In a Better Mood

Leave it to PFunky to set me straight--and some uplifting words from Laurie to put me on a better track.*

I've been pissed off all day. On Twitter I was reading about all the "GREAT" and "FANTASTIC" plans people have for the new year. Everyone was so freaking chipper. Apparently I only follow the uber-achievers whose sole purpose in life is to make me feel like a big gigantic loser by comparison.

Where am I going? What am I going to do next? What have I accomplished so far? What do I have to show for my time on this planet? Why was it again I went away to college? And moved away from home? How the heck am I going to make the changes I really want to make in my life?

Oh yeah, and I'm going to be 40 in 2010.

It wasn't a pretty day.

Just moments ago, I was reminded that we are putting another decade on the books (I mean I knew this, but I didn't really THINK about it), and then I started to think about my life 10 years ago.

The roof that is over my head? Didn't belong to me yet.

The kind people I work for now? Hadn't met 'em yet.

The three crazy, rambunctious, big-hearted boys who make me want to both pull out all my hair and laugh hysterically every single day? One just went back home to live with his mom and the other two were a vague concept.



I may not be world-famous (yet). I may not be the hottest mommy in town (yet). I may even still have that nasty Diet Coke habit (let's not get too hasty with our resolutions), but I do have a life I couldn't conceive of just ten years ago.

Makes me wonder how I'll look back ten years from now.


*I hope you know how much your words meant to me today--always.

Post-Holiday Stress Disorder

I'm not sure what it is--the letdown after the holidays, looking back at a year, anticipating a new one. Whatever it is it has me in a foul mood and wondering if a good, snot-filled cry would make it better.

While everyone else is excited for a new year and new resolutions, I'm sitting here this morning filled with anxiety and wanting to hide.

Being responsible for your own happiness is overwhelming sometimes. There are so many things I have to pretend not to see or feel that it becomes exhausting--like playing a role eight days a week.

Fake it till you make it?

My stiff neck and nasty zits say otherwise.

I Googled Him Today

We haven't talked in such a long time. It's been even longer since I've seen him.

If you ask me, I'll tell you that I don't have any feelings about him at all.

None.

Really.

I can summon nothing.

He is part of my past like kids from elementary school who moved away, like that shirt you had to have in 7th grade and only remember now when you leaf through the photo album at your mom's house.

He was there one day--such an integral part of my life--and the next he was gone. The pain in the beginning was fierce, but when it subsided the relief erased everything. No more drama.

So why? Why today?

Why was the last thought I had before falling asleep last night one that suggested I should google him today?

I felt dirty just typing his name. I was embarrassed. What if someone found out I had looked for him? Was I really "looking" for him, or just wanting to know if he was still out there?

My upper lip is pulled up in a scowl as I type this now. I'm disgusted that I did it. Thinking that by admitting it here I will cleanse myself of this thing--this act of typing twelve letters and pressing Enter.

You'd think by my description there was abuse. There wasn't. Well, unless you consider abandoning your 10 & 12 year old daughters with no notice abuse. Most days I don't. I've often considered it a favor.

He just walked away one day.

His name doesn't deserve to be uttered. It most certainly doesn't deserve to be written. And I think that's why I'm so repulsed by the fact that I did. I think I'm worried that just by mentioning him by name he will somehow manifest from thin air, and I REALLY don't want that to happen.

Home on Fumes

I'm kinda hinky about religion. I'm trying to work on it, but this general outlook results in a habit of not making bargains with G*d.

I do, however, on occasion find the need to enter into small agreements with inanimate objects and small children and pets who have no possible way to understand the ramifications of the covenant I'm making with them.

When my adorable, little puppy ran into the middle of a flag football game being played by a dozen hot guys down on the Mall that day in my 20's, I promised then that I would forgive the future destruction of one item that she was sure to undertake.

When my youngest child behaved incredibly in the ER waiting room for hours on that visit when he was two? Well he doesn't know it yet, but he has one free pass on breaking curfew when he's a teenager.

