The Good, The Bad, and The I’m Not Ugly Because I Buy My Body Weight in Products

Uh, super-awkward but: I didn’t mean for the title of that last post to sound like a damn suicide note.  This is what happens when a Monty Python joke seems funny in your own head but doesn’t really translate.  I just meant that this blog isn’t dead!  I’m most definitely not dead!  Everything’s cool!

Moving on.

The Good:

• We’re headed to New York in two weeks and HOLY SHIT am I one excited little lady.  I’m tagging along while Ed attends a conference for two days and then we have another two and a half days to ourselves to play.  I figure that my two days essentially on my own will be focused on Shit Ed’s Not Particularly Interested In (aka wander around the Anthropologie in SoHo and try on ALL THE THINGS), but if anyone has any suggestions for fun solo activities, things to do, places to eat/day drink, or wants to come hang out with me, let me know.
• I think it speaks to our collective nerdiness and inner fat kids that we are planning our days based on where to eat and which museums to visit.  Top o’ the list: Natural History Museum.  Fuck yeah, dinosaurs!
• At Easter Bubba informed me, and I quote, “Your dance moves are bad, but you are a good sister.”  He is so over my Hammer dancing.  It breaks my heart a little, but I’m glad he’s developing his own taste.

The Bad:

• Work continues to break my spirit and I’m embarrassed at how much I’ve allowed that place to dictate my moods and self-worth.  Not cool. 
• Aforementioned horrid cycle o’ crazy and general malaise.
• My allergies have me in a state of wheezing, sneezing, and keeping wads of tissues tucked into my sweater pockets like the complete sexpot that I am.  Ugh.

The I’m Not Ugly Because I Buy My Body Weight in Products:

•  Posietint+ Sugarbomb = I am a glowing goddess but without looking all overdone and Kardashianesque.  
•  Fakeup is the best concealer I’ve used in ages.  Look, I tried to go all Drugstore Dupe Diva but fuck that shit. I’m shelling out for the good shit and looking hella well-rested doing it.  Recognize.
• We are huge fans of “your mom” jokes (it’s The Algonquin Round Table up in here) so I giggled when I saw that there was a hair product called Not Your Mother’s with an entire line of curly-haired goodies.  I had always been a devoted Bumble+bumble fan, but this stuff is a fraction of the price and smells nice and MAKES MY HAIR LOOK PRETTY AND NOT LIKE I’M PHIL SPECTOR’S SECRET KID.  Sold!  Love the Kinky Moves and Beach Babe spray.

Not Dead Yet

Hey – did you miss me?  Think I had abandoned you all?  Perish the thought.

No real excuse or great explanation other than there’s really nothing like sinking into a nice little self-loathing depression and going into hiding and then beating yourself up for isolating yourself and being a shitty friend who doesn’t return messages and starting the whole “WHY ARE YOU SUCH A LOSER I MEAN GET IT TOGETHER ALREADY” cycle all over again for a month or so.  Good fucking times.

Anyway, in the midst of my little hideout from social media while curled up on the couch with episodes of “New Girl” and Molly and Ed, I found myself able to climb out of the crazy (slowly, surely) and also found that while I missed this little corner of the Interweb, I really didn’t pine for keeping up with Facebook, Twitter, or even Pinterest.  Sure, I missed some of the witty bon mots of certain friends and the way that style boards inspire me to step it up for work.  But mostly?  I liked not comparing my life to everyone else’s life and wondering why every weekend we had wasn’t a scene out of a Martha Stewart magazine; I also needed to avoid the near-constant pregnancy announcements, maternity photo shoots, and family portraits, if we’re being totally honest here.  I turned my attention outward to get out of the funk.  Spending time with family, planning a new garden with Ed, and making plans for our future pulled me out a lot faster. There were many times I wanted to pull up a blank WordPress page and start typing away and hit publish and pull people down into the pity-party with me, if for no other reason than to feel connected to the outside world.  It occurred to me that maybe I should start with the immediate world around me and then work from there.  And it feels better every day.

Often the worst part of this cycle is how ungrateful I must look to those around me and it just fuels the fire, but all I can do is weather it and keep making plans.  It’s really all any of us can do, right?

Who’s Coming With Me?

