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.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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

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

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?

Confessions of a Naughty Mommy

Prior to my current role as Mom I was many things. I have been a corporate career woman, student, and wanna be rock star. I had my share of boyfriends; after all, you have to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince. I did things I probably won't tell my boys about; and certainly wouldn't tell daughters if I had them. If my boys bring home a girl like me I may have to keep a close eye on her. I spent many late nights, and some mornings with friend and foe alike, searching for something more. Prior to being a wife and mother there was an excitement or thrill from "that life". Your decisions only affect you. No responsibilities. Nothing to hold you to one spot. Men chase you. You play along. Now I play new games. Go fish. The "eat your dinner" game. Brush your teeth. Get in the car. Go to sleep. Your turn to get up.

Hubs and I were at the mall with the boys this weekend while it was raining. As we walked and talked I asked him if he thought I dressed my age. The question popped in my head as I watched many people that I thought did not, in fact, dress their age. You know the type; sixty years old, with a see-through gauze top on and bra underneath. How about the pre-teen with inappropriately short shorts and a barely there top.

Hub's response was that he thought I dressed older than my age. Spending the last ten years working for myself from home you will typically find me in a t-shirt and jeans or shorts, depending on the weather. Since my move back to Missouri from Florida I still don't have many closed toed shoes so I am usually in flip flops. Hubs asked where all my cute skirts went. He asked where all my high heels went. I guess I still have them but they are tucked back in the closet collecting dust. These items just don't seem conducive to digging in the rock box and looking for worms.

What else is tucked back in the closet collecting dust? What other parts of us as moms, or dads for that matter, are not seeing the light of day? I am not the same woman I was before I met Hubs, thank God. I may have thought I didn't want to get married and have kids at one point in my life but that was before I met him. All three of my "boys" make me strive to be a better person each day.

In my constant pursuit of balance, this conversation at the mall reminded me to clean out the closet every now and then, in more ways than one. It is ok for us to go to out, maybe drink a  little too much and come home and do things like we did before we were married and our names were mommy or daddy. It is ok for us to get a little crazy and "use" the family bathroom together at the Southwest Florida Airport.

Hubs is not a talker; meaning he does not talk openly about things like this.  I, on the other hand, talk pretty freely about just about anything and everything.  I believe we all think about these things, but not all of us are comfortable admitting it.  With that in mind, there is room for everyone here.  Tell me how you are "dusting off" things in your closet?

Get It While the Gettin's Good

If predictions by the Oxford Hair Foundation come to pass, the number of natural redheads everywhere will continue to dwindle until there are none left by the year 2100. The reason, according to scientists at the independent institute in England, which studies all sorts of hair problems, is that just 4 percent of the world's population carries the red-hair gene. The gene is recessive (and therefore diluted when carriers produce children with people who have the dominant brown-hair gene. Dr. John Gray's often publicized explanation of his foundation's findings: "The way things are going; red hair will either be extremely rare or extinct by the end of the century." The gene responsible for red hair - known as the melanocortin 1 receptor, or MC1R - was only discovered in the late 1990s. People have a good chance of being born with red hair if they have a mutation of that gene. Red hair is found in all ethnic backgrounds but is most commonly associated with people of Celtic descent.Maybe I need to have my friend the rocket scientist (ok, ok, genetic researcher) look into this…let me know your thoughts T.

I have a few thoughts about this possibility:

~Thank god I will be gone because a world without Red is no place to live!
~“Studying all sorts of hair problems”; who decides that is what they want to do with their life? ~Recessive my arse: My dad, me (obviously) my brother, and now my son. I won’t even get into my dad’s 7 siblings. (some of which are shown here)
~As I read the article about my people’s pending doom, I thought back to the ridicule I experienced as a young child and then the near celebrity I received as I reached adulthood. I have grown to love my red hair and “angle kisses” (now that I have the sharpie off my skin from my sister connecting the dots in an attempt to see how many I had as a youth; why did I let her do that?) and consider them my trademark.

Quotable and red:

A young man marrying a redhead asked his father for some marital advice. The father said, "Just remind her who wears the pants in your family." The evening arrived; the new husband tossed his pants to his bride and said, "Here put these on." She did and said "I don't fit into these." "That's right!" he said, "and don't you forget who wears the pants in this family!" With that she flipped him her panties and said, "Try these on." He looked at them and said, "I can't get into your panties!" She said, "That's right - and you won't until your attitude changes!"

