11 inches long and weighing in at a pound, our baby is the size of a spaghetti squash this week. I can't believe something so large is inside me - it's mind-blowing to think about. I like going to the grocery and holding the fruit/vegetable she's being compared to against my belly, and just imagining. It was awesome when she was the size of a blueberry, and now she's as big as a squash. Crazy!
The saga of the raccoon has ended. Jimi killed it dead, and yesterday its remains were removed from my attic and now we're going to live happily ever after without wildlife in our upstairs. I'm thrilled.
I think my nesting is kicking in - I cleaned the kitchen for 2 hours on Sunday, and I've kept it spotless since. I know it doesn't sound like much, but for me, it's quite the accomplishment. I'm ready to tackle the rest of the house now - I want things neat and organized and de-furred. My aunts are throwing us a wedding celebration on Saturday - having to get the place ready for that is an excellent motivator and excuse to clean everything.
Jimi was on the phone a few nights back with his cousin Laura, and when she asked about me and how the pregnancy is going, I listened to my husband explain how well it's gone for me the last few months, and then he said, "She seems so much happier - I may just have to keep her pregnant!" I laughed. He's right, though. I am happier, and thinking on his words, in that moment I realized that the burden I've carried fro the last two years, it's gone. Just like that, I suddenly felt so much lighter. That is what this happiness, this unbridled giddiness I've been feeling, that's where it's come from - I'm not terrified anymore. I don't have the fear of infertility anymore. I don't feel broken. I feel strong and like this is what I was meant to do, like I was made for this. My body was made to make this little girl, and look! We're doing it! I tried to explain this to Jimi, and he asked, "Was that weighing on you so heavily, Nat?" "Oh, God, yes. It was with me every day, every moment. It was my burden to bear, and I've just realized it's gone and I'm free again."
No wonder the sun shines brighter, the grass is greener, the trees more vibrant shades of yellow red and orange. This little girl is changing my world view already, shifting my reality. I love her so much, and I'm so grateful to get to be her mom.
Showing posts with label for the future. Show all posts
Showing posts with label for the future. Show all posts
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
21.6 - Carrot top
Driving to the hardware store last night to pick up a part to repair our dripping kitchen faucet, I felt several little *bump bump bump*s in my lower abdomen. I put my fingers there and tapped back - bump bump bump - and then rested my hand over the spot. Seconds later *bump bump bump* came the reply. I giggled, and did it again. She did too. Five or six times we went back and forth that way, me and my daughter, playing together, saying hello. I'm teary-eyed just typing this - I want to remember that moment forever, it was one of the neatest things I've ever experienced.
I've been feeling her flutters for weeks, and maybe a dozen times I've felt her kicks from the outside, with my hand on my belly. Jimi's gotten maybe one bump, but there will be plenty to come, I'm certain.
We spent our evening last night, after the sink was repaired, checking out our options for free "A BABY IS COMING!" classes. And researching Hypnobabies - (anyone have a home-study course they want to lend to or sell me?) - and prenatal yoga classes. I practiced the positions taught in my Active Birth book - and slept well last night and woke this morning without hip pain. Coincidence? I hope not.
Things are getting real up in here. I have a baby belly that can't be denied, and I love it tremendously. I've gained 10 pounds and that puts me right on track where I should be. I feel great. I'm happier than I've ever been. Life is Beautiful.
I've been feeling her flutters for weeks, and maybe a dozen times I've felt her kicks from the outside, with my hand on my belly. Jimi's gotten maybe one bump, but there will be plenty to come, I'm certain.
We spent our evening last night, after the sink was repaired, checking out our options for free "A BABY IS COMING!" classes. And researching Hypnobabies - (anyone have a home-study course they want to lend to or sell me?) - and prenatal yoga classes. I practiced the positions taught in my Active Birth book - and slept well last night and woke this morning without hip pain. Coincidence? I hope not.
Things are getting real up in here. I have a baby belly that can't be denied, and I love it tremendously. I've gained 10 pounds and that puts me right on track where I should be. I feel great. I'm happier than I've ever been. Life is Beautiful.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Puppies and skittles and unicorns and glitter.
Life feels like sunshine and kittens right now.
Jimi is everything I could have ever dreamed up, but so much better than what my limited imagination could've come up with. He asked me a few days ago to find him a few dad-to-be books, and when I placed the order tonight and told him they'll be here Wednesday, he exclaimed, "Daddy books?! Yay!" with genuine glee in his voice. He's pampering me in just the right ways, and forgiving with extra swiftness my crazy mood shifts. He laughs at my cravings as he goes along with my every meal suggestion. He tells me even more than usual how much he loves me, and how special I am in his heart. I feel so fucking safe. I feel so incredibly loved.
Daily, a moment will flick a switch in my mind, and I'm instantly reminded of how amazingly fortunate I am to be right here, at this exact place in time, with this exact set of circumstances. I don't know why I get to be the recipient of all of this, why I am wallowing in plenty when so many struggle just to have enough.
My life is a dream I couldn't have dreamed better if I'd dreamed it myself. If I'm sleeping, never wake me.
I had another baby dream Friday night. A fussy little boy wrapped up in yellow and bright blue, trying to suckle at my breast, being passed from my Mom to my Aunts and back around again. I still didn't get a good look at his face, but I could tell he was way cute.
Momma brought us our first baby gift today - a book to record milestones, from pregnancy through 5 years. "You probably won't fill it out, but maybe you will," she said as she handed it to me. (Neither Brother nor I has a baby book from our formative years - she started one for each of us, but didn't get far.) I'm going to make an effort. We'll see how far I get.
I did not mean to stay up this late. Time for sleeps. Sweet dreams!
Jimi is everything I could have ever dreamed up, but so much better than what my limited imagination could've come up with. He asked me a few days ago to find him a few dad-to-be books, and when I placed the order tonight and told him they'll be here Wednesday, he exclaimed, "Daddy books?! Yay!" with genuine glee in his voice. He's pampering me in just the right ways, and forgiving with extra swiftness my crazy mood shifts. He laughs at my cravings as he goes along with my every meal suggestion. He tells me even more than usual how much he loves me, and how special I am in his heart. I feel so fucking safe. I feel so incredibly loved.
Daily, a moment will flick a switch in my mind, and I'm instantly reminded of how amazingly fortunate I am to be right here, at this exact place in time, with this exact set of circumstances. I don't know why I get to be the recipient of all of this, why I am wallowing in plenty when so many struggle just to have enough.
My life is a dream I couldn't have dreamed better if I'd dreamed it myself. If I'm sleeping, never wake me.
I had another baby dream Friday night. A fussy little boy wrapped up in yellow and bright blue, trying to suckle at my breast, being passed from my Mom to my Aunts and back around again. I still didn't get a good look at his face, but I could tell he was way cute.
Momma brought us our first baby gift today - a book to record milestones, from pregnancy through 5 years. "You probably won't fill it out, but maybe you will," she said as she handed it to me. (Neither Brother nor I has a baby book from our formative years - she started one for each of us, but didn't get far.) I'm going to make an effort. We'll see how far I get.
I did not mean to stay up this late. Time for sleeps. Sweet dreams!
Thursday, July 19, 2012
They say this happiness is just the beginning...
Oh my goodness. That was breath-taking.
There's a heartbeat! and little legs and little arms and a funny-looking head and a heart that beats and beats and beats! One hundred and sixty-seven times a minute, that little heart was beating! Baby Trogdor (that's what we're calling him for now, Trogdor the Burninator - don't ask why because i don't know the answer, it's just what we've claimed for four years that we're naming our first born) is measuring exactly on target, at 9 weeks and 1 day, with a due date of February 20, 2013.
I'm so overwhelmed. I'm so full of love and happy that I feel like I'm going to explode. I can't stop tearing up. I'm so relieved.
I took the day off work, but Bossman changed the game plan last night and asked me to come in for 2 hours, because he and our Ops manager were going to be offsite - he gets nervous about leaving the place "unattended". So I worked for two hours this morning, which was probably a blessing in disguise, because I was an absolute nervous wreck, and can't imagine the shape I would've worked myself into had I not had other things to focus on. (I didn't sleep well at all last night, and was so nervous this morning that my stomach and chest were both hurting.) Ten o'clock finally came, and off to the doctor I headed. I had just enough time to get to the office and be maybe 10 minutes early for my appointment - so of course I drove past my exit. And of course, because I was panicked about missing my exit, I chose to take the next one, which was another highway, which meant I had to drive an extra 2 miles before I came to the first exit where I could turn around - and of course that exit was one of the busiest in the city, so of course it took all of my wiggle-room time to get turned around and back on target. But I got to the hospital, and I got into the parking garage, and the little old lady in front of me, of course, came to a complete stop at every turn in the garage. And of course, she also took the last available spot in the entire garage. So I made my own parking place, on the roof, in front of two other people who'd had the same desperate idea. I was pissed off and fuming and frankly didn't give a flying fuck if they towed my car - I had to get into that office for my appointment!
I was right on time. Well, if on time means walking into the lobby at the time my appointment was scheduled. Close enough, right?
Jimi was already there, and we didn't have to wait long before they called us back. Thank goodness, they did the ultrasound first - she explained, "I'm going to take some measurements and then I'll turn the screen so you can see, but first I'll tell you what you're waiting to know - there's only one baby in there and it has a strong heartbeat." Whooosh! - There went all my pent up fears and worry and nervousness I've been harboring for the last 5 weeks. Those few words took the scared away. And then she turned the screen, and I saw my baby wiggle. She hit a button, and suddenly the room was filled with the sound of my baby's heartbeat, and then came the tears. I gasped - I'd been imagining this moment for weeks, when I'd let my mind go down that path - but it was really happening. I'm growing a whole another person, and he has a heartbeat!
The rest of the almost-3-hour visit is a blur of questions and congratulations and tests and blood draws. My doctor has prescribed progesterone suppositories and a daily baby aspirin for the next four weeks to further reduce any risk of miscarriage. I would've submitted to anything, I already had all the information I came to get. I was walking on air, and they could've forgotten me in the lobby between call-backs and I wouldn't have cared because I'm growing a baby and he has a heartbeat.
They gave us three ultrasound photos to take home - I texted one to family and a few friends and my phone proceeded to blow up. My Daddy - I think maybe he's more excited than Jimi and I are. When Momma learned she was pregnant with Brother, I remember listening to Daddy call everyone in our phone book to share the news. He did a repeat of that today, I think. He loves babies, and he's so excited for his first grandbaby to finally be on the way.
I guess I can start to think of this all as being really real, huh? I guess now I can start to get excited?
This is one of the happiest days of my life. It feels surreal. I'm so fucking happy, I could just pee.
Wanna see a picture? Baby Trogdor's first close-up:
Gosh, my heart is just so full.
There's a heartbeat! and little legs and little arms and a funny-looking head and a heart that beats and beats and beats! One hundred and sixty-seven times a minute, that little heart was beating! Baby Trogdor (that's what we're calling him for now, Trogdor the Burninator - don't ask why because i don't know the answer, it's just what we've claimed for four years that we're naming our first born) is measuring exactly on target, at 9 weeks and 1 day, with a due date of February 20, 2013.
I'm so overwhelmed. I'm so full of love and happy that I feel like I'm going to explode. I can't stop tearing up. I'm so relieved.
I took the day off work, but Bossman changed the game plan last night and asked me to come in for 2 hours, because he and our Ops manager were going to be offsite - he gets nervous about leaving the place "unattended". So I worked for two hours this morning, which was probably a blessing in disguise, because I was an absolute nervous wreck, and can't imagine the shape I would've worked myself into had I not had other things to focus on. (I didn't sleep well at all last night, and was so nervous this morning that my stomach and chest were both hurting.) Ten o'clock finally came, and off to the doctor I headed. I had just enough time to get to the office and be maybe 10 minutes early for my appointment - so of course I drove past my exit. And of course, because I was panicked about missing my exit, I chose to take the next one, which was another highway, which meant I had to drive an extra 2 miles before I came to the first exit where I could turn around - and of course that exit was one of the busiest in the city, so of course it took all of my wiggle-room time to get turned around and back on target. But I got to the hospital, and I got into the parking garage, and the little old lady in front of me, of course, came to a complete stop at every turn in the garage. And of course, she also took the last available spot in the entire garage. So I made my own parking place, on the roof, in front of two other people who'd had the same desperate idea. I was pissed off and fuming and frankly didn't give a flying fuck if they towed my car - I had to get into that office for my appointment!
I was right on time. Well, if on time means walking into the lobby at the time my appointment was scheduled. Close enough, right?
Jimi was already there, and we didn't have to wait long before they called us back. Thank goodness, they did the ultrasound first - she explained, "I'm going to take some measurements and then I'll turn the screen so you can see, but first I'll tell you what you're waiting to know - there's only one baby in there and it has a strong heartbeat." Whooosh! - There went all my pent up fears and worry and nervousness I've been harboring for the last 5 weeks. Those few words took the scared away. And then she turned the screen, and I saw my baby wiggle. She hit a button, and suddenly the room was filled with the sound of my baby's heartbeat, and then came the tears. I gasped - I'd been imagining this moment for weeks, when I'd let my mind go down that path - but it was really happening. I'm growing a whole another person, and he has a heartbeat!
The rest of the almost-3-hour visit is a blur of questions and congratulations and tests and blood draws. My doctor has prescribed progesterone suppositories and a daily baby aspirin for the next four weeks to further reduce any risk of miscarriage. I would've submitted to anything, I already had all the information I came to get. I was walking on air, and they could've forgotten me in the lobby between call-backs and I wouldn't have cared because I'm growing a baby and he has a heartbeat.
They gave us three ultrasound photos to take home - I texted one to family and a few friends and my phone proceeded to blow up. My Daddy - I think maybe he's more excited than Jimi and I are. When Momma learned she was pregnant with Brother, I remember listening to Daddy call everyone in our phone book to share the news. He did a repeat of that today, I think. He loves babies, and he's so excited for his first grandbaby to finally be on the way.
I guess I can start to think of this all as being really real, huh? I guess now I can start to get excited?
This is one of the happiest days of my life. It feels surreal. I'm so fucking happy, I could just pee.
Wanna see a picture? Baby Trogdor's first close-up:
 |
| Ain't that just the cutest little baby-to-be you ever did see? |
Sunday, July 8, 2012
A sign.
I spent the day in Evansville, IN with my Momma and my Aunt Pam at a cousin's wedding. Mom's told Pam the news, and we talked a lot of baby talk. Pam said she feels good about this one and she'll say lots of prayers for us. Good. We'll take them all.
When I decided I was ready to head home, my front tire was flat.
I wanted to cry.
I was tired and hungry and hot and I just wanted to go home.
But. I had a can of Fix-A-Flat in my trunk, and that inflated the tire enough for me to get down the road to a Pep Boys, which was still open at 6:30 on a Saturday night and had a tire to sell me for just under $100. It was just under an hour from the time I discovered the flat until we were pulling out of the Pep Boys parking lot.
Mom stayed with me the whole time. She kept me from losing my shit. I love my Momma so much.
It felt lucky, that flat tire. At least in retrospect. It didn't blow in the middle of Nowhere, Indiana, on a desolate stretch of I-64, when Momma and I would've had to sit in the sweltering heat on the side of the road probably for over an hour waiting for AAA to show up. It didn't blow on my way home, when I was alone in the dark on that same empty stretch of highway. Instead, it was flat, outside the church. And I had Fix-A-Flat. And Pep Boys was open. And I had enough money in the bank to pay for a new tire without blinking. (All that beer and cigarette money I've saved over the last few weeks, perhaps?) A lucky girl, I am.
