couldn't breath. Like at all. I was dizzy and sweaty and felt like no matter how hard I tried I could not get fucking air into my lungs. And it was daytime, so I was super like "WHAT THE FUCK ALLERGIES?! WE ONLY DO THIS SHIT AT NIGHT!"

After about 30 minutes I started feeling like I was going to black out at any second, and I didn't know what to do. I was scared that if I tried to drive with the kids I would blackout and then crash and the kids would be hurt, so I freaked out and called 911 and was all like "Hey I can't fucking breath. Like at all" 

So, it's the middle of summer, and I'm in shorts, but I'm single as hell and kind of depressed so I maybe hadn't shaved my legs in.....a while. Like a couple weeks a while. Don't judge me!!

The ambulance gets there, with sirens on and everything, and they put me on a stretcher thing in the back and load up my kids. 

That's when this super hot fireman guy goes to put these weird sticky things on my chest with wires attached to some machine that tells him if I'm dying or not, and I'm like "Oh hey hot stuff, go ahead and put stickers on me, whatever, I'm just slowly suffocating over here" when all of a sudden, he pulls the little sheet they gave me off my legs, RUBS MY CALF WITH HIS BARE HAND and puts two sticker things on each calf. Each incredibly hairy, unshaven calf. And that's when I was like "Whatever, I was too good for you anyway,asshole" and then he asked me to please stop muttering to myself and lay down.

We get to the hospital, and the nurse takes my pulse {135 resting} and my blood pressure which was some crazy high number, and completely freaks out, calls for a doctor and a crash cart. Super. 

At this point I'm convinced I'm having a heart attack or some shit and start completely panicking, whilst my two young babies sit in little chairs in the corner wondering why some fucking candy striper hasn't called my emergency contact to come get them yet.

So all this people are standing over me, checking this and poking that and listening to all my body parts and I'm just laying there waiting to die, wondering if the medical examiner will talk about how ferociously hair my legs are on my autopsy report. 

And then the nurse looks at me with a totally straight face and says "Are you feeling anxious right now?" and I said "UM, why yes! Now that you fucking mention it, I am!" and she says "Do you have an anxiety disorder?" and I'm like "What tipped you off?" and she goes "What makes your anxiety worse?" and I started yelling "NURSES THAT SCREAM FOR DOCTORS AND CRASH CARTS WITHOUT TELLING ME FIRST" and she's all like "Ma'am please calm down. Your blood pressure and heart rate won't come down until you get your anxiety under control" and I was like "IT'S A LITTLE HARD WHEN YOU GUYS KEEP LOOKING AT ME LIKE I'M HAVING A FUCKING HEART ATTACK! COULD I HAVE SOME XANAX PLEASE?!" 

And then the firefighter who touched my hair legs came and got my kids and looked at me like I was the crazy one for screaming about Xanax when there was about 15 people in my room ready to watch my heart explode or blood start coming out of my ears or whatever the fuck they were doing.

Do you have anxiety.

Pfft. 

Yes, typically when I am in the Emergency room where I was brought by ambulance for shortness of breath and my heart is now up to 150 at a resting rate, and there is a nurse with a shot of adrenaline and shock pads standing next to me, I TEND TO GET A BIT ANXIOUS.

In the end they said I had a "Massive" panic attack, gave me a whole bunch of crazy meds and sent me home.

Where I promptly shaved my legs and wrote a stern letter to Banner hospital asking them to please administer Valium prior to telling people they're either dying or just being crazy over some stupid bullshit that doesn't matter. 

But I never sent it because I was lazy and too doped up on Atavan to do anything other than lay on the floor and drool with baby Jackson. 

It was the best quality time we ever spent together.

The end.

The Fear

I tend to make friends with older ladies when it comes to who I converse with in the workplace. For instance, right now my best work friend is a 46 year old paralegal who curses more than I do and is always talking about working out her "obliques" in her spare time. This kind of senseless bragging makes me want to kick her in the neck, but I'm too fat to kick that high, so....touche I guess.

Anyway, I don't know why this happens, honestly, because outside of work, despite my pension for dating charming and handsome older men, I have always had friends that were pretty much in my age range. But at work you can undoubtedly find me sitting at the old ladies lunch table listening to stories about their grown kids money problems or watching videos of their lame ass cat's birthday party.