I forgot to get gas before leaving for home tonight (what is it about the gauge that it always ends up in my blind spot?). I had to be home in twenty minutes. There was no time to stop and even to make it in that time I'd have to take the HOV lanes (there are no gas stations or exits on the HOV lanes).

The needle was on empty as I pulled out of the garage. The little orange light was on.

I really didn't want to run out of gas. I didn't want to stand in the cold. I didn't want to wait for AAA to bail me out. I DID NOT want to hear it from my husband.

So I made a bargain with the car.

She has more than 100,000 miles on her. I tend not to give her the respect she deserves. I often let my eyes stray to other cuter, younger cars.

But I made a bargain with her.

My little car got me home tonight. I wasn't late, and more importantly I didn't have to listen to my husband rant about my inability to pay attention to the gauge (or the clock).

So I will stick by my promise. Next time I'm tempted dismiss that little car, I'll remember she got me home on fumes.

The Naked JellyBean

Today I described how I see myself in my mind's eye as a naked, flesh-colored jelly bean.

I'm not sure that this is a description that will mean anything to anyone else. I'm not sure it's exactly the vision I have, but it comes closest. Maybe you'd get a better idea if I added that it's probably one of those gross booger-flavored jelly beans from Harry Potter--I've steered clear of Jelly Belly's in fear of getting one of those ever since I read the first book.

Why a naked jelly bean?

It's mostly the amorphous blob shape, I imagine.

When I told my friend this he laughed and shook his head at me.

Last night I had the chance to talk to a childhood friend who told me that she always thought I was the "together" one. We were in 5th grade the last time we saw each other. How could I have been "together" in 5th grade? I'll tell you what, I wasn't.

But this is a trend. People often think I look like I know what I'm doing. A lot of times I do. But many times I don't. Many times I feel like I'm the only person in the room who doesn't have it all together.

I don't know why I'm telling you this. I probably shouldn't, but I can't get the image of the naked, flesh-colored jelly bean out of my head.

Oh yeah, and I'm way jealous of people with good handwriting.

Too Much Tea

I'm a freak.

Okay, if you've been reading this blog for any length of time you already know that.

But every once in a while I like to pretend that I'm not, until I am so blatantly reminded as I was just now.

I visited the bathroom about an hour and half ago right after lunch. There was a woman wearing white sandals in there at the same time. We didn't talk, but I took note of her shoes (of course).

See there's something about the iced tea at my favorite lunch place. I drink gallons and my usually strong bladder caves to the pressure.

So back to the bathroom I went just a little while later feeling ridiculous that I had to go again so soon.

I noted that someone else was in there, but I just chose another stall to find relief. While washing my hands afterward the other toilet flushed and I looked into the mirror and could see the shoes peaking out from under the door.

White sandals!

I had to get out of there! I couldn't wash my hands fast enough! What if she came out and saw that I was in the bathroom again?! She'd know that I went twice in less than two hours!!

I hurriedly pulled the lever on the paper towel dispenser (I hate wet hands), grabbed the towel and quickly rubbed my hands dry as I sprinted toward the door. I could hear the latch on the stall opening. She was almost out.

I pulled on the handle of the bathroom door and swung it open just enough to squeeze through and I ran out.

I actually sighed with relief. I made it out without her seeing me.

And then I walked down hall back toward my office verbally smacking myself in the head.

What normal, sane person worries about being seen in the bathroom twice inside of two hours by someone else who obviously has to go as frequently?! Who rushes out of the bathroom like that?

Seriously. I'm a freak.

Another Port-o-Potty Post

Baseball season is upon us once again (does it really ever end?) and as you know there aren't many options for a girl when nature calls at the field.

I avoid the dreaded Port-o-Potties as much as possible, especially after the incident last year, but sometimes there's just no choice.

