The Next Larry Flynt?

Since the beginning of time, parents day dream about what their children will do for a living.  Will they be a doctor, police officer, tycoon or even a preacher.  A mother can only hope.  The Babe wanted to see want this whole kindergarten thing was about that brother keeps talking about.  In an effort to placate his curiosity, The Dad took The Babe to lunch with The Kindergartner the other day.  For those that are not privy to the inner workings of the elementary school lunch room these days, it hasn't changed since you were there.  Apparently The Dad was sitting with his boys at a long narrow lunch room table with about 20 other kindergarten aged kids the other day.  On this particular day, the lunch time convo steered toward the topic of movies.  In an attempt to include The Babe in the lunch time banter, a boy asked The Babe what kind of movies he liked to watch.  The Babe, without hesitation, looked at that boy and told him "I like movies that show ladies private parts".

WHAT THE?!

The Dad seems to think The Babe forgot The Dad was present.  As the table was recovering from the response to The Babe's declaration (apparently the group thought this was quite hilarious), The Dad looked at The Babe with surprise (what the...where...who...).  The Babe knew he was busted.  As his eyes welled up with tears he placed his head in his hands.

I got a call from The Dad the night of what I now call the "incident".  Although we were able to laugh about it, and I was able to say "better you than me", I had a number of thoughts swirling in my head:

• This is not one of those funny kid stories I can retell.  Think about it; if I retell this story people will wonder what in the hell I am letting my kids watch on TV.


• Why on earth would he say that?  Has he seen movies like this.  With whom?  Where?


• Well, I guess I know what he will do for a living.  Yay me...lifetime supply of adult entertainment.  As long as he is happy I guess.

 

Limping In A Winter Wonderland

I dread this time of year. For many reasons. It is as if Father Time is hell bent on getting to, and then through the fourth quarter while the rest of us are merely innocent bystanders as we slide into the home plate known as New Year’s Day.

It seems like we all get so distracted by getting through the holidays, we completely lose sight of what is important. Even with months of warning, the fourth quarter “sneaks up on me” every year. How many years do I have to live before I will plan better? How many years will I find myself saying “I can’t believe it is almost Halloween”, “Thanksgiving”, and finally “Christmas”.

Nearly a decade ago, I vowed I would not enter Wal-Mart between Halloween and the New Year. I doubt I need to explain the rationale behind this vow but that won't stop me.  It all started one year I was almost assaulted at the Wal-Mart in Roeland Park Kansas during the season of “giving”. That woman was giving all right. She was giving me the what-for when I had the last of an item that she wanted. In addition, the carts are too big and the aisles are too small. To put it simply, there is not enough room for “both” of us there. At this point, people in my life have gotten used to stocking stuffers from the gas station by now.

To add to my bah-hum-bug attitude, I despise cold weather. This is a little more than my constant inner debate with myself about why I moved from the fabulous sunshine state. This is the dread I feel anticipating the first cold snap. The dread I feel from my left ankle all the way to my left hip.

When I was first diagnosed with RA in 2005 I laughed. Don’t get me wrong, I think the world of my orthopedic surgeon and my rheumatologist. I just thought they had the wrong girl, or the wrong chart. Over the years however, I have slowly conceded, much like Wal-Mart in Roeland Park.

I need to make something clear. My pain is nothing compared to some; but it can be everything to me. My first flare up has been the worst to date. I can recall begging Brad to take me to the hospital and have them do something. Anything. At my lowest point, I swore amputation was not out of the question. Looking back, I realize I was being dramatic. In my defense though, my knee was a big grapefruit. A big, black grapefruit.

The worst part about my version of RA is the waiting period; those eight blissful months between “potential” flareups. On the flip side though, their timing and characteristics are pretty predictable, so I can prepare myself.

While I wait in wonder this season, I will focus on stuffing stockings with goodies for the boys and not stuffing a brace with what is left of my left knee.

Twitter makes me love those I haven't met. Facebook makes me hate those I know in real life.

If you are anything like me, you have a love/hate relationship with Facebook. I fought it as long as I could and finally joined back in 2008. As Facebook evolved, I began to use it more and more for work while managing various business pages. What annoys me about Facebook is the constant self-promotion by those that obviously need affirmation that they are attractive, smart, or funny. I also get a little irked when married people communicate with each other on their respective "walls". Can you not walk down the hall or into the kitchen and tell your partner what you need to say? Is it really necessary to piss so much on your territory that I can smell it on my computer?

I read an article recently about the amount of narcissism on Facebook. The article says "Narcissistic tendencies in many people fuels a need to have a large group of 'friends' link to their pages and many of these people accept cyber-friends that they don’t even know" . I know you have a few of what I like to call “friend whores” on your list of “friends”. They will friend everyone they meet; no one is exempt from their reach. From grocery store lines to the shower at the gym, they will “friend” you.

