Another 365 Days

Well, I made it. Okay, I have almost made it. As long as I don't get maimed in some freak accident on the way to Target today, I will have lived for 35 years. Depending on your age, you will look at that number and either say "OMG, you are like so grossly old and nasty." or " Wow young lady, you have a long time to figure this whole life thing out." I feel like both are pretty spot on with how I feel right now. Some days I feel grossly old, like yesterday when I let my naturally curly hair be free from the burning smell of a straightener. I was embracing who I really am, which is someone with genetically crazed hair. When my preteen daughter came home, she found me in the bathroom scrunching (is that still a thing??) my rambunctious curls.

"What do you think?" I asked her, as I twirled around like a proud toddler with a new party dress on.
"Is that on purpose?" she asked.
"Yeah. My hair is naturally curly so I'm not flat ironing it today. How does it look?"
Chuckling, she said "Umm, you're really going out with it like that?" 
I told her to leave and proceeded to mope as I looked at myself in the mirror. Then I tried to fix the manic twirls on top of my head. I should have just shaved it all off and called it a Halloween costume. In that moment I felt old and really uncool.

Other days I feel like it is possible that I have a few more decades to figure this all out and that I am in the prime of my venture here on planet Earth. I can usually hold onto that feeling until I see myself naked in a full length mirror or hear myself saying "I don't care if she likes it or not. She is taking piano because kids who play an instrument do better in school." Better than what? I don't know, but that's what old people say and I'm there. The youngish feeling comes when I am hanging out with my brother and/or sister and strangers will say "Who's the oldest?" I selfishly point fingers and live on that high until the truth comes out. It's me. The midget of the bunch who still gets carded for beer, but has to dye her progressively graying hair.

I am more confident and less confident at almost 35. I'm happier and less happy. I'm mature and a completely immature asshole. While the number I am forced to list on surveys has gone up, I feel like I am the same person I was ten years ago except I have a different set of goals and a new set of worries under my belt. I don't have to concern myself with potty training or peeing on a stick in hopes that we can grow our family. Those days are gone. Now I watch my oldest put on makeup while she shares secrets with me about cute boys and going to movies without me. I'm not sure why she would want to, I'm really fun. I don't worry about money the way I used to when my husband and I were first married, but now I worry whether we have saved enough for a catastrophe or for college. Kind of the same thing. Getting old is weird and I have a love/hate relationship with it. Knowing what I want to be when I grow up is just as hard as not having a fucking clue. Being forced to shop for appropriate adult attire is just as hard as being followed around Contempo Casuals (remember that store???) by some super chic cashier. I'm 35, almost. And I'm still trying to figure this whole thing out. Perhaps that's the point.

I'm Leaving On A Jet Plane...Again.

I'm going to the beach for the third time in three months. I'm starting to think I might be spoiled. The first trip was to Florida, spur of the moment, to make sure my brother was happy and to spend some time reminding him that he deserved to be. The second was a planned cruise to Mexico with my favorite ladies where, instead of leaving the ship at port, we stayed on-board to enjoy the benefits of no lines at the buffet. I saw the beach, but I didn't touch it. This third trip is a complete surprise and I'm scared shitless. I am going to my first writing conference.

I don't even admit to being a writer, except to people I have known for longer than a decade and whom I know read my blog. When strangers or neighbors ask what I do, I him and haw about helping my husband with our small business and staying home with my kids. Oh, and I have a little blog that I write. I have spent my life at jobs where I can share freely what I do because I get a paycheck and in my mind, that makes it real. I'm a massage therapist. I'm an Office Manager. I'm a Barista. I "just" stay home with my kids. That one hasn't produced a paycheck, but no one expects it to, and in most instances I have had a back up job to justify my existence on this planet. Now, I don't. I write for free. I spend hours working on a book that I fear isn't good enough. I spend mornings in my pajamas (like right now) updating my blog and reading about self publishing. That can't be considered a real job, can it? Next week, I will be forced to accept the fact that I am a writer. And I have to market the shit out of myself.

Therein lies my biggest fear. Meeting other humans who sit at a laptop in their dirty underwear and spill their guts onto paper in the hopes that one day they will get paid to do it. Admitting to them that I am one of their kind and that I am worthy of being part of that secret club. I'm freaked the fuck out. I'm not a salesperson. Ask any of the managers I had at Starbucks. When I had my yearly reviews, the one and only requirement I never hit was promoting the hot item of the quarter.

"We really need you to up-sale these pumpkin loafs."
"No. I'm not a salesperson. If they want it, they can ask for it."
"It doesn't work that way. Part of your job is to promote seasonal items."
"I'm not good at selling things that people don't want."
"You need to get good at it."

And now, I do need to get good at it. There are millions of books, millions of authors and millions of blogs that want your attention. If I ever want to make a living while sitting in my bathrobe, I have to get comfortable with letting people know why mine is the one they should read. I have to learn how to sell myself and I have to learn how to do it within the next 10 days. I may even need to wear a nice blazer and take the bathrobe off.

Nope, I Don't Have Horns.

Image courtesy of primaryclipart.com

I love traveling. There are few things I don't love about traveling and they include; the return home laundry pile, waiting in security lines at the airport and being asked if I am "a Mormon". Just try to have a conversation with someone outside of Utah and at some point the question gets asked. I never ask people from New York if they are Jewish or people with twelve kids if they are Catholic, but somehow being from Utah equals one of three things; you are Mormon, you are a polygamist, or you have horns. Didn't you know that Mormons have horns? That conversation happened back when I was a teenager traveling to the East Coast and it was a serious question from the flight attendant after she asked where I was from and where I was headed. 

"Don't all Mormons have little horns on their head?"
I wish I could go back in a time machine and give her a more inappropriate answer to such an inappropriate question, but at the time, I stood with a shocked expression on my face and shook my head until she walked back to her soda cart.

While on a cruise ship last week, we were sitting in the designated smoking corner (it was the size of love seat), drinking beer and conversing with a couple squished next to us.
"From Utah, huh? You guys Mormons?"
Yep. We take a week vacation from the Word of Wisdom, tackled smoking and found a real taste for alcoholic beverages. Really? If you know nothing about the LDS culture, wait for a lead in. Anyone who is an active Mormon will be more than happy to share an hour long sermon within minutes of meeting you. As soon as they find out you are from LA or Nebraska or Florida, their concern is that you haven't had two 19 year old kids bear their testimony on your front porch while you are enjoying Saturday afternoon football and a cold brewskie. They can and will save your soul. The rest of us from Utah, we're just on vacation.

The polygamy question is a bit outdated and just as annoying. I understand that back in the late 1800's, it was a kind of big deal that Utah wanted polygamy more that it wanted statehood. I get it. But it's been a while and I think there are people in polygamous, poly-amorous, and other taboo relationships, outside of Utah. We aren't the only ones, folks. In my day to day, activities I rarely come into contact with polygamy and I have lived in Utah for 35 years. I have seen a few pligs at Starbucks on my road trips through St. George and I'm pretty sure I have seen a few of their houses in Eagle Mountain. No single family needs three 4,000 square foot homes built in a circle with a playground that puts Liberty Park to shame. We know what you're up to, folks. Otherwise, I see as many pligs and humans with horns as the rest of the world.

We aren't all Mormon. This state has many other cultures and religions that can and should represent us. We have great outdoor activities and a low cost of living. We have jobs, safe neighborhoods, National Parks and we are centrally located to many great adventures in the West. Ask me about that. I am tempted to have a shirt printed strictly for vacationing...."Made In Utah. Not a Mormon." That is trademarked, so don't even try to steal it. 