We were down at the fields for a marathon afternoon and all of the sudden my breakfast came back to haunt me.

There wasn't any time to make it home.

I found a relatively clean cabinet o' ca-ca and went about my business. So many thoughts ran through my head as I was finding my way to sweet relief.

What if some kid forces the door open and everyone sees me with my pants down?

What if a long line has developed since I stepped in here?

Is the tank full enough that the next person will know I had the sour-apple-quick-steps?

As these totally rational and sane thoughts caused me to sweat a little, my eyes landed on this:


I HAD to know whose job it was to figure THAT out.

As part of my research (see what I do for you??), I made the most fascinating discovery--the PSAI--and boy is their website full of interesting information!

For instance, did you know that there are 1,400,000 portable toilets in use worldwide? That they call waste "effluent" (I'm kinda liking that word)? And that they have developed a Special Events Usage Guide?

I know, me neither.

Those portable sanitation people are some helpful folk.

To top it all off, the nice folks at the PSAI hand out the M.Z. "Andy" Dump--I mean--Gump Award which is a "lifetime achievement award honoring those that have improved the image of the industry and have created innovative approaches for sanitation needs through new and improved products and services."

I want to party with these guys.

The Trip from Febreeze to Self-Pleasure Is Quicker Than You Think

It started out as the most innocent conversation, but I was left with many questions.

A wad of rain-soaked clothes were left in my co-worker's car resulting in a musty smell. He was telling me about the vast amounts of Febreeze he had sprayed in his car and was complaining that he could still smell the odor.

When I was younger we had dogs. We always used Lysol to clean up after the puppies while they were being housebroken. The puppies in my life pre-dated my children, and therefore my tolerance of poop, so I would often gag when I was forced to pick up the poop. The smell, the consistency, the little remnants left on the floor; I still associate the smell of Lysol with it all.

It was this I was telling my co-worker--that if I smell Lysol now I would swear to you that it smells like puppy poop--when he made an unexpected connection to my story.

Him: "Oh yeah. That's just like when I smell someone who has on my jerk-off lotion."

Me: *blink. blink*

It takes a lot to leave me speechless, but I definitely didn't see that coming.*

*Heh, I said "coming".*

So I let this information sink in--about five seconds goes by--and then it begins to happen.

I have questions!

Me: "You have jerk-off lotion? Is this special lotion? Do you only use it for that purpose or do you just use whatever you happen to have around? Can't you just do it with a dry hand?"

And he actually began to answer them.

We work in a very small consulting firm, so this conversation is not as inappropriate or uncomfortable as it sounds. He's in his late-twenties. It's the 20-something boys I know who keep me hip to the whole single scene. Not that I don't respect them, but I do sort of look at them like animals in the zoo--observing their behavior and being grateful that I live on the other side of the bars.

It was a bunch of young, male, former co-workers who taught me years ago about the prevalence of manscaping and the expectation of Brazillians for the women they dated when I still thought all that grooming was reserved for the porn set. Seriously, you ever think you want to be single again? Just talk to a bunch of late-twenties males. You'll run home to your spouse at lightening speed.

Anyway, so he starts answering me.

Him: "Yeah. I haven't gone without it for like 10 years. It's nothing special, but I usually have two bottles, one in the bathroom for regular use and one in the bedroom."

Me: "What if your girlfriend develops a sudden case of dry skin and sees the bottle of lotion by the bed and just starts slathering it on? Do you run to stop her?"

Can you just see that all in slow motion? "Nooooo. Not THAT lotion."

Him: "Not at all."

Me: "But then she'll remind you of...um...jerking off?"

Him.: "Yeah! I know. That'd be awesome."

Um. I don't think she'd think so.

So now I have a challenge.

I have between now and our next holiday party in December to figure out a way to delicately suggest that she might want to bring her own lotion with her to her boyfriend's house.

And I swear the next poor guy I see in the lotion aisle at CVS is going to be so sad he met me.

"So how do you decide which brand?"

