I don't know why I avoided this Sunday Scribblings Prompt for so long. Ordinarily, it would be right up my alley. Honestly, why do I (or anyone else for that matter) Blog?
So we can talk about ourselves ad nauseum without boring the people in our real lives to tears.
I am always classified by the people who know me in Real Life as an "extrovert," so why was there such hesitation from me to address this prompt?
I think it's because I have two distinct "Selves."
There is my Work Self, and that is my Self that I want to be the most. At work, I am confident, outspoken, daring, decisive, productive. My co-workers constantly remark about my Energy and Knowledge. My co-workers have been known to describe me as a "Gerbil on a Treadmill" and "Uber-Perky" (which kind of annoys me because that makes me look like a Spaz, which I'm NOT, but I DO work with people who are, mostly in their 50s and 60s...I'm the Lone Gen X'er in a Sea of Baby Boomers!) They are amazed that every little thing that has been published in the last decade I can not only REMEMBER, but also pull up an old email or Microsoft Office file to prove it. I make them all Tired. They constantly come to me requesting advice or direction. My Boss also trusts me completely and relies upon my opinions and advice to make decisions. He runs EVERYTHING by me or through me. I have even "listened in" surreptitiously on conference calls I was not supposed to be on, just so I could feed him information via email, so he could respond to questions when he was put "on the spot."
And then there is my Other Self. The insecure, sad, scared, timid, socially-awkward Self. COMPLETE OPPOSITE of my Work Self.
I HATE this Self. People who know me--REALLY know me--like my parents and my sister and, yes, even my ex-husband--also HATE this Self because it doesn't make any sense. There is absolutely NO reason for me to be insecure, sad, scared, timid, or socially-awkward. They look at me, their jaws agape, wondering what the HELL is wrong with me. I have EVERYTHING. I'm smart. I'm respected. I'm successful. I'm funny. I'm not afraid to get up in front of 200 people and give a presentation. I can play piano, make quilts, prepare Brunch for 70, sew Halloween Costumes, Breastfeed while working full-time for 18 months, and feed my Babies nothing but homemade, preservative-free Baby Food. I make boat-loads of money. I can navigate airports, and understand Cab Drivers in strange cities. My children score off the charts on Standardized Tests with little to no intervention from me.
Despite all of these "Mad Skillz" I continue to immerse myself in hurtful self-dialogue. WHY do I do this? I have no idea. My "Work Self" clearly recognizes it as stupid and unproductive and ridiculous. Yet, there it is, and I have NO EXCUSE--I was never abused or violated or bullied in childhood. I have no "Sob Story." There is absolutely NO REASON for my madness; yet, that "madness" cripples me and keeps me up at night.
Showing posts with label self-discovery. Show all posts
Showing posts with label self-discovery. Show all posts
Monday, July 12, 2010
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Tattoos and Me...
I don't have any tattoos, and I never will. I don't dislike tattoos on other people, I just can't see myself with one. It does not "fit" my personality or lifestyle. I have several friends with tattoos, and I like their tattoos and think they look good--on THEM. But, me getting a tattoo? Too weird!
Tattoos have come a long way in the last few decades. They used to represent either jail-time, Biker-Gang membership, or military service. Nowadays they are far more mainstream. But, for uptight, prissy people such as myself, there is still that stigma of "trashiness" that first pops into my head when I see a tattoo. I try to be open-minded and non-preachy, and I have learned to set aside my biases, particularly when people I know and like display tattoos. How can I say tattoos are "bad" when this person, who I really respect and like hanging out with, has several?
I try not to judge.
But, I DO judge people who complain about "being poor" and not having enough money to buy school supplies for their kids or school lunches for their kids, yet they are sporting new and expensive tattoos every time I see them. The most heavily-tattooed people I know happen to be "Welfare-to-Work Mothers" who have received subsidized housing, childcare, and healthcare. That kind of BUGS me. They can drop $500 on a new tattoo, but can't pay $200 for after-school care for their kid? How is that possible? Their kids get "scholarships" to attend Boy Scout Camp while I have to write a check and forego a haircut and cut back on groceries for two weeks so the check will clear.
I would like my checkbook to reflect my values, so dropping hundreds of dollars on "inking" myself (or buying expensive jewelry for myself) seems selfish and shallow. I also know that I cannot drop hundreds of dollars "marking" myself in a permanent way that I can't take back (at least expensive jewelry can be pawned...) I sort of like the idea of always having an "undo" button for my life. I lecture my kids all the time about consequences. You get a tattoo and BAM there is no going back! When you are 85 and in a nursing home with sagging skin and back fat, those "cool" angel wings adorning your lower back, just above the waistline of the low-rise skinny jeans you had when you were 22 are going to look rather ridiculous.