Which brings up something else to consider. Do you think Facebook has devalued the term “friend”? Sure, I know all of the people on my Facebook page. Some I have known nearly all my life and some are new acquaintances. Some only keep up with my through Facebook and others I see on a regular basis and have a deeper understanding of the person I am today.

Another article I read notes for the average narcissist, Facebook "offers a gateway for hundreds of shallow relationships and emotionally detached communication."; More importantly for this study, social networking in general allows the user a great deal of control over how he or she is presented to and perceived by peers and other users.

Maybe this is why I do not like Facebook. Maybe it is because I am comfortable in my own skin and want others to feel the same way. It takes a lot of time and effort to create and maintain the perception people are presenting on Facebook.  I don't think I could maintain that facade very long without losing it on some level.  I would probably have to lock myself up in my house due to fear that I might run in to someone in real life that would call me out.  Frankly I prefer real people that admit they are not perfect because I certainly am not.  The only perfect person I know of died on a cross.

The Alibi App

If you don't know what Facebook Places is, thanks for crawling out from underneath your fav rock to join us.

According to Facebook: "Places is a Facebook feature that allows you to see where your friends are and share your location in the real world. When you use Places, you'll be able to see if any of your friends are currently checked in nearby and connect with them easily. You can check into nearby Places to tell your friends where you are, tag your friends in the Places you visit, and view comments your friends have made about the Places you visit. Use Places to experience connecting with people on Facebook in a completely new way."

My first reaction to this application was that I really don't want othes knowing THAT much about me.  It is bad enough I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook but now people are telling me there every move.  I was much happier when they just updated their status every few seconds with the mundane tasks of daily life.

After I finished my mental rant I realized this application could be used for good and evil.  Sure you can see where friends are connect with them easily.  I can not imagine I am the first one to think of this as "the alibi app".  Think about it.  A teenager tells his parents he is at the school football game and as such, checks in there.  In reality, Little Johnny is reeking havoc with his friends in his girlfriend's basement while her parents are out of town.

What about the husband that tells his wife he is working late and checks in on Places accordingly.  In reality he is loosing his shirt at the local casino.  As to not sound sexist; what about the wife that tells her hubs she is going to the gym but in reality is out spending the college fund at the mall.

I know this idea is not new, I just don't like giving up that much info about my where-abouts.  Don't look for me to check in anytime soon.

What Others Have to Say About Me is None of My Business

I turned off the water, grabbed a towel and opened the shower curtain. I was startled by the oldest boy who was quietly sitting on the toilet, and he got a kick out of my surprised squeal.  Apparently he had been sitting there a while and I did not realize it.  This is just one of the benefits of being Mom; you are never alone.  While stepping out of the shower I teased the boy that he scared me and I didn't know he was there.  Why can't they be this quiet when I want them to be?

I am drying off as I step out of the shower and he hits me with it.  "Why do you have a tattoo on your butt Mommy?"  In an attempt to stall the answer, I remind Mr. Observant that I have another one...right there.  Like many other times I am caught off guard by a question by one of the boys, I simply fly by the seat of my pants. "Why do you ask buddy, do you not like Mommy's tattoo?".

This is one of those many times one of the boys teaches me something.  They are constantly making me stop and reflect on myself and my beliefs, making me a better person. My little man, wise beyond his years, looks at me and says "Mommy, it doesn't matter if I like it.  It only matters if you like it.".

All I could do was smile with pride.  Where does this kid get it?  I know he does not get it from me, and Daddy is less open minded than I am.  Little Man then proceeds to tell me about a picture he drew at school that one of his classmates did not like, and evidently was not shy about sharing her opinion.  The incident with the picture at school had made an impact on Little Man.  He told me he liked the picture and did not care if others felt differently. YOU GO BOY!

I am not sure how long he was sitting there, waiting for me.  After my schooling on confidence and what others have to say about  me, he got up and walked out like nothing happened.  If he only knew.

What Genitals and Religion Have in Common

Stick with me here folks.  I will hopefully make sense soon enough.

My parents taught me a lot of things.  Most of you have heard similar statements from your parents including, but not limited to:

• Don't point.


• Don't talk with your mouth full.


• Cloth shoes are for evening wear.


• The olive in a martini DOES count as a veggie serving.


• If you don't have something nice to say, keep your mouth shut.


• You get what you give.

Although my parents divorced when I was eight years old, they agreed on one thing.  Don't force others to see things your way.  Your way is not the only way.  This did backfire on them as I got older, when I could use the argument against them.  At that point, their work was done.  They had taught me to think for myself and allow others to do the same thing.

You might be asking yourself at this point, "Hey Red, what does this have to do with my God or my junk?".  Patience is a virtue my one lonely reader.  I am getting there.

