B.Y.O.K.

My teen is visiting dad in California.  So what awesome, fun, festive activities do I have going on tonight? 

DayQuil…Kleenex…NiQuil… Kleenex…Vicks Vapor Rub…Kleenex… Hauls Mentho-lyptus… and um, Kleenex…Steaming salt water…Kleenex…Vitamin C… more dang Kleenex…Orange Juice… Kleenex…Chicken Noodle Soup and a massive amount of Freaking Kleenex.

Oh, and a baby.  A crying baby.

Party’s at my house!  Bring your own Kleenex.

(Uh, remember the “I’m at my worst” comment I made in the Cat Lady post?  Yyyeeeaaahhhh… I stand corrected.)

Runs with Beer

Commitment is just a word, after all.
It doesn’t mean much, really.

I am not okay yet.
But I will be.
I will be.

Shopping Therapy

The day after I got served with divorce papers, I checked out a book from the library: How to Shop for a Husband.  Hmmmm, man- hunting analogies of shopping fun: pricey, high-end stores, bargain bins and clearance racks.  I figured it would serve as kind of a funny-ha-ha self-help therapy or something.  I don’t know; it’s my thing.  (Just go with it.) 

As it turns out, the book has some interesting concepts.  For example, you should shop for a man like you would shop for a dress.  You want one that fits right, is supportive and classic, and suits your style.  Hmmm.  Why didn’t I think of that?  I have always been more worried about “Am I good enough for you?”  than even bothering to ask the question in reverse. 

This has led to some regretful “purchases.” 

Time to shop at a new store, or better yet, just put shopping on hold for a lllloooonnnnnggggg  while.

Dear Nail Tech

I miss you…
The way you grab my fingers hard
Brushing and buffing to shiny perfection

I will see you again when my money does not go to diapers and formula
And my sleep is not deprived to the point of drool.

Until then, Nail Tech, stay strong.
I and my nubby, chewed fingernails will too.

Which Way Did I Go, Which Way Did I Go?

I’m working on finding me again.  The problem is that me is so buried under layers of you.

Old Flannel PJs

Christmas Eve I grab them out of the drawer.

Old and tattered from years wear.
Comfy.  Cozy.

Wait.  They were a gift.
About 9 years ago.
Christmas Eve, 2002, was it?
The year we were married.

From the mother in law. 
She never liked me.

Who would have thought then…
(well, except maybe for her?)

Now it’s my first Christmas without you.
Without us.

PJs are going in the trash.
Here’s to new traditions, new celebrations.
New life.
New pajamas.

Merry Christmas.

You Can’t Buy This

Is it weird that I was in the Wal-Mart (yes, we say “the” Wal-Mart here in Oklahoma) the other day and I was totally hating on the people in front of me in line?  They had all this stuff, apparently Christmas presents, and their total was like $314 (either the checker said it too loud or I am such a stalker). 

Anyway, I was jealous.  I wish I had $314 in my pocket to spend on cool Christmas gifts at the Wal-Mart.  Instead, I was buying baby wipes and diapers and wondering “What am I going to do for Christmas!?” (Sigh.)

Nevertheless, my family’s blessing this Christmas is worth waaaaay more than $314.  It’s a tiny little bundle of joy that comes in a pretty (and sometimes stinky and screaming) package of cute cuddley-ness.  All is well.

Nee-Ner, Nee-Ner

You got a new “$400 coat.”  Good for you.  Ya want a brownie button? 

I have spit up on my baggy, worn out Cabella’s sweatshirt and baby drool on my leg. What now, punk?!

Lingering Onion

Ok, so I found a burger wrapper under my seat, with guess what inside?  Onions!  Mystery solved.   Smell should fade quickly now…

Moon Over My Hammy (or an Apartment Complex in Tulsa)

I accidentally mooned the painters today.  (I don’t even understand how painters can paint in this weather.  Does paint freeze?)  Anyway, I had been climbing into the back seat of my car in a not-so lady like fashion.  (Hey, give me a break.  It was early and my brain isn’t fully functional until 10 am- and that’s without the every three hour bottle feedings.)  So anyway, I hear some hollering followed by some Spanish stuff. 

Since I haven’t taken a Spanish class since high school, my knowledge of the language is limited to some key phrases like “Donde esta el bano?”  I can also still count to diez like a ninja.  (Well, a Spanish ninja, anyway.  What is that?  A conquistador?). 

Anyway (again),  I was unable to interpret what they were saying.  At least I didn’t hear anything like “muy grande.”  So, it’s all bueno.

Queen of Denial

At first I thought it was confidence. 
I wanted to be closer.

Then I thought it was confidence, with a side of unresolved anger. 
I wanted to help.

I thought the growing anger was a defense.
I wanted to love the “real” you.

Finally I just saw the anger.
And I could live in denial no more.

Smell on Wheels

My car smells like fast food onions and baby diapers.

Stress Points? Score!

So, I took this stress quiz at http://www.mindtools.com/pages/article/newTCS_82.htm.  You “get” points for each life crises that you have faced within the past year.  High score, 300.  My score, 496. 

Tag line, please!

The life stressors refresher course helped me connect the dots on why I’m a walking accident.  Falling.  Dropping a steak knife off of the kitchen counter and stabbing my pinky toe, cutting my finger with scissors.  Hitting my head on the dryer door.  Walking into the bedroom door…

Stress= Distraction? Inability to concentrate? Impending illness? Help!