My Currents...Not Currants

Recently, I read a post from Erin at mythirtyspot.com, where she shared her currents. Due to my inexperience with blogging and obviously my inability to spell every word in the English language correctly, I expected to see a unique perspective on the current state of currants. The berry. They are berries, right? I openly admit to being an idiot and you will find me using my fingers to calculate simple math problems. We all have our weaknesses. When I began to read on, I found that what she was touching on was what she was currently into, loving, hating and doing. It was interesting and my knowledge of currants was not improved. Today, you get my currents. Some about recent news making events, some random, and some you probably never needed to know. A salute to you Erin. Now, if you could do a a piece on currants, that would be great.

The Miley Cyrus Debacle
I did jest about the Miley Cyrus situation on Facebook, but here is the deal...I have done some really inappropriate things in my life and got away unscathed only because I am not famous. I attempted to drown myself, completely naked, in a hot tub once after too many alcoholic beverages. My head collapsed into the water and I was dragged out by a friend. I can't tell you if I was even old enough to legally consume alcohol. I also ran naked (while drunk) through the courtyard of my friends' apartment on a dare. I have acted like a complete fucking fool, a girl with no moral compass and I survived to tell about it. I feel for this young lady because she is sowing her wild seeds in front of millions of people. Mine happened in front of five close friends who didn't have camera phones or any knowledge of YouTube. I was lucky.

Potential War
I don't believe in war. I am a stand for peace. While I support the men and women who are in the armed forces, I do not support the politicians who send them to war. My father is a Vietnam vet and I know first hand that war changes a person, not always for the better.

Sugar
I vowed to get it out of my life and I will own up to the fact that I have not done that. I have stopped using it in my coffee and have, thus far, avoided processed pastries and goodies. Since giving up the portion of white sugar that I have, I have lost five pounds and I am enjoying my coffee even more. I don't foresee giving up white sugar all together, but I am a work in progress, so stay tuned.

Clothing
I am currently wearing a V-neck, gray tee shirt from Old Navy, hot pink clearance shorts from Target, gray leg warmers from Athleta and yellow flip flops. If you ever question what you leave your house in, find peace in the knowledge that I bought bread, in public, with this outfit on. That is real life.

Food
I don't eat enough food. It's an issue I share with my mom and my sister. I consume most of my calories from coffee, filled to the rim with delicious half and half. I hate wasting time making myself food and I hate sitting alone, at my dining room table, consuming a sandwich. It feels like a waste of time. I eat bread with peanut butter while I clean my kitchen or a Fiber One bar while I drive the kids to practice. Dinner is my favorite because I can cook for my family and enjoy my food with them. I am passionate about late night eating because I do it in bed while hanging out with my husband. No kids to bark at me about not being at the table and my combo of reheated pizza and pickles is never questioned. I have food issues. Now you know.

Miss America
I won't delve in too deeply into why I detest pageants, but suffice to say I FUCKING HATE PAGEANTS. The fact that we now have an Indian American woman as Miss America inspires me about as much as the thought of giving myself an enema. I don't care what color, race or religion you are, there is no benefit in portraying to women across America that you are only worthy if you are tall, thin, beautiful and have hair that reaches the floor. Keep telling me about the talent portion. Don't care. If that was what it was all about, we would have some kick ass bitch playing a xylophone who had a buzz cut and wore a size 10. It is and always has been about one type of beauty. The thin, long haired type. The end.

There you have it. Enjoy it, hate it, argue with me about it anytime. Currently, I am also in need of a shower, a dinner plan and a jaunt to my little buddies Tai Kwon Do class. Until next time, I bid you ado. Because I am fancy like that.

Beach Living

I was at the beach on Sunday and it reminded me of one particular item on my bucket list, live on the beach in Hawaii for one year. I have told my husband this will happen and at times he is excited, then just a few months later he says something awkward like "Well, I'm going to miss you."

My plan was to wait until my kids have moved out and are capable of buying their own milk. I'm hoping by that point they are also driving places without my assistance and scrubbing the toilet they shit in without me paying them to do so. It's a dream, you see. At that point we would sell our house, purge all the shit we don't need and move to Hawaii. I want to rent a bungalow on the beach and write. That's it. That's the dream. Will my husband work? Don't know, don't care. That's the joy of bucket list items, they don't have to make sense in their infancy. Will we be able to afford it? Don't know, don't care. Does my husband want to go? While I do care about this part, I honestly don't know. He is a Utah boy through and through. He loves winter, skiing, our crazy liquor laws and he has a successful business, that I doubt he would want to relocate for the purpose of validating his neurotic wife's crazy whim. I think my crazy whims are the reason for his high blood pressure, so I completely understand. He has put up with me calling from Hawaii and telling him I found a house to buy, planning a four day Florida vacation one week in advance, and showing up at home with gallons of paint and a really great plan for one room or the other. He's a saint, is what I am getting at.

As I have stated, the details aren't all planned out. My hope is that I will be a paid writer at that point and that I will have throngs of human beings clamoring to read my next novel. The reality may be completely different. I may end up scrubbing toilets at Starbucks again and wishing I would have pursued a degree in veterinary science so I could retire without wondering how to pay for my Depends. My kids may never leave my house and I could end up as a recluse with a 42 year old gamer who smokes weed in my basement and yells at me every day at 5 pm regarding his meal options. I could end up getting stung by a jelly fish during our next beach adventure and swear off bodies of water in any form. In that case, we would be living in exactly the right spot for us. Let's hope it doesn't come to that.

My dream to live on a beach has been raging inside me since I attended massage school 17 years ago. My plan was to graduate, be hired by the most prestigious hotel/spa in Maui and live the dream of rubbing tourists' zit ridden backs while learning how to surf. Instead, I was recruited by a spa in Vegas that was a cement slab in the middle of the desert, where the only thing I learned was how to avoid dating guys in bands. It was a great lesson, but I feel I could have picked it up on an island just as easily. I then met my husband, moved back to a land locked state and smothered my beach dream. Problem is, it just won't shut up.

Every time we vacation on the sand, my heart aches to stay and I visualize myself sitting on a deck overlooking the ocean. I want to go barefoot all day long and call my flip flops slippers. I want to grow fruit in my backyard with little to no effort and have the salty breeze ruin every bit of metal on my bungalow. I want to be writing in the morning while my husband has a golf game, after which we we would barbecue fish on our patio and talk about the days when we had kids to keep us entertained. In my mind, it looks like a movie, but in my heart it feels like my future.

Dog Days Of Summer

This maniac goes by the name of Oliver. It's been twelve years since we had a puppy around and the experience is eerily similar to having a baby. You forget how hard the first year is and decide to do it again. Sometimes more than once. Our old pup Colt headed to dog heaven two weeks ago after a long battle with stomach cancer and arthritis in his hips. It was one of the most difficult decisions we have made, but watching him struggle to get up the stairs and lose control of his bowels was heart wrenching and we knew it was time. My husband was with him as the vet placed the needle in his leg and he went to sleep for the last time. We all cried and reminisced about the dog who had seen both our kids come home from the hospital, licked their faces as they learned to crawl and taught us all about companionship. He will forever be in our hearts.