As my mother's health declined over the last couple of years, I noticed her relationship with her God got stronger than ever.  My mother was a big believer in the power of prayer and believed her God answered every prayer.  Some will say those  fighting terminal illnesses tend to gravitate towards religion.  They need something, anything, in which they can believe.  I, on the other hand believe my mother already had a strong faith.  It was in this time of need that she was able to find solace in her faith.  She never ran around waving a self righteous flag.  She didn't have to, her God knew her heart.

I grew up near the church.  I don't mean it was down the street.  I mean that I asked Jesus to be my Lord and Savior a long time ago. I was baptized and forgiven for my sins.  We did not attend church every Sunday and Wednesday though.  I did not wear my faith on my shoulder.  My faith is something I consider to be very personal and private.  It is mine.  The other reason for my privacy with my faith is, frankly I did not want to be grouped with some of the zealots I have met on the road to redemption.  Most so-called Christians I have met in all my 34 years are the most judgmental and unforgiving souls I have ever met.  I found it ironic that the religion founded on forgiveness seems to be the least.  These people know a different God than I do.

My step-dad was a deacon in his church for years.  I listen to his stories about his time serving God in this capacity and I hear the cynicism in his voice.  He too, had a similar viewpoint as I do.  Too bad.  The church lost another good follower. His faith is still strong.  He and my mom walked together and shared their faith.  Funny thing though, I never saw him waving a flag either.

My father is a non-believer.  He was raised in a large Catholic  family and has his reasons for his viewpoint.  I don't try to convince him of my way and he gives me the same respect.  He does not mock the cross I wear around my neck and I do not tell him he is going to hell.  On the contrary, one day when our time comes, he will save me a seat in heaven and be the first to pass me a Schlafly.

I took the boys to church last Sunday.  No, I don't go every Sunday and that does not make me less of a Christian than those that do.  Hell, going to church makes you as much of a Christina as hanging out in the garage makes you a car. While are church, the boys enjoyed children's church while I listened to a sermon that could not have been timed more appropriatly.  Why does it turn out that when I finally show up, I hear exactly what I need to hear?  Do I make the sermon work for me or is God doin his job?  I will go with the latter...might make me go again.  I will continue to take the boys to church on occasion and educate them on all religions, not just Christianity.  Information is power and my boys will make their own diecisions.

Oh, and I will let them wear jeans when we go.  I am such a heathen.

You might still be wondering about your junk. Your religion is like your genitalia.  Don't shove either down anyone's throats please.  The world will be a much better place.

“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” ~Eleanor Roosevelt

The other day I heard the funniest thing.  It wasn't something one of the boys said, which is usually the case.  The funniest thing I have ever heard came out of my sister's mouth.  The fact that my sister said something funny is worth writing about in the first place.  In case you haven't been paying attention, I am the funny one.  Just ask me, I will tell you. 

It all started with a conversation about how I had confronted someone that was not speaking to me in a respectful tone.  I was explaining to my (older) sister that I had been dealing with this issue for about six months and was just fed up with it.  I was tired of being spoken to and treated like a six year old.  I was tired of being second guessed.  When I finally addressed the individual, I was not confrontational by any stretch of the imagination.  I thought I handled myself very professionally and with tact. 

I made a comment during my story that this was totally out of character for me.  After all, I hate to rock the boat.  I hate to make others uncomfortable.  I hate confrontation.  I hate it so much that my heart pounds, my pits sweat and I talk too fast when confronted.

Wait for it.  This is when it gets funny.  My sister then says to me, "if you don't like confrontation, why do you scare the hell out of me?"  I could not contain my laughter.  Then I asked if she was drunk.  She could have been; it was after five!  My sister begins to defend her sobriety by describing my intimidating nature.  I asked her to elaborate.  The only thing I intimidate are pedestrians when I try to parallel park downtown. 

The only other time I have been called intimidating was by a former employee of mine.  It was 2000 and a young man by the name of Mark worked for me and Brad as a video editor.  Mark was having some reliability issues that were not only affecting his attendance, but his ability to meet project deadlines.  Brad and I planned a meeting with Mark to discuss
our concerns.  Much to our surprise, he arrived on time for once...with his mother. 

As we sat down to discuss the situation, Mark was silent.  Mother did all the talking.  When I finally had an opportunity to jump in the one sided conversation, I asked Mark what is mom was doing there.  I didn't put it like that really, I just politely asked Marked why he felt it necessary to bring his mom. His response was short and sweet; "you scare me".

Since this was the first time I had heard anything like this, I laughed even harder and longer than when my sister offered this assessment.  I can only imagine that my laughter compounded the situation but I just don't see it.  This people must have me mistaken for someone else.

