I love and I mean love getting Christmas cards. I want to see your kids smiling, in knickers, with bows. Show me taffeta, mall Santa. Spread your glitter and cheer, beckon me closer with your tiny print and your gay suggestions for frivolity in the new year.
I LOVE Christmas Cards.
I love Christmas letters. No one does them anymore but good lord how I love the chatty, newsy letters with tidbits about the kids, the jobs.
I thrill to the handwritten "ho ho ho" on the back.
I take no exception to the "b" list cards, the you sent to me because I sent to you. I choose instead to assume you sent yours out late this year.
I adore the Christmas card.
Adore it.
except...
Except the beach vacation photo.
No no, not the one where you all had the forethought wear Santa hats on the dunes of some gorgeous locale. That's clever. Appropriate. I mean the candid one. The one where the best picture you could find of your prepubescent child was them partially unclothed.
I have a friend who yearly uses the shot of her boys lounging on the beach.
Yearly.
and I mean EVERY year.
And inevitably, every year as I look at those shining boy faces I dont think "Oh my, how they've grown" or "Oh my, so cute"
Instead I think, just for a fleeting second, uncomfortably, that it all looks faintly NAMBLA.
Id say something but then who's the weirdo.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Ending the Year With An Ending
2011 I am done with you, and you of me.
I am sick of you, and you of me.
I am tired of you, and you of me.
and I'd like to move on.
Will we then? Part as friends? Take it as a growing year? Its not you it's me?
Sounds like a plan.
I am sick of you, and you of me.
I am tired of you, and you of me.
and I'd like to move on.
Will we then? Part as friends? Take it as a growing year? Its not you it's me?
Sounds like a plan.
Bring Back The Holly, and Mistletoe...
I'll admit I seem discouraged.
Depressed even.
Perhaps ungrateful.
Again, we go back to "first world problems".
Is something truly wrong?
No. Certainly not.
I think perhaps I'm just... dare I say? Lonely.
Really.
Amidst the daily interactions, the interplay of social networking, the hustle and bustle of errands, chores, and minutia...I'm missing...intimacy.
I'm missing connecting to people.
Good lord daily I talk to many and they to me. I see people - sitters, other mothers. My phone rings, my phone dials. So it's not that I crave adult conversation or companionship.
I'm craving authentic honest conversation.
Im craving commune.
Serious connection.
...with someone I know well enough to not worry where the conversation will end up.
Im tired of the banal. The park chit chat. The seeing every side of everything. good christ, cant we put a stake in the ground and express an opinion that doesn't wreak of acceptance ALL the time? Isn't anyone else tired of being pc, being polite, being fair? Could someone say, just once, that "Yes, Jenny IS kind of a douche and she made her own bed and her choices sucked." without the caveat of "Jenny had to do what was right for Jenny and Jenny's a good person, dont get me wrong" Can't Jenny, for the sake of a single moment in time, be a drug addict because she's weak-assed versus driven to it by her genetic disease and negligent parenting?
Sigh.
Im off track. Nor do I want to sit around being mean about fictitious Jenny.
Listen, Im a huge believer in wanting what you've got, and the key to happiness is not in envy, in accumulation, in desire. Im not wishing for my life to suddenly get bad - or worse for someone elses - so I can "feel", but I miss having a substantive discourse.
I suppose that why I like blogging, and reading.
My kingdom for depth. For substance. Even from myself.
I simply am missing my sister, busy after her separation with two jobs and a new partner. Im happy for her, I just miss her.
I'm missing my cousins, too far in miles to see casually, yet close enough to get to with only a little application. Not for an hour visit, but days. I'd love to sleep there, wake up there, knit with, clip coupons with, stay with. Have conversations about everything and anything.
I miss being around people I love and when I am with them, I'm sad that I'm torn 3 ways chasing small legs and dangerous tiny hands or wee lads that havent the slightest concept of physics.
I understand that some people cant have children.
I understand that my life is charmed.
I get it.
You dont need to tell me to appreciate it.
I dont need to tell myself to appreciate it.
But you can have tons of things, tons of security, and still miss human connection.
Ive never been acquisitive, not for things. Not for vacations, or toys, or ipods, or material gain.
But yes, I am greedy for closeness.
And I can't really get that 20% off at Kohls today.
Depressed even.
Perhaps ungrateful.
Again, we go back to "first world problems".
Is something truly wrong?
No. Certainly not.
I think perhaps I'm just... dare I say? Lonely.
Really.
Amidst the daily interactions, the interplay of social networking, the hustle and bustle of errands, chores, and minutia...I'm missing...intimacy.
I'm missing connecting to people.
Good lord daily I talk to many and they to me. I see people - sitters, other mothers. My phone rings, my phone dials. So it's not that I crave adult conversation or companionship.
I'm craving authentic honest conversation.
Im craving commune.
Serious connection.
...with someone I know well enough to not worry where the conversation will end up.
Im tired of the banal. The park chit chat. The seeing every side of everything. good christ, cant we put a stake in the ground and express an opinion that doesn't wreak of acceptance ALL the time? Isn't anyone else tired of being pc, being polite, being fair? Could someone say, just once, that "Yes, Jenny IS kind of a douche and she made her own bed and her choices sucked." without the caveat of "Jenny had to do what was right for Jenny and Jenny's a good person, dont get me wrong" Can't Jenny, for the sake of a single moment in time, be a drug addict because she's weak-assed versus driven to it by her genetic disease and negligent parenting?
Sigh.
Im off track. Nor do I want to sit around being mean about fictitious Jenny.
Listen, Im a huge believer in wanting what you've got, and the key to happiness is not in envy, in accumulation, in desire. Im not wishing for my life to suddenly get bad - or worse for someone elses - so I can "feel", but I miss having a substantive discourse.
I suppose that why I like blogging, and reading.
My kingdom for depth. For substance. Even from myself.
I simply am missing my sister, busy after her separation with two jobs and a new partner. Im happy for her, I just miss her.
I'm missing my cousins, too far in miles to see casually, yet close enough to get to with only a little application. Not for an hour visit, but days. I'd love to sleep there, wake up there, knit with, clip coupons with, stay with. Have conversations about everything and anything.
I miss being around people I love and when I am with them, I'm sad that I'm torn 3 ways chasing small legs and dangerous tiny hands or wee lads that havent the slightest concept of physics.
I understand that some people cant have children.
I understand that my life is charmed.
I get it.
You dont need to tell me to appreciate it.
I dont need to tell myself to appreciate it.
But you can have tons of things, tons of security, and still miss human connection.
Ive never been acquisitive, not for things. Not for vacations, or toys, or ipods, or material gain.
But yes, I am greedy for closeness.
And I can't really get that 20% off at Kohls today.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Oh blogger. I only turn to you in times of need.
Years from now, my children will (may) look back on these writings and think
"wtf Ma, did we ever DO anything??? Didnt you ever write about the good days?"
Assume the days are good.
I only write when they are bad.
Mommy was so Morose.
Here's what I miss:
I miss walking. I miss the feeling of striding so long that I felt like I might break into a run because my walk wasn't fast enough. I miss the feeling of my heels hitting the ground, my toes springing up, my arms pumping...swinging to Suite Judy Blue Eyes, a song no one before or after me ever considered a fitness song. I miss the feeling of being winded, of my abdomen tightening. I miss coming home happy, sweaty and just a bit frenetic.
Water water everywhere yet nary a walk around it.
I miss sleeping late. I miss sleeping. I miss the feeling of down duvets covered in cotton, windows open to the freezing cold, warm under blankets. Teeth-aching cold when feet hit the bare wood floor in the morning. I miss rolling over and star-fishing, feet hanging over the bottom of the bed. I miss cocoons of pillows. I miss sleeping alone, I miss sleeping as if I didnt have an ear open hoping my children were breathing in bed. Were safe. Were whole. Healthy.
I miss feeling pretty. Belted sweaters, knee boots. Different coats not just for seasons but days within seasons. Trenches, fleeces, cardigans. Colors besides gray and black. Vintage things, wools in patterns and colors unexpected but workable. Handbags. I miss red brocade David Meister asian inspired hand sewn dresses. I miss glossy hair, moisturized skin. I miss black flat front Martin Pants from Banana Republic. I miss being able to take off my sweater, my jacket, and not feeling ashamed. Uncomfortable. I miss turning heads.
I miss feeling a sense of accomplishment. I miss being buoyed up. I miss my old neighbors. I miss my friends, some close some far. I miss a lot of "what ifs". I miss the days of my imagination - beach days, romantic days, days spent with friends.
I miss sitting on the couch with Heather, watching bad tv. Starving b/c her anorexia left her with nothing in her house but babyfood and diet coke.
I miss my old apartment. My lemon yellow furniture, now repurposed into my son's bureau and my daughters dresser. I miss reading a book until 5am, then walking in the cold snap of morning to the train, seeking out another page. Going to the library taking out entire series of books just so I could read them in sequence.
I miss the security of only 10 months ago. When I thought the people I was close too would stay close and the people I pushed far were truly well rid of.
I wish for a lot of things.
Never have I had so much and so little.
It's like going backwards.
Learning a lesson I thought I learned long ago.
Replying a tape. A discarded cassette that you were sure would never be played again.
When will my mind shut up?
When will I look around and say tomorrow is now, and live it.
But I dont miss freedom. I dont miss my life before my family now. I have said it before and I say it now.
I used to wonder, at night, why god gave me the capacity to love if he didnt intend for me to use it. And then one day, they came.
I love my husband. My children. More so then I imagine. I might even love me too - although to be fair, I dont like me as much as I did. Tripped on yer own pride, eh? Ahoist on yer own petard?
I was meant to lead this life. My children were meant for me, thank you for the gift; and I was meant for them, "thanks a lot" they'll think "for the curse".
Someday I'll write again about all that's beautiful in my days, but for now, in the dark, radiator groaning, eyes blurry, head aching, wondering exactly who will wake up first in this game of sleepless house chicken, I feel like its an endless swim upstream..