After a couple of weeks of coming home to a quiet house with no one meeting us at the door or licking up the extras from our meals, we knew we wanted another dog. We spent a few days researching breeds, checking the Humane Society website and looking at ads on KSL. My husband was drawn to pups who looked eerily similar to Colt and I wanted a small breed that wouldn't shed as much and may have a longer life span. Twelve years may sound like a lot, but when it's over and your furry friend isn't there, you wonder why pups don't live to the ripe old age of eighty.

We decided to check out two pups last Saturday and bring one of them home. The first stop was to see some tiny little guys who were a crazy mix of twelve different breeds and could fit in the palm of your hand. In the picture, I was sure this was the pup for us, they were black and white and the owner had done a great job at painting a rosy picture of the puppies situation. However, when we got there, the vibe wasn't right and even after holding them, we didn't think we would be back for the little guys. They were clearly being sold too early and at six weeks, they needed their momma more than they needed to be shoved off to new owners. The next stop was just a few miles down the road to see a hound dog who had been adopted, but couldn't stay with the family due to pet restrictions in their city. When this little fur ball came bounding up to us, I couldn't imagine leaving without him. He took to us right away and the owner was thrilled to have found a family who could love and care for the pup that she was unable to care for.

As you can see, he has the sweetest eyes and a set of Dumbo ears that are great at hiding what a little shit burglar he really is. He chews on everything, pees at random and prefers to shit on the deck because his tender little paws don't like wet grass. His stance is deceiving and he constantly looks like he needs to take a dump. I spend my days following him around watching his butthole for just the right pucker, so I can scoop him up before anything lands on the carpet. It's worse than potty training a kid. He can't be left alone without being roped in one particular room and the makeshift baby gates I am using look more like a tornado came through and upturned coffee tables and couch cushions. There is a litter box he wants to eat out of, couches to chew and shoes that he pulls under the dining room table to gnaw on while avoiding our watchful eyes. We are all exhausted and thoroughly in love. He sleeps in between my husband and I, sometimes with his entire body covering my head. He has that new puppy smell that is more delicious than any new car smell that I have ever encountered. The best part is that he's teaching us all a lesson about life....when one love leaves there is always more love around the corner.

Conferences And Why Bother

How I embody the term, hot mess. 

What was I thinking? I absolutely detest being around large groups of people, I don't know how to dress myself appropriately and only grown ups go to conferences. Grown ups with real jobs and important briefcases. I don't even own a pencil skirt. Or a blazer. Jesus, what the fuck am I going to wear? When Erin, the editor or mythirtyspot, mentioned this "fantastic conference coming to Salt Lake", I thought "Cool for those important people". Then she said I should go; make some connections, listen to some speakers and the dreaded....market yourself. Ugh. I'm really terrible all three of those things, so I'm not sure how I took it this far. Let's blame my husband. Erin warned me that the tickets would sell out quickly and that I should really keep my eyes peeled for the email regarding availability. I probably should have asked her up front how much the ticket would be before I yapped my mouth to the hubs about it. He was more excited than I was. "If it's here in Utah, you should really go. That is a great opportunity."

It is a great opportunity. For normal people. For people who don't have anxiety about their writing and their inability to see themselve as an adult. Or even dress like one. After signing up for the Alt Summit newsletter, I received an email regarding the conference that they would be hosting in Salt Lake City this January.
"The cost of per ticket will be around $600." Around??? Like, around below and within my price range of $200? Here is what I can buy with $600 and yes this was my first thought. One month's worth of groceries for my family, a Cancun vacation for one including airfare and all-inclusive amenities for a week, a down payment on a new car that isn't rusting out on the driver's side door, twelve cartons of cigarettes and a box wine, or gasoline in my car six months. That is a lot of cool and important things. Okay, some don't fit in either of those categories, but they add up to $600.

My plan was to see the email, pretend I didn't see the email and then say "Oh the tragedy of it all!!! I missed my chance to pay $600 for a two day conference with people in blazers who have tens of thousands of people reading their blog. It's unfortunate, but there is always next time." Then I would do the same thing next time.

Here is how it worked out instead. Erin messaged me. "They just opened the site to buy tickets. Just wanted to make sure you saw the email." I felt bad already. Then I saw the email from Alt Summit.
"Get your tickets for our Salt Lake City conference at Grand America for $630. Limited number of tickets available."
Here is the truth of the matter. I didn't have fifteen bucks to put gas in my car. I was eagerly awaiting payday and packing myself peanut butter and honey sandwiches. There wasn't $630 for a conference ticket. We had just bought new glasses for school, new clothes for the kids and my car needed breaks. Our dog was sick and I had maxed out my credit card taking him in to the vet. Nada, my friends, there was no money. We had our savings account for emergencies which had been recently depleted and we were headed into the over draft on our personal account. I tell you this not so you are sad, but because this is real life. There was no way I was going to need a blazer.

Here is what I expected to happen; I would mention how ridiculous the cost was, have a good laugh with my hubs about the whole absurd ordeal and go on with my life. It didn't play out that way.
"Holy shit, they are seriously charging $630 for those conference tickets I told you about." I said.
"Do they have any left?" he asked.
"I don't know. I just saw an email from Erin, but it is probably close to selling out. Isn't that nuts, though? Who pays that much for two days?"
"You need to get on your laptop and see if you can get a ticket."
I was floored. "There is no money, like anywhere."
He pulled out a business card. "If this doesn't work, we know it wasn't meant to be. You deserve to be there. You are a great writer, you have a great blog and this is your job."

The card went through and a few hours later the conference was sold out. I didn't think it was possible and that's where I get backed up. These are the terms that float around in my brain; I can't, there isn't, no way, stop dreaming. My hubs, on the other hand, sees the possibility in everything. Thankfully, including me.

Loving Dirty Underwear

Our wedding day, August 23, 2000.

I did my fair share of dating. By fair share, I mean what I feel was fair and enough that I didn't need to share myself with anyone else. High school wasn't the highlight of my life, social or otherwise, so very little dating went on and when I got out of high school I was convinced that there was no one romantically interested in a weirdo like me. I had gay friends who fulfilled the part of me that wanted to hear "You look hot" or "Let me pick you up for dinner, sweetie". I knew how to masturbate, so looking to get laid wasn't making my to-do list at the time.

My longest relationship, before meeting my husband, lasted a couple of months and ended when this particular guy visited me in Vegas and informed me that he wanted to give up his whole life and move in with me. The desperately needy thing was a turn off and I dumped him before he headed back home. I had one relationship (if you can call it that) which ended after I drove 40 minutes to bring Mr. Faker homemade chicken noodle soup and found him in bed with a girl whom he introduced to me as his girlfriend. There was the guy with a mullet who took me on a ride down State Street on his bullet bike and forced me to question the type of men I attracted. If they weren't in a band (equals jobless) than they lived with their mom (equals will love her more than you). My batting average wasn't very good. One of the band guys took me to his sister's house, where he lived on the couch, and proceeded to treat me in a manner that I imagine most prostitutes would find disturbing. A couple of weeks later, he introduced me to his girlfriend after I surprised him by showing up to one of his shows. Yeah, I've been that girl a few times.

I wasn't made to withstand the "bliss" of having a random guy buy me a drink in a bar, ask for my number and then fuck my best friend the next weekend. I've never enjoyed having strangers buy me drinks, I'm clear that there is an expectation. My parents taught me that nothing in life is free, so that shit never worked on me. I don't like wondering if you want to hold my hand or kiss me at the end of our date. I find no joy in hearing you call your mom a horrendous bitch or informing me that you have two kids you never see because their mom is cunt. It tells me a lot about a man who speak about women in derogatory terms and I don't like it.