I decided to go back to the reception for a while longer, danced (poorly) with my cousins and my aunt, then hit the road for home around 10 o'clock.
I spent most of the drive in silence, watching the white lines lead the way. I thought about the latest Momastery article I'd read while waiting for my tire to be replaced. I thought about how scared I am for our first appointment in less than 2 weeks. I imagined what it could be like - lying in a dark room and hearing that sound I dream of, the sound of a heartbeat that Jimi and I made together. I thought about Jimi, and his concern that his age could negatively impact our ability to have a healthy "normal" child. How would we react if something was wrong? What if our baby has an extra chromosome?
I think we're going to be okay. I started to let myself think that maybe we're going to be just fine.
And then a car drove by, an SUV, with a vanity plate that read OK PUSH.
I'm taking it as a sign. A doctor's gonna say that to me next February, and everything's going to be just fine.
Every little thing, gonna be alright.
When I decided I was ready to head home, my front tire was flat.
I wanted to cry.
I was tired and hungry and hot and I just wanted to go home.
But. I had a can of Fix-A-Flat in my trunk, and that inflated the tire enough for me to get down the road to a Pep Boys, which was still open at 6:30 on a Saturday night and had a tire to sell me for just under $100. It was just under an hour from the time I discovered the flat until we were pulling out of the Pep Boys parking lot.
Mom stayed with me the whole time. She kept me from losing my shit. I love my Momma so much.
It felt lucky, that flat tire. At least in retrospect. It didn't blow in the middle of Nowhere, Indiana, on a desolate stretch of I-64, when Momma and I would've had to sit in the sweltering heat on the side of the road probably for over an hour waiting for AAA to show up. It didn't blow on my way home, when I was alone in the dark on that same empty stretch of highway. Instead, it was flat, outside the church. And I had Fix-A-Flat. And Pep Boys was open. And I had enough money in the bank to pay for a new tire without blinking. (All that beer and cigarette money I've saved over the last few weeks, perhaps?) A lucky girl, I am.
I decided to go back to the reception for a while longer, danced (poorly) with my cousins and my aunt, then hit the road for home around 10 o'clock.
I spent most of the drive in silence, watching the white lines lead the way. I thought about the latest Momastery article I'd read while waiting for my tire to be replaced. I thought about how scared I am for our first appointment in less than 2 weeks. I imagined what it could be like - lying in a dark room and hearing that sound I dream of, the sound of a heartbeat that Jimi and I made together. I thought about Jimi, and his concern that his age could negatively impact our ability to have a healthy "normal" child. How would we react if something was wrong? What if our baby has an extra chromosome?
I think we're going to be okay. I started to let myself think that maybe we're going to be just fine.
And then a car drove by, an SUV, with a vanity plate that read OK PUSH.
I'm taking it as a sign. A doctor's gonna say that to me next February, and everything's going to be just fine.
Every little thing, gonna be alright.
Friday, April 6, 2012
WOW, what a weekend!
What's that? The weekend's just beginning? Oh. So it is. I'm sorry you didn't get to start yours on Wednesday.
We're just home from an amazing night at the swimming pool hotel. The what, you ask? The swimming pool hotel. You know, the one where they have a swimming pool IN your hotel room. Here, let me show you what I mean:
See? Our very own pool.
The hotel chain is called Sybaris, and I've been dreaming of spending a night there since I heard of it 4 years ago. It was totally worth the wait.
I imagine everyone in the world is reading Momastery these days, because that Glennon is one smart cookie. I found her blog over a year ago, the piece called A Mountain I'm Willing To Die On, and last March she posted Birthdays, wherein she tells the story of her first birthday spent with her husband and how he didn't know what her expectations were and she was so disappointed. Instead of brushing it under the rug, though, she made the brilliant move to *wait for it* talk to her husband, and explain why birthdays are a big deal for her and that celebrating special occasions is something that makes her feel loved. That post encouraged me to give my requests to Jimi regarding this year's birthday - and man, did he outdo every one of my expectations.
Wednesday night, he presented me with a smallish package, wrapped in red paper dotted with multicolored Christmas trees, with a card tucked in under the hand-tied pink fabric bow. He gave it to me early, saying I'd probably want to take it with us for our overnight trip on Thursday. I thought it was a vibrator - we went to the naughty shop a few weeks back and there was a great display of high-end vibrators that the sales lady claimed came with a 10 year warranty. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Turns out the warranty is really only for a year, girlfriend just didn't know her job too good. Anyhow, I wasn't willing to drop $120 on a vibrator that night, and when we came home we discovered that you could find the same thing on Amazon for $70. Score! Except I never did buy it, because, well, do I really NEED a $70 vibrator? So yeah, I thought that's what was wrapped in the Christmas paper. It wasn't. It was a kindle fire. Holy crap! A kindle?! I couldn't believe it. I spent the next few hours playing with my new toy - ha! That sounds funny after talking about vibrators. But yeah, I "bought" some free e-books, discovered our Amazon Prime account allows me one free book rental per month from the online library, ordered a protective cover for the kindle, bought that new First Aid Kit album and uploaded it to my cloud (I have a cloud!), played Angry Birds for the first time. LOVE.
(And I'm the girl who swore, when e-readers came out, that I'd never own one. Books are where it's at, I said, and no electronic device can ever be as satisfying as turning the pages on an honest-to-goodness, made-of-paper book. Um, yeeeaahh...unless that electronic device can also allow you to surf the web, read blogs, stream Pandora... I often say dumb things. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?)
For the last few days, Jimi'd been telling me "We're going to Indianapolis and catching a train up to Wisconsin and back. An overnight train ride! We've got a room on a sleeper car, and there's a dining car - I think it'll be fun." "Uh huh" with a side-eye was my response. I didn't buy it. I didn't know what he had planned, but I didn't think that was it. In an effort to get the secret out of him, I told him yesterday morning, "If we're really going to be riding a train all night, I'm just wearing yoga pants and a tank top (no bra) and my grey sweater." (My friend Angie calls this get-up "fat ballerina". Or maybe that's only when you're wearing leggings, not yoga pants. Either way, it's my favorite outfit and I always giggle at the idea of me as a fat ballerina when I wear it, which is every day I can possibly manage to leave the house without a bra.) Jimi just shrugged his shoulders at my comment and said, "So long as you're comfortable." I sorta expected him to argue - I mean, what about the nice dinner part of my request? So I sat on the bed to be packed a bra, a nice sweater, some clean jeans, a comfy dress I like to lounge around in - I figured we probably didn't have reservations somewhere with a dress code if he was letting me leave the house dressed like a fat ballerina, but I didn't want to find myself with no options if we did actually end up somewhere that frowns on yoga pants in public. Jimi comes in, sees my to-be-packed pile and sighs, "What are you going to do with all these clothes?" "Just in case," I say. He put aside the sweater and the dress. "You won't need them. Trust me."
He was right. We were naked within minutes of the above photo being taken. Actually, he was already naked from the waist down - he saw me starting to take a picture and ran for the bathroom. Oops! I'm not used to a wall full of mirrors.
Ten miles outside of Louisville, he told me where we were really going. At that point, my interest in a fancy sit-down dinner was gone - I wanted to get to that pool as fast as I could. We got into Indianapolis an hour and a half before our 6 o'clock check-in, so we went to the Wal-Mart down the way for provisions. There was a Noodles & Company across the street that promised a quick meal, and it was conveniently located in the same shopping center as a liquor store and a naughty shop. On a whim, I popped into the naughty shop and bought a grab bag of novelties while Jimi bought the booze, and we headed off into the sunset toward our evening in the Den of Sin. (The grab bag was an awesome impulse buy. That's all I have to say about that.)
Our suite was amazing. For starters, you're in your own building, so you don't have to worry about hearing your neighbors gettin' freaky in the middle of the night. When you walk in, the pool is on your right, and I expected to be hit in the face with an awful chlorine smell, but there's a wall of windows dividing the suite in half and the door opens to the living/bedroom section. To the left of the door was a massage chair (!!), an electric fireplace, and the entertainment center in the corner. There were two club chairs and a round table along the side wall, and then the king-sized bed on a light-up platform jutted out at an angle into the room. A flat-screen TV hung just above the massage chair, and could be turned in any direction for your viewing pleasure. (Free porn on 3 channels.) The carpet was plush and freshly vacuumed, and there were two soft robes waiting for us on the bed. (Available for purchase, $75, buy one get one free! We didn't come home with robes.) The mini-kitchen had a small fridge (complete with bag-o-ice in the freezer section), a microwave, coffee-maker, a couple of mugs and champagne flutes. There was a huge two-person whirlpool tub, his and her sinks, and a bidet! Have you ever used a bidet? Me neither, till last night. I was impressed at the selection of toiletries they offered - toothbrushes and toothpaste, Bath & Body Works shower gels and shampoos and conditioners, cotton balls and Q-tips. I don't stay at hotels very often, okay?
Then there was the pool. They've got several different options when planning your stay, and each has a different sized pool. Ours was 16 feet long, 4 feet deep. Not enough for diving or actual swimming (though it did have a swim jet, I don't think it was powerful enough to actually swim against; I kept running into the wall.), but plenty big for hanging out naked in the 92 degree water with your honey. The next time we go, we're hoping to stay in the suite with the second floor loft, with a slide into the 22' pool below. How awesome would that be? Really awesome, that's how awesome. A pipe system hidden by fake ivy rained water into the middle of the pool - we expected it to be cold water, but it was shower-temperature; Jimi loved it, I thought it was a little too hot.
There was a normal shower in the bathroom, but in the pool portion of the suite there was also a glassed-in shower cave that doubled as a sauna. Jimi liked to sit in the steam for 10 minutes or so, getting real hot and sweaty, then turn on ice cold water full blast through the four overhead shower nozzles and the hand-held sprayer. "Like the Norwegians," he said. Yeah, I prefer to go from steam to pool, not steam to ice, but I'm probably just a wimp and doing it wrong.
Remember the kindle he gave me? Their sound system included a jack to plug into it, so we were able to pipe music throughout the entire space. They didn't offer free Wi-Fi - I imagine most of their clientele aren't interested in surfing the web much during their stay - but my phone can act as a portable hotspot, so we were able to stream Pandora all night.
Jimi is smart and suggested we sip on a concoction of lemon booze, orange juice, and champagne all night, and it was delicious. (I would've drunk more champagne, though, if I'd realized he'd paid $35 for the bottle. I'm more of a $12 champagne girl, and I prefer the sweeter ones over the Brut.) We also had crackers, and filled the mini-fridge with hummus, cheese, and a tray of fresh-cut fruit with vanilla-bean cream cheese dipping sauce. And a mini cheesecake, which I somehow completely forgot about until I was packing everything up this morning. THAT is how awesome our night was - I forgot about cheesecake.
Wednesday night we had dinner with my family for a cousin's 16th birthday, and around the table upon our arrival went choruses of "Nat, you look so good!" and "Nat, you've lost a lot of weight, haven't you?" and "Oh, you look great!" Always nice to hear, and I'm hearing it more often these days and that's really nice. But I've not really SEEN the difference yet. Sure, my clothes fit differently, but I've still not been real sure what all the fuss is about. I saw it last night, in the full-wall mirrors. I stood there in the bright lights and saw my naked self. I see what they mean when they say what they do. I do look good. I mean, I'm still carrying some extra baggage, but compared to where I've been, I look great. I recognize my body, the one I remember loathing when I was 16 and had that ittle bitty pooch and now look back on with longing because my only pooch was little and alone. I'm not down to just the one yet, but I'll get there. I can see, now, that I'm making progress, and man, that's great motivation. I laid on my back last night, on the plush carpet, and put my hands on my hips. Guys, I have hip bones again. I can actually see them and feel them. I was pretty bummed a few years back when I realized they were missing. Last night, I felt sexy. I spent something like 18 hours naked in a room full of mirrors, and I felt sexy. Fuck yes.
We spent hours in the pool, floating, kissing, laughing. We played silly water games and did handstands. We talked and talked and talked. We fed each other fruit and took turns sighing over the awesomeness of the chair massage. We watched some porn reality show on the Playboy channel and laughed at the chick giving a blowjob to the strap-on. (Seriously, what's the point?)
I'm just so happy and glad that Jimi took us on this little excursion. I'm flattered by his attention and generosity. This one night away, it was like a refresh key for the romance portion of our relationship - there was nothing in the world except the two of us, and we had a comfortable, fun setting where we could relax and wallow in being in love.
On our way home today, we stopped at the outlet malls and I bought myself a new dress. Jimi says he needs to give me more excuses to dress up, and as he dropped me at the fitting room with an armful of frilly frocks, he headed toward the Tools & More with this: "Don't just try them all on and decide you hate them and give up. Find a dress. We'll go out." Yes sir. I found a dress, but not until he came back and picked it out for me. He dresses me so much better than I dress myself - he knows while the dress is on the hanger if it's right for me; I'm doing good if I can make that distinction while I'm wearing it. Clothes shopping is typically a horrible experience for me, resulting in a complete meltdown of my self-esteem and extra beer and junk food consumption. Today it was fun, though. The 14s fit, and I may have been able to get into some 12s if I'd really wanted to push it. My favorite dress was a gorgeous red number that wasn't in my size, but was in a 10, and so I tried it on anyhow. The bodice was too tight, but it didn't look as awful as I'd expected and it wasn't uncomfortable and it would've fit well in another few months...I almost bought it. I sorta wish I had, now that I'm thinking more about it. I may go see of the local store has my size. I really loved that dress.
Jimi humored me and let me spend 20 minutes trying on rings in the discount gold and diamond outlet. I don't dare let myself read into that, or that he said, "I'm glad to get a better idea of your tastes, to know what you like best." I hate that the rings I like the best are the ones I don't want because for their price, I could nearly build a Sybaris-esque master suite onto my home. (Which we're seriously considering, by the way. That's how we're spending the first lottery check. When we win.) Honestly, when it comes to rings, all I want is the wedding band, yo.
And then we drove home and kissed the puppy and the kitty and lived happily ever after the end.
I started this post right after we got home, maybe around 5ish. It's after 9 now. Jimi's been sleeping for hours - he says he pulled the bottom fitted sheet off the mattress when he was pulling back the covers on his side of the bed last night, and he never got it back on all the way, so it balled up underneath him all night and was lumpy and so he didn't sleep well. That's not the hotel's fault, he does that at home too. Even if he'd slept as soundly as I did, we didn't sleep long enough, there was too much excitement to be had. I'm probably going to be in bed myself before too long - it was a fantastic night, and I'm appropriately worn out because of it. My arms and legs and back have that good I-got-a-good-workout stiffness and soreness from so many hours in the water. I feel relaxed and calm and happy and in love. I'm content with my world, right here, within these walls.
32 is already better than 31, and it hasn't even officially started yet.
We're just home from an amazing night at the swimming pool hotel. The what, you ask? The swimming pool hotel. You know, the one where they have a swimming pool IN your hotel room. Here, let me show you what I mean:
The hotel chain is called Sybaris, and I've been dreaming of spending a night there since I heard of it 4 years ago. It was totally worth the wait.
I imagine everyone in the world is reading Momastery these days, because that Glennon is one smart cookie. I found her blog over a year ago, the piece called A Mountain I'm Willing To Die On, and last March she posted Birthdays, wherein she tells the story of her first birthday spent with her husband and how he didn't know what her expectations were and she was so disappointed. Instead of brushing it under the rug, though, she made the brilliant move to *wait for it* talk to her husband, and explain why birthdays are a big deal for her and that celebrating special occasions is something that makes her feel loved. That post encouraged me to give my requests to Jimi regarding this year's birthday - and man, did he outdo every one of my expectations.