Don't get me wrong though, it's not all bad. 

Sometimes they bring me candy and little cakes or pies they made because they miss having people to cook for other than their ungrateful as shit pets, and a lot of times they give fucking spectacular advice. 

Especially if they're older ladies with a lot of sass, which are my kind of older ladies. {trust me there was absolutely no way to make that statement without sounding porny as all get out}

One of the drawbacks to this nonsexual hetero Harold and Maude friendship, is that old women can be bitter as fuck, and inevitably they always give me The Fear.

At some point, regardless of their actual age, if they're over 30 and/or have been with their current partner more than 5 years, they end up giving me The Fear.

What is The Fear, you ask?

The Fear is the overwhelming terror that overcomes me when I listen to stories from other women describing how they basically could care less about sex anymore/their partners wouldn't notice at this point if they stripped naked and did the merengue anyway.

I say "over 30 and/or have been with their partner more than 5 years" because I hear this kind of crazy talk from women still in their 20's! In fact just yesterday I heard a girl {27 years old!!!} at work talking about how one day she got all dressed up to go out with some friends, but her plans fell through, so there she was in the kitchen making dinner in a miniskirt and stilettos, bent over pulling a beautiful roast out of the oven, when her boyfriend of 7 years came in and didn't even notice. Just walked past her and started talking about stupid bullshit, until she announced casually that she was going to change into her pajamas, at which point he finally actually looked at her and simply said "How do you cook in shoes like that? Aren't you scared you'll fall when you're carrying something hot?" AND THIS WAS NO BIG DEAL TO HER! She quite literally said to me "Once you've been together that long, sex is something you can more or less take or leave." To help prove her point {and try to make the look of terror on my face go away} another woman told a story about how her husband turned down sex because it was late and he had just gotten all ready to clean the oven.....CLEAN THE OVEN.

How are these women not hurt by this? How do they not care?! How can sex become something so casual and unimportant between two people, that it's something you talk about maybe doing after you load the dishwasher if you're not too tired?!

Is this really what happens in normal relationships? Is this really what happens to all women as we get older? And in that case, what is it more related to, age or how long you've been with your current partner? And does the desire kind of leave you altogether, or do you just stop finding that one person as desirable, but your sex drive is still just as high?  

Basically what I'm asking is HOW DOES IT ALL WORK AND DOES THIS HAVE TO HAPPEN TO ME?!

Maybe it's because I'm only 24, or because Bill and I have only been "officially" together a few months, I don't know, but I would be crushed if I was all slutted up and making dinner for Bill like something out of a Skinamax movie, and he didn't even NOTICE. I would be seriously depressed if I offered him sexy time and cleaning the oven took priority. And I would be calling every guru, psychic and relationship counselor in the state if I felt like I could simply take or leave sex with him....

The Fear is that I don't want our relationship to become....that. Whatever that is, good, bad or indifferent, and I'm just terrified that maybe there's no avoiding it.

But as long as I'm shit scared of it maybe I can put it off a while longer, right?

RIGHT?!

When I panicked and made Bill promise he would never chose to clean the oven instead of having sexy time with me, he agreed almost too quickly.
At first I felt relieved, and then I realized that he probably just hates cleaning the oven, and if it made me feel "special" for him to abandon that chore in favor of playing "hide the saltine" with me, then that works out swell for him.
Well played, Bill. Well played.

2012 Photo Challenge Week Eleven: Read

Right now I'm re-reading "I Know This Much Is True" by Wally Lamb.

I think I've read this book 3 or 4 times now, and every couple years I find myself picking it back up again. I'm like that with my absolute favorite books. I've read White Oleander by Janet Fitch so many times I could probably recite certain chapter by heart. Back Roads by Tawnie Odelle was read and re-read and re-read again.

When a book truly moves me I can't resist slipping back into the wonderful world of that story just one more time. Rewatching that movie that a good book plays for you in your head. The move that only true book lovers can see, where all the characters look just right, and you can feel the words on the page, not just see them.

And you always put yourself in the book somewhere, don't you?

Try to find that one character that you can identify with one some level? That one who is like an external manifestation of some part of your personality, so well in fact that you start imagining them almost looking like you. And then it really is your story. Your world that you can go back and visit over and over again.

Books are just a magical thing, if you ask me.

