Category Archives: Getting Real

Hormones vs. Hormones

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I woke up in a bad mood this morning. A real bad mood. Even the text to my mother was full of venom. I’m pretty sure she was praying. Thanking the good Lord that she was 639.59 miles away. Safely tucked away in the sweet plains of The South.

I don’t know why I woke up this way. I just did. It happens. So, when I told The Kid to empty the dishwasher, she replied through gritted teeth with a “PLEEEASSSE???” You know, the kind of “please” you say to your two year old when she demands a lollipop.

This was probably not the best day to get snarky on me. Peri-menopausal women are a force to be reckoned with. “Force” as in an Uzi With A Vagina. But what does she know? She’s only 16. So much to learn. Poor thing.

What was my reply? “I don’t think so, child. This is your chore. Why I feel the need to remind you to do your chore is beyond me. So no, I will NOT SAY PLEASE!”

When she was done with her chore, I told her she had an attitude and that I didn’t like it. “Mom, can I say something to you?” she asked.

The previous night I was at the high school for a seminar. It was about drug awareness. Three kids from our town came to speak about their drug and alcohol addictions. A child professional got up and spoke for a bit. One of the things he said is to listen to your child. Never dismiss her.

Usually when I am in this type of foul mood, I would say something really stupid and completely against what all child development people would recommend saying. They would not only cringe at my reaction, but would probably have my kid in some kind of therapy for the next 20 years.

When I am in this mood, it would sound something like this: “no, you can’t say anything because whatever you say right now will not help you. Now go upstairs and get ready for school.” But I didn’t. I stopped and I thought before I spoke. I know, this is a shocker. My mouth is usually louder and faster than my brain.

“Yes, you may.” I nearly had a heart attack at my own reaction. “Mom, why is it every time YOU’RE in a bad mood, we have to suffer?” I looked around for DH. So sure he was hiding in the shadows with a $20 bill.

I was rendered speechless. This is the second “attack” I’ve had from my family in a week. I use the word “attack” loosely. It was more like an awakening. The first time, when we were in the car going somewhere, it was what I like to refer to as a “come to Jesus” meeting. Except I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo. “We think you are going through menopause and we don’t like it. You’ve kind of been mean lately.”

They were as nice as they could be about it. But I sit here thinking about these occurrences. Yes, I have been pretty bitchy around here. Not always. I’m not one of those raging lunatics who should probably be committed. But I have my moments. Perhaps a little more than less lately.

And I know why. Sure, hormones play a part in it. I was born hormonal. You should have seen me as a teen. Think Regan without the complete head turn. Damned as I tried, I could only get my head to go 3/4 of the way around.

I haven’t been taking care of myself as well as I should. I stopped exercising. Exercise plays a huge part in feeling good. It’s got something to do with endorphins. Endorphins are your best friend. But I digress.

Whatever the reason, it’s not a good enough one to treat the people you love the most in this world the worst. No, I seem to save my best mood for everyone else. Friends, strangers, people who I try too hard with.

So, in my eye-opening last two weeks, I’ve decided that I need to lighten up on the closest people to me — my family. I can still be great to my friends. Kind to strangers. Civil to everyone else.

I’m going to save my good energy for my people. The people who, even though I act like Sybil at times, still love me back and never give up on me. Even in my peri-menopausal semi-crazed rage.

With that being said, we are still allowed to get upset with our children when they don’t listen. When they don’t do what we ask them to do. Perhaps I don’t need to spit blood, but I can be a little exasperated. And I’ll try to keep the Regan to a minimum. I promise.

Confessions of a Slob

I have a confession to make.  I am a slob.  A pig.  I really, really am.

When you come into my home and I say to you, “excuse my dirty house.” I’m not lying. I’m not saying that to fish for compliments. It is dirty. Well, to the naked eye, it may not appear to be. But people, I promise you if you get too close, you will see what I’m talking about.

If you’ve been to my house, you have said, “Mo, your house is so clean all the time.” No. No, it’s not. Do not come over here with your white glove because you will be sorely disappointed. Also, you better call first and not do one of those “I was in the area” kind of things because you will totally catch me and feel like our friendship has been a complete sham.