"Are you brand loyal?"

"What if there's something different on sale?"

"What features are you looking for?"

"Wouldn't lube work better?"

"Do you prefer scented or unscented?"

I just have so many questions...

*For the record, I'm not a prude. It wasn't that I was unfamilar with the concept, I just never thought that's where the conversation was going to take us.

Got a Cork?

Sometimes I feel like a bucket that's sprung a hole at its seam.

On the outside all looks well, but I feel empty on the inside. The things that should normally fill me up are washing out as quickly as they're poured in--so much so sometimes that there is barely any residue left by their presence.

I don't know if it's exhaustion or frustration or restlessness, but I need to feel full before I begin to collapse in on myself.

Tomorrow I may feel completely different.

I hope I do.

Because today, I worried to myself that I was becoming a black hole, and a black hole by its infinite nature is impossible to fill.

But then again, I tend to be a worrier.

Let's chalk this all up to hormone fluctuations and an impending birthday. I used to love them, but now I'm looking at the number and wondering what it is I've accomplished and what it is I have ahead of me.

I desire change.

I know I'm the only one who can make it.

Why I Love St. Patrick's Day--It's Not What You Think

I have a fondness for this day we celebrate our collective Irish heritage--both real and imagined.

I don't necessarily imbibe in green beer, though I have, and I did enjoy corned beef and cabbage today (a first). I don't love St. Patrick's Day because I'm particularly fond of bagpipes or long lines at Irish Pubs.

I love St. Patrick's Day because I'm adopted.

I've always known I was adopted. I went straight from the hospital to my parents. I'm taller than both my parents, but I am a brunette like my mom. Like many modern families, my parents divorced and my mom remarried when I was 10, so I mainly grew up without anyone questioning if I was adopted because they knew the guy I called my dad was actually my step-father.

In my sister's case, the fact of her adoption was a little more obvious. My first real memories are of the events surrounding her adoption when I was 3 1/2. She actually went home with her biological family for a few months before coming to us and we know that she is of Puerto Rican descent.

My sister and I look nothing alike--but I tend to forget. As a matter of fact, when my nephew (now my eldest son--different story for a different day) was born he looked so much like my sister that I cried when I met him because I finally felt like I looked like someone I knew.

So what does this all have to do with St. Patrick's Day? I'm getting there.

In my twenties, I requested the non-identifying information about my adoption from the agency that handled it. Honestly, I wasn't looking for much information, though I did discover I had been given another first name at birth (my mom swears she told me this--I contend that's not something I would have forgotten) and that my birth parents weren't related by blood (Phew! Dodged that bullet! Shit I hadn't even contemplated the possibility.) I was interested in a totally different piece of information. There was only one thing I wanted to know--one little thing that has always bugged me.

I want to know my ethnic background.

As an adoptee, I've never been too interested in finding my biological parents, but I have wanted to feel some connection to those who have come before me. To be able to stake a claim to an ethnic "home country" feels like it would give me a sense of my place in the chain of human events.

So there I was, scanning through the documents I received from the agency, finding out that my name had been Emily for a few days and my birth parents were young and probably "made" me in the back of a Trans-Am with Led Zepplin blaring on the AM radio, when my eyes found the box containing the information I had been searching for.

Ethnic heritage: American

AMERICAN??!!

My blue eyes, dark hair and plethora of freckles suggest that this didn't mean Native American.

My physical characteristics suggest I'm Irish. I once dated a self-proclaimed "black Irish" guy and it was somewhat awkward to kiss in public, because people often thought we were siblings.

Does it make sense now why I love St. Patrick's Day?

It's the one day a year I get to have a nationality--even if I don't have proof.

The Post I Might Delete Later

I'm in a really bad mood. Lately, I haven't posted when this happens because I worry what I might say when I do. Too many people I care about stop by here on occasion and I don't want them to fret over me.