Then one day it all changed. I met someone who worked, went to school, and respected me. He wasn't in a band (which makes sense if you have ever heard him sing) and after 13 years, I have never walked in to find him fucking anyone else. Or introducing me to his girlfriend. We had new love that eventually grew into saggy boobed, spare tire love. While some may tout the heart palpitating joy of new love, I will take old love every day of the week. The longer I wake up next to the same farting rear end, the more I realize that I wasn't cut out for single.

I like consistent. I like waking up to the same bad breath, the same inability to take a quiet shower, the same pair of holey underwear and the same drink cups left in every corner of the house. I love washing aforementioned holey underwear and turning the one leg of your jeans inside out before I throw them in the washer. It is a little piece of heaven when you gently caress my back and ask me if I am up for one more show. I am totally up for one more show. I was built for long, smelly, old, fat, nasty love. That new stuff is highly overrated and I get the same butterflies I did the first time you kissed me, except now I don't ever wonder if it will be the last time. We will kiss again tomorrow and the next day and then we will fight about money or who is getting up with the kids. I will apologize and so will you and I'll curse your dirty underwear after you leave for work. But I wouldn't have it any other way.

  Our first 5k together, May 2013.

Don't forget to head over to mythirtyspot.com where I have a new article about raising boys and why I was scared shitless to do it. 

My Giving Challenge: Bad Day And A Gift Card

Image courtesy of http://lawlib.buffalo.libguides.com/content.php?pid=119945

Day 24: No Good, Really Bad Day

I know exactly how Alexander feels in the classic children's book Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. From the time I woke up, things just weren't working out. While I did have a crazy surge in my blog traffic, my coffee tasted wrong, my clothes didn't fit right and I felt yucky. After dropping my daughter off at her drama class and my son at his friend's house for a play date, I had two peaceful hours to myself. I wanted to read. As I sat on my porch, indulging in a thriller instead of cleaning my house, I decided to check my email  before I got to sucked into my book. There, in my virtual box of notes, was the email I didn't want to receive or read.

"Thank you for entering our writing competition. We had over 7,800 entries and we have now contacted all the winners as of last week. Stay posted to read the winning entries."

I hadn't been contacted last week, that can't be right. Did they have the right email? Did I miss a phone call? Oh, I know, they mailed it to me and I haven't received it yet. I went so far as to walk down the block to check my mailbox although in my heart, I knew I would only find bills and junk mail. It was my first writing contest and I had decided I would win. I wanted it more than anyone else and I gave them my best shit. I wanted the trip to NYC, the $1,000 and the opportunity to meet a publisher. It was my chance.

Now that I knew I hadn't won, there was no reason to keep writing. That is how black and white I view life, if I can't win them all then I can't win any of them and what's the point. I let myself be sad, depressed and contemplate the hundreds of thousands of writers who never get published, who spend their life writing and never make a single dime. The writer I would end up being. I cried and I sent my husband a text. When didn't get the response I wanted from him, I got even more upset. I was planning to let it ruin the rest of my day.

I hadn't given a gift today and I didn't care. I wanted to feel bad for me, mourn the writing career I thought I could have. Tomorrow I would get back on the horse, find a new dream career and move on with my life. I fought with my husband, I hid in my bedroom, I cried and then I decided I was sick of it. We all piled in the car and went to the gas station for a drink. In the parking lot there were firefighters holding boots that they were filling with change. We had scraped together a few bucks for our drinks, there wasn't a lot of extra cash, but I handed the kids each a dollar in change to put in the boot. That was my gift. I wish I could tell you that it warmed my soul, uplifted my spirit or felt perfect but it didn't. It just was. It was what I could give today and thankfully there was tomorrow, so I could try again.

Day 25: A Gift Card

I love thrift store shopping. From furniture I can refinish to work clothes to best selling books for 50 cents, I just can't get enough. Today, my little guy and I stopped in for a quick look before we went grocery shopping. We wandered around the toy area and then headed to the back area where all the "new" goodies were being put out. I found my husband some weights that he had wanted and then I spotted my big find....an outdoor patio set that was missing cushions but  was a really sturdy metal set. It included a bench and two massive chairs. It's a set that I have drooled over every spring in the Home Depot ad, black metal with beautiful cushions around an outdoor fire pit. The $400 price tag was a hard sell for my husband, so I never got past drooling on the ad and dreaming of being sprawled on the love seat, an icy cocktail in hand, while I giggled with my children who were running through the sprinklers. I was the pretend lady enjoying her fake backyard on my outdoor furniture.

The tags on each of the three pieces said $20 and I assumed that was for each piece. When I found an employee, had him slap my name on the dream patio set and took my ticket up front, I realized he had put $20 for all three pieces together. It had to be wrong, that seemed too cheap. When I handed the pretty young cashier my ticket she asked me if it was $20 for all or for each. I told her for each because that was what I assumed it meant. I walked out, got in my car and felt that there had been a misunderstanding on my part. I was so worried about not ripping them off that I had just overpaid for my sweet find by $40. I headed back in to clear up the confusion.
"I'm so sorry. Can you have that gentleman check the price on my set? It may have been $20 for the set and I just paid $60."
The cashier graciously called the manager to the front and he confirmed that it was $20 for the set and they happily refunded the money I had overpaid. I mentioned that we were going to grab a smoothie for my son afterwards at a place across the street.
"I have never been there," the young cashier said "is it really good?"
My son told her it was amazing and proceeded to list all his his favorite combinations. She was very kind and thanked us numerous times for coming in. She had given us stellar customer service, it was above and beyond what was required and I wanted to let her know that it was appreciated.

While we were eating our frozen concoctions, I realized what my gift would be for the day.  I bought the young girl from the thrift store a $5 gift card.
We walked back over and when I didn't see her up front, I asked the other cashier if he could page her for me.
"I just want to give her something." I told him, as he peered at me suspiciously.
She came walking up to us with a huge smile.
"Is everything okay?"
I told her it was and that I wanted to thank her for her kindness. I handed her the gift card.
"Now you can go try out the smoothie place. I really appreciate how kind you have been and I wanted to say thank you."
Her eyes filled up with tears and she moved towards me, her arms wide and hugged me. We smiled at each other, waved and went back to our separate lives. My gift today inspired me, felt amazing and reaffirmed my desire to keep giving. Believe me, I needed that.

My Giving Challenge: Culture and Flowers For A Friend

Day 17: Culture

If you don't live in Utah you may not be aware of the other holiday we celebrate, July 24th. It's yet another excuse to spend hundreds of dollars on fireworks, fight off crowds to watch mediocre parade floats and bail on work. I think the last one is the whole reason for this season. We celebrate this holiday in memory of the day the Mormon pioneers came to settle the area and steal land from the Native Americans. (Don't quote me on the details.)

Monday evening we headed Downtown to check out the Days of 47 rodeo, which my husband has wonderful memories of attending as a young child. There were horses clomping down main roads alongside compact cars and tepees set up around the enormous arena built to house our professional basketball team. We saw Native American dancers, cowboys, wagons and children on pony rides. It was an interesting mix of past and present.