I had a conversation with a friend recently. We were talking about cleaning and how much we hate it. I commented to her that I haven’t cleaned my house, like really, really cleaned it in quite some time. She’s been to my house. I had to go retrieve the shovel out of her garage to pick up her jaw.

I have a secret weapon. Actually, I have 2 secret weapons. Secret Weapon #1 is DH. He abhors clutter. He is always “straightening” up. Picking up crap that I or The Kid have left all over the house because I don’t care what. If it’s been a long day and I come into the house with crap, I will drop that crap right wherever I am standing and worry about it later. Like way later. Like, if I didn’t have DH, it would still be there, later.

Secret Weapon #2 are those cute little Lysol wipes that you can buy in Costco in a three pack. Here’s how it goes: My phone rings, “ring, ring.”  “Hello,” says me.  “Hey Mo, it’s Justin Timberlake. I feel like I want to pop on by. Are you free?” “Hells yes, JT. I’m always free for you.” I’m all panicky inside for a moment. But not to worry because I have SW2 (Secret Weapon #2) sitting in just about every closet in my house.

 

Look, JT is all "damn girl, your house is clean."

Look, JT is all “damn girl, your house is cleeeeen. Yeah.”

I whip out a canister and go to town. I wipe down the counters, the bathroom sinks, the heating baseboard thingies, I even stick my hand in the toilet and wipe clean those unsightly, nasty rings in there. Why does that happen? It’s so gross. But don’t worry I wash my hand real good before I make you a ham sandwich.

Oh wait, my rug. Damn, that foyer runner gets dirt and paper lint and whoknowswhatelse all over it. But have no fear! I have the cutest little vacuum cleaner that doesn’t even need to be plugged in that hubby bought back some time ago.

I go retrieve that from the little mud room and VOILA! It’s super powerful and super fast and I don’t have to worry about unwinding the cord and finding an outlet and tripping all over it and then winding that bad boy back up and then shoving it back into a closet that has so much crap in there that it’s nearly impossible to close the door.

I guess I really have 3 Secret Weapons. Okay, sorry about that.

So, by the time JT gets here, my house not only sparkles, but it smells clean too. Even if he is just at the corner, I have literally cleaned my house in 37 seconds. But the trick is to not give him a tour of the ranch. I make sure the upstairs is off limits. You know, make up some little white lie like “we’re having the master bathroom renovated and there is just dust everywhere. I’m telling you. Those damn bathroom renovator guys are so sloppy.”

Here’s the thing:  life is too short for cleaning all the time. I can’t see a reason to be on top of it.  So what?  I’m pretty sure no one has actually died from having a less than perfectly clean house. I mean I never actually did any research on that subject, but I’ll bet I’m right.

When I was first married, I was really good at keeping the house clean. Once a week no matter what, I’d clean the house from top to bottom. Even when The Kid was born. I would strap that baby to the front of me in one of those fake Baby Bjorn things and go to town.

And then DH asked me what I wanted for my birthday one year. “A housecleaner” came out of my mouth without thinking about it twice. This was when I went back to work as a temp so it was justified. It was heaven on earth. Every other week this house would get a scrub-down. And on the other every other week? Eh. Why bother? The housecleaner was coming in 7 days.

Then I lost my job. And DH and I thought it was an expense that we didn’t need to have especially since I had all this new free time. Now? Well, I just told you. The end.

Wanna come over? JT will be here any minute. Oh, wait. He didn’t really call, did he? Never mind, you can’t come over. The house is a mess.

Sportster I am Not

tumblr_maiay7h8EL1qeq7r2o1_500 I think today or yesterday was opening day of football. How do I know? Because people on Facebook and everywhere I go are totally pumped up about it.

Do I have to like sports? No, I don’t believe I do. But somehow I feel like a big idiot, and an anti-American whenever I have the conversation with other people. Or more accurately, when other people have the conversation with me. “So, who do you root for, the Yankees or Red Socks? Ice Hockey is so awesome, isn’t it? Did you go to the US Open?”

Umm, my answers? The Red Socks is baseball, right? I wouldn’t know, and the US Open of what? I come from a long line of bathletes. I just made that up…Bad Athletes. Clever, right?