Waxing Poetic

****The content below is for adults only; or for those that can handle direct language about body parts and the maintenance of said body parts.  If you are related to me, go to church with me, work with me or the hubs, come back later.****

First things first. I have never had to password protect a post. It seems, however, that the hubs thinks the content provided herein is not appropriate for all audiences. Word has it that my father in law has spread the word around town about my little piece of internet and now my damn priest reads the crap I write. I suppose the man of the house does have a valid point when he further mentions that some of his colleagues and my clients read the site too; I can only imagine what they would be thinking about at the next meeting after reading this. So in an effort to keep us both happy; we have protection. What I really wanted to tell hubs was to take off his panties and hose the sand out of his vagina.

Speaking of vaginas; well mine particularly. In all my years I have never waxed any part of my body. I am very fortunate to have not only very light hair but hair that grows very slowly. The down side to my good luck is that if I do not wear mascara, I look like a am nine years old at best. Imagine if you will, me at the age of twenty-nine with braces and no makeup; hubs felt a little awkward at times. He once came in the house to tell me the new neighbor girl had come over to ask if I could come out to play. He is so funny; just ask him, he will tell you.

Back to my vagina. For some reason I got a wild hair to get waxed. Many of you know that I am an all or nothing kind of girl though; if I am doing this I am going all the way. Brazilian baby. The first question I asked myself is whether I should go to someone I know, or a complete stranger. I determined a referral was more important than anything. I called one of my girlfriends and asked her advice. Having moved her business from a local salon to her home last year, she immediately sent me to her former place of business. She informed that the aesthetician was awesome and since I believe everything my friend/hair stylist tells me, I hung up and called the salon.

I had three days to wait after making the appointment. Your imagination can do a lot in three days. I was excited and petrified. My final thought was “how bad can it be really, you have given birth twice for god’s sake”. I wanted it to be a surprise for hubs so I did not tell him. The neurotic in me then starts thinking; “do I even want him to notice, that means I needed it”. We will get to his final reaction later.

Upon entering the salon on Friday and greet my girlfriends that work there and take some Advil; I had been told that doing so might be beneficial. This is one of those things I did to be safe and not sorry. I don’t know if I did not need it but I really did not want to find out if I needed it but didn’t take it.


The aesthetician greets me and escorts me to the servicing room. She explains the process and instructs me to disrobe from waste down and place a towel here and some paper there. I can do this. Towel here, paper there. The irony is that she leaves the room for me to undress but is about to explore places with a magnifying light the way only my gyno has done.

Upon examination and a test run it is determined my “front” hair is not long enough yet. Remember the fact that I am blessed with slow growing hair; it can suck at times. It also doesn’t help that I shave it all off anyway. No sweat. I am still a little nervous anyway and think I may back out of the back side if the front is agony. Kim proceeds to tell me to “hop up” on my hands and knees. The only way I can provide a visual for this position is to describe it as “child’s pose” in yoga but with your butt in the air. Or maybe a frog. The thing about this position is that is perfect for what she is doing, however, the wall that I am facing is all mirrors. Normally I would consider this hot, but in this scenario I do not care to watch, I lower my head.

So I have to admit that the hot wax was not bad; actually quite nice. I have the need to hold a conversation during this process in attempt to keep breathing. What I find out during the dialogue intrigues me. I live in what most would consider a conservative area of the country; otherwise known as “The Bible Belt”. My new best friend Kim moved here from Vegas five years ago and tells me she has seen things here that she never saw or even heard of in Springfield. How about that; I am not the only one in this town after all. I am not sure if that is good or bad.

Rip. Huh. Not so bad. Certainly not the vision from the 40 year old virgin I was imagining. “Blah Blah Blah”. “ Yeah I have two boys, 4 and 2.5; the picture of your girls is cute, how old?” Rip. How about that, it gets easier every time. Rip again. What the Hell! “Did you literally just rip me a new one?” She thought that was funny. Hubs is not the only funny one around here.  Like any quality aesthetician, Kim wants to be thorough, so out comes the lighted magnifying glass. Jesus; my gyno doesn’t even use a magnifying glass. She completes the examination of her work and sounding very proud says “looks great”. I have to take her word for it since I cannot see it. I am going to spare the details about how she applies the aloe in an attempt to prevent any male (or female for that matter) readers from getting entirely too excited about one woman rubbing cream all over another. That was the best part though.

I admit that I am happy I only have to do “maintain” every few months; but in end, hubs and I highly recommended this service.