Ed’s been gone this week for work and, as usual, I’ve taken to behaving like a 12 year-old whose parents have gone away for the weekend.  Eating pizza for every meal!  Playing music too loudly!  Watching embarrassingly shitty television!  DRINKING ALL THE WINE!  Also: indulging in goofy beauty treatments, but I do that when Ed is home, too, because you can’t maintain all this without a little extra help.  Anyway, I don’t know why I always go totally bonkers when home alone.  It’s not like I hide my weirdness from Ed.  And I’m pretty sure love means never having to apologize for being gross and eating too many slices of pizza, but don’t quote me on that.  Actually, go ahead and quote me on that because REAL TALK.

With all this alone time to contemplate the meaning of the world in between mainlining Parks & Recreation reruns, I’ve had a chance to think about my own career, or lack thereof.  Jive Turkey wrote about this topic much more eloquently than I could have, but basically: I wish I had taken another path, but I also don’t really know what that path would be.  I always talk about wanting to write as my J-O-B, but have never really made an effort to make that happen.  Fear  – of rejection, of realizing that I’m not that talented, among other things – has held me back, absolutely.  And that’s sad and embarrassing.  I mean, I’m not in love with my current position, there’s really no room to grow, and what the hell do I have to lose?  Other than security, which is a huge thing for me.  While I am a huge believer in “It’s never too late to —!” I have a hard time telling myself the same thing.  You’re 35, you have adult responsibilities, you had the chance for silly daydreams and taking risks and you blew it – those are things I have no trouble telling myself.

The new message that should be on a loop in my brain is “Keep looking for something new,  don’t give up on the writing, and for the love of everything that is holy IT’S NOT TOO LATE, WOMAN.”

Friday Bullets: I Have a Lot of Thoughts

Are any of you watching Girls?  That show makes me cringe and laugh and worried for my teenage nieces when they hit their 20s.  

Anyhoo.

Lots of activity around these parts over the last week or so:

• I had a little TREAT YOSELF day last Friday.  Thanks to generous gift cards I was able to indulge in a massage and facial, which felt so very decadent and different than most of my “laundry and errands” Fridays.  I decided to get a pedicure because a.) why the hell should I stop the Pretty Princess Day at a paltry two spa treatments and b.) I wanted to wear open-toed shoes for our Valentine’s Day dinner Saturday.  Roughly halfway through the pedi I started to feel hot and my chest tightened up.  Within seconds the telltale signs that I was going to pass out were there.  Namely: everything went white and I could barely hold my head up.  My poor nail tech, Lisa, freaked out but luckily the owners of a tanning salon next door had her get me some orange juice and candy to boost my blood sugar.  Basically, I got to reenact that scene in Steel Magnolias where Shelby’s diabetes gets crazy but unlike her I complied and drank the juice and somewhere in there had the presence of mind to get someone to call Ed, although I have zero recollection of that.  When I started to come around I was informed that my husband was on his way, and then I booked it to the bathroom because I thought I was going to barf.  (No, there is so surprise pregnancy announcement coming.  Promise.)  Ed showed up around the time I emerged from the restroom, terrified that I would hurl in public.  My toes and skin look great, but any relaxation I should have been feeling was shot straight to hell.
• After rescuing my dumb, consciousness-losing ass, Ed had to call my stepdad to give him a ride back to the nail salon so he could pick up his truck and head back to work.  Dave obliged, but tragedy struck when he arrived home after helping us: one of our cats, Boda, got under the car and, well, she’s in kitty heaven now.  I’ve been wracked with guilt since it was my fault he was even in the car and basically: I killed one of the family cats and this is why I cannot have nice things.
• On Sunday we bought a new car: a convertible Mustang and good Lord is that thing fun to drive.  I am pretty indifferent to cars; as long as I get where I need to go and am reasonably comfortable doing so, I’m good.  Ed’s truck isn’t the most reliable, my car is new-ish and good for hauling friends and family around so we figured why the hell not get something fun?  It’s Ed’s primary car now, and he looks awesome in it.  Can’t wait for some consistently good weather so we can take it out on the road with the top down.
• After our car buying excursion we stopped by the hospital to see my dad, who is recovering beautifully, but slowly, from his surgery.  Thanks for all the good wishes; he’s doing great but still bored being stuck inside.  Baseball season looms as incentive for him to recover and get back to work.
• I have only been home two weekends this entire year.  I love seeing so much of both of our families but holy hell am I tired.  My lofty goal for next weekend is to be home.  I’ll probably venture out at some point, but frankly that sounds exhausting.  I know: cry me a river.  But if there’s one thing that I know about myself is that – as is consistent with introverts – I need downtime and quiet to recharge my battery or I am headed straight for an illness or freak out.  I read an interesting quote recently about how self-care (not the dirty kind, sicko) is important not just because, you know, it’s good to get rest, but because you are a source of happiness to others rather than a stressed-out drain.  This is so true and so obvious, but oh man, am I a master of running my ass into the ground, losing my shit, being totally useless, and then finally recovering only to do it all over again (see: last week’s episode in the pedicure chair).  Need to cool it with this unhealthy cycle.