Neither of my parents are good at sports. My mother took I-can’t-even-tell-you-how-many-years of swim lessons but yet she sinks like a rock (my dad can swim, he was Captain of his swim team in high school. Forgot about that. One point for dad).

My dad threw a ball around to my brothers, pretending to know what he was doing. I never played anything unless I was forced to in gym class but then still didn’t because I either feigned illness or just cut the class.

Once, when I was 20, I was on a softball team for a corporate event at work but I ran away from the ball when it was coming toward me instead of running toward it.

DH was quarterback on his high school football team. His father was a coach. All 3 of his brothers are absolute die-hard football junkies. DH hates football. He doesn’t follow baseball. Or basketball. Or hockey. Or golf. He does like motorcycle stuff and some race car stuff and a little cage fighting. But I get the feeling that doesn’t really count either.

What I’m saying is I don’t have, nor have I ever, had any teachers. So, I sit at the sidelines of The Kid’s field hockey games looking as if someone just tried to explain quantum physics to me.

“Why do those referee people keep blowing their whistles? What the hell just happened? If someone hit that ball into that net, does that mean we scored? Wait. Which net is ours? What color is ours? Why is everyone clapping? Did I miss something again?” I suppose if I stopped treating it as a social event I might understand the game a bit more.

Why is The Kid on a sport’s team in high school if there really isn’t much athletic ability in the family? Well, in my side of the family. DH I’m sure is good at sports, I’ve just never seen him in action. But he has no desire. Get my point?

We kind of made her pick something. She’s not bad. She’s not star quality. But she’s not bad.

I got off topic a little. I hate sports. It bores me to tears. Sometimes I wish it didn’t. People get together for football games and baseball games and all that jazz and me and my family just don’t, and have no desire.

Do I feel bad? Kind of. I mean, not enough to lose sleep over. And when all those women become football widows or whatever it is, I’m always so grateful that I’m not one. But, maybe I should know about one sport or another? Perhaps.

What is my pointless rambling all about? Nothing really. Just that I don’t like sports and that I feel stupid. Why is that? I don’t know. I suppose I should be at peace with it and embrace my bathleticism.

So, how about those Harlem Globetrotters?  Can’t wait for the Super Series. Hope they hit a goal. Honestly, I really do like that half show. It’s epic.

My One Hundred and Eighty Dollar Shirt

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I could not wait to graduate high school. I had it all planned out. No college. Good paying job. Apartment. In that order.

It didn’t happen that way. Well, mostly it didn’t happen that way. I didn’t go to college but you all know that because I’ve mentioned it once or twice or fifty times.

I did get a job. I landed a job with a large corporation making 15 thousand dollars a year. I remember being so damn proud of that 15 thousand dollars that I actually contacted my shorthand teacher from high school and told her like it was the biggest news since the invention of the toaster.

And then the credit union told me I could open my own credit card. I COULD HAVE MY OWN CREDIT CARD, PEOPLE! I screamed it from the rooftops. And then I ran to the mall.

Let’s just say that there is nothing worse than trying to buy a 75 cent pack of gum and having the store clerk cut up your credit card before your very eyes because you have reached the limit. Three months after you receive it.

Then, I got checks. A whole, entire checkbook full of them. You know that expression, “I can’t be out of money, I still have checks left?” That was me. My checks bounced more than a Super Ball. I’m surprised the feds didn’t come after me.

Then I met a man. This man not only never bounced a check in his entire life. But he never racked up even a dime’s worth of credit card debt. And he still hasn’t 28 years later. How do I know? Because I married him.

It makes him crazy. The way I spend money. Give me 10 bucks and I’ll have it spent before you leave the room. I don’t know how. It’s a talent I have. Seriously. You’d be amazed. I probably should get my own show in Vegas.

Anyway, back to what I wanted to talk about. What was it again? Oh, right. My early life plan.

No college. Check.

Good paying job. Umm, let’s just go with “paying” job. Half Check.

Apartment. Fail.

Why did I fail? Because I didn’t have any money. Because the credit union gave a 19-year-old baby-faced girl a credit card with a $2,500 credit limit and a book full of checks.