From the time she was young, my daughter has been drawn to Native American dancing. When she was two years old, we attended a rock and gem show where we watched a group of Native Americans performing tribal dances and ceremonies. She was in love. She spent an entire hour standing in one spot watching intently and swaying to the music. That is quite a feat for toddler. We bought her a CD and it was played in our car for many months following, she would ask to hear "her drum people music". I think it's a previous life thing. As soon as she heard the drumming at the event, she dragged us all to the group of dancers performing out front. They were dressed in beautifully beaded outfits, moccasins and headdresses. As we sat and enjoyed their performance, I noticed the youngest dancer grab her father's hat, place it in front of the dancers, and put a dollar bill inside. She was grinning from ear to ear as she scanned the crowd for others who may drop money in the hat.

Our kids were mesmerized as they watched one male dancer perform. He used up to fifteen hoops wrapped around his body to recreate different animals, birds and even an alligator. It was breathtaking and as he finished up, I pulled a five dollar bill out of my wallet and handed it to my son. When the dance concluded my little guy happily ran up and placed the money in the hat along with the other bills that were blowing precariously atop the brown cowboy hat. It was a small token of thanks to the wonderful dancers who shared their talent with us that evening.

Day 18: Flowers For A Friend

I don't remember birthdays. It's one of the qualities that I am not proud to admit to, along with forgetting the names of people who I have met numerous times. I'm a huge supporter of name tags that give me all the information I need to know when we run into each other so I don't feel like a fucking idiot every time. First name, last name, job title, birth date and how we know each other. There are exactly ten birthdays I do remember and they include the people I live with, the people I grew up with and my Grandpa Robertson's birthday, which happens to be the same day as my daughter's.

I know that my best friends' birthday is in July, but I can never remember if it's the 25, 26, 27, 28 or one of the other 31 days of the month. Last year, I sent a text to her husband to find out the exact day and a year before that I called her sister. I'm surprised they haven't turned me in for being the worst friend on the planet. Her birthday is coming up soon and once again I didn't know when to call and share my horrid rendition of Happy Birthday. Here is a little insight about my friend, she hates attention, doesn't like to get gifts and promises me that it's no big deal that I don't know the exact date of her birthday. That must be true, because she still takes my phone calls after eight years of this bullshit. Yesterday, I wanted to do something special for her, so when I did my grocery shopping, I picked up a large bouquet of wildflowers to bring to her that evening. She would never spend money on flowers for herself and in all the years I have known her, she has never had fresh flowers at her house. When we arrived for dinner, I placed the flowers on her counter.
"Who are those for?" she asked.
"You. Thanks for being such a great friend.." I said.
"Oh, they are beautiful, but you don't need to bring me flowers."

Nope I didn't need to, I wanted to.

Check out my newest article on mythirtyspot.com. It's all about being baby hungry and knowing it's too late.
http://www.mythirtyspot.com/2013/07/when-its-too-late-for-baby-number-three.html

My Giving Challenge: Sharing Strength and Giving My Time

Day 10: Sharing Strength

As most of you read on the post called Brotherly Love, http://www.busybeinghappy.blogspot.com/2013/06/brotherly-love.html my little bro recently moved over a thousand miles away and is building a new life in Florida. While I didn't go that far, I did move out of state when I was 20 years old and there are few things in my life that have been quite as difficult. Being away from my support group, learning how to navigate a new city and a loneliness, the likes of which I had never known, were just a few of the struggles that made me homesick on a daily basis. There were many times I called my mother sobbing and asking permission to come back to my life in Utah, I wanted her to tell me that it was okay to give up. She refused. There was something I was meant to learn, she counseled me, and I needed to give it a year. She has never been short on good advice. I persevered and in the process met new friends, learned how to survive being laid off, and met the man whom I would spend the rest of my life with. I will always be grateful to my mother for pushing me to make the best of that move.

My brother is learning these lessons now and while I haven't spoke with him in a couple of week, I imagine his trials may be weighing him down the same way mine did all those years ago. There is nothing more frightening than having the initial excitement of a new adventure morph into the reality of being so far away from home. I have been there and I wanted to share with my brother what my mom had shared with me in my darkest hours, perseverance. I sat down and wrote my baby brother a card, included were my struggles of being away from home and how pushing through that fear will reap the rewards of strength. It seemed small and gigantic all in the same breath. The gift of love from a thousand miles away.

Day 11: Giving My Time

I consider myself a stay at home mama these days. While I do spend a few hours a week helping at our business and a couple hours a day writing, the majority of my time is focused on the caring and raising of my children. It is the most rewarding and heart wrenching job I have ever had. Most days are not filled with stress free excursions or endless snuggles, but with the tedious task of correcting, teaching and monitoring behavior. There are bedtimes and chore schedules and the feeling of being a taxi driver to two freeloaders who show their appreciation by rolling their eyes and complaining about fairness. I'm clearly a masochist because I love every second of it.

Today I wanted to give my kids the gift of my time, uninhibited by phone calls, emails or throwing in a load of laundry. I planned an afternoon at the local bowling alley with my mom and the kids. My son complained about not wanting to go and my daughter was eager to know when we would be home so she could check her iPad and text her best friend. I didn't let it get to me. We paid for two games, strapped on some smelly shoes and chose silly names that would let us know who was next up to knock down the pins. I was Mommy Pants, my mom was Silly Silver Gran, my son was Super Macho Man and my daughter was Happy Panda. It turns out, she would be anything but happy for our first game. I left my phone in my purse, minus the 30 seconds I spent letting everyone on FB know I was bowling with my munchkins, and we hung out.We ordered soda and chicken strips and we laughed. Some of us threw fits and stomped away from a gutter ball with angry faces, but we were together. We were a family.

 My house needed to be vacuumed, there was laundry in the washer, and I had yet to start a writing assignment that was due in a few days, but my gift could not wait. I want my kids to know that my time is worthy of them, not just my friends or my work. The gift of time is a gift of love for my children.

Please check out my post on The Power of Permission and read through the other inspiring stories of people who gave themselves permission.
http://www.lizzieg.com/category/power-of-permission-project/

I Ask, The Universe Delivers:Two More Days of Giving.

Image property of buzzle.com

Monday July 7, 2013 Day 3: Scary Hair

I don't do hair. That's why I decided to cut mine super short last year and I only attempt to grow it out for about 30 days until I have a mullet and realize that I look like I have given up on life, at which point I cut it again. My extremely small list of hairstyle abilities includes pony tails, side pony tails and regular braids. The end. My daughter has beautiful long hair and access to internet videos that instruct you on thousands of hairstyles that look more intricate than than a boondoggle bracelet. Unfortunately, she has grown up having mediocre hairstyles or bob cuts, which I always suggested for my convenience. If shaving girls' heads for summer was a thing, she would be in trouble.

She had been asking me to watch this video for a few days and I felt that I would rather eat pickled beets while doing back bends than play beauty shop. It was an updo with an upside down french braid and messy bun at the top.
"I don't know how to french braid, kid. You need to talk to Grandma if you want fancy hair like that." (I'm known to pass off that shit to my mom because she is good at everything. Everything.)
"Mom, it shows you how to do it step by step. Please. Just watch it and see if we can try it on my hair."
After a a challenging day with my son he was finally crying for dad in the other room, so I sat with her on the couch and watched the video. This would be my gift to her.

We watched and researched and I wasn't sure I was up to the hair challenge. Then we spent an hour in my bathroom trying two different hairstyles, talking about girl stuff and laughing. I tried french braiding for the first time in a decade and when I showed her my failed attempt, she melted my heart.
"It's beautiful, Mom. I love it."
I'm pretty sure she gave me a gift far beyond the hour I spent fixing her hair. Far beyond.

Tuesday July 8, 2013 Day 4: Ask And You Shall Receive. For Real.