As I am wrapping things up and paying, I asked Kim out to dinner; it seemed like the next step in our relationship.

*For those of you considering a Brazilian and are curious; there was little if any pain during or after the procedure!  Take off your panties and hose the sand out of your vagina and get it done!

Where I attempt to put down my foot & Other tantrums

I follow the school of thought that I will try anything once, even twice if I like it.  With that said, there are a few things I refuse to do.  By the sound of that statement you might think I must be difficult to deal with.  On the contrary, I am actually the worst kind of people pleaser.  I will do almost anything for you if you ask me with a smile.  It is not that I care what other people think of me; I just like to make people happy.  So when I say “I refuse” to do something, I am really saying “I really try to avoid doing a handful of things if at all possible”.  That statement, however, is not nearly as assertive so I will stick with the original.  That is, if you are ok with it.

• I refuse to parallel park.  The funny thing about this is my car is perfect for parallel parking; not only does it sit low to the ground, but it is not much bigger than a Mini Cooper.  The thing I cannot stand about parallel parking is the fact that I failed it on my driving test.  Something about this makes me feel like I will never do it well.  That and the fact that I hate the idea that people are watching me pull in and out and scoot in and around until I fit in just so.  Don’t deny it, you watch and you judge.  I see you.

• I refuse to eat the white fruit chewy snacks.  You might be asking yourself why in the hell I am even eating those things in the first place.  The only logical explanation I have come to is that I really liked them when I was pregnant with Little Man.  It happens to be one of those things that actually stuck even after giving birth.  I would have rather kept the boobs, thank you very much.  The problem with the white ones for me is that every time the boys eat these things they tell me what they taste like; and at times what they look like.  Even if what they look like resembles nothing of the actual character they were molded to portray.·

• I refuse to eat any food that does not require teeth.  I have affectionately named this food group the “geriatric food group”.  Baked beans, for instance have absolutely no appeal to me.  Gravy reminds me of something that came out of someone or something, not what should be going in.  Although it is not geriatric food, I also refuse to eat cooked cabbage; it is in the “food that smells like bodily functions” food group.·

• I refuse to do that thing that my man continues to ask me to do.  Ladies, you know what I am talking about.  What is it with this anyway?  I think the only reason it is even exciting is because most of us won’t do it (and I do not judge if you do, just back me up and humor me here).  If we just gave in, they would figure out it isn’t that great.  Nah.  Like I said before, I will try anything, and I mean ANYTHING once.  Except THAT.  Get the hint babe.

• I refuse to  put my hand down the kitchen sink to retrieve items that may have mistakenly fallen in it’s trap.  The only exception to this rule, would of course be my wedding ring.  I just have issues with putting my hands in small places that have sharp blades.  I realize that no one is going to flip the disposal switch and forever maim me, but I still have an aversion that can not be overcome.  I won’t even risk it to rescue the pet beta fish I accidentally tossed down the drain; instead I called the fish rescue squad and had them meet the man and Little Man at the pet store after they rescued our family friend.

Is there anything you refuse to do or do I just need my meds altered?

Where I attempt to put down my foot & Other tantrums

I follow the school of thought that I will try anything once, even twice if I like it.  With that said, there are a few things I refuse to do.  By the sound of that statement you might think I must be difficult to deal with.  On the contrary, I am actually the worst kind of people pleaser.  I will do almost anything for you if you ask me with a smile.  It is not that I care what other people think of me; I just like to make people happy.  So when I say “I refuse” to do something, I am really saying “I really try to avoid doing a handful of things if at all possible”.  That statement, however, is not nearly as assertive so I will stick with the original.  That is, if you are ok with it.

• I refuse to parallel park.  The funny thing about this is my car is perfect for parallel parking; not only does it sit low to the ground, but it is not much bigger than a Mini Cooper.  The thing I cannot stand about parallel parking is the fact that I failed it on my driving test.  Something about this makes me feel like I will never do it well.  That and the fact that I hate the idea that people are watching me pull in and out and scoot in and around until I fit in just so.  Don’t deny it, you watch and you judge.  I see you.