I understand that people tattoo themselves as a form of "self expression" and put lots of thought into their design choices. I understand that tattoos are a form of artwork and can even have cultural origins and significance. They just aren't a form of artwork I want to own. Quite frankly, I'd rather buy new furniture, a cordless drill, or a palm sander. Oh, look! It's my Christmas Wish List!
When I look back on my life, I can see how I have morphed and changed so much during the last 2 decades. I can't commit to a tattoo because 5 years from now, I may have morphed and changed some more and could regret it. Nothing feels more hopeless and chastising than regret, so I choose to avoid things that might lead me to that state.
I work for a conservative agency. I have serious "self-esteem issues" when it comes to my body parts. The LAST thing I would want to do is call any sort of attention to my body parts, which, from my perspective, is something tattoos tend to do. I would rather be recognized for my writing or my public speaking skills and not for my ankles or my cleavage. Judge me on my brain, not on my looks. And, yeah, I know, it's "narrow-minded" and "snooty," but if you are going to tattoo yourself, you are just going to have to face the fact that a certain segment of the population is going to think that makes you look like "trash." I prefer to avoid such a label. Call me a coward, but I am struggling through this life with a limited support system. I am not "tough enough" to repel such backlash, when I already feel burdened repelling all the backlash I get (real or imagined) for being a) divorced, b) a working mother, c) a Civil Servant, and d) a Conservative. I get PLENTY of darts thrown in my direction already--I certainly don't want to be a target for any more.
So, that being said, let me talk about how I spend Quality Time with my kids. I have no problem finding opportunities to spend Quality Time with my daughter--after all, she is my little "Mini-Me," so we find all kinds of hobbies and interests we can share together. We garden, we sew, we compost, we bead bracelets, etc. But, I also have a 12-year-old son going through puberty whose interests are largely limited to football and computer and video games. Lately, he has expressed a lot of interest in learning how to cook, so that has been a good way for me to spend Quality Time with him. But, it is really hard for me to feign interest in his video games and movie choices because he loves Fantasy and Sci-Fi--two genres I LOATHE. But, he does like a lot of the same music that I like, so lately we have "bonded" over bouts of RockBand on the Wii system he got for Christmas. He plays the guitar, and I play the Drums (badly, I should add...) Every once in awhile, we will stay up on a Friday night until the wee hours of the morning playing RockBand. Recently, he had us go "On Tour," which was upsetting because it required me to play up to six songs in a row with no break (not good for an Old Lady with Carpal Tunnel Symptoms in her hands). He told me we had to go on Tour, because you make more money that way. He then showed me how to go to the Rock Shop and SPEND that money on my character. And that's how I got hooked!
I GOT TO GO SHOPPING WITH FAKE MONEY!
My "alter ego" (or "Evil Twin Sister," as I like to call her), has a Barbie doll figure (of course--RockBand--like all Video Games--only allows for Female Characters that are painfully skinny yet still manage to have Big Boobs), and I dressed her up in a ridiculously-expensive, low-cut Goth top with fishnet stockings and a mini-skirt and Sexy Boots (also ridiculously-expensive). My son got all indignant and said, "Mom! You are a DRUMMER! You can't play drums in that skirt!"
I rolled my eyes and reminded him, "it's just a GAME, and that's not ME, it's my Evil Twin Sister!"
And then I learned that tattoos are FREE in the Rock Shop, so I headed over there and got upper arm and chest tattoos (some sort of scrolly-hearts and angel wing things), and my son got all mad and said, "Now THAT'S just DISTURBING..." and refused to play RockBand with me for the rest of the night.
So, now you see why I can't get a tattoo--it would just be "too disturbing."
But, if I ever did get a tattoo, I would probably get some sort of flowering vine that wrapped around my ankle, or maybe a tiny little intricate heart design somewhere the sun doesn't shine...(not that I've actually put any thought into it or anything...)
Tattoos have come a long way in the last few decades. They used to represent either jail-time, Biker-Gang membership, or military service. Nowadays they are far more mainstream. But, for uptight, prissy people such as myself, there is still that stigma of "trashiness" that first pops into my head when I see a tattoo. I try to be open-minded and non-preachy, and I have learned to set aside my biases, particularly when people I know and like display tattoos. How can I say tattoos are "bad" when this person, who I really respect and like hanging out with, has several?