I was planning to make zucchini bread for my next door neighbor who keeps her yard beautiful year round and who is a very private person. I'm not sure we have spoken more than a few words in the two years since we moved in. While I would still give that gift, it would become clear that I was meant to give two gifts today.

As I am driving my daughter to her acting class I have a strange thought "If there were a panhandler on my trip today, I would give them money." There aren't panhandlers where I live. We live in a small golf community connected to two small town and while I'm sure there is a homeless population, we don't see it. There are no cardboard signs or people on the street corner with guitars and change jars. In the twelve years since I moved back here, I have never seen a panhandler. I have seen people selling puppies and tamales at WalMart and people hitchhiking on the main road, but never a panhandler. My thought seemed silly and fruitless. I would be baking when I got home and gifting my neighbor.

As I drove back through town to pick my daughter up a couple hours later, I saw a young woman on the corner of the main road. With a cardboard sign. "Struggling and disabled. Anything will help."
Wait....what????? There is no possible way I created that. Is there? I keep driving and commit to stop on my way back so I won't be late picking up my daughter. I had planned on giving this woman the two dollars I keep in my change holder for car washes and drink stops, but as I get closer I know I need to pull a $20 bill out of my wallet. That is 1/4 of my spending money for this pay period. Any Starbucks coffee, racer back tank, movie ticket or meal out with friends comes out of this money and I spend it wisely. It has to last. It was weird, but I didn't worry about what I couldn't buy this week. I have all I need...a nice home, my health, food in my fridge and more clothes than I could wear in a month.

Here is my other hang up. Is she really disabled? What will she do with the money? This is always where I go when I give money, but part of the challenge is to give with your whole heart. I began to say an affirmation in my mind in order to move past my questions.  "Today I give without judgement". And I did.

I parked the car, got out and asked this young woman how she was doing.
"I've been better."
"Well, this is for you. I hope it helps." I said.
"Thank you and God bless."

He already has.

Check out my new post on mythirtyspot. Success and marriage. What it means when one person is making it  out in the world while the other one is at home.
http://www.mythirtyspot.com/2013/07/his-mine-and-ours-when-your-spouse-is.html

Book Club And Other Selfish Endeavors

I started a book club last year, so I could share my love of reading with other women. HA motherfucking HA! I needed an excuse to get out of my house and drink without going to a bar or giving my husband any indication that I am trying to run away. I'm trying to run away. I also meet my sister once a month for cocktails and dinner, my mom once a month for coffee and numerous friends for dinner when I feel I may be close to a mental breakdown. Before I had kids, my life revolved around me. I worked and spent my free time shopping, tanning, sleeping and hanging out with friends. When I got married I loved hanging out with my hubby because it was new and I hadn't washed his underwear or smelled his farts for an entire decade. Then we added two kids into the mix. I love my kids and I love spending time with them. I also must admit that I need to run away from them once in awhile in order to be the great mom they both deserve. Reading snake books, playing swords, painting nails, combing hair and cutting another human beings meat can be a bit taxing on the soul. I need to run away.

My husband doesn't spend as much time trying to get away from us and that makes me feel guilty sometimes. He likes being around us every night and every weekend and every vacation and....yeah I'm a dick. There have been a handful of times when we have left him home alone or I've forced him to call a friend and get the fuck out of the house for a couple hours. He always misses us or comes home early.  I am coming to realize that perhaps he doesn't feel the need to rip his hair out, guzzle a bottle of wine and take selfies in a bar bathroom. Yeah, I'm not proud of some of this shit.

I am a perfectionist. Which explains why after an entire week of not screaming, not spanking, and not punching a wall that I would need to blow off some steam. Being good for everyone pushes me to the edge and  if I didn't have the option of getting the fuck out, I would need Xanax or a straight jacket. Or both. I feel guilty when my kids cry and attach themselves to my leg as I am sprinting to the car. I feel guilty that my husband feeds them ramen noodles and Pop Tarts for dinner and that no one fills up the dogs water dish. I feel guilty when I get back and my house smells like a nauseating mix of sewer water and burnt popcorn. Then I wake up the next morning. Once again, I am ready to chauffeur these midgets around town and make a dozen peanut butter sandwiches. Yeah, I needed that.

Give Me My Money!!!!

Anyone out there remember getting allowance for doing the dishes, cleaning your room or going to school? Me either. Let's bring that shit back, ASAP. My husband and I recently started down the allowance highway and I for one am starting to regret we ever did. When our kids were young, we had them help with chores sans monetary benefit and paid for all the little extras they wanted. Snow cones, toys, candy, ice cream and dollar store shit that broke before we made it home. Our reasoning for allowance was to teach our kids about the value of money and let them decide what was more important, the $4.00 snow cone or saving for a huge Lego set that would be built and torn down in less than an hour. Decisions, decisions. It's not working out as well as we had hoped. The fight to get these brats to do chores has worsened, because now they see it as a negotiation tool to obtain more cash for less work. It's tricky business.

Us: "Okay, 7, it's your turn to do the dishes."
7: "I'll do it if you give me one more dollar of allowance."

Wrong, you little Wall Street tycoon, that is included in the $20.00 a month that we drop in your piggy bank and let me just say, that is more than I got during my entire childhood. It's become some sort of bargaining tool and it comes with attitude that I had hoped was reserved for those little assholes on My Sweet 16, where parents abuse their kids by spending $5,000 on a fucking birthday party. Shoot me, if I ever invite you to one of those. Here's a normal conversation with 10.

Us: "Will you please clean up the front room and take all your stuff upstairs?"
10: "Why do I have to do everything?"

Yes, folks, she does everything. If by everything, you mean one chore a day that takes a maximum of 15 minutes. When I was a kid, back in the age of the dinosaurs, we did chores because we lived and ate in our parent's house. That was just part of the deal. These little monkeys have more cash in their ceramic pig than I have in my wallet at any given moment. I have been half tempted to sneak in their rooms, stuff that cash in my undies and make my way to Athleta for a mommy day out. We do make them pay for any extras they want and that has seemed to expand their horizons on how fast money can be spent, but the work included to get that money seems to be lost on them.

This parenting thing is a work in progress and a pretty fucking expensive venture at that. I'm ready to kick it old school with these punks and tell them what my dad told me when I asked for money..."Get a job."

Winners And Why We Can't Have Nice Things

I need this on a t-shirt, if anyone was interested in shopping for me four months before my birthday. 

In other news, I picked the winners for the favorite things contest and guess what? All you awesome assholes are getting something!!! I'm talking to the eight of you who shared my post on FB, you know who you are. I couldn't pick just one or even just four, so I decided to do the only fair thing and pick all of you. Here's how it will pan out. I will pick one of the favorites from the list (no, you don't get to vote), I will mail it to your house (if I don't have your address, I will stalk you and get it), and for those of you who are getting beer, this story gets really interesting, because I will personally be bringing it to your house. Beer doesn't ship well, USPS doesn't appreciate it and I can't afford the shipping charges. I think I know all of you winners well enough to pick something you will like and if not, you can suck it. You are getting free shit.

Where did that fantastic Hump Day blog go?