Of All

 

Of all the words by heart could whisper to yours, 

Of all the phrases my soul would love to utter into the eager ear of your soul

In the heavy quiet of midnight, 

"I love you" Is probably the simplest

But definitely the most honest

And certainly the most profound 

Of them all.

Monday Momisms: On Mom Friendships

 

I read a post recently about whether or not moms and not-moms can be friends. 

Good points were made for why they can't. Things like: as moms we become boring creatures with little to talk about except baby poop and nap time and the cute shit our kids say incorrectly that provides us possibly the only entertainment we get in a day, and grocery shopping.

It's true.

Since becoming a mother I have over the last 8 years become increasingly more boring.

And the prognosis isn't good. 

I see myself only becoming exponentially more boring until I basically cease to exists as anything other than a machine that puts clothes into another machine to be washed, and cooks food on yet another machine that gets hot and beeps and smokes.

It will eventually be an endless cycle of my boring machine self, communicating with other machines in order to complete tasks that keep my children alive.

This is quite literally a nightmare I have often.

The writer of the post about moms and not-moms being friends, also went on to say that efforts could be made on both sides: not moms could be more patient, and kindly listen to our crap ass mom talk, and then when we're done bitching talking, we moms can indulge in a little not-mom vicarious living by listening to our not-mom friends tell stories about the normal lives they're still carrying on, in a world where they get to take a shower ever single day. 

I agreed with almost everything the writer was saying.

But it brought up another question for me along the same lines - or maybe another question asked in a different way: can moms and not-moms be friends when their lives are just so different?

Imagine that you did have normal shit to talk about, and you didn't ever tell stories about baby shit or grocery shopping {yeah right}, and you were actually able to get away once in a while for a girls lunch without your babies?

Would you still be able to maintain friendships with your friends who didn't have kids?

Would the two of you be anywhere near the same place in your lives? Would you be able to honestly relate to the things the other person was going through in their very different universe?

Once you live a new life for long enough, your old life begins to feel very foreign. It becomes harder and harder to recognize the native language, and communicate with the inhabitants of that now very distant land.

Do you ever feel like you're a little more grown up than your friends that don't have kids?

I mean, with no disrespect intended to the childless women of the world, but doesn't getting married, or being in a serious relationship, or doing it all alone while raising babies age you a little, if not a whole hell of a lot?

I am 24 years old and I don't feel anywhere near the same age as the girls in my office who are even a couple years older than me, unless they also have kids or a husband or lead a somewhat similar life.

Would your not-mom friends never get bored with just having girls lunch and getting your nails done, if they're still hitting the bars on Friday night, trying to find a man or have some fun, or just enjoy being young and still relatively unattached?

I know that the experiences I've had tell me it's incredibly hard for me personally to have close friendships with girls who don't have kids. 

It's frustrating on both sides when it comes to going out together: I can't ever go to happy hour after work, I cannot go to a bar where my tab will be over 20 dollars for two freaking drinks, I don't can't talk on the phone with them every night and sometimes I get so busy/tired/rundown/forgetful that I may not return a call for several days.

And during the times when I am overwhelmed, lonely from being the only parent/adult in the house, and a little bored after months and months of nothing but Rugrats on T.V. and World War II over getting little kids to finish their goddamn mac and cheese, it's hard for me not to feel a little jealous of my friends who are seeing concerts, going to movies and surrounded by their other friends constantly.

The resentment definitely comes out, and that adds strain to an already fragile friendship, and before I know it I'm saying that our lives are just too different and I need to find more grown up friends.

So I guess I'm saying I don't know how it all works, I don't know how to balance those worlds. 

I don't know if it's about maturity, or parental status, or if one determines the other and in the end they're all the same. I don't know if my own immaturity affected my ability to be friends with people with less responsibility than me, without allowing them to be poor influences on me, or if the way that raising babies just naturally wears you out and wears you down sometimes, makes being friends with people who have less responsibility than you a bad idea because there's almost no way to avoid them being a bad influence.
Oy. It's confusing, and I think there are no hard and fast rules or absolute truths.

I just know that friendships only become more vital, yet simultaneously harder, as soon as someone says

"Here comes the head!"

 Quote = Jerry Maguire

Our Weekend

On Friday, I came home to find my passport in my mailbox. Seeing as how I ordered it in the beginning of this month, that has got to be the fastest the government has ever done anything in the history of ever.