Daddy Carpetbucks and the Drunk Song

Lady Antebellum may have found a hit with Need You Now, but I call it “the drunk song” (or, if I were to be completely honest, “the booty call song”) and no, I do not think it’s nice that you think of me when you hear that song.

My life needs a tag line like “Here’s your sign” or “Things that make you go ‘hmmmmmm.”  Or, “Are you freaking kidding me?!”

Have a Nice Trip; See You Next Fall

I went to a company retreat several weeks ago.  It’s actually not a retreat.  It’s a boring training conference.  I think maybe the uppers just call it a “retreat” so the rest of us will feel better about going. 

And, actually, it wasn’t that boring this time.  They hired some guest speaker dude, Steve Pisca- something, who played his guitar and sang about boring meetings (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a-8uVR8iezk).  If you don’t see the humor in that, you have never sat through a boring meeting.  (Is “boring meeting” a redundancy?)  

Anyway, our first night of the retreat, my co-workers, T, J, M and I went out to dinner.  It was an upscale trendy burger and bottle place (http://www.blancburgers.com) where you can get a fancy-pants burger (M had bison!) and a bottle of beer or soda pop- you know, the vintage-y kinds. 

So, as we were leaving the place, I tripped and fell.  Yes, fell.  Flat-on-my-face-sprawled-out-on-the-concrete fell.  I wasn’t drinking or chewing gum or anything! 

Funny how falling is done in slow motion.  In the 1.5 seconds it took my face to become intimate with the sidewalk, I was able to have this conversation with myself:  “Crap I didn’t see that step!  It’s too late to catch myself; I’m going down.  Am I really falling?! How stupid.  Why don’t I know how to walk?  This is embarrassing.  Oh no, there is a chair rapidly approaching my face- please God, don’t let me hit the chair.  (Then I had a flash of the scene from Million Dollar Baby- you know, where she hits her head on the chair). And, I’m wearing my glasses.  I don’t want to scratch my face or break my nose- please God, don’t let me hit my face. (Then I had a flash of the scene from White Chicks where the snobby rich girls scream about having a nonexistent scar.)” 

(Yes, in fact, I do have flashes of scenes from movies that mix in with my life; just go with it.)

(Slam.)  “I knew I shouldn’t have come to this %@&* retreat.”  I’m not sure what happened after that because the pain from landing on my left thumb took over my entire existence for the remainder of the night.  I do remember, however, thinking something like, “Am I already approaching my golden years of falling and hip replacements?  My next stop is a medical alert alarm and the nursing home!”

Well, I survived with no scars- real or imagined- (except maybe the one to my ego). 

But my thumb still hurts.

The Cat Lady

It’s amazing how no sleep and a screaming baby can transform a (albeit superficially) positive, cheerful, motivated person to a crying, heaping mess. 

By the way, do other women with infant children shave?  Because I haven’t shaved in over a week.  I also haven’t balanced my checkbook in two months.  I think this is because I’ve resigned myself over to a life of singleness and poverty. 

I am thinking about finding 200 stray cats to take in. I totally get why women become cat ladies.  People are mean.  Cats while temperamental, are affectionate.  And feeding them gives you a since of purpose. 

But I don’t like cats so I would make an awful cat lady.

Right now, I can say with some level of certainty (and hope) that I am at my worst. 

Best Diet Ever- Ugh!

Lately I’ve been on the Divorce Diet, which for me, consists of coffee and large quantities of Imodium.  (The coffee, so I can stay awake after endless nights of restless sleep, if that’s what you call it, and the Imodium, well…  thanks to inheriting Granddaddy’s “sensitive stomach.”).  I’ve lost 7 pounds.  I’m going to ignore all of the stuff I know about stress weight loss, water weight and muscle mass, and just feel skinny for a while, okay?

"Mommy" Again?!

My last remaining at-home child is 13 years old (I also have an 18 and 21 year old) and I’ve recently become somewhat of a mom again, as I am caring full time for a newborn.  (Please note, baby is not the child of said 13 year old).

Caring for an infant is much more difficult than I remember.  Either that, or my energy level has plummeted more than the US economy.

Right when we were leaving for church this morning, baby began pooping and spitting up all over herself.  After I got her cleaned, we were running too late to go.  (I hate being late!)  This is why I am at home and blogging now- with baby on my lap and “church” sreaming online.

I’ve given up on the idea of a normal schedule.  Or a full night’s sleep.  Or having a clean house.  Or making real meals.  Or finding a pair of matching socks.  Or smelling like anything other than a mixture of KFC and regurgitated Enfamil…

Blogging While Blonde

I had originally wanted to name this blog “Blogging While Blonde,” a tongue in cheek reference to my daily ditsy (I like to think of it as whimsical and endearing) existence and undeniable (albeit unintentional) ability to make people laugh, scratch their head, furrow their brow, or just plain want to pull their hair out.   

My intention was to woo you with my quirky charm.  Then I realized that while I can be quirky,  I am not all that charming.  Besides that, quirky is not always enjoyable and you may not particularly want to subject yourself to un-enjoyable reading material. So, instead I decided to write about my random thoughts (which are frequent), my life (which is crazy) and my journey of recovery from divorce and co-dependence (which is desperately needed).

This should be fun, or um, interesting.  So, sit back, relax, and when in doubt, just smile and nod your head.

Please note that names will be changed to protect the innocent- and the guilty.