Wednesday night, he presented me with a smallish package, wrapped in red paper dotted with multicolored Christmas trees, with a card tucked in under the hand-tied pink fabric bow. He gave it to me early, saying I'd probably want to take it with us for our overnight trip on Thursday. I thought it was a vibrator - we went to the naughty shop a few weeks back and there was a great display of high-end vibrators that the sales lady claimed came with a 10 year warranty. Have you ever heard of such a thing? Turns out the warranty is really only for a year, girlfriend just didn't know her job too good. Anyhow, I wasn't willing to drop $120 on a vibrator that night, and when we came home we discovered that you could find the same thing on Amazon for $70. Score! Except I never did buy it, because, well, do I really NEED a $70 vibrator? So yeah, I thought that's what was wrapped in the Christmas paper. It wasn't. It was a kindle fire. Holy crap! A kindle?! I couldn't believe it. I spent the next few hours playing with my new toy - ha! That sounds funny after talking about vibrators. But yeah, I "bought" some free e-books, discovered our Amazon Prime account allows me one free book rental per month from the online library, ordered a protective cover for the kindle, bought that new First Aid Kit album and uploaded it to my cloud (I have a cloud!), played Angry Birds for the first time. LOVE.
(And I'm the girl who swore, when e-readers came out, that I'd never own one. Books are where it's at, I said, and no electronic device can ever be as satisfying as turning the pages on an honest-to-goodness, made-of-paper book. Um, yeeeaahh...unless that electronic device can also allow you to surf the web, read blogs, stream Pandora... I often say dumb things. Let's just leave it at that, shall we?)
For the last few days, Jimi'd been telling me "We're going to Indianapolis and catching a train up to Wisconsin and back. An overnight train ride! We've got a room on a sleeper car, and there's a dining car - I think it'll be fun." "Uh huh" with a side-eye was my response. I didn't buy it. I didn't know what he had planned, but I didn't think that was it. In an effort to get the secret out of him, I told him yesterday morning, "If we're really going to be riding a train all night, I'm just wearing yoga pants and a tank top (no bra) and my grey sweater." (My friend Angie calls this get-up "fat ballerina". Or maybe that's only when you're wearing leggings, not yoga pants. Either way, it's my favorite outfit and I always giggle at the idea of me as a fat ballerina when I wear it, which is every day I can possibly manage to leave the house without a bra.) Jimi just shrugged his shoulders at my comment and said, "So long as you're comfortable." I sorta expected him to argue - I mean, what about the nice dinner part of my request? So I sat on the bed to be packed a bra, a nice sweater, some clean jeans, a comfy dress I like to lounge around in - I figured we probably didn't have reservations somewhere with a dress code if he was letting me leave the house dressed like a fat ballerina, but I didn't want to find myself with no options if we did actually end up somewhere that frowns on yoga pants in public. Jimi comes in, sees my to-be-packed pile and sighs, "What are you going to do with all these clothes?" "Just in case," I say. He put aside the sweater and the dress. "You won't need them. Trust me."
He was right. We were naked within minutes of the above photo being taken. Actually, he was already naked from the waist down - he saw me starting to take a picture and ran for the bathroom. Oops! I'm not used to a wall full of mirrors.
Ten miles outside of Louisville, he told me where we were really going. At that point, my interest in a fancy sit-down dinner was gone - I wanted to get to that pool as fast as I could. We got into Indianapolis an hour and a half before our 6 o'clock check-in, so we went to the Wal-Mart down the way for provisions. There was a Noodles & Company across the street that promised a quick meal, and it was conveniently located in the same shopping center as a liquor store and a naughty shop. On a whim, I popped into the naughty shop and bought a grab bag of novelties while Jimi bought the booze, and we headed off into the sunset toward our evening in the Den of Sin. (The grab bag was an awesome impulse buy. That's all I have to say about that.)
Our suite was amazing. For starters, you're in your own building, so you don't have to worry about hearing your neighbors gettin' freaky in the middle of the night. When you walk in, the pool is on your right, and I expected to be hit in the face with an awful chlorine smell, but there's a wall of windows dividing the suite in half and the door opens to the living/bedroom section. To the left of the door was a massage chair (!!), an electric fireplace, and the entertainment center in the corner. There were two club chairs and a round table along the side wall, and then the king-sized bed on a light-up platform jutted out at an angle into the room. A flat-screen TV hung just above the massage chair, and could be turned in any direction for your viewing pleasure. (Free porn on 3 channels.) The carpet was plush and freshly vacuumed, and there were two soft robes waiting for us on the bed. (Available for purchase, $75, buy one get one free! We didn't come home with robes.) The mini-kitchen had a small fridge (complete with bag-o-ice in the freezer section), a microwave, coffee-maker, a couple of mugs and champagne flutes. There was a huge two-person whirlpool tub, his and her sinks, and a bidet! Have you ever used a bidet? Me neither, till last night. I was impressed at the selection of toiletries they offered - toothbrushes and toothpaste, Bath & Body Works shower gels and shampoos and conditioners, cotton balls and Q-tips. I don't stay at hotels very often, okay?
Then there was the pool. They've got several different options when planning your stay, and each has a different sized pool. Ours was 16 feet long, 4 feet deep. Not enough for diving or actual swimming (though it did have a swim jet, I don't think it was powerful enough to actually swim against; I kept running into the wall.), but plenty big for hanging out naked in the 92 degree water with your honey. The next time we go, we're hoping to stay in the suite with the second floor loft, with a slide into the 22' pool below. How awesome would that be? Really awesome, that's how awesome. A pipe system hidden by fake ivy rained water into the middle of the pool - we expected it to be cold water, but it was shower-temperature; Jimi loved it, I thought it was a little too hot.
There was a normal shower in the bathroom, but in the pool portion of the suite there was also a glassed-in shower cave that doubled as a sauna. Jimi liked to sit in the steam for 10 minutes or so, getting real hot and sweaty, then turn on ice cold water full blast through the four overhead shower nozzles and the hand-held sprayer. "Like the Norwegians," he said. Yeah, I prefer to go from steam to pool, not steam to ice, but I'm probably just a wimp and doing it wrong.
Remember the kindle he gave me? Their sound system included a jack to plug into it, so we were able to pipe music throughout the entire space. They didn't offer free Wi-Fi - I imagine most of their clientele aren't interested in surfing the web much during their stay - but my phone can act as a portable hotspot, so we were able to stream Pandora all night.
Jimi is smart and suggested we sip on a concoction of lemon booze, orange juice, and champagne all night, and it was delicious. (I would've drunk more champagne, though, if I'd realized he'd paid $35 for the bottle. I'm more of a $12 champagne girl, and I prefer the sweeter ones over the Brut.) We also had crackers, and filled the mini-fridge with hummus, cheese, and a tray of fresh-cut fruit with vanilla-bean cream cheese dipping sauce. And a mini cheesecake, which I somehow completely forgot about until I was packing everything up this morning. THAT is how awesome our night was - I forgot about cheesecake.
Wednesday night we had dinner with my family for a cousin's 16th birthday, and around the table upon our arrival went choruses of "Nat, you look so good!" and "Nat, you've lost a lot of weight, haven't you?" and "Oh, you look great!" Always nice to hear, and I'm hearing it more often these days and that's really nice. But I've not really SEEN the difference yet. Sure, my clothes fit differently, but I've still not been real sure what all the fuss is about. I saw it last night, in the full-wall mirrors. I stood there in the bright lights and saw my naked self. I see what they mean when they say what they do. I do look good. I mean, I'm still carrying some extra baggage, but compared to where I've been, I look great. I recognize my body, the one I remember loathing when I was 16 and had that ittle bitty pooch and now look back on with longing because my only pooch was little and alone. I'm not down to just the one yet, but I'll get there. I can see, now, that I'm making progress, and man, that's great motivation. I laid on my back last night, on the plush carpet, and put my hands on my hips. Guys, I have hip bones again. I can actually see them and feel them. I was pretty bummed a few years back when I realized they were missing. Last night, I felt sexy. I spent something like 18 hours naked in a room full of mirrors, and I felt sexy. Fuck yes.
We spent hours in the pool, floating, kissing, laughing. We played silly water games and did handstands. We talked and talked and talked. We fed each other fruit and took turns sighing over the awesomeness of the chair massage. We watched some porn reality show on the Playboy channel and laughed at the chick giving a blowjob to the strap-on. (Seriously, what's the point?)
I'm just so happy and glad that Jimi took us on this little excursion. I'm flattered by his attention and generosity. This one night away, it was like a refresh key for the romance portion of our relationship - there was nothing in the world except the two of us, and we had a comfortable, fun setting where we could relax and wallow in being in love.
On our way home today, we stopped at the outlet malls and I bought myself a new dress. Jimi says he needs to give me more excuses to dress up, and as he dropped me at the fitting room with an armful of frilly frocks, he headed toward the Tools & More with this: "Don't just try them all on and decide you hate them and give up. Find a dress. We'll go out." Yes sir. I found a dress, but not until he came back and picked it out for me. He dresses me so much better than I dress myself - he knows while the dress is on the hanger if it's right for me; I'm doing good if I can make that distinction while I'm wearing it. Clothes shopping is typically a horrible experience for me, resulting in a complete meltdown of my self-esteem and extra beer and junk food consumption. Today it was fun, though. The 14s fit, and I may have been able to get into some 12s if I'd really wanted to push it. My favorite dress was a gorgeous red number that wasn't in my size, but was in a 10, and so I tried it on anyhow. The bodice was too tight, but it didn't look as awful as I'd expected and it wasn't uncomfortable and it would've fit well in another few months...I almost bought it. I sorta wish I had, now that I'm thinking more about it. I may go see of the local store has my size. I really loved that dress.
Jimi humored me and let me spend 20 minutes trying on rings in the discount gold and diamond outlet. I don't dare let myself read into that, or that he said, "I'm glad to get a better idea of your tastes, to know what you like best." I hate that the rings I like the best are the ones I don't want because for their price, I could nearly build a Sybaris-esque master suite onto my home. (Which we're seriously considering, by the way. That's how we're spending the first lottery check. When we win.) Honestly, when it comes to rings, all I want is the wedding band, yo.
And then we drove home and kissed the puppy and the kitty and lived happily ever after the end.
I started this post right after we got home, maybe around 5ish. It's after 9 now. Jimi's been sleeping for hours - he says he pulled the bottom fitted sheet off the mattress when he was pulling back the covers on his side of the bed last night, and he never got it back on all the way, so it balled up underneath him all night and was lumpy and so he didn't sleep well. That's not the hotel's fault, he does that at home too. Even if he'd slept as soundly as I did, we didn't sleep long enough, there was too much excitement to be had. I'm probably going to be in bed myself before too long - it was a fantastic night, and I'm appropriately worn out because of it. My arms and legs and back have that good I-got-a-good-workout stiffness and soreness from so many hours in the water. I feel relaxed and calm and happy and in love. I'm content with my world, right here, within these walls.
32 is already better than 31, and it hasn't even officially started yet.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Don't read this. The sirens just went off.
Dinner was at Momma's tonight. Every time I'm with her, I want to be closer to her. When I'm in her presence, I'd agree to almost anything, so long as it put me closer to her.
I found myself watching her tonight, looking for signs. Signs of where I've come from, and where I'm going. I see my lines in her lips and eyes - hers are where mine are going. I want to know everything she's ever seen, touched, tasted, heard, thought. All of it. I could spend the rest of my life by her side and not know it all. Especially the parts she doesn't want to share. Which is most of it, I fear.
She knows Zanzibar. Z-bar, she called it. She used to do shots there, with so and so from the hairdresser board, back in the seventies. Do I even know this woman? She said we should go there on my birthday, and do shots. My mother. "I can't do shots, Momma, I get too drunk." "Me too, Nat. You do those five dollar things they sell in the test tubes that aren't very strong, then you can do a bunch." WTF? Are we really having this conversation?
The stories my dad tells with passion, she doesn't remember. Daddy says he has the letters to prove it, Momma says, "we need to burn those" and my heart skips a beat - Daddy's promised to protect and save them for me, but what if she really does get to them first? My beginnings are in those words, and there's a door there to the people my parents were before they were parents, and I desperately want to know those people. She wouldn't really burn them, would she?
My great-grandmother is 99 years old. She's recently been admitted into a nursing home with dementia. For 20 years, I've had this idea that one day I go visit her with a tape recorder and ask her to tell me all of her earliest memories - what it was like as a teenager during the depression, how it was to birth 9 children at home, did she really have to boil the laundry? What did she do when she had her period? What was it like to be celibate for 40+ years? What was the truth behind that story about the time she cut her hair and her Daddy cried?
It's too late for my questions now. I've missed my window. My Granny's gone too, and with her the first-hand account of how she met and fell in love with my Papaw, who, seeing her for the first time, pointed at her through a diner window and said to his buddy, "That's the woman I'm going to marry." I'll never be able to get clarification on that raw egg she said saved my Aunt Pam's life when Pam was just a baby and barely able to hold down any formula. What was it like when she went to the hospital, when they shocked her with electricity for having what is now recognized as postpartum depression? Raising teenagers in the late 60s, early 70s? Finding out at 40 that you've got a degenerative disease? Losing the love of your life after 43 years when your plans for the day included lunch and fishing? Learning, by accident, that you have cancer, and deciding not to say anything to anyone because all you want is to be reunited with him? Granny said her peace, I suppose; I wish I would've listened more closely. The words I remember first, these days, when I remember her voice, are "There's no use crying over spilled milk." I remember my outrage, "You're SO MUCH MORE than spilled milk, Granny."
These women in my life. These strong, deep women, who've taught me so many lessons, but it feels like I was only barely listening, and then, just on the surface. Now I find myself wanting desperately to know more, so much more - but so much is lost, gone forever.
My Momma's still here. She has so many things to tell me, about all of her wonderful adventures, and she doesn't even realize. She's a hard shell, but she'll talk to me one of these days. I need to go around more often - not just to get her stories, but because I love her probably more than any other one person in the entire world and it makes her happy to see my face. And I love it when she talks to me. I love her voice. I love holding her hands. I love putting my arms around her and feeling her bony little shoulders. I love the way she feels when she hugs me, even if she is a little stand-offish sometimes. I love how nice she is to me, and how she's always supportive. She told me tonight that I sing better than her and I think I've never received a higher compliment; her praise is worth a hundred times the value of the most precious metal.
Twenty minutes, that's how long it takes to drive from my house to hers. I let weeks and months go by without a visit - sometimes I saw her more when I lived in Michigan. I am ashamed. Every time I see her I say to myself, self, from now on you will see your Momma at least once a week, and then I do nothing; I don't go see her, I barely call her, I am pathetic and horrible.
I keep thinking there's going to be a day that comes where a switch is thrown and all of a sudden I have to see my Momma three or four times a week and I will be a good and diligent daughter...and then I think, yeah, that'll probably happen when I have a baby...and then I think, but what if I don't ever have a baby? Will there be no switch? Oh, and holy crap, I'm a terrible person for not giving them grandkids yet, what if I never do, I'm a horrible daughter...
And I have to admit, I'm always sorta worried that there really is a Heaven like Granny and Papaw described it, and they're totally watching me when I'm masturbating, and I wonder how they'd feel about that, because I know that they'd fucking hate that I've had all that pre- and post-marital sex, but we never really talked about the masturbation thing and I hope that they look away if they're given the option to watch.