"Lost Flower" by Lainie

"Colorful Forest" by Lainie

"Rain" by Jackson

"Little Bunny FooFoo" by Jackson

We like to have pretty mellow weekends around here, and this one was no exception. Friday, I came home to find my passport in the mailbox. This was incredibly exciting news to me, although I don't think the rest of the neighborhood was as happy for me, especially after hearing me squeal for a good 20 minutes. After that, the kids and I painted pictures and baked cookies.
Saturday, Jacks aunt Jenn came over with her sweet 3 month old baby Theron and we spent the day at the park, and then playing on the living room floor.
Lainie is such a sweet girl, who just loves babies to death. She spent the whole day loving on Theron, who was quite smitten with her right back.
She will no doubt be a wonderful mommy someday.
After everyone fell asleep, I stayed up late watching chick flicks and eating popcorn.
Some lovely alone time, to end a lovely weekend.

Happy Sunday.

The Friday Diary: 1 Month from Today

 

Today is Friday, and it's also a very special day.

Why is it special, you may ask?

Well, not because it's jeans day at work {which Friday usually is but this week isn't. Fuckers.}

And not because it's only 24 more hours until my special weekly night with Bill {because he's in California with his kids until Sunday. Fucker.}

No, today is a special day because I leave for Italy in exactly one month from this very day.

Ohmygodcrazy, right?!

I actually still can't really believe I'm going to Italy.

I have a very tight schedule planned for us for our trip:

-Arrive in Rome, check into our hotel

-Nap

-Roll out of bed, explore a bit, find some carb loaded food and eat too much of it

-Drink wine. Too much of that too.

-Nap

-Wake up and realize it's dinner time. Repeat food and wine process.

-Nap some more

-Get up the next day and explore Rome and maybe go to the Vatican

-Be in awe of the amazing frescos 

-Have lunch

-Nap

This schedule will basically repeat, with minor variances in where we're exploring each day, but generally I plan to see everything, eat almost everything, and sleep and relax in the arms of my man to my hearts content.

How I will fit that much sleeping and adventuring into the same schedule I'm not totally sure.

But I'm Italian so I'm sure I can figure it out.

1 month from today.

Can't come soon enough!

UPDATE: Look what was waiting in the mail for me when I  got home today:

I wish y'all could've seen my face.
Although it was pretty similar to the face I'm making in this picture:

Ok. No more pictures of me with my passport, I promise. 

How Chick Flicks Ruined My Life

 

10. Making me think that all the serious or sad moments in my life would make music automatically start playing somewhere in the background.

 

9. Introducing me to Leonardo DiCaprio. Period.

 

8. Starting my life long love affair with pilots.

 

7. By making me think every bad boy was just a smoldery, misunderstood loner with a heart of gold, when in fact 99% of them are just assholes.

 

6. Teaching me that runniing full force at a guy and asking him to catch me and lift me into the air, is a great idea. I've hurt more than one person trying this.

 

5. Telling me that the way to get a hot guy to like you, is to be his nerdy tutor. Or have cancer. A lose/lose situation if you ask me.

 

4. More or less introducing me to bestiality

{and now by making me google bestiality to see how to actually spell it}

 

3. Convincing me to cut my hair like Meg Ryan's in You've Got Mail, which successfully ruined my freshman year of high school altogether.

 

2. Making me think that a guy would get off the plane for me, when in reality plane tickets are expensive and no one does that. Ever.

 

1. And last but not least: teaching me that if it was a truly romantic moment, it will happen in the rain. This has yet to happen even once in my life. The closest I ever came was being kissed outside while it was really windy. Once.

Apprently

So, this exists:

 

It's a fucking bear sleeping bag.

And by bear sleeping bag, I do not mean it's a stupid sleeping bag with bears on it, I mean it IS A SLEEPING BAG THAT IS A BEAR.

I could literally sleep INSIDE of a bear.

NO I WILL NOT STOP TYPING IN ALL CAPS.

This is HUGE news!

Therefor it must be shout-typed.

I just can't believe I am just now finding out about this/don't already have 6 of them,

Why 6 you ask?

Well, because you should always have back ups of your favorite things - clearly, and I have two kids, and Bill has two kids, and there is 1 of me and 1 of Bill, which I think all adds up to 6, and how awesome would it be to all go camping together and sleep outside of our tents on the ground IN OUR BEAR BAGS?!