I sometimes regret my errant ways. Sometimes I do. I mean, I do okay now. Because I have DH. He keeps me on the straight and narrow.

He takes care of the bills. I did take them over once but I accidentally wrote an extra zero on the end of our mortgage payment. Yeah, that went over about as well as a fart in an elevator. But, it was a good way to get out of that chore.

Also, when you vacuum? Bang into all the wood furniture. It’s a sure way to get rid of that chore too.

See how devious I am? I amaze even myself. That, my friends, is the best advice I could give a new bride. Dent the furniture. It works. Skip the sex talk on their wedding day, teach your daughter how to get out of household chores. She’ll thank you later.

Whoa, did I ever digress there. Phew. Sorry, I’m into a couple of glasses of Prosecco.

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Here’s the proof

Anyway, I think my point is that young girls (and boys, but since I’m not a boy, I can’t really speak for them) everywhere should really be careful with their finances. If you aren’t smart about it early on, it could potentially be a life-long problem.

But damn, did I have the best wardrobe ever when I was 20. Unfortunately, that $30 dollar shirt was more like $180 by the time I paid it off. Interest. It’s called interest. The credit union forgot to tell me about that. Or maybe they did. I also had a problem with listening.

Still, I was pretty cute in that shirt.

What’s the lesson here? Stick to your plan, don’t spend too much money and if you have checks left? It doesn’t necessarily mean you have money in there. Check the balance. That is, if you kept a balance. Then you’re screwed.

Who Are You?

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Have you ever sat and wondered about yourself?  Like, who you are?  Who you really are?  For the most part, we are good people.  Well, except for the murderers, the rapists, the child molesters, the drug dealers.  But most of us are good.  Even as good people, we have flaws.  We’re all a bit judgemental.  We’re all a little jealous.  We’re all a little mean at times.  And we women?  Damn, we can be downright catty.  But that’s another story, for another time.

There is this chick I knew, who seemed to have alienated a lot of her friends.  I remember hearing her talk about how horrible people were to her.  She complained about her co-workers, family members, friends, teachers.  At first, I felt for this poor woman.  Because she seemed so cool and fun otherwise.  “How can people be so mean to her?  She’s pretty awesome,” I used to think.  I actually really, really liked her.  But the complaining never ended.  It seemed that she was always the victim.  Everyone was always out to get her.  And then she alienated my family.  It took a long time, but I finally saw that it wasn’t everybody else.  It was her.  I saw it, a lot of other people saw it.  She did not.  And unfortunately, continues to not see it.

Here’s my question:  When is it in a person’s life that we wake up and say, “gee, maybe it’s me?”  For some, it does happen.  For others, they will always remain the victim and never see the error of their ways.  And that’s sad.  It seems like a downright waste of time.  To go through life being a victim, being angry, holding grudges.  Not to mention all the bad energy you expel.  It can’t be good for the environment.

About a year ago, I sat down and asked myself a question.  Why would someone not like me?  Typically, I don’t really care if someone likes me or not.  I mean, if I’m a good person and mean well, right?  I am aware that I’m a little obnoxious and completely inappropriate.  I’m loud.  Sometimes I leave my filter at home.  But that is me.  If someone doesn’t like it, that’s fine.  I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.  I get that.

But I can be hurtful.  Maybe not so much on purpose.  Maybe sometimes yes, on purpose, if I’m being honest here.  For example, I’ve given my opinion when my opinion wasn’t asked for.  I realize my mistakes.  I’ve corrected them.  I try to keep the filter closely attached to my trap.  I am accountable for my actions.  Sure, I’m still loud, obnoxious and inappropriate.  That’s just me.  But I really do try to pay attention to how I come off when I feel the need to judge someone else.  Because no one has a right to judge.  Unless you are perfect.  And there is no such thing.  My parents always told me so.  And I believe them.

I’m just saying, take the time to reevaluate yourself.  Have you been unkind?  Have you said something not so nice to someone or about someone?  Are you feeling like a victim all the time?  Step back and take a look at yourself instead of everyone else around you.  I understand that sometimes, these feelings may be legitimate.  But sometimes, they are not.  If it’s a pattern, you may very well be the problem.