Tomorrow I will smim. And the next day, and they day after.
But really, oh how I wish for sleep. Not eternal. Just 7 hours.
Years from now, my children will (may) look back on these writings and think
"wtf Ma, did we ever DO anything??? Didnt you ever write about the good days?"
Assume the days are good.
I only write when they are bad.
Mommy was so Morose.
Here's what I miss:
I miss walking. I miss the feeling of striding so long that I felt like I might break into a run because my walk wasn't fast enough. I miss the feeling of my heels hitting the ground, my toes springing up, my arms pumping...swinging to Suite Judy Blue Eyes, a song no one before or after me ever considered a fitness song. I miss the feeling of being winded, of my abdomen tightening. I miss coming home happy, sweaty and just a bit frenetic.
Water water everywhere yet nary a walk around it.
I miss sleeping late. I miss sleeping. I miss the feeling of down duvets covered in cotton, windows open to the freezing cold, warm under blankets. Teeth-aching cold when feet hit the bare wood floor in the morning. I miss rolling over and star-fishing, feet hanging over the bottom of the bed. I miss cocoons of pillows. I miss sleeping alone, I miss sleeping as if I didnt have an ear open hoping my children were breathing in bed. Were safe. Were whole. Healthy.
I miss feeling pretty. Belted sweaters, knee boots. Different coats not just for seasons but days within seasons. Trenches, fleeces, cardigans. Colors besides gray and black. Vintage things, wools in patterns and colors unexpected but workable. Handbags. I miss red brocade David Meister asian inspired hand sewn dresses. I miss glossy hair, moisturized skin. I miss black flat front Martin Pants from Banana Republic. I miss being able to take off my sweater, my jacket, and not feeling ashamed. Uncomfortable. I miss turning heads.
I miss feeling a sense of accomplishment. I miss being buoyed up. I miss my old neighbors. I miss my friends, some close some far. I miss a lot of "what ifs". I miss the days of my imagination - beach days, romantic days, days spent with friends.
I miss sitting on the couch with Heather, watching bad tv. Starving b/c her anorexia left her with nothing in her house but babyfood and diet coke.
I miss my old apartment. My lemon yellow furniture, now repurposed into my son's bureau and my daughters dresser. I miss reading a book until 5am, then walking in the cold snap of morning to the train, seeking out another page. Going to the library taking out entire series of books just so I could read them in sequence.
I miss the security of only 10 months ago. When I thought the people I was close too would stay close and the people I pushed far were truly well rid of.
I wish for a lot of things.
Never have I had so much and so little.
It's like going backwards.
Learning a lesson I thought I learned long ago.
Replying a tape. A discarded cassette that you were sure would never be played again.
When will my mind shut up?
When will I look around and say tomorrow is now, and live it.
But I dont miss freedom. I dont miss my life before my family now. I have said it before and I say it now.
I used to wonder, at night, why god gave me the capacity to love if he didnt intend for me to use it. And then one day, they came.
I love my husband. My children. More so then I imagine. I might even love me too - although to be fair, I dont like me as much as I did. Tripped on yer own pride, eh? Ahoist on yer own petard?
I was meant to lead this life. My children were meant for me, thank you for the gift; and I was meant for them, "thanks a lot" they'll think "for the curse".
Someday I'll write again about all that's beautiful in my days, but for now, in the dark, radiator groaning, eyes blurry, head aching, wondering exactly who will wake up first in this game of sleepless house chicken, I feel like its an endless swim upstream..
Tomorrow I will smim. And the next day, and they day after.
But really, oh how I wish for sleep. Not eternal. Just 7 hours.
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Smelling like the homeless, a rose by any other name.
Ive said it to my girlfriend a thousand times.
I have the confidence of a much more attractive woman.
Which is true. I make direct eye contact, I smile broadly, I laugh readily, I lean forward, I may even touch your arm. I find something to admire, not to cheat or to be false, but because I truly find something admirable in everyone. Like a beacon, or a shiny penny. Not to say I see the good in people. I see all sorts of bad shit. Im just saying, every person to me, generally, is gorgeous. For some reason or another.
And I mean it.
Since the birth of the boys I have gone forth looking atrocious. Not makeup, not hair, not clothing, not nice. At all. And it’s not truly lack of time, because a shower is a shower, and toothbrushing is a scant step away from lip gloss. I have the time to look better. I just don't.
I look awful because – simply – I look awful.
My skin is coarse, my hair brittle. My skin puckered with the fat of gaining 70 plus pounds and taking hormone shots as well. Nothing shines. Nothing is glossy. I look older. Much. Tired too. This from a woman who “passed” for 28 long into her 30’s and still passed – at times – for mid-thirties in her rapidly accumulating 40s.
I now look, in a word, haggard.
No playing "guess my age" with bartenders. No thank you. Not for me.
My sons, at 15 months, had never slept through the night. Waking up not once, but 2, 3 times. Each. Staggered. So six wake-ups a night, in a 6 hour period. My husbands blood pressure is too high, my metabolism too low. We look like ass. And not firm juicy ass. Like nursing home ass.
It aint pretty.
We moved.
I bitched.
I wailed.
I whined.
It's definitely a "first world problem" as the jokes say.
Truth is, this house is hard to live in. Things are old, broken, breaking. It's magnificent and surreally damaged. It's beautiful in some respects and scares the shit out of me in others.
But it's where we live.
My kids?
Never do I have them dressed properly. Thank god or global warming for the mildest winter to date, where I can get all four of us out sans coat or socks, each day a gift to my lack of organization. A nod from God to get my shit together because this is not going to last much longer and I've had enough time now, dear, and get it done. Get your shit by the door already.
I cant stand myself.
Truly.
I went from funny, articulate, motivated to simple, trite, dullwitted, and fat.
Yet I plow on.
Plod on.
Go on.
waiting waiting for each new day, as if somehow its going to be different.
Smiling. Grinning manically. Laughing loudly. Driving that shit home.
I keep thinking that I'm building a foundation.
That to the naked eye my house is in shambles but that someday I'm going to turn around and we'll be living in a sturdy ass manse.
Metaphorically and maybe even literally. If I can ever finfd that f*cking contractors number.
So as I plod, I'm cocky.
Arrogant.
Confident.
Driving a 10 year old Honda in a pair of pants so old I actually wrote with a Sharpie DO NOT WEAR OUT...then summarily wore them out when the sharpie marks faded.
I am a bad ass in flip flops on a winter day.
I have coarse hair and even coarser heals.
My trash is outside because I CANT BE BOTHERED TO WALK TO THE FUCKING BARREL.
All because we thought "meh, lets have one more"
I may look like shit.
I may live in a house of cards.
My clothes may look like who did it and ran.
But it's all part of a master plan.
Just you wait and see.
.
I have the confidence of a much more attractive woman.
Which is true. I make direct eye contact, I smile broadly, I laugh readily, I lean forward, I may even touch your arm. I find something to admire, not to cheat or to be false, but because I truly find something admirable in everyone. Like a beacon, or a shiny penny. Not to say I see the good in people. I see all sorts of bad shit. Im just saying, every person to me, generally, is gorgeous. For some reason or another.
And I mean it.
Since the birth of the boys I have gone forth looking atrocious. Not makeup, not hair, not clothing, not nice. At all. And it’s not truly lack of time, because a shower is a shower, and toothbrushing is a scant step away from lip gloss. I have the time to look better. I just don't.
I look awful because – simply – I look awful.
My skin is coarse, my hair brittle. My skin puckered with the fat of gaining 70 plus pounds and taking hormone shots as well. Nothing shines. Nothing is glossy. I look older. Much. Tired too. This from a woman who “passed” for 28 long into her 30’s and still passed – at times – for mid-thirties in her rapidly accumulating 40s.
I now look, in a word, haggard.
No playing "guess my age" with bartenders. No thank you. Not for me.
My sons, at 15 months, had never slept through the night. Waking up not once, but 2, 3 times. Each. Staggered. So six wake-ups a night, in a 6 hour period. My husbands blood pressure is too high, my metabolism too low. We look like ass. And not firm juicy ass. Like nursing home ass.
It aint pretty.
We moved.
I bitched.
I wailed.
I whined.
It's definitely a "first world problem" as the jokes say.
Truth is, this house is hard to live in. Things are old, broken, breaking. It's magnificent and surreally damaged. It's beautiful in some respects and scares the shit out of me in others.
But it's where we live.
My kids?
Never do I have them dressed properly. Thank god or global warming for the mildest winter to date, where I can get all four of us out sans coat or socks, each day a gift to my lack of organization. A nod from God to get my shit together because this is not going to last much longer and I've had enough time now, dear, and get it done. Get your shit by the door already.
I cant stand myself.
Truly.
I went from funny, articulate, motivated to simple, trite, dullwitted, and fat.
Yet I plow on.
Plod on.
Go on.
waiting waiting for each new day, as if somehow its going to be different.
Smiling. Grinning manically. Laughing loudly. Driving that shit home.
I keep thinking that I'm building a foundation.
That to the naked eye my house is in shambles but that someday I'm going to turn around and we'll be living in a sturdy ass manse.
Metaphorically and maybe even literally. If I can ever finfd that f*cking contractors number.
So as I plod, I'm cocky.
Arrogant.
Confident.
Driving a 10 year old Honda in a pair of pants so old I actually wrote with a Sharpie DO NOT WEAR OUT...then summarily wore them out when the sharpie marks faded.
I am a bad ass in flip flops on a winter day.
I have coarse hair and even coarser heals.
My trash is outside because I CANT BE BOTHERED TO WALK TO THE FUCKING BARREL.
All because we thought "meh, lets have one more"
I may look like shit.
I may live in a house of cards.
My clothes may look like who did it and ran.
But it's all part of a master plan.
Just you wait and see.
.
Friday, November 18, 2011
something you already knew
as it turns out, i hate other peoples kids. go figure. god really knows what he's doing, creating that maternal bond and all.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
xbox & me
3 weeks of yoga, 3 times a week.
Felt great.