Then, if bears came to attack them {and I say them, not us because a bear would never attack me. We're friends}, then he'd be all like "Oh, sorry I didn't realize you were all just a family of bears, sleeping on the ground!" and we'd be all "Oh, no it's no problem, carry on. I think there's a group of college kids just down the path there with none of their food hung up in trees. Go teach them a lesson like WE BEARS ARE KNOWN TO DO."

And recognizing that as a fantastic alternative to eating Bill and his kids and my kids {but not me} the bear that almost mistakenly attacked them, will travel on down the road.

IT'S A FLAWLESS PLAN.

And, I could wear it to work, and when people piss me off I can just climb inside it and zip it all the way up. Then when my boss comes to be retarded in my personal space, or say shit I don't care about, I can be like "Excuse me, I'M WEARING A BEAR. No I cannot fax that for you, I don't have opposable thumbs inside this bear, so I guess you'll have to fax that shit yourself. Now please go be an asshole somewhere else."

AND HE WOULD SIMPLY HAVE NO CHOICE.

There would be no disputing that logic, thusfor forcing him to fax his own shit and leave me and my bear bag the hell alone.

It's perfect.

Someone please buy me this right now.

I will trade all types of home cooked dinners or house cleaning, or 1 amazing week as my best friend in exchange for this sleeping bag.

I'm a really good best friend, just so you know.

2012 Photo Challenge Week 10: Wanted

Ok, so I might have cheated on this weeks photo challenge. 

In my defense, there was no way around it. 

The subject was "wanted", and because I don't have the thing I want, I can't really take a picture of it.

It's this:

 

Oh yes. 

A Canon Rebel.

Seeing as how I am a single mommy with two little kids who love eating, I could never ever in my life justify buying a $500 camera. 

But, I just adore them none the less.

So there you have it.

A picture of something I want.

And I didn't take the picture, because I don't have this pretty camera to take it with.

That's just basic science, really.

My Flair

I have work in the morning, and it's late and I should totally be sleeping, but instead I'm sitting up late at night watching Netflix trash, eating iced circus cookies {the amazing pink and white ones, except I'm only actually eating the pink ones because they taste better-duh} and looking like this:

Which is awful and scary, but it's all because I didn't straighten or even brush my hair after my shower, and my anxiety kicked into overdrive somewhere around 6 p.m. today, whilst driving on the freeway. 

Because anxiety is an inconvenient asshole.

I don't talk a lot about my anxiety, or about panic attacks, or about what triggers either of those things for me because talking about it is a trigger for me {how fucking inconvenient is that?!} and also because most people don't ever know what to say, so they just do the sympathetic head tilt and slow nod and make that insincere concerned "Oh I'm sorry" face that doesn't mean shit. You know, the same one people make when you tell them you stepped in dog shit.

It's a polite face that basically equals "I have no idea what to say to you because I can in no way relate to what you're saying, I just know it's bad so I'll look sad for you but I'm not"

Anyway, I don't talk about it.

I remember how people used to treat my dad after finding out he was bipolar, and I guess some part of me is worried about being treated differently too.

Like I'm crazy, even though I know I'm not, or that people will worry about me when they shouldn't, or that they won't care when I need them too because they don't take it seriously, and worst of all I worry that they won't like me or love me anymore because they see me as damaged, broken, inconvenient or a hassle.

It's all terrifying. 

Luckily, I am not bipolar, but I do have cognitive OCD and an anxiety disorder. 

Really, those things are kind of one and the same because OCD is an anxiety disorder, but it's such a major symptom of anxiety, that it also causes anxiety, and feels so different from regular anxiety that I count it separately. 

Most of the time my anxiety is so low and well controlled that it is basically non-existent. I can go months and months without feeling anxious at all, and then BAM. I'm a shaking mess, driving home from work with my hands clenched on the steering will, biting my tongue and praying to just get home, just get home, just get home and I'll be ok. Counting every breath I take and hoping against hope that I don't become hysterical or pass out like I feel I'm about to.

Sometimes I have small periods of higher anxiety. Weeks or months where I may not experience anxiety everyday, but I have more anxiety attacks than normal and I'm far more sensitive to my triggers. 