We all make mistakes.  But please, for the good of all mankind, can you just call yourself out on it?  Be accountable?  I try.  And I’m a better person because of it.  Hey, I slip up.  But I reel myself back in.  Being human can suck.  But let’s just try to be as real as possible.  The world would be a much better place.

Twitter Twatter Tweet

Twitter

A few months ago I opened a Twitter account. I only did it because of my blog. I’ve read that it’s one of a bazillion on-line social media outlets that you need to help you to be successful, blah blah. I don’t have many followers. Barely 90. I would think that would be a lot if it were my own personal Twitter account. But it’s not. I am painfully aware that 90 is nothing for the purpose of its creation.

Here’s my problem: I don’t know how to use it. My daughter tries to show me. I just don’t get the hashtag, the retweet, the favorite. And reply? It scares the crap out of me. Recently, I thought this chick was talking to me personally so I replied to her. The daughter berated me and basically said I was embarrassing. Whatever.

Oh, I forgot to mention that I really don’t understand that whole Twitter party thing. I like parties. No, let me rephrase that. I LOVE parties. I am The Party Girl. This party? Umm, no. Not for me. I can’t seem to find my way to the front door. Which is okay, because I don’t think they serve wine anyway.

Can I confess something without being stoned to death? I hate Twitter. I am a Twitter degenerate. Every single time I go in there, I am bombarded with tweets from the 104 people I am following. It could quite possibly take me a full day to catch up on my tweets. And what if I like something? What do I do? I’m afraid of doing something I can’t take back.

And what the hell would anybody who is following me find so interesting in what I have to say? “Oh, I just lost 5 pounds cuz I pooped for the first time in three days?” Oh, yeah. Compelling. Some people are so damn creative and funny. When I read some tweets, I laugh and then think, “gee, why didn’t I think of that?”

Also, if I do want to say something, it’s usually a lot. I like Facebook because I can chat to my heart’s content. Twitter? I think I get like 20 characters or something. Okay, so I’m exaggerating. Still. Not enough. Hello? Have you met me?

So, here I am. Letting days or even weeks go by before I look at my Twitter because I am afraid of it. Every time I look at my iPhone and I see that little birdie sitting there, mocking me, I break out in a sweat. In the last three minutes, I have gotten like 23 notifications. Oh sorry, I believe I’m using the incorrect terminology. “Tweets.” Good Lord. What do I do with them all?

This thought process brings me to other thought processes like whatever happened to the good old days where everything was so easy? I miss rotary phones, beepers and Kodak film.

What was the hottest thing in technology when I was 15? A Walkman. I would walk around with my Walkman and listen to music and not share it with a bazillion (90) other people. And that’s a good thing, right? Back in the day when the tweet came from Polly the Parakeet. I think I like that better.

Generation Bad News

love-poster-quote_1800-2What is it about this generation?  When I was a kid, all we worried about was if Maria wanted to fight you because you kissed her boyfriend.  “Meet me behind the school after the last bell.”  So, we might go home with a black eye or get punched in the stomach and forced to vomit the meatball sandwich we ate for lunch, but so what?  We had our life intact.  No one thought to bring a gun or a knife to school.  I’m not saying it didn’t happen, I’m just saying it didn’t happen often.

Last Friday a bright young woman’s life was snuffed out.  For no reason.  She said “no” to a boy who asked her to prom and he didn’t like that answer.  So instead of being a man and walk away with his head held high, he decided to be a coward instead.  He took out a knife.  And without thinking about the repercussions, he took her life.  Just like that.

Last month, a teenage boy choked his girlfriend to death, then threw her in a stream.  All because they got into a fight.  This happened in my parent’s town in North Carolina.  In another part of the state, a teenage girl poisoned her grandmother because this grandmother took her cell phone away from her.

A year and a half ago, a young man went into an elementary school and killed 20 children and 6 others.  Then there’s Columbine.  Virginia Tech.  And this isn’t all.  Google “violent crimes committed by a minor.”  You will be shocked.  Children as young as 12 are on this list.  It’s disgusting.

So, here are my questions:  What are we doing wrong?  Why are our children killing others?  Why is there such total disrespect for human life?  Where is the fear of God?  Or morals?  Are we being too permissive?  Are we not imposing enough boundaries?  Are there too many outside influences beyond our control?  Too many violent video games?  Too much social media? 