"That" time of the month,
then strep.
then Halloween.
Puffy? You betcha.
And not in a pdiddy way.
10 years ago my new years resolution was to lose weight, and have more fun.
Is it possible that I'm wishing for the same thing.
trite.
Felt great.
"That" time of the month,
then strep.
then Halloween.
Puffy? You betcha.
And not in a pdiddy way.
10 years ago my new years resolution was to lose weight, and have more fun.
Is it possible that I'm wishing for the same thing.
trite.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Dear Husband | Postcards From Your Wife
Postcards from Today...
Dear Husband,
You're a grown ass man, empty your goddamn pockets.
Love, Wife
Dear Husband,
While I appreciate your taking Girl Child out in the snow, tying the decorative ties into a wet knot under her chin then letting it dry tied was not as inspired.
Love, Wife
Dear Husband,
Your sons are exactly like you. They cannot stand to see a female sleep.
Love, Wife
Dear Husband,
Just because I cleared space, doesn't mean "Oh great, now I have a place to put this"
Love, Wife
and finally
Dear Husband,
I am tired of raking.
Love, Wife
Dear Husband,
You're a grown ass man, empty your goddamn pockets.
Love, Wife
Dear Husband,
While I appreciate your taking Girl Child out in the snow, tying the decorative ties into a wet knot under her chin then letting it dry tied was not as inspired.
Love, Wife
Dear Husband,
Your sons are exactly like you. They cannot stand to see a female sleep.
Love, Wife
Dear Husband,
Just because I cleared space, doesn't mean "Oh great, now I have a place to put this"
Love, Wife
and finally
Dear Husband,
I am tired of raking.
Love, Wife
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Be Careful of Charmed Bracelets
"Everything counts when your building a house (made) of cards."
Random Brady, circa 1970.
For a minute there, it was touch and go. I'm not sure how to explain it. One day we had it, the next, I was hiding in the dark behind a Home Depot moving box with my husband opening and closing doors thinking I had thrown myself into the lake.
I.Kid.You.Not.
It wasn't worth killing myself over, I wasn't even close, and don't flatter yourself that I would over you - but for a moment, even still, i can imagine life without him. For the first time, and not the last. Disappointed, yes. Angry, still. Bitter perhaps. Reality? You'd have to know me to understand. You'd have to have home movies of my childhood, you'd have to have real estate in my head from age 5 to 12.
I fell in love with the Barbie townhouse because it WAS a house. I spent hours playing with a Fisher Price village (#997 actually) squinting down low, imagining myself in their town. The barber Phil, the nurse Susan, the little red dress girl Rose and her friend Violet. Longing to walk around the corner of the Merry Go Round to go in the backdoor of the ticket booth. Creating an alternate universe underground where I could open the turf with my blue metal key. Literally. Hours. Hours imagining myself living in a town, with normal people, doing normal things. Innocent things.
I went to a therapist once in my early 20s. I had left the only decent boyfriend I had dated, in hindsight I see he was a borderline depressive, and I was questioning whereto go next. In my 20s with two abusive boyfriends behind me, terrible parents, virtually no support, and wondering where the fucking rule book was and who had the goddamn map.
She asked me to visualize where I wanted to be in my life, and all I could see was an apartment with curtains and sun behind them.
That was my only dream.
Some people, by 22, wish for France, for travel, for fame, for glamor, for love. Some people wish for money, for a sportscaster job, for a degree, for a spouse.
I dreamed of a curtain.
All I ever wanted was a home.
A safe home.
i saw a psychic at 27, she told me I was in a bad cycle and there would be two more tough years, then 5 of growth and finally, 11 years from our conversation, it would all be alright.
Fuck You.
Sometime in my 30s I bought my house. You know, the rest, we met, we married, and as I write this, we moved.
What you don't know is how he gambled our marriage. How he delivered the ultimatum. How the house I worked 10 years to save for, he squandered. he had us rent it to strangers, who I knew were wrong, who I begged him NOT to trust, who I pleaded with him NOT to allow in, he rented my home to them, and in 10 weeks they've trashed it.
And he moved us into a plce I never wanted o be. A place that doesn't work. A place I begged him not to move us.
He didnt listen , not to me present day and not to the child me who bargained, who yelled, who pleaded with him NOT to do this.
And here we are.
In his new house.
Where I work everyday to turn it into a home.
Were it not for our children I would have left him.
While he simply doesnt acknowledge the damage he has done.
Random Brady, circa 1970.
For a minute there, it was touch and go. I'm not sure how to explain it. One day we had it, the next, I was hiding in the dark behind a Home Depot moving box with my husband opening and closing doors thinking I had thrown myself into the lake.
I.Kid.You.Not.
It wasn't worth killing myself over, I wasn't even close, and don't flatter yourself that I would over you - but for a moment, even still, i can imagine life without him. For the first time, and not the last. Disappointed, yes. Angry, still. Bitter perhaps. Reality? You'd have to know me to understand. You'd have to have home movies of my childhood, you'd have to have real estate in my head from age 5 to 12.
I fell in love with the Barbie townhouse because it WAS a house. I spent hours playing with a Fisher Price village (#997 actually) squinting down low, imagining myself in their town. The barber Phil, the nurse Susan, the little red dress girl Rose and her friend Violet. Longing to walk around the corner of the Merry Go Round to go in the backdoor of the ticket booth. Creating an alternate universe underground where I could open the turf with my blue metal key. Literally. Hours. Hours imagining myself living in a town, with normal people, doing normal things. Innocent things.
I went to a therapist once in my early 20s. I had left the only decent boyfriend I had dated, in hindsight I see he was a borderline depressive, and I was questioning whereto go next. In my 20s with two abusive boyfriends behind me, terrible parents, virtually no support, and wondering where the fucking rule book was and who had the goddamn map.
She asked me to visualize where I wanted to be in my life, and all I could see was an apartment with curtains and sun behind them.
That was my only dream.
Some people, by 22, wish for France, for travel, for fame, for glamor, for love. Some people wish for money, for a sportscaster job, for a degree, for a spouse.
I dreamed of a curtain.
All I ever wanted was a home.
A safe home.
i saw a psychic at 27, she told me I was in a bad cycle and there would be two more tough years, then 5 of growth and finally, 11 years from our conversation, it would all be alright.
Fuck You.
Sometime in my 30s I bought my house. You know, the rest, we met, we married, and as I write this, we moved.
What you don't know is how he gambled our marriage. How he delivered the ultimatum. How the house I worked 10 years to save for, he squandered. he had us rent it to strangers, who I knew were wrong, who I begged him NOT to trust, who I pleaded with him NOT to allow in, he rented my home to them, and in 10 weeks they've trashed it.
And he moved us into a plce I never wanted o be. A place that doesn't work. A place I begged him not to move us.
He didnt listen , not to me present day and not to the child me who bargained, who yelled, who pleaded with him NOT to do this.
And here we are.
In his new house.
Where I work everyday to turn it into a home.
Were it not for our children I would have left him.
While he simply doesnt acknowledge the damage he has done.
Alternating Every Other Day
I had a pop up playdate the other day. The kind of thing where one mom says to another "We should get together..." and instead of saying "We Should" I said "Sure, what are you doing right now?"
It worked out fine. Very fine in fact. Almost perfectly.
The mom was loquacious, interesting, laid back, funny, articulate. The girls got on, I was quasi relaxed (once I put behind me the idea that I was going to get anything done)
I had the time because I put the boys in childcare 2 days a week.
For which I feel awful. Horrible. Very 1% not occupying. very lady of the manor. Very...something.
But the reality is, after 14 months of being the primary caretaker, after an arduous pregnancy, after myriad doctors appointments, after my son screaming for, what was for me, the last and final time... it was time.
It was a shitload of money. It IS a shitload.
It's 2 car payments.
It's a bunch of new furnishings.
It's a million things, my husbands time for mine.
A waste.
and I'm no further "ahead". I'm not using the time enriching, I'm not relaxing, I'm not organizing, I'm not getting thinner, I'm not getting anything done.
ut I'm trying. Trying to make better choices. Trying to spend a minute spending a minute with. Trying to, instead of rushing home to do, taking time to do with.
We've gone bowling. Miniature golfing. We visited.
We've gone to the park.
But the list of what we haven't done is even longer.
I'm taking forever to set the stage and not enough time acting in the play.
But that's another story.
A different post.
None of this is going to make sense because I'm typing where my head leaves off thus no perspective.
But hopefully I can write enough, about her, about them, to capture something in the next, to make up for not recording the last.
It worked out fine. Very fine in fact. Almost perfectly.
The mom was loquacious, interesting, laid back, funny, articulate. The girls got on, I was quasi relaxed (once I put behind me the idea that I was going to get anything done)
I had the time because I put the boys in childcare 2 days a week.
For which I feel awful. Horrible. Very 1% not occupying. very lady of the manor. Very...something.
But the reality is, after 14 months of being the primary caretaker, after an arduous pregnancy, after myriad doctors appointments, after my son screaming for, what was for me, the last and final time... it was time.
It was a shitload of money. It IS a shitload.
It's 2 car payments.
It's a bunch of new furnishings.
It's a million things, my husbands time for mine.
A waste.
and I'm no further "ahead". I'm not using the time enriching, I'm not relaxing, I'm not organizing, I'm not getting thinner, I'm not getting anything done.
ut I'm trying. Trying to make better choices. Trying to spend a minute spending a minute with. Trying to, instead of rushing home to do, taking time to do with.
We've gone bowling. Miniature golfing. We visited.
We've gone to the park.
But the list of what we haven't done is even longer.
I'm taking forever to set the stage and not enough time acting in the play.
But that's another story.
A different post.
None of this is going to make sense because I'm typing where my head leaves off thus no perspective.
But hopefully I can write enough, about her, about them, to capture something in the next, to make up for not recording the last.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Loose Wheel...
You know that Kenny Rogers song "You picked a fine time to leave me Lucille" where Lucille is supposed to be the bad guy? The older I get the less I blame Lucille...