• I refuse to eat the white fruit chewy snacks.  You might be asking yourself why in the hell I am even eating those things in the first place.  The only logical explanation I have come to is that I really liked them when I was pregnant with Little Man.  It happens to be one of those things that actually stuck even after giving birth.  I would have rather kept the boobs, thank you very much.  The problem with the white ones for me is that every time the boys eat these things they tell me what they taste like; and at times what they look like.  Even if what they look like resembles nothing of the actual character they were molded to portray.·

• I refuse to eat any food that does not require teeth.  I have affectionately named this food group the “geriatric food group”.  Baked beans, for instance have absolutely no appeal to me.  Gravy reminds me of something that came out of someone or something, not what should be going in.  Although it is not geriatric food, I also refuse to eat cooked cabbage; it is in the “food that smells like bodily functions” food group.·

• I refuse to do that thing that my man continues to ask me to do.  Ladies, you know what I am talking about.  What is it with this anyway?  I think the only reason it is even exciting is because most of us won’t do it (and I do not judge if you do, just back me up and humor me here).  If we just gave in, they would figure out it isn’t that great.  Nah.  Like I said before, I will try anything, and I mean ANYTHING once.  Except THAT.  Get the hint babe.

• I refuse to  put my hand down the kitchen sink to retrieve items that may have mistakenly fallen in it’s trap.  The only exception to this rule, would of course be my wedding ring.  I just have issues with putting my hands in small places that have sharp blades.  I realize that no one is going to flip the disposal switch and forever maim me, but I still have an aversion that can not be overcome.  I won’t even risk it to rescue the pet beta fish I accidentally tossed down the drain; instead I called the fish rescue squad and had them meet the man and Little Man at the pet store after they rescued our family friend.

Is there anything you refuse to do or do I just need my meds altered?

Mom was Right...Again

When I was younger, my mom would offer advice about friend or boyfriend trouble. The one statement I remember her using a lot back then was "kill them with kindness".

I thought of this the other day when "she" did "it". Again. A woman I know, and respect actually, told me she didn't have time for blogs or reading other blogs. With a snide tone she chirped, "I wish I had that much time on my hands".

So I performed a little experiment the next time I saw her. I didn't say anything about the blog, but "my journal". You could say her tune changed. "Oh, I wish I did that, that is so great, the boys will love that one day".  What's the deal? What is the difference between my former hard copy journal and it's on line replacement? I am disappointed that this friend of mine, whom is normally very open minded, is so judgmental about this topic. She and I live similarly busy lives so I am not sure how or why she thinks she is better than me.  Maybe I am just better at managing my time.
I am curious if this prejudice is aimed primarily at work from home or stay at home parents. I am also curious if dads experience it as much as moms.

For now, I will follow my mom's advice. I will be the mistress of death...with kindness.

Station Identification

My mother called the other day, "you know honey, you really should be more careful about editing your blog; it is what you do you know". I was at a party the other night with friends; one of them is a word smith with one of the best blogs I have ever read. The topic naturally flows to blogs and he turns to me and says "ya know, you had a couple errors in that last post".

Have you ever had your hair done by someone that has really bad hair, only to walk away with the best cut and style you have ever had? I used to have my nails done by a girl with nails that looked like she was a mechanic rather than a nail technician. I loved my nails though.

There are many professions that require you to be a walking billboard advertising your services. In a way, my blog is just that. I normally don't talk much about work on this blog, for that very reason. This is my personal blog; I started blogging on this site for myself and my family. I try to consider myself the hair stylist that does not have time to get her own hair done because she is too busy making others look fabulous. I am happy that sometimes I am to be too busy sometimes that I just need to post rather than worry about grammar and spelling.

I May Be Crazy After All!

While living in North Carolina about ten years ago, I acquired what I considered allergies.  I constantly had a running nose; or "post nasal drip" and what I considered a "lump in my throat".  When I went to the doctor for advice, he politely explained I had what was once called "crazy lady syndrome".  Although my husband got a kick out of my diagnosis, I was not all that amused.  The doctor gave me some allergy meds that did not really work so I stopped taking them and just dealt with it.  When I moved to Florida, the lump in my throat miraculously disappeared; I was convinced that the Sunshine state was my heaven on earth and I would never leave.  For those of you that know me personally, you know that type of long term living arrangement is absolutely absurd.  Three years after making my eternal commitment to my newly beloved, hubs and I pack up with Little Man and head north again.  To my dismay, the lump is back.  I am certain I am crazy now.

So I started doing a little research on Google University to see what I could find that would suit my liking.  What I found was startling.  Could it be that I have Globus Hystericus after all?  If so, this explains so much!  I was particularly taken by the line "classic sign of hysterical neurosis"  I should really stay off the internet.