I am in an outrage, as I’m sure many of you are.  I’m not happy that I can no longer feel that my child is safe at school.  That every morning there is a police officer standing at the entrance of the school in the event that some kid may lose his crap and start shooting at people.  I’m not saying that I’m not grateful for this police officer.  I am.  I understand that this is the new normal.  It still doesn’t make it right.

How did it get out of control?  I’m not judging.  We allow our teenage daughter to have her head in her phone way too long.  We give her not only what she needs, but what she wants more times than we probably should.  Maybe she doesn’t have enough chores around here.  But she has boundaries.  She knows right from wrong.  We took the time to show her the importance of compassion, how to love others.  We taught her to be strong and confident.  How to handle rejection.  How to be a good sport.  Respect human life.

We, as parents, need to step up and raise our children.  Don’t you have conversations with your friends that sound something like this:  “Geez, when I was a kid if I talked to my mother the way some of these kids speak to their mothers, I’d get an ass-whooping.”?

I don’t condone hitting your child.  I don’t agree with that.  But something is lacking.  Somewhere along the way, we messed up.  I could be wrong, but doesn’t it start in the home?  So, people, let’s fix this thing.  I can’t take another news story of a child taking someone else’s life.  There is something so wrong about that.  We need to stop the violence.  And we need to stop it today.  Who’s with me?

 

Procrastination Is Making Me Late

I was born of a mother who has a Type A personality.  I would even venture to say she is Type A+.  Even though it probably doesn’t exist.  But it has to exist because she is one.  I swear it.  Me on the other hand?  Type B—.  Triple negative.  My Type B is so Type B I’m almost dead.  Well, not really.   Because that’s a little morbid.  But you get my point.

After I quit My Retail Job, I thought it was a great time to catch up on all that I let slide because I just didn’t have the time.  I started by making a list.  These lists have lists.  Then I took a calendar, a beautiful calendar that a good friend made, and wrote what I will do every single day.  Good start, right?

Two words:  Major Fail.  Why is this happening to me?  Then I remembered what my good friend who made the calendar said to me once.  “You are not a list type of person.”  And she’s right.  I hate structure.  I hate organization.  I like to fly by the seat of my pants.  I could have a full day of cleaning and organizing planned out and if a friend calls to meet for lunch?  I’m out the door before she can even finish her sentence.

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This is my list of things-to-do. I got 2 things kinda done.  As you can see.  Oh, wait.  Maybe 3.

Does this just flat out mean I’m a procrastinator?  Because I will put off and put off and put off until the cows come home.  Even longer than that because the cows come home eventually.  I have procrastinated so long that my projects have projects.

Now I am in a place where my brain is so over-whelmed that I think it has shut down to save itself from being fried.  You know, short circuiting.

I don’t know where to start.  I want to start.  I do.  So I can finish.  And so I can turn my brain back on because I kind of need it.  But I’m not a list person and I don’t know how to do it without one.  See my problem?

I seriously feel like a dog chasing its tail.  Call me Spot.  “See Spot Run.  Oh wait, what is Spot doing?  He is chasing his tail.  But, that is not how the story goes.  Spot is ruining this story.  We need a new Spot.”  See?  I told you my brain has shut off.  I don’t make sense.  How did Spot even get in my story?

revelI know.  Like the Nike commercial says:  “Just Do It.”  Okay.  Here I go.  Oh heck.  I’ll start next Monday.  I’m just going to do what the calendar says to do.  “Revel in my messiness.”  I didn’t even notice that until yesterday.  Looks like I wasted my time and ruined a perfectly good February.

All this procrastinating is making me sleepy.  I’m going to take a nap.  If you need me, flip the ON switch.  It’s to the right of my … oh damn, where did I put that thing?  Wait.  This was supposed to be about procrastination.  Not short term memory problems.  I’m going back to bed.  See you Monday.

I Beg Your Postpartum?

“Holy crap.  I just pushed a human being out of my vagina, my nether area, my unmentionables.  A freaking living, breathing human being.”  That was my thought after I gave birth to my 8 pound sweet baby girl.