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Why I started Dieting Yesterday. A Short Essay.
DIET LOG:
There I was. Making IT happen. I was at the tot park NAILING it with 3 kids. Snacks, juice, wipes. I had it. Kids running around having fun, I was doin' it. Babies getting trampled on by 19 month olds, meh - like water off my back. Until my wee Teddy started wailing to beat the band. Screaming, crying, lips quivering staring out the fence at the retreating back of an exiting mom.
"OMG, Teddy, what's the MATTER????"
He turned and looked at me astonished. If Mommy is HERE, how could she just have left me??? Light dawned. He smiled.
Then I looked at the woman walking away.
Who had an ENORMOUS ass.
Day two, so far so good.
There I was. Making IT happen. I was at the tot park NAILING it with 3 kids. Snacks, juice, wipes. I had it. Kids running around having fun, I was doin' it. Babies getting trampled on by 19 month olds, meh - like water off my back. Until my wee Teddy started wailing to beat the band. Screaming, crying, lips quivering staring out the fence at the retreating back of an exiting mom.
"OMG, Teddy, what's the MATTER????"
He turned and looked at me astonished. If Mommy is HERE, how could she just have left me??? Light dawned. He smiled.
Then I looked at the woman walking away.
Who had an ENORMOUS ass.
Day two, so far so good.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
reunited...and it feels so good
My sleepless Teddy is on the floor next to me, the real twins, Ellie and James lay upstairs, slumbering with Daddy, that trio of snorers, while Sleepless and I toil on. Two years ago now, I sealed the toys in plastic. Two flowers, a pot, a worm. I had never hear of Melissa and Doug, nor Chugginton, nor Swiper. "Boots I can see. I know he's wearing boots but whats his name?...WHY DOES SHE KEEP SAYING BOOTS???!!!"
Later I found the fourth flower but alas, it was too late. Or I was too ambivalent. For two long years this flower has haunted us. Doing nothing but float in the random assorted toys toybox, a shoebox really because I seldom allow any disconnected toys in the house. Dear daughter has the same blocks, the same rattle music makers, the same books, all in their labeled compartments. She's four. Oh god, really? Do we really never get new toys??
Early intervention came for James. "He's social, highly in fact" they nodded encouragingly. "But he doesnt reach for toys. Doesn't close his hand around a cheerio. Doesnt follow a toy when dropped."
'Oh' I nodded, asif mentally taking notes. Not effecting concern but far less concerned then one might imagine.
Upon husbands arrival.."You know, we really should have thought to give him toys."
Whhoops.
So out came the flower pot, new bins labeled, a small tiny playroom coopted, a duaghter pushed out, her three or four labeled boxes still in plce, elbowed behind swings, jumpers, a double playpen.
It's been about 6 weeks now. He's reaching for toys. The eating is still off, the muscle control... but he reaches some.
And tonight.
For the first time in two years? The reunion tour.
As I placed them in absently, recognition dawned and I felt a surge of joy...like finding a ten in your pocket.
One, two, worm, FOUR.
Together again at last.
What goes around comes around.
Welcome back flower pot and compadres.
Nice to see you again.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Your Cheating Heart
what passes for excitement in our house:
my husband calls me from florida. vibrantly enthusiastic.
"what's up?"
Him: "I love the gps on this thing..." His new cell phone. "I forgot to pack deodorant, tshirts and razors. Basically everything. It's taking me to Target. It found a Costco.."
me: "Awesome" up to me knees in shit, stress and diapers, hands in the sink. "that's awesome" absently.
Him: I know. I found the hotel, went to the store. It's great! Gotta go"
Hangs up.
Hurrah for him.
Home, about 3 days. I'm doing laundry. I reach into the pile , sift, and feel a thick, soft white. "Not a blanket" flashes through my mind, followed by "Oh, new tshirt. Heh, nice."
Upstairs.
Folding.
Putting away.
Listening to chatter of bedtime books.
Me: folding shirts into drawer... "You know, new tshirts, 8 days away.... This has all the hallmarks of a lifetime movie where you are having an affair.."
Him: What?
Me: You know, new underwear. I motion to the tshirts. When guys have affairs they buy new underwear.
Him: Completely straightfaced. "Yeh. That's exactly what happened." followed by "you know all the ladies love the Kirkland."
my husband calls me from florida. vibrantly enthusiastic.
"what's up?"
Him: "I love the gps on this thing..." His new cell phone. "I forgot to pack deodorant, tshirts and razors. Basically everything. It's taking me to Target. It found a Costco.."
me: "Awesome" up to me knees in shit, stress and diapers, hands in the sink. "that's awesome" absently.
Him: I know. I found the hotel, went to the store. It's great! Gotta go"
Hangs up.
Hurrah for him.
Home, about 3 days. I'm doing laundry. I reach into the pile , sift, and feel a thick, soft white. "Not a blanket" flashes through my mind, followed by "Oh, new tshirt. Heh, nice."
Upstairs.
Folding.
Putting away.
Listening to chatter of bedtime books.
Me: folding shirts into drawer... "You know, new tshirts, 8 days away.... This has all the hallmarks of a lifetime movie where you are having an affair.."
Him: What?
Me: You know, new underwear. I motion to the tshirts. When guys have affairs they buy new underwear.
Him: Completely straightfaced. "Yeh. That's exactly what happened." followed by "you know all the ladies love the Kirkland."
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
I think...
...it's absolute bullshit to teach toddlers to put on their jackets by laying the jacket on the floor and then flipping it overhead. Complete total utter disrespect for the clothes.
A tisc, a task, a woman in my bask(et)
Dear WaMB,
thank you so much for stopping to talk today. How I appreciate dropping my daughter off at preschool with a scant three hours to myself, heroically doing a Market Basket run versus PeaPod simply to prove that I can, and spending an inordinate amount of time politely listening to you.
Oh how I longed, when I left my bed this morning, to run into you with your unsolicited advice!
And YES how I appreciate your sage words of wisdom "Enjoy it now, it only gets worse" My goodness, I wish you were at my wedding "You are never going to love him this much again, dear" would have been your toast.
But to get back on topic, THANK YOU! It hadnt occured to me to enjoy my children. And yes, I am lucky. I am aware that some people "cant have any".
Just to clarify though, I'm fairly certain my husband would have been happy with either outcome but yes, two boys are what we have. So he wasnt thrilled that he "finally got boys" nor will my daughter be relegated to the role of "princess" but how kind of you, oh random one, to stereotype my family for me.
I'm so glad that when we parted... a full 10 minutes was it? - later I was able to leave you with the following...
YOU: "oh, he has no socks! his feet must be FREEZING"
ME: "Yes, that's because I don't love him as much as the other one"
YOU: tittering nervously "Oh, that little cough, poor thing."
ME: "yes, and thats because I take him out with no socks."
Farewell, oh Mother Of All Knowing Market Basket Mother. Thanks for the chat.
thank you so much for stopping to talk today. How I appreciate dropping my daughter off at preschool with a scant three hours to myself, heroically doing a Market Basket run versus PeaPod simply to prove that I can, and spending an inordinate amount of time politely listening to you.
Oh how I longed, when I left my bed this morning, to run into you with your unsolicited advice!
And YES how I appreciate your sage words of wisdom "Enjoy it now, it only gets worse" My goodness, I wish you were at my wedding "You are never going to love him this much again, dear" would have been your toast.
But to get back on topic, THANK YOU! It hadnt occured to me to enjoy my children. And yes, I am lucky. I am aware that some people "cant have any".
Just to clarify though, I'm fairly certain my husband would have been happy with either outcome but yes, two boys are what we have. So he wasnt thrilled that he "finally got boys" nor will my daughter be relegated to the role of "princess" but how kind of you, oh random one, to stereotype my family for me.
I'm so glad that when we parted... a full 10 minutes was it? - later I was able to leave you with the following...
YOU: "oh, he has no socks! his feet must be FREEZING"
ME: "Yes, that's because I don't love him as much as the other one"
YOU: tittering nervously "Oh, that little cough, poor thing."
ME: "yes, and thats because I take him out with no socks."
Farewell, oh Mother Of All Knowing Market Basket Mother. Thanks for the chat.
Monday, February 28, 2011
you too?
Somewhere on the internet there is a picture of me.
There’s a picture of Heather.
We are sitting in a window, backlit, quasi faceless. It’s a Saturday afternoon, sometime after noon, sometime prior to 2003, definitely before we were married, before we had kids, before we had any idea that someday, someday years later, one or both of us at varying times, would miss – randomly yet intensely – the other.
We are smiling, and I think we meant it. We didn’t stay long that day. We drank until we ate, because eating was, and still is I suspect, the kiss of death for Heather.
I know I slept at her house the night before, and likely we talked late, nonsensically/unrealistically about what we wished for.
She was in love with (meh... longing for) Jon C and I was rebounding in and/or out of a relationship with a man so impactless that to this day, I forget we dated save for the fact that he sweated copiously during unmemorable sex and his best friend was likely my soul mate.
It wasn’t much later that she met her husband, and years later, I met mine.
As I walked through my house tonight, upstairs from laundry, leaning to change the trash liner, promising myself to diet tomorrow, I wondered how it is that I can’t move forward. That I have no dreams, no plans, no promises to make or to keep to myself. That I exist without wanting anything, yet clearly I’m wanting for something. I contemplated what I would do if I could do anything.
And stumbled.
And stopped.
Nothing.
Not a single dream.
I heard in the background the strains to Hey, Soul Sista, somehow attached to a blog that somehow stumbled onto mine. The mommy anthem of 2010. I swiveled towards the refrigerator and shimmied. Meringue. Triple step swing. I opened the door thirsty and reached for the water. I need to drink more I thought and shimmied again. Finding rhythm. Finding the beat,. I moved forward, back. Rotated my shoulders. Swung my hands. It felt like dancing. I might have been dancing.