Wow, so, uh, I maybe could have broken this up into separate posts but here you go.  Wishing you all a wonderful weekend, Interweb.  Take some time for yourself.  You’ve earned it.

Don’t Tase Me, Bro

My relationship with Ed’s dad has been a somewhat complicated one.  I wouldn’t say contentious, but not super-sunny, which is shocking because a.) I’m a fucking delight and b.) I am Old Man Kryptonite.  As much as I know he wanted his son to meet someone and be happy, I think it was a shock when we started dating because a.) we were pretty serious pretty fast and b.) I don’t think I quite fit the vision of what Future Daughter-in-Law would look like.  He probably expected someone with less sassmouth, more conservative, more into making pies and of, like, good strong farm stock.  And here he got this loudmouth city-loving liberal who, yes, loves his son and his entire family, but I am useless as tits on a frog when it comes to buying bull semen.  So building our own relationship outside of Ed has been an on-going thing.  Plus when you add in Ed’s divided attention (he has often been the go-to guy for his family, mostly due to logistics and geography), I’m sure there was a certain amount of mourning the times that he had his kid all to himself.  And I don’t begrudge him that at all.

Over the last few months I’ve noticed a change in his dad.  Nothing drastic but a more congenial vibe overall.  Then this Christmas he gave me my own card and signed it “Love, Dad #3″ and Interweb, I’m not going to lie: I teared up a little.

And for my birthday he gave me this:

MY PRECIOUS.

 

Yes, I am the proud new owner of a pink stun gun.  Given to me by my father-in-law so that I can protect myself when I drive by myself or if I find myself in a concerning situation.  Pretty sure that as a an independent woman who self-identifies as a feminist and has managed to keep herself relatively safe and unscathed in this world, I’m supposed to be offended.  But I’m just…touched.  Truly.  He wants me – his family – to be safe.  And how can I be offended by that?

Related: if you hear about a man who has been tased by his wife after too much wine and a series of escalating dares, it totally wasn’t us.

There’s Been A Lot Going On and I Had to Talk to Some Food About It

So, long time no write.  In an ultimate display of laziness I’ve been spouting off little one-liners now and then on Facebook, and neglecting this here blog.  The blog I have lovingly curated and spent so much time documenting my idiocy!  Such a shame.  Here’s what’s been shakin’ in the world o’ CKD:

• My dad developed quite the impressive pressure sore last year and by Christmas he was on bed rest.  Sadly, the wound was infected and he underwent surgery two weeks ago to repair damage to the bone and surrounding tissue.  He’s doing great – better than expected – physically but dude is going on two months of being stuck indoors and the crankiness is rearing its ugly, snippy head.  Considering he’s been a quad for over 30 years (holy shit) and this is his first sore, he’s pretty lucky, really.  Also: sorry to start this post off with a description of sores, but you should really know by now to expect the unexpected.
• As mentioned in my previous post, my wee Bubba had a birthday and I helped chaperone his sleepover.  It was not as chaotic as I thought, but definitely louder than I could have ever imagined, if that makes sense.  Also: four first graders made fun of me for not being able to dunk, but guess who can drive a car and buy her own beer, boys?  THIS MOI.  Anyway, pretty sure those kids set a world record for most times “wiener” and “fart” were screamed in one night so basically I was completely in my element.
• I turned 35 last week with minimal gnashing of teeth and rending of garments but man.  I feel like I should have a kid or a better handle on my career or ability to mask my utter delight when someone says “balls” or something.  In an effort to show more gratitude I DID send my mom an email apologizing for the episiotomy, which seems like the polite thing to do when you literally rip someone a new one.  The sweet moment may have been lost, though, when I later compared her parenting style to Darth Vader’s.
• Ed and my family spoiled the hell out of me and I received three different gorgeous bouquets of flowers at work.  It was a lovely surprise and a source of great “WTFness?” mixed with amusement when an incredulous co-worker exclaimed “I can’t believe this many people actually care about you!”  BITCH YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE.
• I am truly, legit bummed about 30 Rock ending.  In honor of Liz Lemon and all she gave to me I’ve been working on my night cheese.