Isn't it interesting that what we see in ourselves is completely different than what others see in us. Good, bad or indifferent, I am trying not to dwell too much on what others think of me.  I think that has contributed to my problem of not speaking up in the past.  I was afraid others would be unhappy with me or think differently of me.  There are people out there that truly do not care what others think of them and I am a little envious.  I do care what others think, but I will no longer let that affect my ability to communicate my feelings or do what is right.

I kind of like the idea that some think I am intimidating though.  I will go with that for a while.

Something Happened on the Way to the Courthouse (Part 3)

Before you read on, be sure you are caught up on Part I and Part 2 of the series.

___________________________________________________________

So here we are. The last four years have presented many changes and challenges for me and my family. Two boys with two homes. A career change. A dieing mother. It’s enough to drive any sane person blind with madness. On the contrary though, my vision seems to be clearer today than ever before. I finally feel like Dad’s prediction may be coming true.

____________________________________________________________

I can recall talking with Dad about this process throughout the years. Now that I am a parent, I recognize his efforts to help me avoid some pitfalls or obstacles he may have experienced. Like most of us, he too had to learn from his mistakes, and his experiences make him the person he is today. He warned me I would find out who my true friends are at some point in my life. He also told me I can’t fix stupid. Not that my friends are stupid, mind you. This is just his way of saying I can not change people and more importantly, I can't control them. I can only control myself and how I react to people and situations.

______________________________________________________

The last few years have taught me a few things I wasn’t really ready to admit until recently:

• I refuse to let others make me feel inferior. In fact, I took charge of the way I feel about things and myself. What others think of us does not determine our worth.


• I am ok that others may not like what I do or say. This will not, however, stop me from saying it. Silence breeds contempt and I will not be silent anymore. This is not to say I will speak my mind or do things at the expense of others. I am simply owning my opinions and taking responsibility for my actions.


• I am ok with the fact that I am not perfect. This may come as a shock to some of you, but you are not perfect either. May I suggest you not judge others based on your opinion of yourself? Remember others have opinions of you too. Admitting our imperfections actually makes people like us a little more. Who wants to be friends with the perfect people that just make others feel inadequate anyway?


• I am more like my mother than I ever cared to admit. As I watch her die though, I learn all too late that I should be so lucky.


• I have been shown by two friends what it means to be a true Christian. They have both offered unconditional love and support without judgment. The sad thing though, is these two friends have also magnified the fact that my other “Christian” friends may need to brush up on the scripture they spout off regularly at me to condemn me. I think they must know a different God than I do.


• Perception is not reality. This theory works a couple of ways. What others perceive does not mean it is true. It also means that I will never know what others deal with in their lives or be able to understand what they are going through. Remember that when you find yourself about to judge others.


• I learned to like myself again. It is easy to pick out the people that don’t like themselves for one reason or another. You can do it too; who are the people in your life that are full of judgment or fall off the planet when you are in need?

_______________________________________________________

Going through this process and coming to these conclusions was not an easy task. Some of these ideas are those with which I still have a hard time admitting. There was a point in my “awakening” I wondered how much one person could actually handle at one time before breaking. I truly believe, however, we are never given more than we can handle. The alternative would have been to have these things trickle in one at a time. Imagine a slow leak that you don’t even know is present. You look up one day and see a wet spot on your ceiling. The next day the roof caves in. I think I will go with the all at once method. At least I can try to avoid loosing my top if possible.

_______________________________________________________

One more thing. If you happen to see my Dad, do me a favor. Don’t tell him I said he was right. I want him to hear it from me. One day I hope that my boys will say I was right about something. I hope at some point in their lives they will realize I knew what I was talking about. My boys teach me something everyday; teaching them something is the least I can do for them.

Something Happened on the Way to the Courthouse (Part 2)

Need to catch up on Part 1?

When you find yourself under pressure or stress, how do you relax? I don’t know about you, but it seems that I decide to throw some fuel on the fire and make a move.  That’s right, another move.  This makes about 11 times in 11 years.  Give or take a house, a city, or a year.

________________________________

Moving into a new house during an ice storm is even less fun than it sounds.  Toss in some discontent, two boys under three and changing careers and you have a recipe.  A recipe for what I did not know.  You know those nights you come home from work and need to make dinner but find a limited amount of ingredients available?  You decide to make due with what you have and just hope something edible comes out of the oven.  It’s a crap shoot. It could turn out well and you are asked for more.  It could turn out very badly and you end up ordering pizza.  As you might imagine, I was ready to call for some delivery at this point.

______________________________________________________________________

Asking for a separation was literally the hardest thing I have ever done.  I don’t care what you think of me or my decision, but frankly staying would have been easier. This was not a decision I took lightly.  Although I had thought about it for a couple of years, I talked myself out of it by using the old adage of “suck it up”, “its not that bad”, “other people have it so much worse than you do”.  I thought about how this decision would affect everyone; from my boys to my in-laws.  I thought about my friends and how they would have to choose sides and I worried about disappointing my parents.  Like most individuals that find themselves getting divorced, I never thought I would do it. As we stand at the alter in front of God and everyone, none of us could fathom we would one day rather be alone than with this person we adore so much.