I glanced at the window to see that the shades were drawn, then at the doorway that my husband wasn’t in. I bumped again, la la la...hips don’t lie. I used to be cute. I used to dance. I wonder if I still do? Dance that is. I turned to the refrigerator and sought my reflection in the write-on calendar. And saw a large formless shadow.
Moving slowly and out of breath.
This is not my beautiful wife, this is not my beautiful house.
This can not be who I am meant to be.
The music changed.
It’s a Beautiful Day.
I remember hating the song.
I wonder if time changed that for me.
Pauses.
Listen.
Nope, hate the song.
But I remember the year it was popular.
And I remember having drinks that day.
And then I remembered who I was back then.
I trolled the website.
Found the musician.
Searched his archives.
And there it was.
I looked again.
I remember that day.
I was thinner.
Childless.
Lonely for where I'd be.
Hopeless.
Hopeful.
Would that I could flash forward and tell myself to lighten up.
Would that I could flash back and live it up.
Was I happier then?
No fucking way.
Although that’s not saying much when you're fat, your shoulder is inflamed, your rotated ankle still swoll, your dental bridge sore, and your head aching from dehydration and lack of sleep.
So tomorrow I’ll start at the gym again.
And tomorrow I will try to remember that life passes by.
Quickly.
So fucking quickly.
And it’s time to stop feeling sorry for myself.
And get crackin once again.
Bootstraps don't fail me now.
There’s a picture of Heather.
We are sitting in a window, backlit, quasi faceless. It’s a Saturday afternoon, sometime after noon, sometime prior to 2003, definitely before we were married, before we had kids, before we had any idea that someday, someday years later, one or both of us at varying times, would miss – randomly yet intensely – the other.
We are smiling, and I think we meant it. We didn’t stay long that day. We drank until we ate, because eating was, and still is I suspect, the kiss of death for Heather.
I know I slept at her house the night before, and likely we talked late, nonsensically/unrealistically about what we wished for.
She was in love with (meh... longing for) Jon C and I was rebounding in and/or out of a relationship with a man so impactless that to this day, I forget we dated save for the fact that he sweated copiously during unmemorable sex and his best friend was likely my soul mate.
It wasn’t much later that she met her husband, and years later, I met mine.
As I walked through my house tonight, upstairs from laundry, leaning to change the trash liner, promising myself to diet tomorrow, I wondered how it is that I can’t move forward. That I have no dreams, no plans, no promises to make or to keep to myself. That I exist without wanting anything, yet clearly I’m wanting for something. I contemplated what I would do if I could do anything.
And stumbled.
And stopped.
Nothing.
Not a single dream.
I heard in the background the strains to Hey, Soul Sista, somehow attached to a blog that somehow stumbled onto mine. The mommy anthem of 2010. I swiveled towards the refrigerator and shimmied. Meringue. Triple step swing. I opened the door thirsty and reached for the water. I need to drink more I thought and shimmied again. Finding rhythm. Finding the beat,. I moved forward, back. Rotated my shoulders. Swung my hands. It felt like dancing. I might have been dancing.
I glanced at the window to see that the shades were drawn, then at the doorway that my husband wasn’t in. I bumped again, la la la...hips don’t lie. I used to be cute. I used to dance. I wonder if I still do? Dance that is. I turned to the refrigerator and sought my reflection in the write-on calendar. And saw a large formless shadow.
Moving slowly and out of breath.
This is not my beautiful wife, this is not my beautiful house.
This can not be who I am meant to be.
The music changed.
It’s a Beautiful Day.
I remember hating the song.
I wonder if time changed that for me.
Pauses.
Listen.
Nope, hate the song.
But I remember the year it was popular.
And I remember having drinks that day.
And then I remembered who I was back then.
I trolled the website.
Found the musician.
Searched his archives.
And there it was.
I looked again.
I remember that day.
I was thinner.
Childless.
Lonely for where I'd be.
Hopeless.
Hopeful.
Would that I could flash forward and tell myself to lighten up.
Would that I could flash back and live it up.
Was I happier then?
No fucking way.
Although that’s not saying much when you're fat, your shoulder is inflamed, your rotated ankle still swoll, your dental bridge sore, and your head aching from dehydration and lack of sleep.
So tomorrow I’ll start at the gym again.
And tomorrow I will try to remember that life passes by.
Quickly.
So fucking quickly.
And it’s time to stop feeling sorry for myself.
And get crackin once again.
Bootstraps don't fail me now.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
moving
I'm moving soon.
Not houses.
To wordpress.
Four years on blogger is enough.
I'm spreading the love.
Not houses.
To wordpress.
Four years on blogger is enough.
I'm spreading the love.
Friday, February 25, 2011
dial "ohhhh" for operator subtitled Looks 3, Voice #
Since the beginning of time, actually the beginning of answering machines...little know factoid here... my voice reaches a tone, vocally, that disconnected peoples phones.
I'm not sure if I sounded like the 3, the 5, the pound key but sooner or later, in the midst of leaving a message, and not just at the end either, I disconnected.
At first I thought people were interrupting then disconnecting up their machines on me. Answering then disconnecting. I talk a lot, maybe they were doing the nasty and all they could hear was my blathering, blithering on.
As time passed, and technology became more sophisticated, voicemail replaced answering machines and it happened less frequently. And for a time, I forgot about it. Sure my Dad continued to complain that I always abruptly stopped talking but I chalked it up, with ageism, to his being the last minicassette holding device luddite. Sure occasionally I'd call my husband at work and mid sentence would find myself frustrated at his old Audex voicemail system. But never once did I suspect that my nemesis, my message foiling near perfect pitch was back. With a vengeance.
Until today.
I didn't correlate the uptick of instances of being cut off with so many my friends migrating away from verizon. Different systems respond to different tones...
Once a month? Maybe my cheek hit the phone. You missed the last part of the message? Maybe I was driving through a bad cell area. Occasionally I'd tentatively mention the pitch thing, only to be scoffed at. For eyebrows to raise. But now, today, I remembered vividly the early advent of the answering machine. And that my perky, cheery, LOUD voice is a dead on impersonator for the 7 key. And that very likely Kristen is NOT going to be happy with all three of my messages. Each sounding more depressed then the last. My not knowing which buoyant tone terminated the call. Quite literally killing the messenger.
Ah, if only I could mimic pin codes, I'd be all set.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
correction
i should clarify that recently i wrote a post about learning the hard way and I started with a story about a dance studio and followed it with examples of people being a nightmare. Just want to clarify here that the dance studio is not an example in keeping with the rest of the post. I was using it as a starting point. Simply that no one there asked me to help but I made assumptions and based on my assumptions I started conversations and that my conversations became complicated. And that the unhappy dawn for ME was that I am unable to properly judge any longer true need from convenience. The story was to illustrate that I need to learn the difference and to stop getting angry - and to stop offering.
The complicate MY life portion simply was that in response to my vmail / emails the owner thought I was offering out of ...not guilt but some sense of obligation vs affection. So I was already mired for lack of better word in a dance I created. I realized that I had already started off in a strange inequity with the owner. For brevity's sake, in the post, I laid the blame on her but in actuality, in the writing, I knew the blame was mine.
I write this now not because something happened but because it occurred to me only this morning that while I have no idea who reads this blog, I know for sure my sister does - and I believe she has shared it historically. And given I haven't spoken to her recently, and I have no idea who amongst her people has this link, I want it to be public record that the mistakes were mine.More that i was starting a project again where I wasn't asked. My not being able to learn my own lesson. That I created a victem where there wasn't one. That I was engaging in the same patterns. That I was disappointed in myself.
So on the off off chance someone is reading this that knows of the parties discussed:
a) shame on YOU if you repeated it. this may be public domain but it's still an unadvertised blog. If I didn't invite you here - you know full well I don't know you - so whyever the fuck did you repeat something to hurt someone else?
and
b) if you are the party discussed. I apologize. I was typing quickly and only realized later that my stream of consciousness blog tied you in with some fucking shitty-ass lazy people. You are not the person I was discussing. I am.
The complicate MY life portion simply was that in response to my vmail / emails the owner thought I was offering out of ...not guilt but some sense of obligation vs affection. So I was already mired for lack of better word in a dance I created. I realized that I had already started off in a strange inequity with the owner. For brevity's sake, in the post, I laid the blame on her but in actuality, in the writing, I knew the blame was mine.
I write this now not because something happened but because it occurred to me only this morning that while I have no idea who reads this blog, I know for sure my sister does - and I believe she has shared it historically. And given I haven't spoken to her recently, and I have no idea who amongst her people has this link, I want it to be public record that the mistakes were mine.More that i was starting a project again where I wasn't asked. My not being able to learn my own lesson. That I created a victem where there wasn't one. That I was engaging in the same patterns. That I was disappointed in myself.
So on the off off chance someone is reading this that knows of the parties discussed:
a) shame on YOU if you repeated it. this may be public domain but it's still an unadvertised blog. If I didn't invite you here - you know full well I don't know you - so whyever the fuck did you repeat something to hurt someone else?
and
b) if you are the party discussed. I apologize. I was typing quickly and only realized later that my stream of consciousness blog tied you in with some fucking shitty-ass lazy people. You are not the person I was discussing. I am.
money & happiness
Money can't buy happiness... but you can be more comfortable unhappy.
Money can't buy happiness... but neither can being broke.
Money can’t buy happiness, but it sure can buy lots of things that contribute mightily to happiness. credit
We have money. I've said this before. Not uppercase "M" money, but working hard money. Were I still working, we'd have more money. LOTS more. And dual income families, guys my husband works with, people I used to know? They have a lot lot more money. But we have money. Enough that both of us could buy a brand new car, this year, with cash, outright. Not a BMW but a reliable little Hyundai, or perhaps a sweet Honda. Sweet meaning darling not saaaawwwwweeeeeeeet as in “holy hell, that is SWEET” Generally when the bills are due we don’t fret.
So there’s nothing to worry about…right?
Sad? Buy yourself a treat.
Unhappy? Go shopping. Get a pedicure. Get your hair done.
If only I had money I’d be happy.
I guess so.
I used to think that way too.