And now that I've typed that paragraph out loud, I may never be able to masturbate again.
Which is sort of a shame, because now what am I going to do with that 8 minutes of my lunch break?
And now I can't believe a post that started out about a visit to my parents' house for dinner has turned into a discussion about my sick or dead grandparents and then masturbation...
Um. 'night.
I found myself watching her tonight, looking for signs. Signs of where I've come from, and where I'm going. I see my lines in her lips and eyes - hers are where mine are going. I want to know everything she's ever seen, touched, tasted, heard, thought. All of it. I could spend the rest of my life by her side and not know it all. Especially the parts she doesn't want to share. Which is most of it, I fear.
She knows Zanzibar. Z-bar, she called it. She used to do shots there, with so and so from the hairdresser board, back in the seventies. Do I even know this woman? She said we should go there on my birthday, and do shots. My mother. "I can't do shots, Momma, I get too drunk." "Me too, Nat. You do those five dollar things they sell in the test tubes that aren't very strong, then you can do a bunch." WTF? Are we really having this conversation?
The stories my dad tells with passion, she doesn't remember. Daddy says he has the letters to prove it, Momma says, "we need to burn those" and my heart skips a beat - Daddy's promised to protect and save them for me, but what if she really does get to them first? My beginnings are in those words, and there's a door there to the people my parents were before they were parents, and I desperately want to know those people. She wouldn't really burn them, would she?
My great-grandmother is 99 years old. She's recently been admitted into a nursing home with dementia. For 20 years, I've had this idea that one day I go visit her with a tape recorder and ask her to tell me all of her earliest memories - what it was like as a teenager during the depression, how it was to birth 9 children at home, did she really have to boil the laundry? What did she do when she had her period? What was it like to be celibate for 40+ years? What was the truth behind that story about the time she cut her hair and her Daddy cried?
It's too late for my questions now. I've missed my window. My Granny's gone too, and with her the first-hand account of how she met and fell in love with my Papaw, who, seeing her for the first time, pointed at her through a diner window and said to his buddy, "That's the woman I'm going to marry." I'll never be able to get clarification on that raw egg she said saved my Aunt Pam's life when Pam was just a baby and barely able to hold down any formula. What was it like when she went to the hospital, when they shocked her with electricity for having what is now recognized as postpartum depression? Raising teenagers in the late 60s, early 70s? Finding out at 40 that you've got a degenerative disease? Losing the love of your life after 43 years when your plans for the day included lunch and fishing? Learning, by accident, that you have cancer, and deciding not to say anything to anyone because all you want is to be reunited with him? Granny said her peace, I suppose; I wish I would've listened more closely. The words I remember first, these days, when I remember her voice, are "There's no use crying over spilled milk." I remember my outrage, "You're SO MUCH MORE than spilled milk, Granny."
These women in my life. These strong, deep women, who've taught me so many lessons, but it feels like I was only barely listening, and then, just on the surface. Now I find myself wanting desperately to know more, so much more - but so much is lost, gone forever.
My Momma's still here. She has so many things to tell me, about all of her wonderful adventures, and she doesn't even realize. She's a hard shell, but she'll talk to me one of these days. I need to go around more often - not just to get her stories, but because I love her probably more than any other one person in the entire world and it makes her happy to see my face. And I love it when she talks to me. I love her voice. I love holding her hands. I love putting my arms around her and feeling her bony little shoulders. I love the way she feels when she hugs me, even if she is a little stand-offish sometimes. I love how nice she is to me, and how she's always supportive. She told me tonight that I sing better than her and I think I've never received a higher compliment; her praise is worth a hundred times the value of the most precious metal.
Twenty minutes, that's how long it takes to drive from my house to hers. I let weeks and months go by without a visit - sometimes I saw her more when I lived in Michigan. I am ashamed. Every time I see her I say to myself, self, from now on you will see your Momma at least once a week, and then I do nothing; I don't go see her, I barely call her, I am pathetic and horrible.
I keep thinking there's going to be a day that comes where a switch is thrown and all of a sudden I have to see my Momma three or four times a week and I will be a good and diligent daughter...and then I think, yeah, that'll probably happen when I have a baby...and then I think, but what if I don't ever have a baby? Will there be no switch? Oh, and holy crap, I'm a terrible person for not giving them grandkids yet, what if I never do, I'm a horrible daughter...
And I have to admit, I'm always sorta worried that there really is a Heaven like Granny and Papaw described it, and they're totally watching me when I'm masturbating, and I wonder how they'd feel about that, because I know that they'd fucking hate that I've had all that pre- and post-marital sex, but we never really talked about the masturbation thing and I hope that they look away if they're given the option to watch.
And now that I've typed that paragraph out loud, I may never be able to masturbate again.
Which is sort of a shame, because now what am I going to do with that 8 minutes of my lunch break?
And now I can't believe a post that started out about a visit to my parents' house for dinner has turned into a discussion about my sick or dead grandparents and then masturbation...
Um. 'night.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
What's in a number?
This will be my 700th blog post. Not really. Well, kinda. Blogger says it's number 700, but that includes drafts, so it probably more like number 678. Details.
It's going to be 87 degrees today, according to the robot that lives in my phone. It's March 20th. I live in Kentucky, not Argentina. My legs are shamefully not shaven, my summer clothes are clean but full of wrinkles from where they've been folded and piled in a corner for 5 months. And our dryer is broken - I think it's the heater coil again. Oh, how will I ever get the wrinkles out of my clothes without a dryer?
I cleaned the long wall in the shower this morning. I've never cleaned a part of the bathroom before work. That feels like weekend sort of work, so doing it before work, before 7 a.m., that was a little different. Maybe tomorrow I'll do the two short walls. Gettin' crazy up in here, yo.
We've rearranged the living room again; added a table, subtracted a table, moved in a chair from upstairs. Steve says our living room is different every time he comes over. I tell him, obviously, that means he should come over more often. I do like rearranging furniture, though. I get all stuffy and uncomfortable when things are in one place too long. I've always been like this - I should ask my Momma how many times she remembers coming into my room in the middle of the night, in just her sleepshirt and panties, blinking in the bright light, her short blonde hair sticking straight up on her head, "What in the hell are you doing, Natalie? It's 2 A. M.," in a hushed angry whisper, trying to show her displeasure, but not loudly enough to wake up Dad or Brother. "Did I wake you, Momma? I'm sorry, I'm trying to be quiet." My desk with its huge book hutch would be in the middle of the room, cutting off my full view of her and throwing odd shadows across the walls; my bed at an angle, the contents of my dresser drawers piled up on it. You have to make a mess to clean a mess, I always say. Momma would always tell me that no, I hadn't woken her, she was getting up to pee and saw the light under my door. "Don't stay up too late," and then, eyeing my bed, "Where are you going to sleep?" "Oh, I'll get it all cleaned up before I go to bed. It's cool, I'm almost done." Sometimes you just need a change, you know? And if you can't afford to throw out what you've got and start all over, you've got to find new ways to jazz up what you have. Rearranging is much easier that reupholstering. Anyhow, yeah, I like the living room's new look.
People ask me what's new, and I tell them, "Oh, nothing, same stuff, different day." It feels like that a lot of the time. Mostly, though, even if there is something, I find I don't want to talk about it, so I say my line and let them tell me about their lives and the cool things going on within. I feel awkward trying to make conversation. Stacy was over last week, and as we sat here together, she who is my first and oldest friend, she told me all sorts of wonderful stories about her new life as a Mommy and I thought, "She's so good at making conversation." She's that way on the phone too. I feel sometimes like I don't know how to say words anymore, not even to someone who knows and loves me so well and doesn't care if the words I say are dumb.
That pretty much explains my silence around here. I'm trying to find my voice again. I don't know where or why I lost it. Maybe it's another temporary casualty of the crazyblahsads. I imagine that's it, and as such, I expect a full return any day now.
It's going to be 87 degrees today, according to the robot that lives in my phone. It's March 20th. I live in Kentucky, not Argentina. My legs are shamefully not shaven, my summer clothes are clean but full of wrinkles from where they've been folded and piled in a corner for 5 months. And our dryer is broken - I think it's the heater coil again. Oh, how will I ever get the wrinkles out of my clothes without a dryer?
I cleaned the long wall in the shower this morning. I've never cleaned a part of the bathroom before work. That feels like weekend sort of work, so doing it before work, before 7 a.m., that was a little different. Maybe tomorrow I'll do the two short walls. Gettin' crazy up in here, yo.
We've rearranged the living room again; added a table, subtracted a table, moved in a chair from upstairs. Steve says our living room is different every time he comes over. I tell him, obviously, that means he should come over more often. I do like rearranging furniture, though. I get all stuffy and uncomfortable when things are in one place too long. I've always been like this - I should ask my Momma how many times she remembers coming into my room in the middle of the night, in just her sleepshirt and panties, blinking in the bright light, her short blonde hair sticking straight up on her head, "What in the hell are you doing, Natalie? It's 2 A. M.," in a hushed angry whisper, trying to show her displeasure, but not loudly enough to wake up Dad or Brother. "Did I wake you, Momma? I'm sorry, I'm trying to be quiet." My desk with its huge book hutch would be in the middle of the room, cutting off my full view of her and throwing odd shadows across the walls; my bed at an angle, the contents of my dresser drawers piled up on it. You have to make a mess to clean a mess, I always say. Momma would always tell me that no, I hadn't woken her, she was getting up to pee and saw the light under my door. "Don't stay up too late," and then, eyeing my bed, "Where are you going to sleep?" "Oh, I'll get it all cleaned up before I go to bed. It's cool, I'm almost done." Sometimes you just need a change, you know? And if you can't afford to throw out what you've got and start all over, you've got to find new ways to jazz up what you have. Rearranging is much easier that reupholstering. Anyhow, yeah, I like the living room's new look.
People ask me what's new, and I tell them, "Oh, nothing, same stuff, different day." It feels like that a lot of the time. Mostly, though, even if there is something, I find I don't want to talk about it, so I say my line and let them tell me about their lives and the cool things going on within. I feel awkward trying to make conversation. Stacy was over last week, and as we sat here together, she who is my first and oldest friend, she told me all sorts of wonderful stories about her new life as a Mommy and I thought, "She's so good at making conversation." She's that way on the phone too. I feel sometimes like I don't know how to say words anymore, not even to someone who knows and loves me so well and doesn't care if the words I say are dumb.
That pretty much explains my silence around here. I'm trying to find my voice again. I don't know where or why I lost it. Maybe it's another temporary casualty of the crazyblahsads. I imagine that's it, and as such, I expect a full return any day now.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Bouncing up and fucking down.
It's like a weight has been lifted.
Sometimes you just need a good cometoJesus to release your soul, all the pent up sad and crazy and worry. I thought I was saying the right words before, but maybe I wasn't. "If we didn't have this talk tonight, if I didn't say these things to you, if you didn't propose within the next year, I would leave." I said it. That evil thing that was building in the back of my mind, that poison that was tainting my utopia. I said the words - the ones that needed to be said, "This is what I have to have to be happy. This is what I need. We have needs and wants in relationships, and this is what I need."
We came together, we drifted, we wandered far apart, but in the end, we met in the middle, with love and understanding, and we're back in the place we've always been. We're good. We're safe. All is right with the world.
I cried myself to sleep last night, sick in my heart with fear and sad. Tonight, I'm light like a feather, knowing we're good, having confirmation of that fact I knew in my heart but needed to know with my ears.
Tomorrow I'll spend several hours in the car with my boss. I'm feeling mighty brave and strong tonight, Friends. I have my power outfit planned and ready, down to the comfy no-line panties and the bright pink argyle socks. (Those are just for my particular comfort, for the record. I'm not planning to show our customers my panties or my socks. But you never know. My boss hired me because I showed him my socks during my interview...)
I need a raise. I've been stewing about it for months, and the time has come where I've just got to ask or I'm going to build up so much resentment that I'll grow to hate my job and I don't want to hate my job because as crazy as it is, I fucking love it there. I do. I get pissed off all the time and frustrated as hell, but I love it, and I don't want to go anywhere else. But I need to be compensated for the work I'm doing, and that's never going to happen if I don't make my needs known. See, in relationships, all relationships, we have needs, and we have wants. The fact is, for me to continue my happy relationship with my employer, I need to make more money. They want to make as much money as possible, I need to make enough money to play well when I'm not there making money for them.
Does any of this even make sense? I don't really care if it does. I'm pretty sure I'll understand it when I read it again tomorrow. A weight has been lifted. I'm feeling pretty fucking invincible. I'm going to make an ass out of myself tomorrow and I'll come back here tomorrow night crying about how I thought I had this but I really didn't.
No I won't.
I won't write again for days because I'll be all embarrassed and then I'll write about something totally dumb because I'll want to pretend I never wrote this entry.
And if I'm not engaged this time next year, I'll come back and delete this shit, too.
I read something the other day that said that in ten years we won't need resumes, we'll just use our online profiles when applying for jobs.
Fuck me, I hope I don't have to ever change jobs again.
Sometimes you just need a good cometoJesus to release your soul, all the pent up sad and crazy and worry. I thought I was saying the right words before, but maybe I wasn't. "If we didn't have this talk tonight, if I didn't say these things to you, if you didn't propose within the next year, I would leave." I said it. That evil thing that was building in the back of my mind, that poison that was tainting my utopia. I said the words - the ones that needed to be said, "This is what I have to have to be happy. This is what I need. We have needs and wants in relationships, and this is what I need."
We came together, we drifted, we wandered far apart, but in the end, we met in the middle, with love and understanding, and we're back in the place we've always been. We're good. We're safe. All is right with the world.
I cried myself to sleep last night, sick in my heart with fear and sad. Tonight, I'm light like a feather, knowing we're good, having confirmation of that fact I knew in my heart but needed to know with my ears.
Tomorrow I'll spend several hours in the car with my boss. I'm feeling mighty brave and strong tonight, Friends. I have my power outfit planned and ready, down to the comfy no-line panties and the bright pink argyle socks. (Those are just for my particular comfort, for the record. I'm not planning to show our customers my panties or my socks. But you never know. My boss hired me because I showed him my socks during my interview...)
I need a raise. I've been stewing about it for months, and the time has come where I've just got to ask or I'm going to build up so much resentment that I'll grow to hate my job and I don't want to hate my job because as crazy as it is, I fucking love it there. I do. I get pissed off all the time and frustrated as hell, but I love it, and I don't want to go anywhere else. But I need to be compensated for the work I'm doing, and that's never going to happen if I don't make my needs known. See, in relationships, all relationships, we have needs, and we have wants. The fact is, for me to continue my happy relationship with my employer, I need to make more money. They want to make as much money as possible, I need to make enough money to play well when I'm not there making money for them.
Does any of this even make sense? I don't really care if it does. I'm pretty sure I'll understand it when I read it again tomorrow. A weight has been lifted. I'm feeling pretty fucking invincible. I'm going to make an ass out of myself tomorrow and I'll come back here tomorrow night crying about how I thought I had this but I really didn't.
No I won't.
I won't write again for days because I'll be all embarrassed and then I'll write about something totally dumb because I'll want to pretend I never wrote this entry.
And if I'm not engaged this time next year, I'll come back and delete this shit, too.
I read something the other day that said that in ten years we won't need resumes, we'll just use our online profiles when applying for jobs.