I ripped stuff that doesn’t seem natural to rip (when I was in my way early twenties, a woman told me about this happening and I walked around with my rectum clenched for a year.  It traumatized me so much that I prayed to the birthing gods for 9 months for this to NOT happen to me, but alas).

What happened next?  Nothing.  As soon as that last bit of after-birth fell onto the hospital floor, my feelings were as cold as one of those sub-zero freezers.  I assume (I never was professionally diagnosed) I had what the experts would call Postpartum Depression.

I pretty much self-diagnosed myself.  But not until months later, after I felt better.  How do I know I was suffering from this condition?  It was really just a guess but here you go:

  1. After they handed her to me, I nearly dropped her on the ground.  As if she were a piece of luggage that I carried across the country and just couldn’t go another step with.  I actually hallucinated “Samsonite” written across her forehead.

    samsonite

    See her forehead? I knew it.

  2. When the nurses wheeled her in my room at 2am, I ripped their heads off.  It’s true because they were nice and round and rolled like a couple of bowling balls.  Strike!
  3. I would cry on my sitz-bath while speaking to my pediatrician every day for 2 weeks.  Yes, my pediatrician.  Hey, it saved me a hell of a lot of money on therapy bills — I highly recommend it.
  4. During middle-of-the-night feedings I feared that her head was going to spin on her shoulders like Regan in The Exorcist.  That’s normal, right?
  5. Besides breastfeeding, I didn’t have a desire to hold her.  I had a full out temper tantrum when DH went back to work.  Seriously.  I behaved more like a baby than my baby did.
  6. I had The Kid in June.  It was a hot summer so I rarely left the house.  For nearly 3 months.  It was hot.  Besides it meant I would have had to have gotten dressed.  And clearly that wasn’t happening.
  7. I wore the same clothes for 6 weeks.  Except my underwear.  I changed them at least weekly.  Well, someone did anyway.

    This is what I wore for weeks.  No lie.  Notice the attractive milk stain?

    This is what I wore for weeks. No lie. And my boobs were always leaking.

No one seemed to notice, especially me.  DH thought I was a little off, but no one told us about this possibility so it didn’t enter our minds.  Maybe we thought it was normal?  Well, I remember thinking it was normal.  I felt sad.  But don’t all new mothers feel sad?  I mean, our bodies were practically ripped in half and we had to take care of these people.

Luckily, after about 3 months, I got the spring back in my step.  They really should tell you about this stuff in Lamaze class.  Or somewhere along the line.  I mean, geez.  I was pregnant for 9 months.  There was plenty of time for a warning.  Although, I do have an extremely short attention span so maybe they did and I missed it?

I doubt it.  Anyway, my sweet baby girl is pushing the ripe old age of 16 and all is well.  I fell head-over-heels in love with her in spite of it all.  But I stopped there, at one child.

Would I have done it again?  Sure.  If you take out the blood, ass ripping, blood curdling pain and Cruella de Vil emotions.  Maybe.  But no one could promise me anything so it didn’t happen.  And I’m a better person because of it.  I’m sure.

Our Family Christmas Letter

holiday letterI do not write Christmas letters.  I do receive a very small handful of them from friends once a year.  I enjoy them.  It’s fun to catch up on their lives.  Even if they do live in the same town.  Why haven’t I written a Christmas letter?  Mainly because I can’t be bothered.  It takes every last bit of energy just to send out the cheesy little cards I do send out.  The funny thing is, Costco does them.  So I’m not really sure what I’m complaining about.  Still.  I’m surprised I get those suckers out the door in a timely manner.

Then, I thought the other day that this year I may actually go for it.  Write a Christmas letter.  That thought lasted precisely 32 seconds.  It involves way too much work and sucks up way too much printer ink.  Yes, people.  I am indeed both lazy AND cheap.  Instead, I will share with you what I would really like to write if I were to send one out.  Enjoy.

Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa, Season’s Greetings, Happy Hanukkah, Feliz Navidad and Happy Festivus,  

Aaah, another year over.  Where the hell did the time go?  Seriously.  It freaks me out just a little bit that I have been sending out Christmas cards for 15 years now.  15 years!  Why only 15 years?  Surely, all of you would have loved to have received an annual card containing our mugs (minus The Kid) throughout the years.  I’m pretty certain that you had been waiting with bated breath year after year.  I apologize.  Even though I know they end up in the city dump before Little Christmas gets here.