I’m not happy today.
I wasn’t yesterday.
I’d like to be tomorrow.
Buoyantly happy. Not content.
I want Happy.
Some people say it’s because I thrive on stress, others say I’m insecure, you might find me anxious, too much time, bored. You can analyze it however you want. If you care to that is, although I can’t imagine why you would.
Or perhaps you think I should be.
Happy that is. Because you would be.
As in “If we had money right now, everything would be fine.”
Maybe.
Maybe not.
You’d be less stressed. About money.
You’d meet obligations, have things, of course.
And maybe you’d be happy today.
But sooner or later life encroaches.
This isn’t a happy time for me. I wish I could tell you it was.
We could argue that it’s my state of mind, that I’m holding myself back, that I’m ungrateful, that you’d handle it better.
Sure.
Let’s go there.
Maybe you could.
Maybe you are great.
Maybe you are all zen, all knowing, all content.
Maybe your answer is take that money and BUY happiness.
A trip
A new car
A bigger house.
"hire a sitter" "you need to get out" "go to the gym, you'll feel better"
maybe.
or in my case, maybe most definately not.
Because for me, I can't buy my way out of this.
Here’s a little thing. I am capable of happiness. Fantastic joy.
Great bounding leaps of affection and energy and happiness.
I just don’t get there much.
Do I need …Drugs? Therapy? Communing with god?
nah.
I’m not happy because shit’s in my way.
And I don’t mean metaphorically, as in “There’s so much shit to do I can’t be happy”, I mean literally. There is always shit in my way.
Hairclips, headbands, towels. Scraps of paper, draws filled to bursting, clothes that don’t fit, mitten’s that don’t match, goldfish under the car seat and laundry piled atop tables.
Boxes of things stored for later, photos and Christmas cards.
Chargers.
Cell Phones, camera cords – now ipods and ipads, more and more shit.
Food bought not eaten, sippy cups waiting to be filled. Syringes and medicines and ear droppers and used tissues and birthday party favors and all.sorts.of.shit.
Shit.
Shit everywhere.
There are books written, like The Happiness Project that talk about simplifying, decluttering. I live that way. Lived that way. There are tidbits saying "Volunteer, give back" been there. I've DONE IT. And you know what, I'm STILL not happy. Because it's not about money, it's not about time, or sex, or body hair (really, hirsute much lately?) It's not about wanting MORE to make me happy.
it's about needing LESS.
I want shit out.
Prior to my marriage, prior to kids I lived in a 480 sq foot apartment for 8 years. No storage until, no cable, no fancy dishes, no second set of kosher plates. No nothing. Me and my paltry square footage. And I may not have been happy there either but I could manage the shit out of that life.
This life?
Pissing me off.
Rent this, buy this, download this, caretake this. Listen to this, read this, record this, absorb this. Do this, go here, take a picture of this, upload this, bake this, store this, reuse this. Keep track of this, care about this, love this. Email me if you love me, post on my page if you care, send thankyous if you are grateful, return my call. Find a new house - you have money. Buy a new car because you can. Decorate because you should. Don't be cheap. All your problems would be over if you had a bigger house.
To store things.
To hide things.
We need to buy a new house.
"Need to"
Because this one is too small.
If we were broke, we'd stay. And make it work.
But we have the resources.
Ergo we "must" move.
So contrary to everything, and I need to let go of the past, it's time to move.
To buy again.
To buy more.
To fill it with more.
Oh you are getting a new house, that will make you happy.
If you don't know me by now...you will never never know me, ohhh, ohh ooo oo.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
everyone knows it's windy aka Gladys Kravitz
The wind was blowing so hard last night that it woke me.
We live in New England, at most we get snow. No flooding, no hurricanes, no crazy tropical storms. No real wind storms. So when we do, it's like snow in Georgia. It's noteworthy.
On my tiny little 18 house sidestreet, fully half boast a flag in front of their houses. Not set in the ground like a vfw post, but mounted to the porch. And for a bunch of people who can't be bothered to talk to one another, present company excluded, folks are remarkably cheery in terms of flying the flag. It's like 10 years ago, someone joined the flag of the month and all the other housewives joined in.
I hate to be the last holdout actually. Me likes me a leprechaun flag come March 17.
So this morning across the street, through the kitchen window, we saw the American flag down. Laying on the snow.
Doug mentioned it in passing.
I fretted.
"You can't just LEAVE it there" is what I said. "It's like...mean or something."
My husband said it was too early to tell the neighbor.
So me, obsessively, every 20 minutes looked at the clock.
"Seriously?" he said.
"Seriously"
So with a sigh he put his shoes on.
"It's like, it's like the last hallmark of respect" I said.
Out he went.
In he came.
"What did you do?" I asked.
"I rehung it" he gestured into the air, indicating the mounting gear on the side of a pole.
"Isn't it not supposed to ...?" I paused searching my feeble third grade memory banks "Aren't you not supposed to hang it after it's touched the ground?"
And he looked at me, coffee in hand, bemused.
"Yeh well, technically you're supposed to burn it but why don't you explain to the neighbors why we're out burning their flag at 8 am Saturday morning."
Good point.
No more looking o'er the ramparts of the window sill.
We live in New England, at most we get snow. No flooding, no hurricanes, no crazy tropical storms. No real wind storms. So when we do, it's like snow in Georgia. It's noteworthy.
On my tiny little 18 house sidestreet, fully half boast a flag in front of their houses. Not set in the ground like a vfw post, but mounted to the porch. And for a bunch of people who can't be bothered to talk to one another, present company excluded, folks are remarkably cheery in terms of flying the flag. It's like 10 years ago, someone joined the flag of the month and all the other housewives joined in.
I hate to be the last holdout actually. Me likes me a leprechaun flag come March 17.
So this morning across the street, through the kitchen window, we saw the American flag down. Laying on the snow.
Doug mentioned it in passing.
I fretted.
"You can't just LEAVE it there" is what I said. "It's like...mean or something."
My husband said it was too early to tell the neighbor.
So me, obsessively, every 20 minutes looked at the clock.
"Seriously?" he said.
"Seriously"
So with a sigh he put his shoes on.
"It's like, it's like the last hallmark of respect" I said.
Out he went.
In he came.
"What did you do?" I asked.
"I rehung it" he gestured into the air, indicating the mounting gear on the side of a pole.
"Isn't it not supposed to ...?" I paused searching my feeble third grade memory banks "Aren't you not supposed to hang it after it's touched the ground?"
And he looked at me, coffee in hand, bemused.
"Yeh well, technically you're supposed to burn it but why don't you explain to the neighbors why we're out burning their flag at 8 am Saturday morning."
Good point.
No more looking o'er the ramparts of the window sill.
Friday, February 18, 2011
who lived in a shoe
There was a young couple (almost middle aged)
who lived in a shoe (box sized house)
who had the money (lowecase m)
but didn't know what to do.
They looked at houses
far and wide
and wanting to compromise
was points for their side.
They peaked into attics
and looked into sheds
but couldn't find a home
with enough beds (rooms)
Dillengtly they checked
daily on line
was a home with a garage
THAT hard to find?
Indeed it was
and renters are coming
the stress of it all
leaves this wife a' bummin.
who lived in a shoe (box sized house)
who had the money (lowecase m)
but didn't know what to do.
They looked at houses
far and wide
and wanting to compromise
was points for their side.
They peaked into attics
and looked into sheds
but couldn't find a home
with enough beds (rooms)
Dillengtly they checked
daily on line
was a home with a garage
THAT hard to find?
Indeed it was
and renters are coming
the stress of it all
leaves this wife a' bummin.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
upon the seat of a bicycle built for two
my husband and I have this thing - every time we see a man on a bike we start yelling out guesses... "Up ahead, on your right" and before we get too close a look we have to call it.
"homeless guy..."
"veteran..."
"fitness enthusiast...
"environmentalist...'
"asian..."
"dui"
I mean, there's a reason grown men wear all that Lance Armstrong gear. Otherwise we all think you're a swill ass.
So it's ongoing, possibly not funny, but one of those things you do. Like calling Tuesdays "Laundry Day" even though it's been years since you had so few clothes that you did laundry once a week.
So me, yesterday, 9am. Driving my daughter to preschool. Suburban side street. Up ahead, man on a bike. No point playing but I speculate anyway.
Off in the distance...
plaid carhartt jacket, furry cap, earflaps, jeans.
I'm thinking "Workman"
and strapped to the front I see a toolbox. Or a crate. Something red. Snap-on?
I'm thinking roofer, maybe laid off, sidegig today.
Closer.
Closer.
And then he pedals by.
With a full-on red white & blue case of budweiser bungeed to the front of the bike.
And two on the back.
And not a twelve pack mind you. I'm talking a suitcase of cans - at least two, possibly a third at 9am, on a Wednesday, on a nothing road going god knows where.
Now THAT'S dedication.
Go big or go home, you mad fucking hatter. I'm guessing DUI.
"homeless guy..."
"veteran..."
"fitness enthusiast...
"environmentalist...'
"asian..."
"dui"
I mean, there's a reason grown men wear all that Lance Armstrong gear. Otherwise we all think you're a swill ass.
So it's ongoing, possibly not funny, but one of those things you do. Like calling Tuesdays "Laundry Day" even though it's been years since you had so few clothes that you did laundry once a week.
So me, yesterday, 9am. Driving my daughter to preschool. Suburban side street. Up ahead, man on a bike. No point playing but I speculate anyway.
Off in the distance...
plaid carhartt jacket, furry cap, earflaps, jeans.
I'm thinking "Workman"
and strapped to the front I see a toolbox. Or a crate. Something red. Snap-on?
I'm thinking roofer, maybe laid off, sidegig today.
Closer.
Closer.
And then he pedals by.
With a full-on red white & blue case of budweiser bungeed to the front of the bike.
And two on the back.
And not a twelve pack mind you. I'm talking a suitcase of cans - at least two, possibly a third at 9am, on a Wednesday, on a nothing road going god knows where.
Now THAT'S dedication.