Fuck me, I hope I don't have to ever change jobs again.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
pretend this is my first post of 2012
GAH!
i just don't have any words, i guess. got nothing to say. not a thing.
i get locked up. i have all these thoughts inside my head, but when it comes to putting them here, in words, i get stuck. i can't say anything, and everything i try to say comes out all wrong and dumb and so i delete it or just flip back to facebook and pretend i didn't have anything i wanted to blog about anyhow.
which i don't, or i'd do it. i think.
i'm four days late and not pregnant. there's no way i can possibly convey how thoroughly this is fucking with my head. i thought i might have been, for a second. thought maybe our timing was right. maybe i'd be huge this summer. i had a dream, you see - there was a little fat baby boy in my living room under my love tree and in front of my fireplace at christmastime, and i was confused, because, of course, there's no baby. but then i turned (still dreaming), and i was facing myself in the mirror, and i had a realization: i'm pregnant, it's a boy, and his name is braden. it seemed crazy when i woke up (i'd never name my boy braden, unless i had turned out to be knocked up, in which case it would've seemed dangerous to name him something else), but it also gave me a niggling hope in the back of my mind. false hope, turns out, which is typical, but this four days late thing is mean and i hate it and i just want to get the fucking thing over with already.
and today my boss fired the dude who replaced the last guy who left - remember a few months ago when i was all "yay! opportunity!"? well, it's turned into a lot of extra work that's resulted in me feeling, again, like i suck at my job because i don't have enough time in a day to get it all done. i had these awesome plans to take us on an awesome vacation when i get my bonus this year, but i didn't accomplish any of my goals for the year, well maybe one, so the bonus i was counting on is right out the window and so's that awesome vacation. and what's the point anyhow, because when i'm on vacation, i still have to check emails and take phone calls and go into the office to do billing, so what's the fucking point? may as well just go to work. and now he's fired the guy who was taking up at least a little of the slack over there and joked "ready to do some more work?" ha ha. hi-fucking-larious. i'm terrified i'm going to end up laughing my way to the poor house when i quit or the nut hatch because i stay - actually, i've got insurance that covers mental breakdowns - and if it was work-induced, that'd be a worker's comp thing, right? hmm...
i shouldn't joke about mental illness, but i was feeling pretty good until i started writing all this shit that's been bothering me, and now i'm crying again. i think i've got the winter blues bad. i don't even have a real reason to be sad - boo hoo, poor me, i have this job with lots of responsibility and a steady income that i can spend however i wish because i don't have any kids that have to be diapered and put into daycare.
i am crazy, aren't i? fuck.
may as well throw it all out there - part of my dive into the sads was in part due to the fact that there was no proposal this past holiday season. i had that hope in the back of my head too, like the baby thing, whispering at me from the dark hidden corners of my mind where i force shit like that to go and live. i asked for a will for christmas, one that protects my interest in our home if he dies. i told him it was the only thing i wanted. when i learned it wasn't going to be under the tree, i allowed my dumbass to think, for a moment, that maybe he had something better planned? nope. he just didn't get around to getting a will made. fuck. he's not the type to disappoint me, but i was disappointed, and hurt, and very deeply sad.
this is getting borderline too personal, and for me to recognize that probably means i should stop writing about it.
so yeah. that's where my head has lived for the past week or so. while i was sick. at home. on "vacation", with no computer.
mostly. that's mostly where my head has lived. there's been good, too. like, i've taken finn for a walk every day this year, except monday because it was bitterly windy and cold and i just couldn't bring myself to do it. i haven't smoked since monday, either, which is awesome and GO ME! and i got on the scale the this morning and i'm down to 169 - that's the lowest number i've seen on a scale in, oh, i don't know, like 8 years? GO ME! i'm encouraged and feel like losing another 25 lbs maybe isn't impossible...i lost that much in 2011, i could do it again in 2012, right? and i know he loves me; he shows me every single day, in a hundred little and huge ways. and we spent new year's eve with angie at the chinese restaurant featuring a mix of mad men and jersey shore clientele and then shot off six bottle rockets in the front yard at midnight, and we spent new year's day with my momma at the flea market. and my house is pretty clean. and we did get the computer back. and i've got like 6 bottles of wine from trader joe's, and i can drink it all if i want because i ain't preggo. (but i won't, because i really do see a correlation between teh booze and teh fat. i lose more weight when i don't drink an extra 600 calories each night. duh.)
life is good. it is. it gets hard sometimes, and then i get sad, and then i come here to bitch and cry and whine and moan, and then i remember how good it is, even when it's hard.
happy new year, people who are awesome.
i just don't have any words, i guess. got nothing to say. not a thing.
i get locked up. i have all these thoughts inside my head, but when it comes to putting them here, in words, i get stuck. i can't say anything, and everything i try to say comes out all wrong and dumb and so i delete it or just flip back to facebook and pretend i didn't have anything i wanted to blog about anyhow.
which i don't, or i'd do it. i think.
i'm four days late and not pregnant. there's no way i can possibly convey how thoroughly this is fucking with my head. i thought i might have been, for a second. thought maybe our timing was right. maybe i'd be huge this summer. i had a dream, you see - there was a little fat baby boy in my living room under my love tree and in front of my fireplace at christmastime, and i was confused, because, of course, there's no baby. but then i turned (still dreaming), and i was facing myself in the mirror, and i had a realization: i'm pregnant, it's a boy, and his name is braden. it seemed crazy when i woke up (i'd never name my boy braden, unless i had turned out to be knocked up, in which case it would've seemed dangerous to name him something else), but it also gave me a niggling hope in the back of my mind. false hope, turns out, which is typical, but this four days late thing is mean and i hate it and i just want to get the fucking thing over with already.
and today my boss fired the dude who replaced the last guy who left - remember a few months ago when i was all "yay! opportunity!"? well, it's turned into a lot of extra work that's resulted in me feeling, again, like i suck at my job because i don't have enough time in a day to get it all done. i had these awesome plans to take us on an awesome vacation when i get my bonus this year, but i didn't accomplish any of my goals for the year, well maybe one, so the bonus i was counting on is right out the window and so's that awesome vacation. and what's the point anyhow, because when i'm on vacation, i still have to check emails and take phone calls and go into the office to do billing, so what's the fucking point? may as well just go to work. and now he's fired the guy who was taking up at least a little of the slack over there and joked "ready to do some more work?" ha ha. hi-fucking-larious. i'm terrified i'm going to end up laughing my way to the poor house when i quit or the nut hatch because i stay - actually, i've got insurance that covers mental breakdowns - and if it was work-induced, that'd be a worker's comp thing, right? hmm...
i shouldn't joke about mental illness, but i was feeling pretty good until i started writing all this shit that's been bothering me, and now i'm crying again. i think i've got the winter blues bad. i don't even have a real reason to be sad - boo hoo, poor me, i have this job with lots of responsibility and a steady income that i can spend however i wish because i don't have any kids that have to be diapered and put into daycare.
i am crazy, aren't i? fuck.
may as well throw it all out there - part of my dive into the sads was in part due to the fact that there was no proposal this past holiday season. i had that hope in the back of my head too, like the baby thing, whispering at me from the dark hidden corners of my mind where i force shit like that to go and live. i asked for a will for christmas, one that protects my interest in our home if he dies. i told him it was the only thing i wanted. when i learned it wasn't going to be under the tree, i allowed my dumbass to think, for a moment, that maybe he had something better planned? nope. he just didn't get around to getting a will made. fuck. he's not the type to disappoint me, but i was disappointed, and hurt, and very deeply sad.
this is getting borderline too personal, and for me to recognize that probably means i should stop writing about it.
so yeah. that's where my head has lived for the past week or so. while i was sick. at home. on "vacation", with no computer.
mostly. that's mostly where my head has lived. there's been good, too. like, i've taken finn for a walk every day this year, except monday because it was bitterly windy and cold and i just couldn't bring myself to do it. i haven't smoked since monday, either, which is awesome and GO ME! and i got on the scale the this morning and i'm down to 169 - that's the lowest number i've seen on a scale in, oh, i don't know, like 8 years? GO ME! i'm encouraged and feel like losing another 25 lbs maybe isn't impossible...i lost that much in 2011, i could do it again in 2012, right? and i know he loves me; he shows me every single day, in a hundred little and huge ways. and we spent new year's eve with angie at the chinese restaurant featuring a mix of mad men and jersey shore clientele and then shot off six bottle rockets in the front yard at midnight, and we spent new year's day with my momma at the flea market. and my house is pretty clean. and we did get the computer back. and i've got like 6 bottles of wine from trader joe's, and i can drink it all if i want because i ain't preggo. (but i won't, because i really do see a correlation between teh booze and teh fat. i lose more weight when i don't drink an extra 600 calories each night. duh.)
life is good. it is. it gets hard sometimes, and then i get sad, and then i come here to bitch and cry and whine and moan, and then i remember how good it is, even when it's hard.
happy new year, people who are awesome.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
I say dumb things. A lot.
A neighbor we hadn't met came over to introduce herself on Halloween night. I was able to shake her hand, say it was nice to meet her, offer her a seat and a drink, all normal, the way normal people do. I can handle that much interaction with strangers without putting my foot in my mouth. Once she sat, though, and our getting-to-know-each-other officially began, that's when my social skills became a trainwreck.
Within moments of her ass hitting the chair, she asked if we had many trick-or-treaters last year. My response was something like, "We didn't pass out candy last year - we were going to, since it was our first Halloween in the house and all, but I don't like to leave the house much, and I guess picking up candy was just too hard." What. The. Fuck?! Who says shit like that 45 seconds into a conversation with a stranger who lives across the street? She sort of nodded like she understood the crazy coming out of my mouth and mercifully moved onto another topic, which I obviously didn't fuck up too horribly, because I don't remember what it was.
I was thrilled to learn she's a Librarian! A real, live Librarian right across the street from my reading porch. How awesome is that? We chatted for probably half an hour, Jimi joining us mid-way to introduce himself and say hello. I don't think I was too bad after that initial flub, but Jimi insists I shouldn't have referenced "smoking a bowl" when we were talking about things to do when you're floating downriver on a canoe.
A few weeks ago, the weekend of Melinda and Gary's wedding, I went to a housewarming party at the home of some friends. I was brilliant that night! I got like 5 high-fives for funny shit I said, and I replayed those snippets of conversation over and over in my head for the next 3 days, congratulating myself for being brilliant and hilarious. I wanted to tell Jimi about the time we were all talking about the well-known fact that Gingers don't have souls, and someone said, "Well, then what about Ben? Ben's not a Ginger, but he doesn't have a soul" and I was all, "Yeah, but he's Jewish" and the crowd went wild. (Ben high-fived me for that one, for the record, so I totally wasn't being a nazi cunt or anything.) The whole night went that way - someone setting up a punchline that came into my head with perfect timing - that happens to me so rarely!
But that party was full of people who know and love me. They've known me for at least 5 years, and they invite me to things because they enjoy my company, despite my quirks (like how I rarely show up to things I'm invited to). I was comfortable there, completely at ease.
(I'll be honest, though, if Steve hadn't been there, my night probably wouldn't have gone quite as swimmingly. He's like my Jimi surrogate when Jimi's not around - he provides that security and safety that I rely on when I'm not in my home. I feel like he wouldn't let anything bad happen to me - he'd save me from a rapist, or he'd punk out some asshole that was mean to me...not that either of those situations have ever presented themselves, but I feel confident he would defend me and my honor. He's like a big brother I never had but always wanted.)
The Tuesday after the housewarming party, Jimi and I went to Lisa's for dinner. The tentative plan was to order in, catch up (we'd not seen her in over a year!), and then meet up with her fiance' for drinks and fun later.
Before I go further with that, I should give you some background on Lisa and Jimi: The first night I went to Jimi's apartment in Old Louisville, hanging on the wall in the center of his living room were two large pieces of framed art; cut-outs of a beautiful platinum blonde, staged in all different poses, wearing all sorts of costumes - it was Lisa, and the piece is called Paper Dolls. It hangs in our living room today. Then, though, I thought it was proof positive that he had a relationship with this gorgeous woman, and I immediately saw how inadequately I measured up to her in beauty and creativity and all-around awesome. Of course, they weren't a couple - she is what he refers to as his "Sissy". Likewise, he is her "Sissy". They are 3 days apart in age and joke that they are twins. Lisa is deeply involved in all things ART, and Jimi loves all things ART, and on this level they meld and mesh in a way I will never be able to with him.
Obviously, I'm a bit intimidated by her. I didn't realize that's what it was or call it that until after Jimi pointed it out to me on Wednesday, when I sent him an email apologizing for being a drunken slore and drinking half a big bottle of wine and half a beer and eating 2 huge slices of pizza and nearly puking in Lisa's bathroom and then falling asleep at Lisa's kitchen table. His words were, "I told her you're intimidated by her, and that you get a little over-excited and over-indulge, but once you're comfortable with her, you'll norm out." I wanted to argue, but I couldn't. He's so perceptive, that man of mine. I'm terrified that I won't measure up, so I make a fool out of myself to prove it.
I feel like that in most social situations where I'm not well-known and already loved. I feel awkward and not good enough and strange and uninteresting and uncool, and I throw out the very worst of me to try to disprove these thoughts that probably only live in my head until I say or do something to show it to everyone else.
Thank goodness there's something underlying my crazy that doesn't make all people turn and run in the opposite direction; thank goodness there's something there that says "Wait, maybe she's funny sometimes, and maybe she's the sort that would buy a round, and maybe she's pretty smart when we're not talking about a subject that's way over her head, and maybe she's the type who'd be willing to give me a ride to the airport, and maybe she's one of those people who won't notice that I haven't called for two years when I need a shoulder to cry on." I have good qualities, I swear! Maybe they're just not so obvious when you first meet me; maybe that veneer of awkward and strange is just something you just have to look through, like one of those 3-D pictures that you have to stare at for a few seconds before you can see the image.
Is it completely obnoxious to compare my personality to a 3-D picture from the 1990's? "I am so deep and hard to understand." Yeah. Like a fishbowl.
Within moments of her ass hitting the chair, she asked if we had many trick-or-treaters last year. My response was something like, "We didn't pass out candy last year - we were going to, since it was our first Halloween in the house and all, but I don't like to leave the house much, and I guess picking up candy was just too hard." What. The. Fuck?! Who says shit like that 45 seconds into a conversation with a stranger who lives across the street? She sort of nodded like she understood the crazy coming out of my mouth and mercifully moved onto another topic, which I obviously didn't fuck up too horribly, because I don't remember what it was.
I was thrilled to learn she's a Librarian! A real, live Librarian right across the street from my reading porch. How awesome is that? We chatted for probably half an hour, Jimi joining us mid-way to introduce himself and say hello. I don't think I was too bad after that initial flub, but Jimi insists I shouldn't have referenced "smoking a bowl" when we were talking about things to do when you're floating downriver on a canoe.
A few weeks ago, the weekend of Melinda and Gary's wedding, I went to a housewarming party at the home of some friends. I was brilliant that night! I got like 5 high-fives for funny shit I said, and I replayed those snippets of conversation over and over in my head for the next 3 days, congratulating myself for being brilliant and hilarious. I wanted to tell Jimi about the time we were all talking about the well-known fact that Gingers don't have souls, and someone said, "Well, then what about Ben? Ben's not a Ginger, but he doesn't have a soul" and I was all, "Yeah, but he's Jewish" and the crowd went wild. (Ben high-fived me for that one, for the record, so I totally wasn't being a nazi cunt or anything.) The whole night went that way - someone setting up a punchline that came into my head with perfect timing - that happens to me so rarely!
But that party was full of people who know and love me. They've known me for at least 5 years, and they invite me to things because they enjoy my company, despite my quirks (like how I rarely show up to things I'm invited to). I was comfortable there, completely at ease.