So, those are the highlights, which is sad, but when has that ever stopped me from rambling on?

Seven

For last year’s post, click here.

Dear Bubba,

You are funny, kind, stubborn, energetic, exuberant, sensitive, perceptive, brilliant, creative, witty, hilarious, maddening, tall, mischievous, strong, and genrous.

You are seven today.

You are everything we could have dreamed of and hoped for.

You are also a total mystery sometimes.  In some ways the gone-in-an-instant-infant-time is so easy: keep the person alive is pretty much the goal of each day.  Obviously, throw in some love and affection and all that, but yeah.  In retrospect there’s not a lot of life lesson-y, give-and-take with someone who can barely hold his head up.  But now you debate, question, fight back, and we’re on our toes to make sure we’re leading by example (ie teaching patience but without being so impatient with you) and helping you find your way in this world.  I hope that we as a family are giving you roots and wings: the solid foundation of home and family mixed with independence and confidence in yourself.

Speaking of babies, you officially no longer even remotely smell like one.  Like, not even right after a bath.  You’re all boy, and that means the faint smell of feet and a batting helmet is your new signature scent (unlike mine, which is usually whiskey tinged with regret) but hell if that stops me from burying my face into your neck with each hug and kiss you let me steal AS LONG AS WE’RE NOT IN PUBLIC I MEAN, GOD, SISSY, YOU ARE SO EMBARRASSING.  And long gone are the days of me giving you piggyback rides and picking you up or even having to bend down to hug you.  It won’t be long before you’re looking me in the eye and, likely, towering over me.  And as much as I miss snuggling that sweet-smelling baby, I love shooting hoops, talking about Star Wars, and walking to Starbucks for hot chocolate and soy lattes with the boy – the fully-formed person – he has grown into.

Happy Birthday, Bubba.

In a sunrise, sunset moment, last week he lost the first two teeth that came in when he was a baby. BRB, gonna go cry in a corner.

All my love,

Sissy

Perspective

The house is a total mess. 

Gifts still need to be wrapped. 

Hell, some gifts still need to be purchased. 

Honestly, I’m feeling frazzled and like I’m not quite as top of things as I should be.  Could be.  Would like to be.

So what did we do all weekend? 

Called loved ones.  Met up with friends for wine and snacks.  Stayed in and watched movies.  Had a leisurely lunch together.  Counted our blessings and took a minute to appreciate everything, because we have so much.  Everyone who has a present under our tree will get to open his or her gift because we’re all here. 

To say that we are lucky is an understatement.

Why I Shouldn’t Be Allowed to Speak to Grown Ups, Part 592

Last Friday my day consisted of my annual pelvic exam, an eye exam, and dinner with my in-laws.  My level of dread was in that order.  I survived all three, and while the pelvic was the least concerning in some ways (I’ve been to this doctor four times this year alone in the wake of CervixPalooza 2011), I couldn’t help but bring my own special brand of socially retarded with a splash of verbal incontinence to the table.

Me: “Hey, I saw you at the Elvis Costello show.  Did you have fun?”

Doctor: “Yes, I did.  Did you?  You should have said hello.”

Me: “Yeah, we had fun.  I didn’t think you’d recognize me since I had pants on.”

Doctor: *Blank Stare*

A few minutes later:

Doctor: “You look good.  Really good!”

Me: “Thanks!”

Doctor: “So, how’s your baby?  He’s about a year now, right?”

Me: “What?  No.  NonononononoNO.  No baby.  I don’t have a baby.”