But today I remembered that my attraction to writing developed during my teen years as a way to get the thoughts out of my head. As a fairly outgoing person, you might be surprised by the size of the crowd and level of volume that can be reached in my brain.

I don't hear voices per se (cause damn if I did they might have answers), but rather have conversations with myself--constantly.

So back in those hormone-filled days of angst, I often wrote letters to people as a way to say the things I didn't feel I could say/or didn't have the opportunity to say in person. I never sent the letters. I don't remember burning any of them. Who knows? My mom could be sitting on a stack of them right now waiting for the perfect time to embarrass the crap out of me. The letters didn't necessarily make me feel any better, but they seemed to quiet the sounds that prevented me from noticing the rest of the world and moving on.

Like many bloggers I know, I do keep a private blog where, to this day, I still write letters. Interestingly, putting my thoughts out there feels safer than recording them in a journal that someone might happen upon. There is further irony to that blog, but for now I'll enjoy that by myself.

Do you have a place you write that is separate from your public blog? Are there topics that you only cover there?

As I wander through the blogosphere I read about a vast number of topics that are finally seeing the light of day. Moms are opening up about topics ranging from sex to the trials of PPD. Women are discussing the frustration and heartbreak of infertility. People of all walks of life are sharing the trials of serious illness, depression, racism, bullying, addiction, the death of loved ones and abuse. These brave people are sharing a part of themselves in a way that allows the rest of us to not feel so alone in the world. In my mind, they are the pillars of the social networking community.

What I've noticed though is that there seems to be one topic that remains fairly off limits (unless addressed anonymously). I understand why. Many people have discussed their reasons for not talking about it. I see this in my real life friendships too.

I just have to ask though...when will we all stop pretending like marriage is easy??

Yet Another Post to Help You Feel Better About Yourself

So yesterday I was in the bathroom at work.

(Nothing ever ends well with that type of introduction.)

Apparently, I was in there for a bit and so at "completion" I didn't realize that my right foot had fallen asleep. I discovered it quickly however when I stood up and promptly fell over hitting the top of my head on the door to the stall.

This is my life.

A Peek Behind the Curtain

First, Happy New Year!

Second, allow me to let down the facade of the self-possessed, organized, energetic, happy and productive woman/sex goddess/mother/wife/employee that I love to fantasize is really me.

What?! You weren't fooled? Sheesh.

It's only January 3rd and I'm having a panic attack at this very moment. I feel so overwhelmed by the incredible number of obligations hanging over my head. The very anxiety they are causing is further preventing me from accomplishing any of it.

My hope is that by sending this out to the world some of it will diminish, so I can go back to my peaceful world of soft, furry unicorns and rainbow-striped excrement. It's such a happier place...and way more colorful.

Intervention Needed STAT!

Blogging friends, if ever there was a time I needed you it is now.

I had Live with Regis and Kelly on this morning as I was getting ready (Anderson Cooper was sitting in for Regis--he's funny and I'll admit here I've watched Kelly since she was on Dance Party USA) and Michael Bolton was on singing some Christmas tunes.

Here's the problem.

When he was chatting with Kelly and AC at the end, I actually thought to myself, "Hmmm. He's kinda cute. I can finally see what makes the girls swoon."

OMFG!!!

I've hit a new low.

Kris and Kim--my girls--come hit me over the head now before I set up my own fan page.

Thank Heaven for Little Memes

I've been pretty bad about responding to tags recently. It's not that I'm not humbled to be thought of--trust me I love it thank you--I've just been off the meme thing recently.

Pulling into the homestretch of NaBloPoMo during this holiday weekend has me digging deep to put words on a page, so I'm leaning on the support.

First a thanks to my NY friend ~JJ! for the Me and Mine Meme.