So, let’s see…what did 2013 bring?  Loads of changes.  Loads and loads of them.  I gave birth to a few more wrinkles.  Some more gray hairs sprouted out of both my head and eyebrows.  My ass is a little droopier than last year.  And so are my eyelids.  I discovered that I can no longer walk in heels.  I started working again.  In retail.  At my age.  Because I outdated myself by staying home to raise a person and I can’t find a job in the field I was trained to be in.  I lost some weight.  I started running.  But can no longer do that because I screwed up my knee and had to go in for surgery.  I’m not completely certain, but I think I’m starting to feel a very similar pain in the OTHER knee.  I still hate manual labor and pray every day for a magical elf to appear and do it all.  I’m still waiting.  For that magical elf.  I’m pretty sure one of these Elf’s On the Shelf is mine.  He just hasn’t found his way home.  Because he’s too busy playing with some little brat’s Barbie.  Selfish elf.  Barbie is such a fake bitch.  Why can’t he see that?

DH is doing great.  He has pretty much been with the same company since I met him just over 27 years ago and he just loves it.  He does.  He also loves his motorcycle.  So much so that it has its own room.  It’s okay though.  Because it is red and totally goes with the Christmas theme.  Bless that Ducati’s heart.  He still looks every bit as good as the day I met him (DH, not the bike).  Well, minus the hair.  But his stomach is flat and his bum is still where it started.  When we are out, people are shocked by how old he is.  “You are HOW OLD?  OMG!  You totally look soooo much younger.”  Gag. 

The Kid celebrated her 15th birthday this year.  15!  Holy hell.  15 year olds sure can suck the life out of you.  She’s usually pretty nice.  But sometimes when she shoots me that look when I ask her a “stupid” question, it’s all I can do to not get in there and wipe that smug look right off her face.  She’s really smart and made the High Honor Roll.  Is that how you say it?  Because growing up, that wasn’t a part of my vocabulary.  We are super duper proud of her.  If I didn’t actually see her come out of my very own vagina, I never would believe it.   If anyone out there went to high school with me, I swear I did not switch her with some kid at the hospital.  She received her Confirmation this year.  She got a big party at a restaurant with wait service and a 3 piece band.  When I received my Confirmation, I got, um…surely my mom made me spaghetti and meatballs or something.  Surely.  She still loves to irish dance and suck the ever loving energy and cash out of our accounts.  Can you believe she’s going to college in 2.75 years?  Damn.  There goes more cash out of our accounts.  Then I’m pretty sure she’s going to go get married and have kids.  So, basically our money will never, ever be ours.  I guess we could always move away to Mexico and go into hiding.  Eh.  I guess I would miss her too much.  And whatever rug rats she has that will call me Grandma.  Ugh.  Mexico, here we come!

As a family, we love to do outdoor activities.  Like, um, okay.  Outdoor activities makes me sneeze and forces me to expel too much energy so I just lied.  But just a little.  Because we did go kayaking once over the summer.  We also went on our boat that happens to suck the cash out of our accounts too.  I think our boat and The Kid are up to something.  I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but when I do, I will let you know.  Look for that update in next year’s letter.  Did I tell you about the awesome trip to Tahiti we took?  Always been a dream of mine.  Oh wait.  Sorry.  That was someone else’s vacation I was talking about.  Never mind.  We did make a day trip to the beach though.  Where I haphazardly put on sunscreen and burned the heck out of my cleavage and the upper part of my left arm.  The only good thing about that is I still kinda have a little tan in that area.  Gee, I hope I didn’t permanently damage my skin.  Oh well.  It goes lovely with those new wrinkles I told you about.

So, that was our year in a nutshell.  Please don’t be jealous.  I know you wish your family was hot like ours.  And just so you know, after this year, you will be receiving 2 more cards from us.  Suck it up.  This shit is exhausting.  Besides, we are going to need the stamp money for The Kid’s college text books.  Namaste.  Or whatever.