{For those who are new to all this mental illness jargon, a trigger is exactly what it sounds like: some random, insignificant shit that rocks my entire world and leaves me sweating and shaking and gripping the edge of a bathroom counter praying to live}

I experienced one anxiety period where I had multiple anxiety attacks a day, and it was nearly crippling.

I look back on that summer and honestly wonder how I survived it.

For some reason I've had higher anxiety the last couple weeks than I normally do, so I would say I'm in a bit of an anxiety period.

I have been avoiding certain freeway on-ramps that are especially bad for me during anxiety periods because those are triggers for me, even though when I am in an anxiety free period I can take almost any on ramp with absolutely no problem {with the exception of one specific one that makes me feel like I'm going to pass out regardless of my mental state at the time} and I haven't been sleeping as well, i.e. tonight, when I am up at 11 p.m. with a lions mane for hair, writing about how fucked up I am.

Honestly I don't know why I'm writing this, except for the fact that it makes me feel better and more anxious somehow simultaneously.

I feel better because it's like talking it out with a trusted friend, and I feel worse because talking about my anxiety gives me anxiety.

I feel like Jennifer Aniston in Office Space: "I don't like talking about my flair" 

And I'm writing about it because I get hundreds of blog views a month {some fucking crazy how} and I know, I know one of you readers out there suffers from something like what I suffer from. I know someone out there is up late at night, surfing blogs, trying to feel better enough to fall asleep, and I'm writing this with the hope that that one specific reader will find this post, and know they're not crazy.

Know they're not alone, as trite as that sounds.

And know that they are not damaged goods, and they can talk about what's wrong without everyone going "Oh...." and then slowly backing away.

I'll be honest, not everyone will understand your burden, and not everyone will be able to deal with it. I mean, as someone that has anxiety I have no idea how to call my boss and be like "I'm sorry, I can't come in today because I feel like I'm going to die and everything is scaring me." or tell the police officer who comes to see if I'm OK on the side of the freeway "Yes officer I am completely sober. I stopped on the side of the freeway in the most dangerous spot possible because it was safer than driving on an on ramp from one freeway to the next. I have vertigo occasionally. Your nails are freaking me out. Can you reach into the glove compartment and hand me my Xanax? YES I'M FUCKING SOBER." I can't imagine how hard it would be for someone who's never experienced this to try to grasp why I can't watch that movie right now even though I said two weeks ago I was dying to see it, because it's a trigger for me now when it wasn't then, or how a "normal" person would even begin to understand what it feels like to be certain you're dying for 15 straight minutes, completely out of the blue.

People have totally left my life because they didn't want to sit on the bathroom floor and hold my hand while I hyperventilated and cried.

I don't blame them.

But the people that have stayed, that have held my hand and stroked my hair, and told me I was going to be ok, the people that have laid with me while I cried or listened to me ramble about the crazy shit I'm afraid of, or accepted the fact that yes, we have to get off at this exit and take surface streets the rest of the way because the on ramp from this freeway to the next one might fucking kill me today, those people are so amazing, and so brave, and exactly the kind of people that people like me need around, as opposed to the ones who just want to hear about my illness out of a morbid curiosity, and then leave when they get too freaked out to deal with the real life symptoms that come with the sometimes sadly hilarious anxiety stories. 

If you're up late tonight, and you feel like shit, and you hid in a bathroom today, or cried in the car today, or sat down in a corner in a department store and took your own pulse just to reassure yourself you in fact aren't having a heart attack in Macy's, I get it.

I know what you're feeling, and I'm sorry for you.

Depression and anxiety are fucking liars, and if you keep fighting, you'll win.

I promise.

Get some sleep. You have fucking work tomorrow.

{I'm sorry about that too}

Monday Momisms: Having Parented

 

There is this writer named Dorothy Parker who, when asked if she loved writing responded

"No, but I love having written."

Sometimes, that's how I feel about parenting.

I know that sounds wrong, but stay with me here....

Parenting is hard. It's a bitch, and sometimes it just plain knocks you on your ass. You go through things that make you crazy, break your heart, stress you to your limits. You make choices that make you feel like you would rather slam your head against a wall than have to make that decision, and some days, all you want is a freaking break. 

Now, not that it's all bad. In fact a lot of it is truly great. But a lot of it is hard....sometimes just plain awful.