Not too long ago, I was devoting Wednesday to the dirty deed (SEX..shhh) and it was a good time for all of us. That has ended, and unlike Superman, there will be no shitty remake. Here's the long and short of it. Mostly the long, so we will call it a Brittany story and if you don't get the reference, I have a friend you need to meet. When I check my blog stats, which I do often in order to decide if I'm happy or depressed, I can check where people have entered my blog from. So, as we would all expect, it's usually Facebook, mythirtyspot.com, Google or lately, lizzieg.com, so thank you for that. A few weeks ago, I was scrolling through and there was a website that I didn't recognize, so like an idiot I clicked on the link to find out where people were coming from.(There's a pun in there somewhere.) For a few days, I was getting most of my entries from this mystery site. (That last bit will be funny in a minute...wait for it.) It turned out to be a pay-per-view porn site.

We are all clear on the fact that I don't care if people look at that, I wrote an entire post about adding that to your bag of relationship tricks. I assume that is how I got linked to it in the first place. What I do care about however,  is that my blog and my writing isn't solely attached to that type of website. I would like to make a career out of writing and I don't need my hilarious sex stories to be taken out of context. They were meant for adults in healthy relationships who possess a sense of humor, not some perv who lives in his mom's basement and hasn't showered in four months. Since I have taken a permanent vacation from hump day blogs, I have returned to the pure entry (get it?) of sites that I don't have to pay for. You can sleep well tonight knowing that I have not stopped writing about sex, but now you will have to wait for me to get published and buy the book. Someone had to ruin it, which is why we can't have nice things.

Fruit Pizza And My Food OCD

Lucky Day!!! I'm sharing with you a recipe for one of my favorite desserts for summer, Fruit Pizza. My mom made this a lot while we were growing up and she updated it this week when she made single serving cookies with the same yummy goodies on top. Whichever way you choose to prepare it, this makes for a delicious, light dessert when the weather is blistery.

Fruit Pizza

1 roll of sugar cookie dough
1 container of Cool Whip (thawed)
1 8 oz. package of cream cheese (softened)
A variety of your favorite fruits (Strawberries, blueberries, kiwi and oranges are fan faves at our house)

Use a cookie sheet and flatten out the roll of cookie dough to make the crust for your pizza. Bake according to package directions. I have found that the crust is better when it is under cooked, so I take it out when the edges are toasty looking. That will create a soft and delicious crust.
While that's baking, mix the Cool Whip and cream cheese until smooth and cut up your fruit. When you crust is baked let it cool, I get impatient and place it in the freezer for 10-15 minutes. Now you are ready to put it all together!! Spread your sauce evenly over your crust and start layering your fruit. I like to put mine in rows but feel free to throw it on willy nilly. You can eat it now or refrigerate for a couple hours, personally I can't wait so half of it is gone by now. Enjoy!!

Why I Don't Eat Your Food

While people I love make some delicious treats, I have a strange affliction to eating crap from other people's house. There is a short list of homes that I eat food from and a longer list of homes that will never make the cut. Christmas is an especially challenging time of year for enhancing the relationships I have with my neighbors. I throw a lot of strange looking, odd smelling, and questionable food items in my trash can. My problem lies in not knowing how these items have been prepared and how clean any particular kitchen is. I have issues and while I am making food, I wash my hands approximately 5,000 times and wipe off my counters between each step. Thankfully, I have never worked in a restaurant or I would probably give up eating all together.

I grew up with grandparents who believed in hand washing above all else. If you washed before dinner and happened to shove your brother into a wall on your way to the dinner table, you best believe you are washing again.  My grandfather refused to eat food made by anyone other than my grandma and I thought it was bizarre that they rarely ate at restaurants. After finding hair and crusty remnants of food delivered to me by wait staff, I can now understand his hesitation. Some people don't take the care necessary in food preparation and the older I get, the queasier it makes me. I have an uncle who eats his sandwiches with his hand carefully wrapped in the sandwich baggie, as not to have his own hand touch the sandwich. Weird? I say no. Hands are nasty little buggers that have a tendency to pick up all the germs, sneeze particles and feces that strangers have chosen to leave on door handles. I have contemplated rubber gloves during many food excursions.

I am also known to have massive panic attacks when having people over for meals because I have nightmares about someone contracting a food borne illness from my macaroni salad or chicken wings. I wash, cook, and refrigerate like a Nazi and require hand washing to anyone entering the kitchen. Need a glass of water? Wash your fucking hands. Want to grab a fork? Wash that shit, now. I assume most people don't have issues like this, which is why I can't eat that loaf of banana bread you so lovingly made and sent over with your adorable 5 year old. The sweaty film from the plastic wrap is as concerning to me as wondering when you last washed the KitchenAid you used to mix it. Did you leave the eggs out too long? Were your hands clean when you opened the butter to drop it in the bowl? Was your cat milling around the utensil container before you grabbed a spoon? These are the questions I don't know the answer to and while I appreciate the gesture, I will not be consuming that questionable batch of flat cookies. Lucky for you, my kids and husband don't possess my neurotic tendencies so your gift won't go to waste. Unless it tastes like shit, then you should consider gifting us a bar of soap during the holidays. I promise it won't go to waste.

Getting A Real Job

When I was younger, I would dream about being an actress, a marine biologist and a vet, but never a mom. That wasn't a real job. My mom was the pinnacle of stay at home parents, but I couldn't appreciate all that she did because she made it look so easy. It never looked like work. She was happy to hang our clothes out on the line and help us with homework. We had homemade meals every evening and clean clothes waiting in our drawers every morning. I knew it wasn't a fairy who cleaned the house but I didn't think that could be considered work. My friends' moms went to the nursing home and the county courthouse for 8 hours a day. Their mom's weren't home after school which seemed pretty cool to a 12 year old who wanted to raid the fridge and watch MTV all afternoon. My mom was waiting for us after school with fresh cookies and a smile. It seems great but sometimes irritated my preteen senses. I couldn't  make bad choices with her hanging around the house all day. I had yet to understand that she had signed up for the toughest gig around by not having a 'real' job.

 The vet and marine biologist gigs didn't pan out for me and I gained a new found interest in having babies. I was home with my kids for the first years of their lives and worked part time jobs off and on to mingle with people who spoke in whole sentences and consumed more than breast milk. When I was at work, I felt validated by a paycheck and other adults who appreciated my efforts. At home, I worked harder to bathe, diaper, feed and entertain my kids without the perks or the paycheck. The benefits were happy kids and an enjoyable home life, but the hours were long and there were moments when I felt insignificant. I was just a mom. My friends had careers, college educations and retirement funds. They were living up their 20's at bars, wine tastings and indie movie premiers. I couldn't stay awake for an entire movie and I drank boxed wine. Bars were either soap or what I wanted to be behind so I could sleep for 8 hours straight. This mom thing was starting to feel like a 'real' job and I owed my own mom a big apology and an even bigger thank you.

My son asked me the other night at dinner when I was going to get a real job. I have recently left a company and can now make my own hours. I work while my kids are at school and write while they are asleep. I've become a pro at making it look easy. So easy that my kids don't think I have a job. I guess it takes becoming a parent to understand that the job your parents did raising you far surpasses what they did for an occupation. And sometimes it is one in the same.

Cookie Cutter Nothing

I find joy in the most ridiculous things. Taking pictures of cookie cutters for a post I haven't even written, makes me giddy. Last week, I carefully arranged sticky notes and took more than one photo of them, as well. My mind is a cluster fuck of ideas that could only be labeled artistic by a mental patient. It's a running theme in my life.