________________________________________________________________________________________________

I admit I should have spoken up sooner.  I take that back.  I admit I should have spoken louder.  I take full responsibility for the surprise on people’s faces when word spread of the dissolution of “the perfect marriage.”  If I had only pushed a little harder to be heard.  If I had stood up for myself more when I felt strongly enough about something.  If I had shared what was going on with friends or family maybe things would have been different.  If I had stopped worrying about the perception we had created.  If I had stopped worrying about what other’s think.  Should of, could of, would of. If ifs and buts were candy and nuts, we would all have a Merry Christmas too…

To Be Continued

Something happened on the way to the courthouse (Part 1)

My father has always had a theory that when you reach the age of 30, you finally figure out what life is all about.  He describes it as an awakening of sorts.  I imagined myself laying in bed on the morning of  my 30th birthday watching the fog of my former self hover over me like an out of body experience.  Once the fog dissipates, I am left feeling refreshed and clear-headed, ready to tackle what had once eluded me.

Although Dad may have been a little off on the exact age, he was right about the event itself.  My “awakening” didn’t happen overnight, as I once expected though.  It seems that I like to take my time with these things, so my growth is a work in progress that has taken me a few years.

In 2005, I was 29 years old and gave birth to my first child.  As you might imagine, the next year I was 30.  In 2006 I gave birth to my second child.  As if giving birth twice in 17 months wasn’t enough, I decided to throw in some more excitement with a move from Florida to Missouri in 2006.

The second born was in a hurry to introduce himself so he decided to arrive a few weeks early.  Some four or five weeks early to be exact.  The Babe came home with us on schedule but needed to spend a few days in the hospital for a double hernia at 7 weeks of age.  At nine weeks of age he was diagnosed with RSV.  It seems big brother brought home a cold from daycare that the little man just could not kick.  During the ice storm of 2007 we found ourselves without power as we cared for our infant son on an oxygen saturation monitor.  As the second born was turning a year old, I then found myself selling a business that once defined who I was.

More change was in order as 2008 began.  I was no longer identified by the business I had owned and operated for nearly ten years.  I had two boys under the age of three and was struggling with some baby blues that I just couldn’t kick after the second born arrived.  I guess something about having a 17 month old, giving birth to a baby in the winter that was in and out of the hospital, moving back to a place where I had no family and selling a business had taken its toll on me.

I’m 32 by this time and I’m starting to wonder if I will ever realize my father’s prediction.  What the hell is going on here? Am I destined to continue on the current path?  I soon realized it was all part of the process…

To Be Continued

I Pee Near You!

It had to be at least ten years ago. I wasn’t married yet and certainly didn’t have kids. The boys’ dad and I were back in Springfield visiting friends and family for a New Year celebration. As far as I can remember, the evening started as most would have that night. The last thing I remember is being driven through the Taco Bell drive through on the way home. I can’t recall if the person giving us food at the window used English as a second language or if English was my second language for the night. As he handed us our bag of food he gave us his New Year greeting of “I pee near you!”. At first I thought it was just me, since I was after all being the one driven. Once we pulled away from the drive through Brad looked at me somewhat perplexed and asked if I heard the same thing he did. Now you know why you may hear me say “I pee near you!”.  I am giving you a well wishes, not a warning.

I pee near you to you and yours!

"What's that smell... Yankee perfume?"

I was told recently by a family member in my home state of North Carolina that she was going to revoke my “Southern Belle” membership card. It seems, according to a family member that will remain nameless for their own safety, that the North has in a sense, tainted me.

Over the last fifteen or more years, I have moved back and forth between my Southern home and the Northland that somehow sucks me back like a pool vacuum trying to get the smallest piece of soot from the bottom of the pool…it is relentless. Like that last piece of pool gunk; I have finally given in to the pull that I cannot resist; my fate is inevitable. Although my changing ways were vividly apparent to my family; I denied the accusations that I was somehow being “influenced” by “those damn Yankees”.

The irony of the situation is that to my friends in New England, I currently live in Hillbilly Country. I try to remind them that just because we like our “throwed rolls” and our okra fried, it does not mean we are backward in any way. My friends in the first thirteen find it funny that I have to explain the difference between tin and ten to my children; not the actual definitions of the terms mind you but the way the words are pronounced.

Looking back, I suppose it started after attending school in Missouri.  I moved back to North Carolina where I announced in mixed company that I did not care for sweet tea. You could have heard a pin drop. That’s right folks; a pin, not a pen. The family blamed it on the six months I spent in Connecticut. I attributed it to the fact that I like my syrup on pancakes, not in a glass.