When old people stop me in grocery stores and get all teary eyed and tell me to savor every moment of it, and how much they loved parenting and raising kids, sometimes I want to be like

"Ok, really? You really loved parenting? Or do you love having parented?" 

I feel like there is a distinct difference. 

Loving parenting to me is like saying 

"I love making difficult decisions that my children do not understand, and therefor cry, bitch and moan about until I feel like tearing out my hair. Oh, and when my daughter calls me the worst mom ever because I sent her to her room for the 35th time that day, and when I have to get up at 4 in the morning to change the sheets because someone had an accident? That's my favorite."

Of course I do not love those things. But to me, those are the moments when I am truly parenting.

The hard days, the rough hours, the long nights, the difficult talks, that is when I am doing the work of parenting.

I don't always love the work, but I love having done it.

I love having children, I love looking back at the moments we've shared, how they've grown, daydreaming about who they'll become, and the small victories that I sometimes get when I see all my efforts to make them good, kind, responsible people pay off a little bit.

I love that I have parented, even if in the moment, in the dark and solitary trenches of parenting, I don't love the task at hand {who loves holding a shitty diaper at 2 in the morning?!}, I always look back at the parenting I've done and feel so so glad that I've done it.

So I guess the message here is that if you're having a day when you're counting down each freaking second until bedtime, and honestly considering locking yourself in the minivan and screaming at the top of your lungs while the kids stand outside of it and point at Mommy like she's a crazy zoo animal, it's ok.

There is nothing wrong with you.

You're not loving parenting right now, but you'll love having parented. 

I promise.

Big Bear

Big Bear Lake, California

March 2012

An anniversary trip, a weekend getaway, a still point in the turning world.

{ Bill spent a lot of time with that map. Clearly. }

As always I wish I'd taken more pictures, and I hope that no matter how long I live I can still hold on to every single memory. Between the hot tub beneath the stars, and air that smelled like Christmas and bacon, I came away absolutely certain that Big Bear should be my home.
We did everything, and we did nothing.
Our first night there we ordered pizza, explored our cabin and navigated the hot tub on the deck outside.  The next day we slid on inner tubes Penguin style down a snowy mountain for hours, We walked all over town, then we laid on the couch watching T.V., before having our final dinner in town at a haunted, 1940's style restaurant. One morning we waited over an hour for the best {and biggest} breakfast I've ever had in my life, and the next we had muffins in bed while we watched the news together.
Whether we were lounging around the cabin in pajamas getting our cuddle on, or exploring every possible inch of Big Bear, playfully pushing each other back and forth as we walked down the curvy mountain roads, nothing else mattered. We were happy, we were in love, and we were blissfully lost in our own world, as if that little 12 mile town was our own personal universe.

For one weekend, I think it actually was.

Truth Be Told....

Remember that song "You Belong With Me"?

I mean as if anyone could ever forget it, it gets played more than any song in the history of ever, on literally ever single fucking station.

Well, at first I thought it was a cute idea, cuz I always was the girl who wore t-shirts and sneakers and was friends with all the guys, so I was like "Yeah! Right on, a song for the tomboys!" 

But then after hearing it 20093402232981 times, I started thinking, ya know Taylor is being a little disrespectful to this guys relationship. I mean, stay out of it, right?!

Then I heard it more and was all "Bitch, seriously, if he wanted to be with you he would be. Maybe he doesn't like your stupid shoes, and he's really happy with his girlfriend. Back off!"

Then I heard it EVEN MORE and would cringe at the parts like "I'm in the room it's a typical Tuesday night, I'm listening to the kind of music she doesn't like" and think "Oh, what that makes you better than her?! We all like different things Taylor!" 

Or the part where she says "She doesn't know your humor like I do" and the way she sings it...UGH...it's like she's actually singing in Italics. She says it in such a snide, I'm so much better than this other girl way, and it just pisses me off. Maybe the joke he made was legitimately rude, TAYLOR! Maybe what he said struck a nerve with his girlfriend due to some past emotional scar she's incurred either from him or an emotionally abusive father, TAYLOR! WE ALL FIND DIFFERENT THINGS FUNNY AND OFFENSIVE, STOP JUDGING EVERYONE.

AND stop trying to break up happy couples, you homewrecker!