Here's the deets:

Me and Mine Meme 100 Directions:
1.) State the name of your blog, your real name or your online name, and link to your "about me" page.
2.) Say you want to be profiled on BlogHer as a family blogger and link back to this Me and Mine 100 original post, http://www.blogher.org/mommy-and-family-bloggers-promote-yourselves-me-and-mine-meme-100.
3.) Tell how long you've been blogging.
4.) Pass this meme on to three other bloggers that you think should be profiled/interviewed, and ask them to do the meme. (Kindly link to the bloggers you select.)

1. You're here at Mamma Loves... I'm Amie and if you look to left of the page you can read all about me--or just head on back through the archives.

2. I'd love to be profiled on BlogHer as a family blogger.

3. I've been blogging for about a year and a half.

4. I'm passing this along to Arkie Mama, Andi from Poot and Cubby and Slackermommy.

Now I haven't done this in a while, so when Cristie at Krinkle's Place asked, I thought what the heck.

Seven Things About Me

1. I like to tell myself I'm prematurely grey, though at age 37 I'm not so sure it's that premature anymore.

2. I love taking photographs. I'm REALLY hoping for a digital SLR camera for Christmas. It's that or the umpires are going to get pretty annoyed with me next season when I block the base path trying to take close-ups of my ballplayers.

3. My mom's only sister--my aunt--died of liver cancer seven years ago. I still miss her every day. She was so much a part of my life.

4. I have an innie.

5. When I first get into bed at night I arrange myself with the pillow doubled up under my neck and the blanket pulled up to my chin. I can't fall asleep this way though. I always turn over on my stomach to actually drift off, yet I never lay down this way first.

6. If I wake up at night from a bad dream or I can't sleep because I'm worried about something I make sure some part of my body is touching my husband. It calms me down immediately.

7. I have vivid dreams. They are realistic. They are in color. And I almost always remember them. I think I need to cut back on the Diet Coke.

Seven Bloggers tagged using the NaBloPoMo Randomizer and MommyBlogger Group

1. Oh, Nothing
2. Canned Laughter
3. VDog and Little Man
4. Mom's the Word
5. Chik Austin (I love her shoes!)
6. Mama(e) in Translation
7. Reality Testing

Go forth folks and tell us about yourselves.

Name Schmame

When I got married I was still the young, idealistic mamma who thought she was going to save the world. I was working for a reproductive rights advocacy organization and therefore with a number of women who were shocked by my decision to take my husband's last name upon marriage. I explained that changing my name wasn't a big hang-up for me.

My husband never assumed I'd take his name. I don't know that we ever discussed it really. Maybe because I didn't feel pressured I was happy to do it. I knew it meant something to his older relatives and frankly, I just didn't care. Our last name is a good strong name. It's pretty common and it put me right up at the beginning of the alphabet, which makes it easy to find my nametag at big conferences.

After our wedding, I changed my name on all my credit cards (in all honesty Shakey took care of that as I'm not really the best with those kinds of details), my business cards, my insurance cards and my driver's license. I never really got around to changing it on my Social Security card, because really who has time to wait at the Social Security office?? The IRS didn't seem to mind. The forms had this great little check box for people like me who filed under a different name than their Social Security card. Obviously the DMV didn't care as they were happy to issue my license and even retake my photo to ensure the best shot on that little card (oh how I miss that old license).

Years go by. I've completely adapted to my new last name. I got over the momentary hesitation that takes place when having to interrupt your signature with a new set of letters half way through. We bought a house. We had children. And, oh yeah, September 11 occurred.

Meanwhile, my license expired.

So I haul myself down to the DMV with a toddler and infant in tow and all the appropriate documents. I take a number, fill out some forms and wait for my number to be called. Hand the papers to the woman, I'm shuttled to another line and wait for my turn in front of the camera. Photo taken, move to another line to await my new license. Toddler running circles around me, infant getting ansty in his stroller and I continue to wait. Finally, I'm called up to a special desk where I am informed that I cannot renew my license because the name on my license is different than the one on my Social Security card. *#&$)(@@*! Patriot Act!