The hardest thing for my family to swallow is that I refuse to eat anything that I have affectionately named “geriatric food”. You know what I am talking about; meatloaf, gravy, and beans. These foods require absolutely no dental tools that should be used for consuming sustenance. I just have a problem eating food that I could drink through a straw. As you can imagine; the fact that I “suddenly” will not eat brown gravy was like personally going to the cemetery and rolling over every ancestor I have.

Fortunately, I was given a very short probation period. The committee gathered around the kitchen table while playing Pinochle, and after a heated debate on the merits of my home made pie crust decided I had not shamed the family enough to take my card just yet. I was given a strict diet of pecan pie, Sundrop Soda, and NC State. I think it is fair to say the punishment fits the crime. Now where did I put my Wolfpack sweatshirt?

Pasties, Diaphragms and Back Yard Parties

I rarely write about my family other than hubs and the boys. I guess I feel like the family beyond the nucleus should not be subjected to such scrutiny. This story, however, was just too good to pass up.

A woman (she is in her early 30’s) recently told me the most hilarious story I immediately told her it would be blog fodder but I would not mention her name. Imagine, if you will, a woman. This woman may not be all that endowed. She is wearing something that warrants not wearing a bra. This woman prefers to not show off her nipples so she get some “pasties”. See, here’s the thing; some woman feverishly try to prevent their nipples from showing and others just don’t care. I am of the don’t care group. But I digress.

So my lady friend attends a backyard party and leaves to head to the next event with her beau. The night continues with a couple more parties and my friend heads home. Upon taking off her clothes to go to bed she notices she is missing a pastie. Not much to get worked up about right? Probably in a back yard somewhere; even if someone finds it they will not be able to figure out to whom it belonged. Or so she thinks.

Seems her soon to be mother law stayed behind at the first party. Something catches the eye of said mother in law and she asks another guest what it is. The mother in law picks it up and makes her own assessment. The next morning my friend listens to a somewhat serious voicemail from her soon to be mother in law asking my friend to return the call as soon as possible with the closing “we need to talk”.

It seems that the mother in law was under the impression my friend had lost her diaphragm. I did not know that was a common occurrence or that pasties and diaphragms look alike for that matter.

My friend is slightly embarrassed and assures her soon to be mother in law that it was just a pastie. I guess the mother in law is not quite ready to be a grandmother.

You Talkin' To Me?

I think it is obvious at this point that I have my pet peeves. Rather than dissect my laundry list of issues with others, I will concentrate on just one; eye contact.  Worse than a hand shake from a cold, clammy, dead fish; I cannot stand it when people do not look at me when engaged in conversation.  I am an eye person anyway.  Some woman like full lips, tight butts, strong arms, long hair, etc.  The first thing I notice on someone of either sex is their eyes.  The infamous “they” have said that the eyes are the window to the soul.  I am not sure if that is true, but I believe they can tell a lot about a person.

When I first meet someone I can tell how they feel about themselves by whether or not they look at me when introduced, and for how long.  Eye contact tells me they are confident but not necessarily cocky.  If they look at me too long I can get a little creeped out. You know what I am talking about; that guy that is still looking at you well after the introduction is over and you are looking at the introducing party.  Weirdo.

When I am talking to people I also pay attention to how often they look away.  It is one thing to get distracted by someone or something going on the room; especially if in a public place.  I too can get distracted by shiny objects. However, if I am having a one on one conversation and the other person looks away often, I start to wonder what they are hiding.  I read once that “A person who is looking to his left is accessing the memory; he is trying to recall the facts before relaying them to you. A person who is looking to his right is accessing the creative part of the brain. He is inventing a version of events or story to tell you.” I rarely pay attention to the direction someone is looking, I just get irritated they are not paying attention to the conversation. It’s just a mutual respect thing.

The one part of eye contact that we have no control over is the size of our pupils. In 1975, a study discovered pupils do more than simply react to light. When we are interested in the person we are talking to or the subject we are talking about, our pupils get bigger. When we're bored, they get smaller. To verify this, next time you're hanging out with a friend or significant other, talk about something you know he finds interesting, then suddenly change the subject to changes in this year's tax laws and watch his pupils change. I have tried this with hubs and can verify the validity. What do you think I chose as my subjects?

Like a string on a sweater that you pull but you know better/But doing what you shouldn't is half the fun

Wordless Wednesday ~ If It Were Only This Easy

My Warrior Name is Big Spoon

When hubs and I first “hooked up” he had a king sized bed. I can’t really call it a bed; he had a king sized mattress on the floor in his bedroom (read: Bachelor Pad). I loved that bed; plenty of room to spread out and get comfy, but you could still meet in the middle when you wanted.