Go big or go home, you mad fucking hatter. I'm guessing DUI.
learning the hard way
I only wish I could turn back the hands of time and give myself another 5 years, 10 years of knowing what I know now - and actually using the knowledge.
My sister works for a dance studio. A popular one that turns a modest profit, very modest in fact because there's no money in it but it's well run and leaves a legacy of love and love for dance in it's wake. Last year I put together a program guide for it's recital, partially out of affection for my sister who(m?) I didn't want taking it on herself, partially because I knew it would be expensive to outsource and partially because...well... it's something I know how to do with little effort. Takes time though, but not a ton of effort. I did it, they loved it, and I charged her a token $150. Not because I needed the money but because it's always a good practice not to work for free.
And given I built the template, I figured I'd offer this year. Again not for the money, but for the fact that it's an easy cut and paste. Although I have less time. No time. ZERO time.
People ask me why. Why do you do things for free, for other people. Is it the need to be loved? Admired? Liked? Glorified?
To which I always say no. Honestly.
And myriad years of therapy of soul searching or life experience have taught me this.
I truly believe that if you can, you do.
If you have, you give.
And that if you teach a man to fish., he'll be set for life.
Or so I thought.
Because after swapping emails with the studio owner, I further realized that she's complicated. And that she's going to complicate my life over it. And that it's not going to be a simple cut and paste, it's going to be work.
So I'm about to tell her that I think she needs to turn it over to someone else. With my blessings. And this is the beginning of a new, unhappy dawn for me.
The truth is: she doesn't need me to do it. It would make her life easier, I'd be cheaper...but she can get it done without me.
The fact is: I need to stop because I can no longer judge correctly.
Recently I paid the insurance ill for my crazy HIV shutin. It was$65? $70? She didn't ask - I offered and I paid it with nostrings. Because I see her struggling and I know that money is something I have. And although there were no strings what I am starting to realize is that there are strings, that I am placing - in jugement. Because last week she let me know that she picked up 3 cartons of cigarettes at the store because quitting was just too hard. 3 cartons. Equaling roughly the amount of an insurance payment.
See I thought when people asked for help that they too intended to work towards making their life better. I though we were paddling the canoe.
But it appears they were looking for a break from paddling. Which is cool, for fucks sake I get that everyone needs a break, but honestly? I have twin fucking children and a three year old and a husband that gets home at 7. We are BUSTING our asses to stay current with our own obligations. I freely give time to anyone that needs it, because I hear you say "I'm desperate, I've tried everything, I'm scared, I need help" But when help arrives? The human condition throws up their collective hands and breathes a sigh of relief. AND STOPS WORKING.
Wow. And that's fair to me.... how?
I had a friend confide in me recently that she was concerned about money troubles. She wants to sell some things, edit out somethings, consolidate some bills. She's not far off track and can and will turn it around. So we talked we strategized. We solved for x by deciding on y. Or Y Not. As in Why don't we do this, this, and that. I offered to help. I'll write ads, I'll post with her etc. All she needs to do is gather and inventory her things by such and such date and time.
Which she didn't.
Because she was busy.
So my point is this, if YOU are too busy to do it, why am I staying up past midnight to meet an obligation to you? I am offering up my time - which retails for about $35 an hour, or $90 if I was a contractor for my old company. Maybe $60 given the economy. I have expertise, passion know how and I'm effective.
But I'm not LOOKING for work.
If you are down, in the gutter, on the ground, saying you need a hand up - shit, I'm not going to walk by you.
But let me say this:
Don't tell me you are broke, and then text me from your iphone.
Don't tell me you need my help getting organized, then let me see you crafting.
Don't tell me you have no time to pick up a bag at my house, but you have time to post on facebook.
Don't tell me you have nowhere else to go, to turn to, no way to get it done, no hope for yourself, your project, your lot in life - but you have time to sleep.
Because I don't.
So don't ask for help - or take my help - and fuck MY family in the process, so you can watch your reality shows.
Just don't.
Because I'm on to you
And you're pissing me off.
.
My sister works for a dance studio. A popular one that turns a modest profit, very modest in fact because there's no money in it but it's well run and leaves a legacy of love and love for dance in it's wake. Last year I put together a program guide for it's recital, partially out of affection for my sister who(m?) I didn't want taking it on herself, partially because I knew it would be expensive to outsource and partially because...well... it's something I know how to do with little effort. Takes time though, but not a ton of effort. I did it, they loved it, and I charged her a token $150. Not because I needed the money but because it's always a good practice not to work for free.
And given I built the template, I figured I'd offer this year. Again not for the money, but for the fact that it's an easy cut and paste. Although I have less time. No time. ZERO time.
People ask me why. Why do you do things for free, for other people. Is it the need to be loved? Admired? Liked? Glorified?
To which I always say no. Honestly.
And myriad years of therapy of soul searching or life experience have taught me this.
I truly believe that if you can, you do.
If you have, you give.
And that if you teach a man to fish., he'll be set for life.
Or so I thought.
Because after swapping emails with the studio owner, I further realized that she's complicated. And that she's going to complicate my life over it. And that it's not going to be a simple cut and paste, it's going to be work.
So I'm about to tell her that I think she needs to turn it over to someone else. With my blessings. And this is the beginning of a new, unhappy dawn for me.
The truth is: she doesn't need me to do it. It would make her life easier, I'd be cheaper...but she can get it done without me.
The fact is: I need to stop because I can no longer judge correctly.
Recently I paid the insurance ill for my crazy HIV shutin. It was$65? $70? She didn't ask - I offered and I paid it with nostrings. Because I see her struggling and I know that money is something I have. And although there were no strings what I am starting to realize is that there are strings, that I am placing - in jugement. Because last week she let me know that she picked up 3 cartons of cigarettes at the store because quitting was just too hard. 3 cartons. Equaling roughly the amount of an insurance payment.
See I thought when people asked for help that they too intended to work towards making their life better. I though we were paddling the canoe.
But it appears they were looking for a break from paddling. Which is cool, for fucks sake I get that everyone needs a break, but honestly? I have twin fucking children and a three year old and a husband that gets home at 7. We are BUSTING our asses to stay current with our own obligations. I freely give time to anyone that needs it, because I hear you say "I'm desperate, I've tried everything, I'm scared, I need help" But when help arrives? The human condition throws up their collective hands and breathes a sigh of relief. AND STOPS WORKING.
Wow. And that's fair to me.... how?
I had a friend confide in me recently that she was concerned about money troubles. She wants to sell some things, edit out somethings, consolidate some bills. She's not far off track and can and will turn it around. So we talked we strategized. We solved for x by deciding on y. Or Y Not. As in Why don't we do this, this, and that. I offered to help. I'll write ads, I'll post with her etc. All she needs to do is gather and inventory her things by such and such date and time.
Which she didn't.
Because she was busy.
So my point is this, if YOU are too busy to do it, why am I staying up past midnight to meet an obligation to you? I am offering up my time - which retails for about $35 an hour, or $90 if I was a contractor for my old company. Maybe $60 given the economy. I have expertise, passion know how and I'm effective.
But I'm not LOOKING for work.
If you are down, in the gutter, on the ground, saying you need a hand up - shit, I'm not going to walk by you.
But let me say this:
Don't tell me you are broke, and then text me from your iphone.
Don't tell me you need my help getting organized, then let me see you crafting.
Don't tell me you have no time to pick up a bag at my house, but you have time to post on facebook.
Don't tell me you have nowhere else to go, to turn to, no way to get it done, no hope for yourself, your project, your lot in life - but you have time to sleep.
Because I don't.
So don't ask for help - or take my help - and fuck MY family in the process, so you can watch your reality shows.
Just don't.
Because I'm on to you
And you're pissing me off.
.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
jolly jumper
here's the thing about having a child that takes an oral steroid for 4 months...
they don't sleep.
Hardly ever.
so at 12, at 2, at 3;30 then at 5, you are up. Then up at 6. Then 7. Life's a constant mission to harness the energy and deal with the irritability.
Your husband sleeps in one room with one baby on the bed. One baby that has something wrong, tongue or GI, undiagnosed because he is still gaining, but something that makes him unable to eat food at 6 months. So you feed him by bottle every two hours. Every day. Almost since birth. Regardless of the clock. That son sleeps with Daddy.
The other child, Sumo, Chubby, The Big One, Tubby, sleeps with you. loosely. the sleeping part. so you find yourself up. All night. For 6 months. Plus the several before when you were so pregnant with twins that sleep was impossible. I would wager that I have been up - sporadically - virtually round the clock since last April.
It effects my speech, my decision process, my metabolism. It effects every choice, every reaction.
Forget tired.
Forget the fact that I have aged so much, so so much in these last months.
Forget all that.
What's impossible is functioning while awake.
Yet today was the same.
Up ungodly early, make lunch for Girl, dress all three for preschool dropoff (by 9 thank you), cross town for craigslist stroller purchase, home to deice driveway, feed boys, out to shovel again, dress boys in afternoon clothes (morning vomit and pee buildup on prior outfits) ALL to bowling alley for Girl to have some physical activity, home then for more feedings. Nothing cleaned, nothing sorted, all alive. Phone calls today to tenants - who are renting our house come July 1, to Early Intervention to reschedule because their visit conflicts with the boys surgery date, to 3 sets of parents to arrange childcare/visits and update medical status, phone call to crazy HIV positive godmother to help arrange Section 8 certification paperwork. Snacks, dinner, bottles and dishes. I never left the 13x13 comfort of the kitchen save for my car.
I know this is parenting. I get it. I get that everyone has things they do.
But I always thought I'd have babies and that's it. Id work at it. I didn't think that having them, 6 months in, would consume everything else in it's path.
Managing.
Existing.
Not wishing time away, but wishing for the hemangioma to shrink so we can get baby off the steroids, for the system to mature, for the baby to stop throwing up, for the tongue to grow, for baby to eat...wishing for the next few weeks to pass so their tiny surgeries pass and another milestone can be reached. Wishing for snow to melt (slowly dear god slowly please because the water, much like Richard Gere in Officer and a Gentlemen, has no place left to go) so I can walk outside. Wishing for a lot of things but wishing more then anything for her children to sleep. Because with sleep, anything is possible.