Now I was a big talker up above, "I didn't care about my last name" blah, blah, blah. I was irate!! Everything was just fine as it was. I was using my married name in day to day life, but at the heart of it I was still the old mamma because my one last official document had my pre-married name. I didn't want to change, but those beasts at the DMV (sorry any precious DMV working readers) are a tough bunch and they weren't going to budge. Poor mamma was not going to get a new driver's license that day.

Stubborn woman that I am, I stormed out of the office vowing not to give in. But then there was that whole driving on an expired license thing that no matter of my brother-in-law being a police officer was going to help. A few days later, I admitted defeat and resigned myself to an afternoon of waiting in the Social Security office.

Yada, yada, yada, I find an afternoon to leave work early, spend three hours waiting to have my number called and finally get my turn at the desk. Having accepted the fact that I am going to have to change my last name on my SS card, I proudly hand my marriage license over to the woman behind the counter. She takes one look at it and says, "I'm sorry. We can't accept this."

Wha?? Huh?? I didn't get married in Cuba or China or even Las Vegas. I have an official document from the state of Massachusetts. "Whadda you mean you can't accept it?" I am then informed that my document is too old (five years by this time) to be accepted. "Sorry, new rules since September 11." "Do you have your driver's license?" she asks. Knowing it contains my new name, I quickly hand it over. "Well we can't accept this either since it's expired." At this point, I being looking around for hidden cameras. "So let me get this straight," I say. "I can't renew my driver's license because my Social Security card has a different name and I can't get a new Social Security card because my my driver's license is expired?" "Yes," she says with a straight face, and I'm told to sit back down to wait for someone behind the opaque door to come out and get me.

Let's just say that by this time I was pissed and my ass was sore from sitting in those hard plastic chairs for three hours. I finally get called back and the woman lists off all of the possible documents I could use change my name: a marriage license--nope mine's too old; a driver's license--nope mine is expired; a court order changing my name--funny I don't have one of those handy.

At this point, I've rummaged through my bag pulling out every credit card, library card, insurance card and random piece of mail I have with my married name on it. Nothing is acceptable. To each document I proffer, she calmly states that she can't do anything about the law. You know, national security and all.

At our apparent stalemate, she consults her list of acceptable documents one last time and says I could use a medical document with my new name on it. I'm now envisioning a visit to my doctor's office to get a copy of my charts and coming back to the SS office another afternoon to go through this all over again.

And then I remember an old prescription I never filled in the zip pocket of my bag!

I unfold the paper, hand it over to her and she examines it. Understand this is a basically a Word document printed on a generic laser printer with an incomprehensible signature on the bottom authorizing a pharmacy to dispense me the mini-pill (I didn't want to worry about the spotting). She gets up, asks me to wait there and takes my paper back to some higher authority to determine it's validity. After a few minutes she comes back and tells me they'll accept it, but they can only use the name for my new SS card as it appears on this document, which just so happens to be my first name, the initial of my maiden name (with no period) and my married last name. I've been defeated. This is not my name--not the name I wanted--except the government has now said it is.

I'd like to pause for a second. In case you missed it, I could not renew my license originally because of the Patriot Act. Then I couldn't use my valid marriage license as proof of my new last name because of the tightened security procedures, but I was allowed to get a brand new social security card with a Word document! Do you feel safe??

Anyway, my original plan had been to have my first, middle, maiden and married name (yes all four) listed on my SS card. I would never use all of them on a day to day basis, but I wanted to keep them all, because you see I'm currently on my second first name, my first middle name and my third last name.

I was given a first name at birth. When I was adopted ten days later, I was given a different first name. After my mom got remarried many years later, my last name was changed to my step-father's and now I've taken on my husband's. In a way, you can see how I really didn't have a problem changing my name as it had been changed so many times already, but I didn't want to lose that middle name. It's the one name I've had that hasn't ever changed. Alas, I still consider it part of my name, but as far anything official is concerned, it's gone.