When it came time to move hubs out of his house and into my place, the relationship I once had with the king changed. You see back then, hubs and I moved ourselves; we were not as fortunate as we are today to have selfless friends and family that are willing to spend an afternoon sweating and grunting while breaking their backs to help us move. Back then, we did not have the smarts, or funds, to hire two convicts and a truck to pack the truck for us. Back then, it was me and the mattress. After wrestling with the king for what seemed like nearly eternity, I convinced the man that the best, if not only way to get it out of the house was through the window; and its landing spot became its resting spot.

Upon moving in with me, hubs had no choice but to accept his fate; he would have to sleep on a queen mattress. As far as I am concerned the queen offers more possibilities than the king to meet in the middle when we choose. If you ask Brad though, he doesn’t really get his own space. He swears he has about two inches on his side of the bed.

There is a perfect explanation for this; I am a snuggler. Not the “hold me” kind of snuggler mind you; I just like to have some part of my body touching his while we sleep. An ankle over his ankle would suffice but that is just not conducive to sleeping on my side (and isn’t it all about me?). So we spoon; Brad clinging to the edge of the bed and me breathing down his neck. Paints quite the picture doesn’t it? Hubs would be perfectly content if we did not touch at all while sleeping; he claims I give off too much body heat or something lame like that.

Funny thing is, I sleep so much better when Brad is gone. I wake up in the exact same position I fell asleep and barely have to make the bed due to lack of ruffled covers. When Brad is home; we toss and turn and the covers are all tangled and twisted. As a neurotic bed maker it drives me nuts. Maybe I am unconsciously getting back at him by only giving him two inches of space in the bed?

In every relationship there is a big spoon and a little spoon. I happen to be the big spoon. Which are you?

Prostitutes and Therapists

Some of you; ok all of you are probably wondering how I even connected these two professions.  Believe  me, understanding my thought processes is something hubs struggles with everyday.  As they say, "better to keep your mouth shut and be thought a fool  than open it and prove it"; I too will not go into detail on my madness.

Here is my proposal: If prostitution is illegal; shouldn't therapy be banned as well?  Better yet, just leave the prostitutes alone.

Think about it.

• We pay both professionals to listen to us talk when they are probably thinking about their grocery list.


• I imagine that each client takes a little bit of a soul every time the door closes; then on to the next "John".


• Discretion is of the upmost importance in both industries; you want to gain the trust of your clientele for repeat visits.


• We pay them to make us feel better about ourselves and the decisions we make .


• The best of each bunch share their drugs with us.


• Those that have excelled in their trade; whether through training or education even get paid more for less time.

It's genius isn't it?  Maybe madness?

Seperation Anxiety

In the twelve years hubs and I have been together, we have spent a number of nights apart that I could count on my hands. In the twelve years hubs and I have been together, we have only had separate careers for all of a year, maybe two. Most responses I get from others hearing this for the first time is something like “wow, you must really like each other” or “I could never tolerate my spouse that much”. We will both readily admit that hubs has the patience of Job and should be sainted for dealing with my antics, so he is really the one credited with our success all this time.

Like many couples, hubs and I met at work. However, after that organization moved us around the country together for a couple of years, we started a business together. Now it just feels odd to get up and do separate projects. We have a good rhythm to our routine; he has his strengths, as do I, and they fortunately compliment each other’s weaknesses. We are a good team.

It is really odd when you temporarily lose your right hand. The left hand tries to pick up the slack but can never fully complete the task. The man has a semi-annual fishing trip with his family friends at The White River. The trip is so good for him. He bonds with his man people; doesn’t shave for days, smoke cigars, plays cards, and occasionally gets a line wet. He comes back better than when he left; with his axe sharpened. He tells me bits and pieces of stories that he feels are acceptable for my “virgin” ears and he counts the days until the next trip.

This year he threw in an extra special trip to Canada with one of his brothers and his step dad. He was gone A WHOLE WEEK. I was a little worried (read: freaking out) when I heard how long he would be absent from our daily routine. My saving grace was the fact that the boys do go to preschool a couple of days a week. I knew I would be able to get some things done, or stare off into space like a zombie while they were gone. In preparation for his departure, I cleaned the place like my mother was coming to visit, freeze some easy to reheat meals and plan lots of activities to keep us busy and make the time fly.

Funny thing happened that week though; it wasn’t bad. Sure, I missed him; and so did the boys. Much to hub’s dismay we only had one night of dramatic “I miss Daddy” theatrics; and frankly that was because they were in trouble and think Daddy will save them from Nazi Mommy. Things ran as they normally would, some days even better (don’t tell Brad). I was even able to do some things I normally wouldn’t be able to do with Brad around. Most of you that know us might ask “what on earth does he not let you do”? First thing I did was go to the store and stock up on wine; then I came home and rearranged the furniture and finally….wait for it….it is s a biggie. I let the boys play with the shaving crème in the bath tub! As far as the three of us were concerned, the week was a success.