(I'll be honest, though, if Steve hadn't been there, my night probably wouldn't have gone quite as swimmingly. He's like my Jimi surrogate when Jimi's not around - he provides that security and safety that I rely on when I'm not in my home. I feel like he wouldn't let anything bad happen to me - he'd save me from a rapist, or he'd punk out some asshole that was mean to me...not that either of those situations have ever presented themselves, but I feel confident he would defend me and my honor. He's like a big brother I never had but always wanted.)
The Tuesday after the housewarming party, Jimi and I went to Lisa's for dinner. The tentative plan was to order in, catch up (we'd not seen her in over a year!), and then meet up with her fiance' for drinks and fun later.
Before I go further with that, I should give you some background on Lisa and Jimi: The first night I went to Jimi's apartment in Old Louisville, hanging on the wall in the center of his living room were two large pieces of framed art; cut-outs of a beautiful platinum blonde, staged in all different poses, wearing all sorts of costumes - it was Lisa, and the piece is called Paper Dolls. It hangs in our living room today. Then, though, I thought it was proof positive that he had a relationship with this gorgeous woman, and I immediately saw how inadequately I measured up to her in beauty and creativity and all-around awesome. Of course, they weren't a couple - she is what he refers to as his "Sissy". Likewise, he is her "Sissy". They are 3 days apart in age and joke that they are twins. Lisa is deeply involved in all things ART, and Jimi loves all things ART, and on this level they meld and mesh in a way I will never be able to with him.
Obviously, I'm a bit intimidated by her. I didn't realize that's what it was or call it that until after Jimi pointed it out to me on Wednesday, when I sent him an email apologizing for being a drunken slore and drinking half a big bottle of wine and half a beer and eating 2 huge slices of pizza and nearly puking in Lisa's bathroom and then falling asleep at Lisa's kitchen table. His words were, "I told her you're intimidated by her, and that you get a little over-excited and over-indulge, but once you're comfortable with her, you'll norm out." I wanted to argue, but I couldn't. He's so perceptive, that man of mine. I'm terrified that I won't measure up, so I make a fool out of myself to prove it.
I feel like that in most social situations where I'm not well-known and already loved. I feel awkward and not good enough and strange and uninteresting and uncool, and I throw out the very worst of me to try to disprove these thoughts that probably only live in my head until I say or do something to show it to everyone else.
Thank goodness there's something underlying my crazy that doesn't make all people turn and run in the opposite direction; thank goodness there's something there that says "Wait, maybe she's funny sometimes, and maybe she's the sort that would buy a round, and maybe she's pretty smart when we're not talking about a subject that's way over her head, and maybe she's the type who'd be willing to give me a ride to the airport, and maybe she's one of those people who won't notice that I haven't called for two years when I need a shoulder to cry on." I have good qualities, I swear! Maybe they're just not so obvious when you first meet me; maybe that veneer of awkward and strange is just something you just have to look through, like one of those 3-D pictures that you have to stare at for a few seconds before you can see the image.
Is it completely obnoxious to compare my personality to a 3-D picture from the 1990's? "I am so deep and hard to understand." Yeah. Like a fishbowl.
Monday, October 17, 2011
Post-Wedding Hair
I took the bobby pins out.
17 of them,
which really doesn't seem like that many,
I decided I'd take a picture or two of the results, to share here.
This is my first ever bathroom self-portrait.
And no, I've still not erased that little love note from the bathroom mirror.
Jimi watched me from the doorway, then said, "Watch."
He held the phone up so I could see the display through the mirror.
Like most 5th graders have mastered,
yet I probably wouldn't have figured out for a hundred years.
Jimi took the rest of these shots.
That's his hand there on the side.
He was talking to me.
He made me laugh.
And then it got fun.
He was trying to make my boobs bigger.
Didn't work.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
My fingers threw up. All over the place. Sorry.
I got a new phone. I haven't even gotten to play with it much yet, I've been so busy tonight. Well. Busy is a relative term, I guess. I went to Melinda's to decorate our reception Crocs (more on that later), and then I came home for my hot date with Sookie and Eric and Bill and Niall. I've finished book 9...now I wait until Rick's finished with 10 so I can put the entire series to rest. And the raccoon is back in the attic. No, we never did anything about it this summer, and now he's back. Oh fucking boy.
I feel bad when I blog about religion - like I'm destined to offend someone. It's like how I want to blog about how I feel about some personal shit, but I can't because maybe those people will read my blog and then they'll know what I'm too chickenshit to say to them and they'll be mad at me so I don't blog it at all. Do I have to be that way with religion too? Even though I'm trying to work it out for myself?
There's a lot I don't say; mostly because it'd be too many words and I'm lazy as all get out. I get tired of trying to explain myself three paragraphs in...
I don't know where else to say the things I think sometimes.
My pee stinks. I haven't had asparagus lately; I wonder if it was the wine?
Oh, and that personal shit I don't blog about? It's not about you, Kim. Swear. Promise. It's not about Jimi, either. Or work. It's just stuff I want to blog about desperately but can't because I'm afraid I'll hurt someone's feelings...
I fucking hate it when bloggers do that shit, don't you? Gosh! Alright, here's the thing - not in my household, but there's a baby on the way and there's no money and there's a lack of a lob involved and maybe not a lot of job hunting? and I'm just really frustrated and worried. I can help some, but not enough, and I have reservations about some gestures... (Do you offer to pay the electric bill, or do you just invite them over extra for dinner to spare them that expense?)
I work in an industrial park near a college campus. There are street walkers, prostitutes, hookers (pick your moniker) that populate the area - lately I've come to notice a couple in particular. One was a lady I saw last week, and today, for the first time, I saw the hooker with the walker - the one my boss refers to every time I mention the hookers on 4th street. The hookers on 4th street are not attractive ladies; no no, rather, they're the picture in the dictionary next to "rode hard and put up wet". Everything about their face looks tired, and it's heartbreaking. They carry themselves with a certain manner - head down, eyes up, shoulders forced back, but you can tell they're faking the "I'm awesome" vibe they're trying to send. Their faces are weathered and worn and craggy with lines that tell stories that would give us nightmares. I can't see them without picturing, only for a moment, what they will be doing in an hour or two, what they've chosen as their craft, what they've been reduced to doing to make enough for a meal or two, or maybe the rent.
The woman with the walker, she's maybe 27 or 29, but she looks 50 from a distance. Her coat is blue, U of K blue, and it hangs, too big for her, down to her knees, the sleeves past her hands. Her pants are too big for her emaciated waist. Her face is full of those lines of which I spoke earlier - her eyes have a sort of vacant far-off look to them, but then, I've only seen her as I've driven past, and that was just a moment, even though I turned my eyes from the road to watch her as I passed. She doesn't use the walker in the traditional manner you've seen your grandpa use his; she shoves it ahead of her with her left hand, her right hand held out to her side to balance, and then pulls her feet forward, one at a time, slowly, very unsteadily, as if she's going to topple over at any moment. I wonder when I watch "why doesn't she use it as it's intended?" and then I know that if she did, it would block "the view".
I don't know how we know they're hookers - the neighborhood, they way they carry themselves, stories that've made their way into the office from the workers in the plant; they all paint the picture and once you lay eyes on these women, you can see it as clearly as if they were wearing signs advertising blow jobs for five dollars and straight sex for twenty-five. (I have no idea what their pricing structure is like; this is pure conjecture on my part. Insulting, I know. But maybe not. If you saw them, you'd know what I mean.)
My heart breaks for them. How did they end up there, on the corner of 4th and Central, stumbling along, willing to suck off any random dude with a stiff cock and a wrinkled bill? What in the fuck must've happened in their lives to land them here, abandoned to the men who find their love on street corners and in dark alleys? I almost hope it's drugs - if it's drugs, maybe they're still finding some joy at the end of their day. It's almost too awful to imagine it any other way.
I didn't mean to go off on a tangent about the hookers, I just can't seem to stop thinking about them today. One of my biggest fears in the world is being raped. I can't even watch rape scenes in movies - if I've ever come close to knowing what my friends who suffer from severe anxiety feel during a panic attack, it's how I felt when I watched that movie where those kids break into those rich peoples' house and make the mom take off her clothes in front of her husband and her kid and they're about to rape her...I had to leave the room. My heart felt like it'd blow up. My whole body was tense, and I was shaking with the fear and awfulness of the idea of that happening in reality, knowing it happens all too often, though obviously not quite like that. So yeah - what're the odds that those women have come to the point where they are without having suffered sexual trauma and abuse? That's what I think of every time I see them. And then my heart breaks all over again.
The Yellow Tail Riesling is really much better after you've had half a bottle. That first sip is a little sharp, but the 25th or so goes down quite nicely.
It's so late. It's getting easier to stay up later and harder to get up earlier - it has to be the season change. Right? Must force myself to get up early and walk the god. Dog. I know I fucked that up, but it made me lol, so I'm leafing it. That one too.
Maybe it's time for bed. OH! And plan on seeing much more of me, because as I said, I totally got a new phone and it's got a badass camera on it so I can take like real pictures and stuff and I can totally get on the internet and like twitter and shit. It's my first Android; I'm super excited.
Oh, and Dan, are you reading this? If you are, say "I love blueberry muffins".
I feel bad when I blog about religion - like I'm destined to offend someone. It's like how I want to blog about how I feel about some personal shit, but I can't because maybe those people will read my blog and then they'll know what I'm too chickenshit to say to them and they'll be mad at me so I don't blog it at all. Do I have to be that way with religion too? Even though I'm trying to work it out for myself?
There's a lot I don't say; mostly because it'd be too many words and I'm lazy as all get out. I get tired of trying to explain myself three paragraphs in...
I don't know where else to say the things I think sometimes.
My pee stinks. I haven't had asparagus lately; I wonder if it was the wine?
Oh, and that personal shit I don't blog about? It's not about you, Kim. Swear. Promise. It's not about Jimi, either. Or work. It's just stuff I want to blog about desperately but can't because I'm afraid I'll hurt someone's feelings...
I fucking hate it when bloggers do that shit, don't you? Gosh! Alright, here's the thing - not in my household, but there's a baby on the way and there's no money and there's a lack of a lob involved and maybe not a lot of job hunting? and I'm just really frustrated and worried. I can help some, but not enough, and I have reservations about some gestures... (Do you offer to pay the electric bill, or do you just invite them over extra for dinner to spare them that expense?)
I work in an industrial park near a college campus. There are street walkers, prostitutes, hookers (pick your moniker) that populate the area - lately I've come to notice a couple in particular. One was a lady I saw last week, and today, for the first time, I saw the hooker with the walker - the one my boss refers to every time I mention the hookers on 4th street. The hookers on 4th street are not attractive ladies; no no, rather, they're the picture in the dictionary next to "rode hard and put up wet". Everything about their face looks tired, and it's heartbreaking. They carry themselves with a certain manner - head down, eyes up, shoulders forced back, but you can tell they're faking the "I'm awesome" vibe they're trying to send. Their faces are weathered and worn and craggy with lines that tell stories that would give us nightmares. I can't see them without picturing, only for a moment, what they will be doing in an hour or two, what they've chosen as their craft, what they've been reduced to doing to make enough for a meal or two, or maybe the rent.
The woman with the walker, she's maybe 27 or 29, but she looks 50 from a distance. Her coat is blue, U of K blue, and it hangs, too big for her, down to her knees, the sleeves past her hands. Her pants are too big for her emaciated waist. Her face is full of those lines of which I spoke earlier - her eyes have a sort of vacant far-off look to them, but then, I've only seen her as I've driven past, and that was just a moment, even though I turned my eyes from the road to watch her as I passed. She doesn't use the walker in the traditional manner you've seen your grandpa use his; she shoves it ahead of her with her left hand, her right hand held out to her side to balance, and then pulls her feet forward, one at a time, slowly, very unsteadily, as if she's going to topple over at any moment. I wonder when I watch "why doesn't she use it as it's intended?" and then I know that if she did, it would block "the view".
I don't know how we know they're hookers - the neighborhood, they way they carry themselves, stories that've made their way into the office from the workers in the plant; they all paint the picture and once you lay eyes on these women, you can see it as clearly as if they were wearing signs advertising blow jobs for five dollars and straight sex for twenty-five. (I have no idea what their pricing structure is like; this is pure conjecture on my part. Insulting, I know. But maybe not. If you saw them, you'd know what I mean.)
My heart breaks for them. How did they end up there, on the corner of 4th and Central, stumbling along, willing to suck off any random dude with a stiff cock and a wrinkled bill? What in the fuck must've happened in their lives to land them here, abandoned to the men who find their love on street corners and in dark alleys? I almost hope it's drugs - if it's drugs, maybe they're still finding some joy at the end of their day. It's almost too awful to imagine it any other way.
I didn't mean to go off on a tangent about the hookers, I just can't seem to stop thinking about them today. One of my biggest fears in the world is being raped. I can't even watch rape scenes in movies - if I've ever come close to knowing what my friends who suffer from severe anxiety feel during a panic attack, it's how I felt when I watched that movie where those kids break into those rich peoples' house and make the mom take off her clothes in front of her husband and her kid and they're about to rape her...I had to leave the room. My heart felt like it'd blow up. My whole body was tense, and I was shaking with the fear and awfulness of the idea of that happening in reality, knowing it happens all too often, though obviously not quite like that. So yeah - what're the odds that those women have come to the point where they are without having suffered sexual trauma and abuse? That's what I think of every time I see them. And then my heart breaks all over again.
The Yellow Tail Riesling is really much better after you've had half a bottle. That first sip is a little sharp, but the 25th or so goes down quite nicely.
It's so late. It's getting easier to stay up later and harder to get up earlier - it has to be the season change. Right? Must force myself to get up early and walk the god. Dog. I know I fucked that up, but it made me lol, so I'm leafing it. That one too.
Maybe it's time for bed. OH! And plan on seeing much more of me, because as I said, I totally got a new phone and it's got a badass camera on it so I can take like real pictures and stuff and I can totally get on the internet and like twitter and shit. It's my first Android; I'm super excited.
Oh, and Dan, are you reading this? If you are, say "I love blueberry muffins".
Friday, September 2, 2011
It's just a bottle of pills.
I bought a bottle of prenatal vitamins about a year ago, the day I peed on a stick and it showed two lines. I was so excited. I bought a pregnancy book, too, which promptly scared the shit out of me and was banished to my bookcase. (Who knew ham was bad? Holy crap!)
My surprise only stuck around for a week, and then a week after that it was all over; my life was back to "normal".
I banished the prenatals for a couple months, then my hormones went into overdrive and I could think of nothing but getting pregnant again; I dug them out of the closet and started taking them nightly, so I would be prepared, covered, all set when the next set of double lines appeared.
It's been almost a year; the vitamin bottle is empty, the book has been passed to my pregnant sister/cousin, and if peed on a stick right now, there would only be one line.
I think I'm okay with it all, with the way everything has played out. I'd say "no big deal", but then I'd have to ascribe another cause to these tears welling up.
I thought I'd be a mom by now. I really did. I thought for sure nothing would go wrong and everything would be perfect. When things went wrong, I was shocked. How cruel reality can be.
Then I was going to be pregnant by Christmas. When that didn't happen, I thought, "Surely by summer." It's September.
I'm accepting that maybe "parents" isn't a title we're destined to claim. As I type those words, I'm thinking in the back of my mind, "but I'm only 31. Lots of women have babies at 32, 33, 34..."