Instead I stand at a crowded kitchen counter.
Listening to the sound of springs and rattles.
And Tiny Teddy bouncing in his jumper at 3:30 am.
Because I need to tire that son of a gun out.
bounce m'fcker bounce
they don't sleep.
Hardly ever.
so at 12, at 2, at 3;30 then at 5, you are up. Then up at 6. Then 7. Life's a constant mission to harness the energy and deal with the irritability.
Your husband sleeps in one room with one baby on the bed. One baby that has something wrong, tongue or GI, undiagnosed because he is still gaining, but something that makes him unable to eat food at 6 months. So you feed him by bottle every two hours. Every day. Almost since birth. Regardless of the clock. That son sleeps with Daddy.
The other child, Sumo, Chubby, The Big One, Tubby, sleeps with you. loosely. the sleeping part. so you find yourself up. All night. For 6 months. Plus the several before when you were so pregnant with twins that sleep was impossible. I would wager that I have been up - sporadically - virtually round the clock since last April.
It effects my speech, my decision process, my metabolism. It effects every choice, every reaction.
Forget tired.
Forget the fact that I have aged so much, so so much in these last months.
Forget all that.
What's impossible is functioning while awake.
Yet today was the same.
Up ungodly early, make lunch for Girl, dress all three for preschool dropoff (by 9 thank you), cross town for craigslist stroller purchase, home to deice driveway, feed boys, out to shovel again, dress boys in afternoon clothes (morning vomit and pee buildup on prior outfits) ALL to bowling alley for Girl to have some physical activity, home then for more feedings. Nothing cleaned, nothing sorted, all alive. Phone calls today to tenants - who are renting our house come July 1, to Early Intervention to reschedule because their visit conflicts with the boys surgery date, to 3 sets of parents to arrange childcare/visits and update medical status, phone call to crazy HIV positive godmother to help arrange Section 8 certification paperwork. Snacks, dinner, bottles and dishes. I never left the 13x13 comfort of the kitchen save for my car.
I know this is parenting. I get it. I get that everyone has things they do.
But I always thought I'd have babies and that's it. Id work at it. I didn't think that having them, 6 months in, would consume everything else in it's path.
Managing.
Existing.
Not wishing time away, but wishing for the hemangioma to shrink so we can get baby off the steroids, for the system to mature, for the baby to stop throwing up, for the tongue to grow, for baby to eat...wishing for the next few weeks to pass so their tiny surgeries pass and another milestone can be reached. Wishing for snow to melt (slowly dear god slowly please because the water, much like Richard Gere in Officer and a Gentlemen, has no place left to go) so I can walk outside. Wishing for a lot of things but wishing more then anything for her children to sleep. Because with sleep, anything is possible.
Instead I stand at a crowded kitchen counter.
Listening to the sound of springs and rattles.
And Tiny Teddy bouncing in his jumper at 3:30 am.
Because I need to tire that son of a gun out.
bounce m'fcker bounce
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
soup
wtf I do all day...
There's nothing fancy about either of these - in fact they are practically the same soup - but so so simple. They are good "throw them on the stove" soups served with tomato & mozerella salad & crusty bread..
There's nothing fancy about either of these - in fact they are practically the same soup - but so so simple. They are good "throw them on the stove" soups served with tomato & mozerella salad & crusty bread..
Football Season Sausage Soup
1.5 lbs hot ground sausage
1.5 lbs of sweet ground sausage
1.5 lbs hot ground sausage
1.5 lbs of sweet ground sausage
(or weight hot/sweet to taste)1 lg can of crushed tomatoes
1 large white onion diced
2 cloves of garlic minced
1 lg green pepper diced
32oz of beef broth
1.5 cups of red wine (may add more if wanted)
1.5 tsp of italian seasonings (oragano, parsley, basil mix)
pinch or salt and pepper
1 large white onion diced
2 cloves of garlic minced
1 lg green pepper diced
32oz of beef broth
1.5 cups of red wine (may add more if wanted)
1.5 tsp of italian seasonings (oragano, parsley, basil mix)
pinch or salt and pepper
dash hot pepper flakes
One box of Dilatini Pasta
Brown sausage and break it into small pieces with a fork while browning.
Saute onion, pepper and garlic in a large pot with EVOO
Add all remaining ingredients including sausage to the pot.
Simmer 2 hrs
Cook pasta separately and add to each bowl when serving. - Mel
One box of Dilatini Pasta
Brown sausage and break it into small pieces with a fork while browning.
Saute onion, pepper and garlic in a large pot with EVOO
Add all remaining ingredients including sausage to the pot.
Simmer 2 hrs
Cook pasta separately and add to each bowl when serving. - Mel
Football Season Chicken Soup
1. You will need 1 or 2 chicken breasts, cooked. I usually just salt and pepper it..and baked it in the oven while I prepare the soup. you could even just use a store bought rottissuire chicken for the meat...however you get the chicken...you just need it cooked and shredded once the soup is prepared.
2. The soup- In a large heavy sauce pan on medium heat
-cover bottom of pan with olive oil and add 2 minced fresh garlic cloves...saute for a minute or two
-add 1 or 2 medium yellow onion, 1 summer squash (yellow), 1 zuccini, and 1 cup of fresh green beans. Saute for 2 minutes. All veggies should be chopped to bite size pieces. Add a pinch of salt and pepper to veggies. ***Deb's note: I added CannelliniCannellini beans and omitted 1 squash
-Add a LARGE can of Beef broth...or 3 small cans ...whatever you have is fine!
-Add one large can Hunts Tomatoe Sauce (28oz)
-Add italian Seasonings i.e. sweet basil, oregano, etc..salt pepper to taste
-Add 2 tbls of Sugar.
-Add 2 tbls Parmesan Cheese
- Let soup Simmer for a min. of 1 hour..the longer it simmers the better. Add the chicken shredded anytime after the first hour.
Lastly, prepare bowtie pasta...I do not recommend adding your pasta directly to the pot, it absorbs most of the broth. I usually add the pasta to individual servings. THat way I can save the leftovers.
for tomorrow!!! PS. You can use whatever pasta you like...but I recommend a sturdy pasta that can handle sitting in all the liquid. The kids love the mini or reg bowties! ALSO....Add more of the cheese to taste!!! Enjoy! Sha-
Crafty
actual email written to friends today...
So Ellie and I have been rocking the handmade, homemade birthday gifts this year. Starting with Ciara, every child is getting a tshirt in a bold color with a reverseout of their names and various appliques. It's very "Old Navy" and UBER cute. Involves painstakingly picking out letters, peeling and sticking, a true labor of love. I dont mind ruining the surprise for all of you when I say your kid IS getting one of these tshirts this year. Sorry! So Ellie's is cute, Ciara's is A-Mazing and i have Andrew's, Owens, Tommy's and Emily's in que. All prepurchased and ready to go.
So tonight we sit down and do Andrews and Tommy's. Red shirt? CHECK. Curlique type letters? Check check. Bottle of bleach? Yup. Full wash basin, yepper. Peel stick...PEEL stick, make dinner, babies cry, peel stick. and viola! They are ready to roll. Off I go to the basement, rubber gloves, utility sink, SPRAY bleach. And squirt. Squit, mist, spray... And peel again, careful not to drip bleach. Rinse after 1 minute, wait, wash alone, wait and gently pull OUT of the washbasin.
Imagine my surprise.
When the COOLEST rockin Red Shirt Ever was revealed in all it's glory.
Because as any fool knows, when you bleach a red shirt.....
Megan, April, ...I'm sorry.
And I know it's not pc but...
your kids getting the GAYEST pink shirt ever.
Looking forward to seeing it at the playground.
Love, Ellie's Mom.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Im tired. Im bone weary, feeling dizzy, feeling faint tired. I spend - each day -dizzyingly moving from task to task, with a sense of accomplishment coupled with a sense of doom.
Im tired.
It's never going to end yet I know it will.
The boys are months.
Not sleeping through the nigh, not yet 15lbs either.
I'm tired.
Tired in ways I cant articulate.
Tired that I forget words for things, tired that daily I barely hold my physical body up, moving from task to task, completing but not living.
Tired.
and angry.
Because having es last two has brought judgment on me. to me.
And if you arent working had, I dont want to hear it.
im tired.
I said Id blog and Im sneaking a minute but im sideways with exhaustion.
And tired.
Im tired.
It's never going to end yet I know it will.
The boys are months.
Not sleeping through the nigh, not yet 15lbs either.
I'm tired.
Tired in ways I cant articulate.
Tired that I forget words for things, tired that daily I barely hold my physical body up, moving from task to task, completing but not living.
Tired.
and angry.
Because having es last two has brought judgment on me. to me.
And if you arent working had, I dont want to hear it.
im tired.
I said Id blog and Im sneaking a minute but im sideways with exhaustion.
And tired.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
A quick prebedtime note then...
As I sit here breaking 2 new years resolutions by eating copious Honey Teddy Grahams and not updating my formerly vibrant blog, I got to wondering the following...
People talk about twins from birth sharing a special bond, holding hands in utero, barely able to leave one anothers sight, nesting snugly into one another and I'm...perplexed. Apparently I have spawned Cain & Abel because I'm not seeing nuttin'. Im not sure if either knows the other exists. And sleep together in the same crib? bah. Not happening. It's all elbows and fists flailing. I know eventually they'll start to notice one another but man oh man are they aloof....
People talk about twins from birth sharing a special bond, holding hands in utero, barely able to leave one anothers sight, nesting snugly into one another and I'm...perplexed. Apparently I have spawned Cain & Abel because I'm not seeing nuttin'. Im not sure if either knows the other exists. And sleep together in the same crib? bah. Not happening. It's all elbows and fists flailing. I know eventually they'll start to notice one another but man oh man are they aloof....
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