When I was a kid, I never felt like I fit in with my peers. I have never had a sense of style, a clear grasp on the male species or a nuclear family. While everyone else was watching Star Wars and playing on this new contraption called Nintendo, I was playing baby dolls and mastering the art of the board game. As I got older, I continued to dress in thrift store clothes and could never put a definitive label on my musical taste. It was an absurd mix of Neil Diamond and Rage Against The Machine. In short, I've never been cookie cutter anything. I longingly watched 'normal' kids start dating and make a skirt/boot combo look runway worthy and I wondered "If I had that outfit, would it change my life?" or "After my nose job, can I look forward to the opposite sex noticing I am alive?" My hope was that one day I would fit into some mold that made me appealing to someone in any way possible. I was weird and unwillingly to see it as a positive.

After high school, I left my small town life behind for the bright lights of the city and a desire to be a new me. I still couldn't dress myself and my obsession with gay men kept me in the dark about how homely I really was. While I had great friendships with women, I was super awkward on the dating scene. Take for example the time I was on break from class, sitting outside on my giant cell phone and talking with a young man I was spending time with. I never had a firm grasp on what our relationship was, but I got to end the conversation and proclaimed my love for him. Dead silence. I quickly hung up my brick phone and accepted the fact that I was a fucking weirdo who would never have a normal relationship. I have always done things in the wrong order, with the wrong people while donning an eclectic mishmash of clothing.

When I met my husband, I attempted to freak him out by pretending to be a super slut. It didn't work. His fashion sense was worse than mine and he saw something in me that I had yet to see in myself. He thought I was pretty and wanted to have full conversations with me. And he was straight. It didn't make sense. In true fashion, I was engaged to him within a month and struggling with how I, off all people, could be a wife. What kind of girl was I? I farted, burped, ate full meals and smoked on the patio while my fiance studied for exams. Any man in his right mind knew I wasn't marriage material. I anticipated the day he would finally realize what a mess I was and make a beeline for the Witness Protection Program. He never did.

Nothing has changed. I am a mother. A mother who lets her kids eat sugar packets at restaurants and pick out their own clothes. I am a runner. A runner who smokes and will never pound the pavement for longer than 30 minutes. I am a wife. A wife who doesn't make the bed and has no problem farting before/during or after intercourse. I am a friend. A friend who adores you and will never remember your birthday. I am a music lover. A music lover who rocks out to Flor Rida alone in my kitchen and then proceeds to scream the lyrics of Nine Inch Nails while picking up my kids from school. It makes no logical sense. It used to bother me that I didn't fit some cookie cutter profile, but the older I get the less I care. I will admit to wishing I could wear bright lipstick and put an outfit together, but some things just aren't meant to be.

Mommy Fail

This was my parent failure moment of the weekend. My youngest turned seven on Mother's Day and he had one big request for mom...a Lego cake. We sat together on the couch and researched cakes on Pinterest, I became more and more insecure about my abilities. Most of these monstrosities were the size of a smart car and covered in a mortgage payment worth of fondant. I kept scrolling. "I love that one," he grinned as he lay his head on my shoulder. Try saying no to that, you heartless bastard. "Okay, buddy, I'll make that one." It was the least intimidating cake we had seen, two large square Lego blocks with real frosting and marshmallows for the nobs. I could do this. I found a YouTube video that showed me step by step how not to fuck up this cake. I watched and laughed and imagined what a hero I would be when we served up a cake in the shape of plastic blocks. Mom Of The Year.

Growing up, my mom designed cakes for us every year and in every possible shape. She was ahead of her time with Cake Boss style chainsaw cakes, mouse cakes and my one true love, the Cabbage Patch doll cake. Every beauty was made with a cheap box cake, basic pans and creativity that would put 21st century blogger moms to shame. Our birthday snapshots are filled with cheesy grins and professional looking desserts whipped up by a woman who made me believe it was nothing special. Didn't every mom bake professional style cakes every quarter of every year for two decades? It's what makes my failure feel even more like a kick to the baby maker.

The day of my son's party, I woke up early with excitement and anticipation. I eagerly searched online for how to make box cake taste like homemade and got to work. The cake came out of the oven looking beautiful, that would be the first and last time it would. As I wielded my butcher knife it became clear that I was in over my head. The more I cut, the more it fell apart. "I'll fix it with frosting" I thought. I started mixing the red and after draining the mini bottle of dye, I realized I had enough coloring for hot pink, not red. I was out of frosting except for the container that someone had opened, eaten out of and placed back in the pantry. It smell like belly button lint. Frosting the squares brought me to tears and I was hoping it would get better when my mom walked in to witness my sham of a life.
"You okay, hon?"
"I've ruined his birthday. I can't make red frosting, it's all falling apart and I can't fix it." I cried.
"It happens, just go buy a cake and let it go."
Easy for her to say, she hadn't ruined my 7th birthday and I still turned out to be a fucking mess of an adult. How much therapy would my little man need?

My husband took him to the store to pick out a cake and they returned while I was showering off my disappointment. I only saw the cake as we were leaving for the sweaty foot pizza parlor. This $20 cake was covered in bright colored daisies and butterflies with Happy Birthday!!! chicken scrawled in red frosting. My jaw ached as I held back tears and the thought of hiding under the dining table crossed my mind, as did pulling out the boxed wine and suckling straight from the nozzle. My hubby saw the look of horror on my face and said "Let it go. He liked it and the options were slim. No one is going to care."

He was right, no one cared except me. I wanted to be my mom, I wanted to be a Pinterest mom, I wanted to be a perfect mom but instead I was a me mom.  Maybe one day my son can blog about how his mommy ruined his 7th birthday cake and he loves her anyway.

Bagels and Your Body

Wondering what that is? My kids call it "Mommy's bagel belly" and then mommy drinks a bottle of wine and cries in the corner. This is what I have left after birthing two adorable children and gaining/losing over a hundred pounds. While I adore the new Dove campaign, even they don't capture all the realities of what a woman's body looks like after babies, huge weight fluctuations and the millions of genetic combinations that can make or break your build. I want people to understand that even though I may buy a smaller size, I have a bagel to tuck into my jeans. A bagel!

I started running a couple of years ago and was pleasantly surprised by how quickly I was able to burn calories and get fit. Running had always been my arch nemesis, but after pushing myself through a couple weeks of pain, I could see results that I hadn't gotten from swimming, walking or weights. What I still couldn't get rid of was my belly. I incorporated Pilates, heavier weights and even more running only to lose more weight and have more sagging skin in my mid-section. What is it they call my shape? Apple. I can only assume that I should feel good about that because apples are healthy. In reality,  it only makes me question whether or not I should wear a swimming suit in public. Ever. Are apples cute in two-piece swim suits?

I hear this a lot... "You are so tiny, you could wear anything". Wrong. Fitted tanks give me a spare tire, fitted jeans hurt my gut, low cut pants release the bagel from captivity and add an extra element of gross to any top I pair them with. "You could work that off". Could I? Because I've done more sit-ups and planks than I care to remember and while my muscles get stronger my bagel gets saggier. Had I gotten my mother's genetic build I could wear a two piece well into my 80's. My mom birthed three children and she looks better in a swimsuit than I do. And she's a grandma!!! Think about that for a minute.

I love my body. I also love detesting certain things about my body and I love sharing it. We all have body issues, even 'tiny' people. My sister is tall and thin, what society would describe as 'perfect' and guess what? She was tortured in middle school because of it. There is no such thing as perfect. We all have a love/hate relationship with our bodies at some point, so embrace it, laugh at it, take a picture and put it on the internet for every fucking person in the world to see. Who cares. It's true that you can't judge a book by it's cover, some covers have a delicious bagel underneath.