Fast forward to my girls trip to Florida this week. I too, will be gone A WHOLE WEEK. My already high anxiety level has now doubled. I know I will have a blast in Florida even though I am missing all my friends at Blogher. I also know that I cannot wait to start counting waves while catching up on my vitamin D therapy and my stack of books. I am, however, a little worried about what I am going to come back to when I get home. I know hubs is completely capable of caring for himself and the boys and the house, but have some issues with how effective they will be trying to do all of it at the same time.

The whole idea of these trips got me thinking about that saying “absence makes the heart grow fonder”. Although it is the case when I am apart from Brad, it is not always true with other scenarios. Does absence truly make our hearts fonder, or does the separation just give us the opportunity to learn that we are just in a situation of convenience. I suppose that is where the saying “out of sight out of mind” originated. When I presented this idea to hubs he laughed and asked, “are you worried I will learn to like to live without you while you are gone?”. Once my nervous laughter was over, I reminded him that he may be able to do so, but he doesn’t want to.

What do you think? Is it the subject matter (people, place, or thing) for which you long, or is it the fact that you just are away from it? From what have you recently been separated and what was it like when you reunited; was it what you expected?

My Husband Lies & Other Reasons Our Relationship Works

My relationship with hubs has been based on lies from the very beginning.

After high school I moved from Kansas City to Springfield to go to what is formerly known as SW MO State. I spent about a year in 417 land and then moved back to my birth state of North Carolina. I worked and played in the Tar Heel state for about a year and moved to Connecticut with some friends. Still young and free I was able to go where the wind blew. Things did not feel right in Connecticut so I packed up and moved back to KC on the advice of my sister. Sis informed me of this fabulous new job she had for a great computer company with a marketing theme based on a cow and a box.

I began working for the cow computer company after attending an eight week training program. Consider it a crash course in computers before the Internet was readily available and the hottest selling item was a 166 with 16MB; we called it "The Happy Meal" as it was packaged with a 15" monitor and ink jet printer for just $1,599.00.

During the eight week boot camp, we eat, sleep and breath cows and computers. The class spends all day together and then socializes at night together. There was a great mix of people from all walks of life. We enjoyed our time together but I enjoyed one particular class mate more than others. I was smitten with hubs the minute I saw him; he was charming and funny and knew more about my home town than I did, which intrigued me since he had only been there a couple of years. I was later told by a fellow trainee that the attraction was mutual; at one point hubs told the guy that he would "drink her bath water”. I was guessing that was a good thing. The strange thing was, although we all knew each others names, we did not use them, we used what I will call "stage names". Kind of like strippers, but with clothes and less money or attention. The first thing they do is change our names. We would be working in a call center setting so you can imagine how many folks have the same name: I don't want my commission going to someone else. We are told to pick three names that we like and the one that is available will be our new identity. Our new name will even go on our name badge. My new identity would be Kendall and hubs was known as Gannon.

As our training came to an end , hubs mentioned to me he was having a celebration cookout at his house in honor of our graduation. He drew a map for me and gave me his number. I was a little nervous and decided to dress like I didn't care. I wore my black boots, jeans, white button down, and my Yankees ball cap.

When I pulled up to the house as indicated on the map, I was certain I had read the directions wrong. There were no cars in the drive and no one in sight. I rang the bell to be sure. Hubs answered the door. I walked in to his Westport home to hear David and David on the stereo and no grill in sight. The only thing in the fridge was my brand of beer, some ketchup, and some relish. So much for a cookout. After a few beers and dancing around the inevitable, he looked at his watch and said "I guess it's just me and you tonight". (Maybe because he did not invite anyone else).

We never made it to dinner but filled up on drinks and dancing. Before I knew it he had taken over my spare closet and had stolen my spare key. I was able to forgive him for all the deception the night he played a song for me he had written about our first date (what woman wouldn’t love a song written about them….good or bad). To fully understand the context of the lyrics you need to know that at the beginning of the training class we were both living with our “significant” others. We were both living alone by the end of the training period.

It was an ugly situation, I finally realized one day
I hadn’t been happy in oh so long;
It was time to make a change

So I turned one in and I put her in the past
Trade her ass in on a love that would last

Well I did what I did, if when I did it was wrong,
I can tell you I don’t want to be right

The first time that I saw you, I knew what I had to do
I had to tear down fences and burn down bridges if I was ever gonna be with you

So we went to the Beamont on a Saturday night,
Got real drunk and we did it all night

Well we did what we did, if when we did it was wrong,
I can tell you I don’t want to be right

The moral, if any: Sometimes lies aren't all that bad.