Plus she is NOT a tomboy. She looked prettier than most actresses and is more dressed up than most performers on stage in girly clothes ALL THE TIME. And I'm getting seriously sick of the awkward teenagerish coy thing she has going on. She's almost the same age as me, stop acting like a blushing 17 year old, damn it!

Ugh. That just had to be said. 

The Friday Diary: 9 years ago today....

I seriously debated whether or not to do a Friday Diary this week, or not. 

Mainly because less than nothing happened this week. 

I mean that. I did a negative amount of things. I did so little, I went backward on the number line.

Ya dig?

My boss was out of town, therefor making work wholly uneventful, all the websites I usually download music from have been shut down, forcing me to pay for music like an honest citizen {pfffft} and there hasn't been anything new uploaded to YouTube.

I could tell you all about the spaghetti I made Wednesday night, but I have a feeling you don't care. 

Anyway, I was all set to not do it this week, until I checked my reader stats {never a good idea} and realized like 74% of my stats come from the Friday diaries. Seriously, some crazy high number of my posts that actually get read more than once, are all Friday diary posts. 

My blog could cease to exist all other days of the week, as long as I get on here and ramble about shit I found on the internet and what I'm wasting my money on, every single Friday. 

And I say, so be it. 

So, alas, here is my week in a recap. 

Enjoy....for some odd reason.

...

The cruise that Bill is taking me on to Italy has a mandatory formal night. 

Mandatory and formal are words that don't go well together in my opinion, but Bill is going to be wearing a tuxedo, so I decided I would try to step it up a notch as well. 

After scouring the internet for a reasonably priced evening gown that doesn't look like it doubles as a hooker's uniform, I narrowed it down to two choices:

Italy - Formal by anthropology featuring vintage evening dresses

Italy - Formal 2 by anthropology featuring strap sandals

I asked Bill's opinion and he made an infuriatingly good point: the cut of the silver one is perfect, as is the color of the green one. Find one that is cut like the silver one, and colored like the green one, without that stupid belt on the green one, and it'd be perfect.
So now I am desperately searching for a dress just like the silver one, but in dark, emerald green.
Help me. Please.

...

In other news, I am definitely buying this awesome decal:

And putting it above my bed.

...

So, the time has come I think to remove one {or at least part of one} of my tattoos.
Stupidly I tattooed my exboyfriends initials on my right hip when I was 19....like ya do.
But now I want it gone.
I looked around on the internets and found this. Anyone tried it?

...

The last two weekends of my life have been completely unproductive, and now my house is beginning to look like....I live here. It's getting gross. So I have this list of shit I need to do this weekend, and God help us all if it doesn't get done:

1. Clean my ever lovin bedroom and bathroom
2. Sweep and mop THE ENTIRE HOUSE
3. Buy real groceries
4. Clean out the freaking van and get it washed
5. Get my oil changed SERIOUSLY
6. Make my monthly Walmart trip to get the household stuff that is unfortunately cheaper there. *shudder* I hate Walmart.
7. Pay more bills
8. Clean the kitchen
9. Clean the babies room and wash all our sheets
10. Do massive amount of laundry and actually put it all away this time.

Yeah. I'll let you know what really gets done, and what just gets stared at for a long time, and then hopelessly crossed off the list.

...

This time last year I had every intention of blogging more. I ended up writing 6 posts that month. Fail.
But, this time last year I did post this which is full of very sweet pictures of an almost 3 year old Jackson. Now he's almost four. Even though I didn't actually follow through with the "these moments" every week thing, I'm glad I took those pictures and posted them.
This blog is such a bittersweet little time capsule sometimes.

...

If you want me to REALLY blow your mind, on this exact day in 2003 I found out I was 6 weeks pregnant with Lainie.
Yep, I remember the day.
Finding out you're 6 weeks pregnant when you're 15 years old is kind of a moment that stays with you.

...

For this week, I think that's all folks.
I wish I had more wit and humor and pretty pictures for you, but I am feeling somewhat low on inspiration right now. Maybe because I write these posts late at night when I'm falling asleep, maybe because it was an uneventful week and I have no good stories for you.
Maybe because my inspiration comes and goes like cravings for chocolate: when it's there, it's abundantly there. And when it's not, I'll still eat the chocolate, I just won't enjoy it as much.
Ya dig?

Happy Friday everyone.
Have an awesome St. Patricks Day.