Yes, this entirely too long, drawn out story was just my way of telling you that I'm adopted. Remember? I promised I was going to start revealing more personal details.

I'll Give You an Excuse

I wear my excessive weight like a suit of armor. It gives me an excuse for you not to notice me or like me. Then when you don't want to interract with me I know it's not because of me--of who I am--but because who wants to talk to the fat girl??

Ironically, I snuggle into my armor time and again anticipating the comfort that awaits, but as soon as it's on I realize it doesn't fit. It's too tight. It becomes hard to move. My heart can't beat as loudly with it on. Of course, when I go to take it off I realize I can't. I'm stuck.

And there I am--alone. Exactly what I was trying to avoid in the first place.

I'm so uncomfortable I don't think I can stand it one more minute. But, the task of exposing myself once again is frightening. The job of disassembling the intricate fit from the inside out is formidable. I feel so helpless, and I begin to lose my will to try.

So there is one more reason for you to turn away in disgust.

Cold, hard, lazy, unwilling yet needy, needy, needy. Why would you stop to engage me?

Please though. Just for a moment understand I wasn't always this way. It's just so much easier if I give you a reason not to like me before you decide you don't.

It's very lonely in here. I know that will never change as long as I keep the armor on. I just need to remember it's never serves as protection but rather a wall.

Organizationally Challenged

That's the nice way to say I'm a slob, right?

Don't get me wrong. I love clean spaces. I love uncluttered homes. I love for my space to be light and easy on the eye, but I CAN'T SEEM TO MAKE THAT OCCUR IN MY LIFE!

Can you tell I'm frustrated?

I've been this way forever. Ask my mom. The poor woman tried to teach me better. She's the most organized woman I know. She cleaned my room so many "one last times" when I was a kid. No matter what her threats, it always fell apart. Because of this I started doing my own laundry at a fairly young age.

My office isn't usually bad. My car can be kept neat for long periods as long as no one else ever drives it, but my house? UGH!

My messiness does not tend to get in the way of my ability to do things. I can always find my keys. I know where my important papers are. Usually I can find both shoes in a pair. The clutter and the unkempt look of things stresses me out though. So you'd think I'd do something about it. But I don't. I can find a gagillion other things I'd rather do. And if I get it partially organized? It falls apart after a few days.

I know there's probably some deep-seeded "issue" I haven't dealt with that makes this so. Some of Fly Lady's thoughts hit home (yes, I even thought about trying Fly Lady but I could never get my sink clean to start). But really! It's just stuff.

I don't know what I want to hear from you dear readers. Tell me how it works for you. Tell me you suffer the same challenges. Tell me if you WERE organizationally challenged by now you're reformed. If you have recovered, I want you to pour your secrets into that comment box. PLEASE.

I'm tired. I need to sleep. See, another thing I'd rather do than organize my life.

I don't feel like I am really a grown up until I can have a house that looks put together. Hmmmm......

PS--I don't want you all getting the wrong idea. There aren't old milk cartons piled in the corners. You don't have to weave through stacks of magazines to get from one room to another, but there is a big pile of clothes in my room which has become a permanent fixture in my room around which I must decorate.

HELP!!!!!

Just Another Tuesday Night at Bingo

Can you spot the drag queen?

At Least This Time There Was More Excitement

The team was down 6-2. They had just come out of the bottom of the last inning holding the opposing team to no runs, and you could finally feel some energy building in the dugout.

The first three batters got on base and stayed on base. In other words, the bases were loaded.

And then my ten year-old son came up to bat.

And there was a pitch.

And there was a swing.

And the ball hit the bat perfectly.

The ball--that beautiful ball--soared over the infielders' heads, over the outfielder's head and straight out over the center field fence!

His first home run. A GRAND SLAM!

And I was cheering. And I was yelling. And I was trying to capture it on video. And I was jumping up and down.

And to go along with the theme of this season...

I peed.


Just a little.