Doctor: <Glances at chart> “I am so sorry.  I think I mixed you up with my next appointment – “

Me: “Wait, when you said I look good, did you mean I look regular-good, or just good for someone who had a baby?”

Doctor: “Look, there’s no good answer so let’s start over.”

A few minutes later:

Doctor: “So you’ve been married two years, you’re almost 35…what are you waiting for?  Don’t you want a baby?”

Me: “Yeah, of course, but you JUST gave me the green light that I’m healed and I don’t know…life is complicated.  I’m not terribly maternal and who knows if I’d be any good at this.

Doctor: “You will be fine.  Hormones kick in and you’ll take wonderful care of your baby.”

Me: “I know I’ll be good at the regular stuff.  I mean, I can keep a person alive.  I’m not a damn idiot.”

Doctor: “Keeping the child alive is a good start.  Take it from there and maybe, uh, let your husband take care of the other stuff.”

And the grand finale:

Doctor: “Your ovaries are fine, your uterus tilts back slightly, go ahead and get dressed and we’ll see you in six months or sooner if you’re pregnant.”

Me: “Whoa, back up.  What about my uterus tilting?  What’s the deal with that?”

Doctor: “Don’t stress about it.  You’re a variation on normal.”

Me: “Not the first time I’ve heard that.  Ha!”

Doctor: *Blank stare*

Me: “Yeah, I’m gonna put my pants on now. Have a good Thanksgiving!”

You Take the Good, You Take the Bad

At the risk of ripping off the brilliant Jive Turkey, here is a little “cheers and jeers” that reflects the state of my life currently.  I know it would probably be better to simply focus on the good – because the good is very good – but if I don’t get some shit off my chest I may go bonkers.  Don’t worry, I’ll get the bad out of the way first so that I leave you, Gentle Reader, with a warm, fuzzy feeling.  That feeling is intensified after a few cocktails.

Fuck This Shit!:

• I get that my workspace at the office is not technically “mine” but if I come in on a Monday to find the dried remnants of coffee spilled all over my desk or my personal stuff broken I am going to choke a bitch.   Several months ago I decided to pretty up my dull desk with a whopping two photos and some cute containers for pens and other sundry office drone items and last night I packed it all up and took it home.  If shit’s getting fucked up, let it be their shit, right?  Also: huge apology to Ed for the small heart attack I gave him when I came home with my desk packed up.  No, I did not quit in a Jerry Maguire blaze of glory, or like that flight attendant who stole two beers and slid down an inflatable raft, Sweetie!  Please start breathing again!
• Basically, work is a giant wretched bitch at the moment and I can feel it affecting my health and general happiness so there are going to be some changes.
• I have to go to the eye doctor in order to get my prescription for my contacts refilled.  Eye exams are very high on my list of Shit That Causes Massive Anxiety, so I begged the nice lady to let me skip an exam, promising I would call if I had any problems or thought I might have glaucoma or whatever but no dice.   To make matters worse my doctor retired and I have to see someone new and go through my whole routine of “please don’t come at me too fast” and “don’t count before you puff the air at me because I WILL flinch and/or run out of here” so that should be fun. 

Fuck Yeah!:

• It’s Election Day!  Per tradition, we are going to vote after work as a family (well, just me and Ed since my parents vote at a different polling place) and then we shall sit nervously in front of the TV awaiting results.
• We’re seeing BB King tomorrow night, which should be fabulous.  Small venue, good music, and a mid-week date with Ed?  YES PLEASE.
• As of Friday morning we will be Bay Area-bound for a weekend of family fun.  Friday night’s plans include a hot date with Bubba and Ed to see Wreck It Ralph (which I maintain sounds porn-ish), and Saturday will be a day in the life of suburban parents: Saturday morning soccer, a birthday party, and then a soccer team party.  This could either convince us that we’re ready for kids or send us screaming towards a vasectomy clinic.  I’m packing a flask, obviously. 
• It’s decorative gourd season motherfuckers and my table has never looked more festive. 
• While it is unseasonably warm for November – even by California standards – the evenings are cool and I love having the windows open and lighting candles and curling up with a bottle glass of red wine each night. 

See?  I told you my glass is definitely more than half full (of wine, probably).  Need to vent or celebrate?  Have at it in the comments!