Getting pregnant is something I always thought I'd be able to do whenever I decided I was ready to do it. Even now, I still hold this little thought that says, "If I bought some of those ovulation predictor things, or charted my temperature; if I really TRIED, I'd be successful." Maybe it's true. The fear that maybe it's not is what keeps me from taking those steps.
I thought we'd be parents by now. I thought for sure it was our reality.
I believe things come to you when you're ready for them; that the universe has a way of putting people, places, things in your life at precisely the right moments, just when you need them, or maybe not until you're able to cope with them. I hope it's just not our turn yet, not our time. I fear it may never be our turn, but maybe there's something different, better out there for us. The not knowing is the hardest part; I feel like I could accept the answer either way, if only I could just know what it is.
My surprise only stuck around for a week, and then a week after that it was all over; my life was back to "normal".
I banished the prenatals for a couple months, then my hormones went into overdrive and I could think of nothing but getting pregnant again; I dug them out of the closet and started taking them nightly, so I would be prepared, covered, all set when the next set of double lines appeared.
It's been almost a year; the vitamin bottle is empty, the book has been passed to my pregnant sister/cousin, and if peed on a stick right now, there would only be one line.
I think I'm okay with it all, with the way everything has played out. I'd say "no big deal", but then I'd have to ascribe another cause to these tears welling up.
I thought I'd be a mom by now. I really did. I thought for sure nothing would go wrong and everything would be perfect. When things went wrong, I was shocked. How cruel reality can be.
Then I was going to be pregnant by Christmas. When that didn't happen, I thought, "Surely by summer." It's September.
I'm accepting that maybe "parents" isn't a title we're destined to claim. As I type those words, I'm thinking in the back of my mind, "but I'm only 31. Lots of women have babies at 32, 33, 34..."
Getting pregnant is something I always thought I'd be able to do whenever I decided I was ready to do it. Even now, I still hold this little thought that says, "If I bought some of those ovulation predictor things, or charted my temperature; if I really TRIED, I'd be successful." Maybe it's true. The fear that maybe it's not is what keeps me from taking those steps.
I thought we'd be parents by now. I thought for sure it was our reality.
I believe things come to you when you're ready for them; that the universe has a way of putting people, places, things in your life at precisely the right moments, just when you need them, or maybe not until you're able to cope with them. I hope it's just not our turn yet, not our time. I fear it may never be our turn, but maybe there's something different, better out there for us. The not knowing is the hardest part; I feel like I could accept the answer either way, if only I could just know what it is.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
I'm gonna be one of those exercise/weight-loss bloggers for a while, okay?
I'm new to this counting calories thing. Um, it's possible I've been known to say I'd never live my life counting the calories I put into my mouth because, well, fuck that. I like food. A lot. It's one of my favorite things ever.
But I've gotten fat by being lazy, and lo and behold, here I am, running to the computer or my stupid, hated-but-now-sorta-tolerated Blackberry so I can record every morsel that so much as looks at my lips a second too long. And I'm rounding up! For example: Tonight, my pan-seared cod filet had, according to the package, only 90 calories per 4 oz serving, but I totally selected the first pan-seared cod that popped up, even though it was for 119 calories. I figure this gives me a little wiggle room - I mean, this weight-loss shit isn't exact science or anything, you know? And I recorded the teaspoon of safflower oil Jimi used to lube the pan, and the lime wedge I squeezed over my fish. I recorded the carrot slices and the radish slices and the 4T of salad dressing. Yes. 4T. (I probably left half a tablespoon on the plate, but I wasn't going to measure and deduct.) My dressing won for calorie content tonight.
I'm determined I'm not going to fail at this - I'm going to look phenomenal in that dress and I will rock the world with my awesome that will only be outshadowed by the bride's, which of course is how it should be, seeing as how it's her big day and all.
Speaking of the bride, she called me tonight and we're going to go work our asses at the gym tomorrow night. I'm excited to have an exercise buddy in real life, in addition to all of this amazing support you guys keep heaping upon me so generously. (Have I said thank you yet? Thank you! I feel encouraged and inspired and like I've got people rooting for me, which always makes everything easier.)
I'm trying to be really careful when I'm entering my exercises. I don't want to bump up the numbers to make things look better on paper - the only cheating is cheating myself, and that ain't gonna zip that dress. That being said, I walked/jogged/ran 4.04 miles tonight in 1:08:00. I know you just read that as "I walked/jogged ran blahblahblahblah". If you didn't, and you understand what it means, please stop rolling your eyes and thinking "OMG, did she really just post that embarrassing lame-ass time? HAHAHAHA!!!" I'm sorta recording it here for posterity.
That evening stroll with Finn made my day look awesome - I burned 458 calories, meaning I've got another 440 calories left today before I hit 1200. I'm having a beer. Shut up. I know it's counterproductive, but it's only 99 calories and 3 carbs and I've got 128(!!!) carbs left for the day so I feel like I've fucking earned this beer.
I'm sorry if this post sucks big fat hairy gorilla balls. (Do gorillas have hairy balls? Or are their private parts naked like those other monkey-things?) I won't talk about my fat or my food or my calories or my lame-ass walk/jog/run times forever.
I feel great. I feel strong. I feel like I'm going to be buying a new wardrobe at the after-Christmas sales.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Holy crap the sun's not even up yet!
It's twenty till six on Friday morning. WTF? In case you were wondering, if you need to start your period, GUARANTEED, tell the internet you're feeling yourself up because you can't tell if your boobs are sore or not. Or take a pregnancy test. Works. Every fucking time.
So I'm going to go to work early. Or I'm going to sit here and write some bullshit till it's time to go to work, and then I'll kick my own ass for not taking advantage of the fact that I was up at five till five this morning. Well, if we're being honest, I was up at 4 - I just didn't get out of bed till almost five, when I'd finally gave up on getting back to that dream about ... I can't remember anymore what that dream was about. It was weird, though, and I wanted to see what happened.
I remember what I dreamed about before I woke yesterday morning, though. Heather Donovan. She was this geeky (before geeky was cool) chick who went to middle school with me - The Girls and I were tortuously mean to her. We were in the sixth grade - as I remember it, sixth grade was pretty fucking awful. (Except that I learned the word "fuck" in the sixth grade, so that's kinda cool.) Sixth grade was full of awkwardness and not fitting it - a bunch of hormone-laden kids bouncing off one another and trying to figure out where they fit. We all fell into our individual roles quickly enough - my role was outcast-wannabecoolkid. Heather was like three rungs below me on the social hierarchy scale. She wore blue eye shadow smeared up to her eyebrows. Her hair was thin and she pouffed her bangs into this see-through bird's-nest thing and lacquered it with hairspray so it moved in one giant piece in the wind. (Okay, we all did that, but hers was really bad.) She wore button-up flower-printed blouses, buttoned all the way to the top, that wreaked of her mother's particular sense of (old-lady) style. (Let's not discuss the fact that I discovered jeans for the first time in this same year. For the first half of the school year, my favorite pants were a pair of stirrup pants in some pattern that involved big yellow flowers and purple something- I don't remember what was purple in the pants, but something was, because I always wore them with a long purple shirt that I thought made me look awesome, and I never would've worn a purple shirt with those pants unless there was purple in them somewhere.)
Anyhow, back to Heather. She showed up in my dream yesterday morning. We were maybe at a party or something? There was a big open room, people mingling, and then she walked through the door. I was startled by her presence - she looked, in her face, exactly the same as the last time I saw her, but without the crunchy bangs and coke-bottle glasses. Her hair was sleek and smooth, and her skin was clear. Her eyes were free of the magnification of the glasses that always made her look a little googly-eyed...and they weren't held down by a gram of blue powder, either. She was pretty.
We didn't talk beyond a "hey, good to see you" because my alarm sounded. But in the shower, I thought of things I'd say to her if I saw her now:
"I'm sorry we were so mean to you."
"I'm sorry we put Ex-lax in that caramel cookie bar and then let you eat it."
"I'm sorry we made fun of you."
"I'm sorry we thought we were better than you." I mean, there was a reason she was sitting at our lunch table, people; it's not like there were assigned seats.
"I hope we didn't cause any lasting damage."
Kids are mean. We were mean. Brutal. I hope she's doing alright.
"Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever forgive myself for the sins I committed as a child." I said that to Stacy not too long ago; I told her if I ever write a book, it'll be the first line. Today, right now, I feel like I'm a pretty good person. I try to leave a good impact wherever I go, even if it's just a smile or a few coins. I've been a bitch, though; I've been a mean asshole, I've been cruel and vindictive. For fuck's sake, I once convinced my 2-year old brother that he was adopted and mom and dad were going to take him back because they decided they didn't like him anymore. When I say convinced, I mean, I only retracted my story when he started crying.
God, that brought tears to my eyes. See what I mean? I hate myself for that memory. I hope Brother doesn't remember it. Of course, is that better or worse? That it could be seared into his psyche that he's unloved because his sister was an evil 11 year old? Maybe it's all my fault he was all fucked up.
Stacy, too. She and I are only 18 months apart; I treated her as if she were my minion, there for my personal enjoyment and entertainment. About 10 years ago, she told me she'd always admired me and looked up to me; I've never been so ashamed or felt so low in my life. I don't deserve her kindness, and sometimes, even now, I'm surprised that she wants to hang out with me or listens to my advice.
But people change. We grow up and we figure out that our actions have consequences and we learn what empathy is and we start to not be assholes all the time. I think Stacy and Brother have forgiven me; I imagine Heather Donovan thinks nothing of me at all.
I am my own worst critic, because I remember.
So I'm going to go to work early. Or I'm going to sit here and write some bullshit till it's time to go to work, and then I'll kick my own ass for not taking advantage of the fact that I was up at five till five this morning. Well, if we're being honest, I was up at 4 - I just didn't get out of bed till almost five, when I'd finally gave up on getting back to that dream about ... I can't remember anymore what that dream was about. It was weird, though, and I wanted to see what happened.
I remember what I dreamed about before I woke yesterday morning, though. Heather Donovan. She was this geeky (before geeky was cool) chick who went to middle school with me - The Girls and I were tortuously mean to her. We were in the sixth grade - as I remember it, sixth grade was pretty fucking awful. (Except that I learned the word "fuck" in the sixth grade, so that's kinda cool.) Sixth grade was full of awkwardness and not fitting it - a bunch of hormone-laden kids bouncing off one another and trying to figure out where they fit. We all fell into our individual roles quickly enough - my role was outcast-wannabecoolkid. Heather was like three rungs below me on the social hierarchy scale. She wore blue eye shadow smeared up to her eyebrows. Her hair was thin and she pouffed her bangs into this see-through bird's-nest thing and lacquered it with hairspray so it moved in one giant piece in the wind. (Okay, we all did that, but hers was really bad.) She wore button-up flower-printed blouses, buttoned all the way to the top, that wreaked of her mother's particular sense of (old-lady) style. (Let's not discuss the fact that I discovered jeans for the first time in this same year. For the first half of the school year, my favorite pants were a pair of stirrup pants in some pattern that involved big yellow flowers and purple something- I don't remember what was purple in the pants, but something was, because I always wore them with a long purple shirt that I thought made me look awesome, and I never would've worn a purple shirt with those pants unless there was purple in them somewhere.)
Anyhow, back to Heather. She showed up in my dream yesterday morning. We were maybe at a party or something? There was a big open room, people mingling, and then she walked through the door. I was startled by her presence - she looked, in her face, exactly the same as the last time I saw her, but without the crunchy bangs and coke-bottle glasses. Her hair was sleek and smooth, and her skin was clear. Her eyes were free of the magnification of the glasses that always made her look a little googly-eyed...and they weren't held down by a gram of blue powder, either. She was pretty.
We didn't talk beyond a "hey, good to see you" because my alarm sounded. But in the shower, I thought of things I'd say to her if I saw her now:
"I'm sorry we were so mean to you."
"I'm sorry we put Ex-lax in that caramel cookie bar and then let you eat it."
"I'm sorry we made fun of you."
"I'm sorry we thought we were better than you." I mean, there was a reason she was sitting at our lunch table, people; it's not like there were assigned seats.
"I hope we didn't cause any lasting damage."
Kids are mean. We were mean. Brutal. I hope she's doing alright.
"Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever forgive myself for the sins I committed as a child." I said that to Stacy not too long ago; I told her if I ever write a book, it'll be the first line. Today, right now, I feel like I'm a pretty good person. I try to leave a good impact wherever I go, even if it's just a smile or a few coins. I've been a bitch, though; I've been a mean asshole, I've been cruel and vindictive. For fuck's sake, I once convinced my 2-year old brother that he was adopted and mom and dad were going to take him back because they decided they didn't like him anymore. When I say convinced, I mean, I only retracted my story when he started crying.
God, that brought tears to my eyes. See what I mean? I hate myself for that memory. I hope Brother doesn't remember it. Of course, is that better or worse? That it could be seared into his psyche that he's unloved because his sister was an evil 11 year old? Maybe it's all my fault he was all fucked up.
Stacy, too. She and I are only 18 months apart; I treated her as if she were my minion, there for my personal enjoyment and entertainment. About 10 years ago, she told me she'd always admired me and looked up to me; I've never been so ashamed or felt so low in my life. I don't deserve her kindness, and sometimes, even now, I'm surprised that she wants to hang out with me or listens to my advice.
But people change. We grow up and we figure out that our actions have consequences and we learn what empathy is and we start to not be assholes all the time. I think Stacy and Brother have forgiven me; I imagine Heather Donovan thinks nothing of me at all.
I am my own worst critic, because I remember.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
I'm not getting on a soapbox today. Promise.
Saturday morning. It's pouring rain outside. We're attending a wedding at 2 p.m.; a Catholic wedding - only my second ever Catholic wedding. At least I won't be quite so lost this time; I've attended two Catholic services so far this year, I'm becoming an old pro. I have nothing to wear, so I'm going shopping this morning to find something. Cross your fingers and say a little prayer that no one gets killed in this process, will you? I'm not a good clothes shopper. I hate clothes shopping, and I usually come home hating myself.
I'm pretty excited about this wedding, strangely enough; I haven't cared much for weddings since my divorce, sort of the way baby showers are off limits since my miscarriage. But this wedding, this is a wedding I'm looking forward to because the party is going to be kick-rockin'-awesome. The bride is the daughter of a man and woman my Daddy's known since the late seventies; he was roommates with both of them when he got out of the Army and came back to Kentucky. (That's the part of the story that always made me go "huh? why was a girl living with you?" I hope you're there with me, because I'm going to tell you...)
Daddy was living in a house in Taylorsville with several other guys, three or four, and one of them, Gary, was dating a girl named Tina. Tina lived in an apartment upstairs from a funeral home. She was smart and spunky and skinny and completely belonged in the seventies, with her flipped back hair and itty bitty bikini. One sunny afternoon, Tina decided she was going to sunbathe. On the front lawn. Of the funeral home. During a wake. (There's a chance I made that "during a wake" part up, but it makes the story funnier, doesn't it?) Tina was asked to vacate her apartment, which she came to understand when her belongings were thrown out on the front lawn. When she showed up on their doorstep with all her things and a sob story about no place to go, the guys couldn't send her away. That's how she came to live with a bunch of dudes.
Tina and Gary eventually married and moved to the Highlands in Louisville. (That's where the hippies live.) They had a house that was, in my childhood eyes, huge and open and eccentric and colorful and awesome; I think it was the first house I was ever in that had 10-foot ceilings, and I'm sure that detail influenced my opinion greatly. There was one big living room downstairs full of bookshelves and knick-knacks (I've mentioned my love of all things clutter, I believe?) The kitchen was off to the left, with white cabinets and white appliances and a white tile floor. The stairs were on the far right of the living room, and there was no handrail; I remember clinging to the far wall on my way upstairs, knowing if I got too close to the right I'd fall onto the bookcases below. At the top of the stairs was Caitlin's bedroom, and then Tina & Gary's room beyond that; I remember thinking I wouldn't want my parents to traipse through my bedroom every morning and night.
I loved going to Tina & Gary's house. Tina talked to me like I was a grown-up and I liked that. I remember when Caitlin was born - I remember holding her when she was teeny and new and bundled in a blanket; it's my first memory of holding a baby. Caitlin and I became friends, even though we didn't see each other often; they were zoo members and would often invite Momma and I to join them for the day. I spent the night at their house, and from one of those visits comes my most vivid memory of Tina, the one that defines her in my mind as being a free spirit:
It was morning. Caitlin and I were eating cereal or waffles or something at the little table in the kitchen; Tina came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her...mostly. I diverted my eyes; nakedness wasn't something you frequently saw in my household. I mean, there was that one time when I had that awful nightmare and woke up screaming and Momma came running into my bedroom in her panties and nothing else, and there was Daddy right behind her in his tighty-whities; but that was a pretty isolated event. We weren't prudes, we just kept ourselves clothed most of the time. Anyhow, Tina noticed my embarrassment, and she called me on it:
"What's wrong, Nat?" She flung open her towel and shook it from side to side, as if she were trying to dry off her back, her large breasts swaying from side to side, her belly jiggling - "They're just BOOBIES!!!" Caitlin jumped up and yelled "Boobies!!!" and ran over and grabbed Tina's right breast and bounced it up and down a couple times. They were laughing hysterically. I was too, in a nervous 'what the fuck just happened' sort of way. Tina closed up her towel and went on to explain how nudity is nothing to be ashamed of, we're all made of the same parts.
A few years later, Tina decided she wanted to be a doctor, so, at 35, she went back to school and did just that. She thrilled me with stories of Gross Anatomy and disgusted me with tales from her residency (like the one about the lady who had a horrible smell coming from her girl parts and couldn't figure out why, for weeks, until she saw Tina and Tina discovered a three-week-old forgotten tampon that was mouldering in the lady's vag. I understand if you need a moment to puke now. I'm sorry.) She promised to deliver my first-born child free of charge, so long as I was married and a college graduate.
They moved to Ohio, and our visits stopped for years. We went to see them once; they owned a farm and horses. Gary let me ride, but put me bareback on a horse that hadn't been ridden in weeks, and I was immediately thrown. It was my first time on a horse. I got back on, with a saddle, but my opinion of horses was forever changed. I was 13. Caitlin was away at school.
I tried to find Tina a few times over the years, but I never knew where she was living. I'd heard she was working at Bellevue in New York, after deciding medicine wasn't for her and psychiatry was where it was at; I heard she had a private practice down near Mammoth Cave, KY. She popped up again a few years back, showing up on Momma & Daddy's doorstep unannounced, like a surprise party wrapped up in one person. We connected a few months later and had dinner and shared a joint, talking of our lives and how they're nothing like we'd pictured 20 years ago, but I've not seen her since.
Today will be good. I've not seen Caitlin since before we hit puberty. Many of Momma & Daddy's friends will be there, and that guarantees a good time will be had by all. And if I don't leave right now to go shopping, I'm not going to have anything to wear and there will be a major clothing-crisis-meltdown, so I'd better go.
Happy Saturday, Friends! I hope it's sunny where you are, even if only in your heart. :)
I'm pretty excited about this wedding, strangely enough; I haven't cared much for weddings since my divorce, sort of the way baby showers are off limits since my miscarriage. But this wedding, this is a wedding I'm looking forward to because the party is going to be kick-rockin'-awesome. The bride is the daughter of a man and woman my Daddy's known since the late seventies; he was roommates with both of them when he got out of the Army and came back to Kentucky. (That's the part of the story that always made me go "huh? why was a girl living with you?" I hope you're there with me, because I'm going to tell you...)
Daddy was living in a house in Taylorsville with several other guys, three or four, and one of them, Gary, was dating a girl named Tina. Tina lived in an apartment upstairs from a funeral home. She was smart and spunky and skinny and completely belonged in the seventies, with her flipped back hair and itty bitty bikini. One sunny afternoon, Tina decided she was going to sunbathe. On the front lawn. Of the funeral home. During a wake. (There's a chance I made that "during a wake" part up, but it makes the story funnier, doesn't it?) Tina was asked to vacate her apartment, which she came to understand when her belongings were thrown out on the front lawn. When she showed up on their doorstep with all her things and a sob story about no place to go, the guys couldn't send her away. That's how she came to live with a bunch of dudes.
Tina and Gary eventually married and moved to the Highlands in Louisville. (That's where the hippies live.) They had a house that was, in my childhood eyes, huge and open and eccentric and colorful and awesome; I think it was the first house I was ever in that had 10-foot ceilings, and I'm sure that detail influenced my opinion greatly. There was one big living room downstairs full of bookshelves and knick-knacks (I've mentioned my love of all things clutter, I believe?) The kitchen was off to the left, with white cabinets and white appliances and a white tile floor. The stairs were on the far right of the living room, and there was no handrail; I remember clinging to the far wall on my way upstairs, knowing if I got too close to the right I'd fall onto the bookcases below. At the top of the stairs was Caitlin's bedroom, and then Tina & Gary's room beyond that; I remember thinking I wouldn't want my parents to traipse through my bedroom every morning and night.
I loved going to Tina & Gary's house. Tina talked to me like I was a grown-up and I liked that. I remember when Caitlin was born - I remember holding her when she was teeny and new and bundled in a blanket; it's my first memory of holding a baby. Caitlin and I became friends, even though we didn't see each other often; they were zoo members and would often invite Momma and I to join them for the day. I spent the night at their house, and from one of those visits comes my most vivid memory of Tina, the one that defines her in my mind as being a free spirit:
It was morning. Caitlin and I were eating cereal or waffles or something at the little table in the kitchen; Tina came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her...mostly. I diverted my eyes; nakedness wasn't something you frequently saw in my household. I mean, there was that one time when I had that awful nightmare and woke up screaming and Momma came running into my bedroom in her panties and nothing else, and there was Daddy right behind her in his tighty-whities; but that was a pretty isolated event. We weren't prudes, we just kept ourselves clothed most of the time. Anyhow, Tina noticed my embarrassment, and she called me on it:
"What's wrong, Nat?" She flung open her towel and shook it from side to side, as if she were trying to dry off her back, her large breasts swaying from side to side, her belly jiggling - "They're just BOOBIES!!!" Caitlin jumped up and yelled "Boobies!!!" and ran over and grabbed Tina's right breast and bounced it up and down a couple times. They were laughing hysterically. I was too, in a nervous 'what the fuck just happened' sort of way. Tina closed up her towel and went on to explain how nudity is nothing to be ashamed of, we're all made of the same parts.
A few years later, Tina decided she wanted to be a doctor, so, at 35, she went back to school and did just that. She thrilled me with stories of Gross Anatomy and disgusted me with tales from her residency (like the one about the lady who had a horrible smell coming from her girl parts and couldn't figure out why, for weeks, until she saw Tina and Tina discovered a three-week-old forgotten tampon that was mouldering in the lady's vag. I understand if you need a moment to puke now. I'm sorry.) She promised to deliver my first-born child free of charge, so long as I was married and a college graduate.
They moved to Ohio, and our visits stopped for years. We went to see them once; they owned a farm and horses. Gary let me ride, but put me bareback on a horse that hadn't been ridden in weeks, and I was immediately thrown. It was my first time on a horse. I got back on, with a saddle, but my opinion of horses was forever changed. I was 13. Caitlin was away at school.
I tried to find Tina a few times over the years, but I never knew where she was living. I'd heard she was working at Bellevue in New York, after deciding medicine wasn't for her and psychiatry was where it was at; I heard she had a private practice down near Mammoth Cave, KY. She popped up again a few years back, showing up on Momma & Daddy's doorstep unannounced, like a surprise party wrapped up in one person. We connected a few months later and had dinner and shared a joint, talking of our lives and how they're nothing like we'd pictured 20 years ago, but I've not seen her since.
Today will be good. I've not seen Caitlin since before we hit puberty. Many of Momma & Daddy's friends will be there, and that guarantees a good time will be had by all. And if I don't leave right now to go shopping, I'm not going to have anything to wear and there will be a major clothing-crisis-meltdown, so I'd better go.
Happy Saturday, Friends! I hope it's sunny where you are, even if only in your heart. :)
Monday, June 13, 2011
Wait, is that a soapbox I'm standing on? My bad.
I like to think that if I'd been alive in the 1860s, I would've done something to get involved in the abolitionist movement. I most definitely wouldn't have "owned" slaves...right? I say now, from a 21st century perspective, that I never would've participated in such a ghastly practice, but would I have? If all my friends did? Or maybe I would've just sat back and made noises about how slavery is wrong the way they do it in the DEEP south but had at my disposal a dozen excuses for why it was okay for me because I was kinder and more humane. Or maybe I would've not held any slaves due to my location or position, but would've thought it was perfectly normal and acceptable. Or maybe I would've been anti-slavery, but in talking points at parties only - you know, the sort that agrees that slavery is a bad thing, but wouldn't dream of actually doing anything about it because of the risks associated with such a movement.
I tell myself that if I'd come of age during the Civil Rights Movement, I would've sat at lunch counters with black friends in protest of laws that said they were equal but not. I would've marched on Washington...surely I would've. Right? Or would I have been too into free love and drugs and rock'n'roll to notice that I didn't have any black friends because we were kept apart in all ways?
There are some things going down right now in this great nation of ours that strike me as being nearly as turning-point, monumental, huge as those two things were. It feels like we're standing on an edge, and I'm scared to see which way we're going to fall.
Here are some things I was taught to believe about why America is the greatest nation in the world:
1. Freedom. Just in general, freedom. Here, everyone is free to do as they please, provided they're not hurting someone else in the process. This lesson was taught with a hint that, anywhere else in the world, you'd get arrested for small infractions like talking without raising your hand.
2. Prosperity. Here, everyone has enough and there is plenty for everyone. We're the richest nation in the world! There are hungry people out there, but they're not here.
3. Freedom of religion - believe whatever you want! It's why the Pilgrims came here, after all.
4. Opportunity - you can be whomever or whatever you wish, if you're willing to work hard enough.
5. Separation of Church and State, Separation of Government Powers, Checks and Balances, Justice is Blind.
Part of me, the child who loved fireworks and singing The Star Spangled Banner and saying the Pledge of Allegiance each morning and raising the school's stars and stripes, part of me still can feel the pride swell up the way it did when I used to believe in those things. Once upon a time, I knew those things to be truths the way I knew my name was Natalie. That childhood/adolescent patriotism has been replaced by cynicism and doubt and mistrust in a system I thought was designed to protect the least of those among us. What happened to the American Dream? Is it just growing up that takes away all the shiny and replaces it with stark reality? Or have things really gotten that bad?
Our elected officials lie to us about pictures they send on the internet, and we think they're going to tell us the truth about where our tax dollars are going? The corporations that threw the world's economy into a tailspin get billions in government bailouts, but we're told pensions for firefighters and policemen and teachers are bankrupting us? Our politicians are fucking us six ways to Sunday while they whisper sweet nothings in our ears, like how Planned Parenthood is the devil because they provide abortions and pap smears and condoms to women without medical insurance. Oh my God, and whatever you do, don't let gay people get married because it'll be the end of the world as we know it - there will be donkey shows on Main Street at 3:00 and 4:30 every afternoon, your husband will suddenly need 2 more wives, and little Johnny will start humping the family dog.
What the fuck, America? Are we that lazy and dumb that we're just going to sit here and watch while stupid takes over our nation?
I've got to do something. I don't know what, but I'm going to figure something out. I'll write a letter or hold a sign or get sprayed by a firehose or something - I just can't take sitting here and watching this country I grew up loving go all to shit.
Why is the American public suffering while Wall Street laughs all the way to the bank? Why are we allowing our elected officials to attack the ones who are supposed to educate and protect us? Why are we trying to strip medical access from the poor? Why are we treating people like they're second class citizens because of who they want to fuck? (Hello, Congress, I'm talking to you, you scandalous cretins - you should be the first ones on the "don't judge me for my sexual behaviors" bandwagon.)
I just can't take the hypocrisy. I can't stand the dumb. How do I fix it? Where do I start?
I tell myself that if I'd come of age during the Civil Rights Movement, I would've sat at lunch counters with black friends in protest of laws that said they were equal but not. I would've marched on Washington...surely I would've. Right? Or would I have been too into free love and drugs and rock'n'roll to notice that I didn't have any black friends because we were kept apart in all ways?
There are some things going down right now in this great nation of ours that strike me as being nearly as turning-point, monumental, huge as those two things were. It feels like we're standing on an edge, and I'm scared to see which way we're going to fall.
Here are some things I was taught to believe about why America is the greatest nation in the world:
1. Freedom. Just in general, freedom. Here, everyone is free to do as they please, provided they're not hurting someone else in the process. This lesson was taught with a hint that, anywhere else in the world, you'd get arrested for small infractions like talking without raising your hand.
2. Prosperity. Here, everyone has enough and there is plenty for everyone. We're the richest nation in the world! There are hungry people out there, but they're not here.
3. Freedom of religion - believe whatever you want! It's why the Pilgrims came here, after all.
4. Opportunity - you can be whomever or whatever you wish, if you're willing to work hard enough.
5. Separation of Church and State, Separation of Government Powers, Checks and Balances, Justice is Blind.
Part of me, the child who loved fireworks and singing The Star Spangled Banner and saying the Pledge of Allegiance each morning and raising the school's stars and stripes, part of me still can feel the pride swell up the way it did when I used to believe in those things. Once upon a time, I knew those things to be truths the way I knew my name was Natalie. That childhood/adolescent patriotism has been replaced by cynicism and doubt and mistrust in a system I thought was designed to protect the least of those among us. What happened to the American Dream? Is it just growing up that takes away all the shiny and replaces it with stark reality? Or have things really gotten that bad?
Our elected officials lie to us about pictures they send on the internet, and we think they're going to tell us the truth about where our tax dollars are going? The corporations that threw the world's economy into a tailspin get billions in government bailouts, but we're told pensions for firefighters and policemen and teachers are bankrupting us? Our politicians are fucking us six ways to Sunday while they whisper sweet nothings in our ears, like how Planned Parenthood is the devil because they provide abortions and pap smears and condoms to women without medical insurance. Oh my God, and whatever you do, don't let gay people get married because it'll be the end of the world as we know it - there will be donkey shows on Main Street at 3:00 and 4:30 every afternoon, your husband will suddenly need 2 more wives, and little Johnny will start humping the family dog.
What the fuck, America? Are we that lazy and dumb that we're just going to sit here and watch while stupid takes over our nation?
I've got to do something. I don't know what, but I'm going to figure something out. I'll write a letter or hold a sign or get sprayed by a firehose or something - I just can't take sitting here and watching this country I grew up loving go all to shit.
Why is the American public suffering while Wall Street laughs all the way to the bank? Why are we allowing our elected officials to attack the ones who are supposed to educate and protect us? Why are we trying to strip medical access from the poor? Why are we treating people like they're second class citizens because of who they want to fuck? (Hello, Congress, I'm talking to you, you scandalous cretins - you should be the first ones on the "don't judge me for my sexual behaviors" bandwagon.)
I just can't take the hypocrisy. I can't stand the dumb. How do I fix it? Where do I start?
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