I try not to judge.
But, I DO judge people who complain about "being poor" and not having enough money to buy school supplies for their kids or school lunches for their kids, yet they are sporting new and expensive tattoos every time I see them. The most heavily-tattooed people I know happen to be "Welfare-to-Work Mothers" who have received subsidized housing, childcare, and healthcare. That kind of BUGS me. They can drop $500 on a new tattoo, but can't pay $200 for after-school care for their kid? How is that possible? Their kids get "scholarships" to attend Boy Scout Camp while I have to write a check and forego a haircut and cut back on groceries for two weeks so the check will clear.
I would like my checkbook to reflect my values, so dropping hundreds of dollars on "inking" myself (or buying expensive jewelry for myself) seems selfish and shallow. I also know that I cannot drop hundreds of dollars "marking" myself in a permanent way that I can't take back (at least expensive jewelry can be pawned...) I sort of like the idea of always having an "undo" button for my life. I lecture my kids all the time about consequences. You get a tattoo and BAM there is no going back! When you are 85 and in a nursing home with sagging skin and back fat, those "cool" angel wings adorning your lower back, just above the waistline of the low-rise skinny jeans you had when you were 22 are going to look rather ridiculous.
I understand that people tattoo themselves as a form of "self expression" and put lots of thought into their design choices. I understand that tattoos are a form of artwork and can even have cultural origins and significance. They just aren't a form of artwork I want to own. Quite frankly, I'd rather buy new furniture, a cordless drill, or a palm sander. Oh, look! It's my Christmas Wish List!
When I look back on my life, I can see how I have morphed and changed so much during the last 2 decades. I can't commit to a tattoo because 5 years from now, I may have morphed and changed some more and could regret it. Nothing feels more hopeless and chastising than regret, so I choose to avoid things that might lead me to that state.
I work for a conservative agency. I have serious "self-esteem issues" when it comes to my body parts. The LAST thing I would want to do is call any sort of attention to my body parts, which, from my perspective, is something tattoos tend to do. I would rather be recognized for my writing or my public speaking skills and not for my ankles or my cleavage. Judge me on my brain, not on my looks. And, yeah, I know, it's "narrow-minded" and "snooty," but if you are going to tattoo yourself, you are just going to have to face the fact that a certain segment of the population is going to think that makes you look like "trash." I prefer to avoid such a label. Call me a coward, but I am struggling through this life with a limited support system. I am not "tough enough" to repel such backlash, when I already feel burdened repelling all the backlash I get (real or imagined) for being a) divorced, b) a working mother, c) a Civil Servant, and d) a Conservative. I get PLENTY of darts thrown in my direction already--I certainly don't want to be a target for any more.
So, that being said, let me talk about how I spend Quality Time with my kids. I have no problem finding opportunities to spend Quality Time with my daughter--after all, she is my little "Mini-Me," so we find all kinds of hobbies and interests we can share together. We garden, we sew, we compost, we bead bracelets, etc. But, I also have a 12-year-old son going through puberty whose interests are largely limited to football and computer and video games. Lately, he has expressed a lot of interest in learning how to cook, so that has been a good way for me to spend Quality Time with him. But, it is really hard for me to feign interest in his video games and movie choices because he loves Fantasy and Sci-Fi--two genres I LOATHE. But, he does like a lot of the same music that I like, so lately we have "bonded" over bouts of RockBand on the Wii system he got for Christmas. He plays the guitar, and I play the Drums (badly, I should add...) Every once in awhile, we will stay up on a Friday night until the wee hours of the morning playing RockBand. Recently, he had us go "On Tour," which was upsetting because it required me to play up to six songs in a row with no break (not good for an Old Lady with Carpal Tunnel Symptoms in her hands). He told me we had to go on Tour, because you make more money that way. He then showed me how to go to the Rock Shop and SPEND that money on my character. And that's how I got hooked!
I GOT TO GO SHOPPING WITH FAKE MONEY!
My "alter ego" (or "Evil Twin Sister," as I like to call her), has a Barbie doll figure (of course--RockBand--like all Video Games--only allows for Female Characters that are painfully skinny yet still manage to have Big Boobs), and I dressed her up in a ridiculously-expensive, low-cut Goth top with fishnet stockings and a mini-skirt and Sexy Boots (also ridiculously-expensive). My son got all indignant and said, "Mom! You are a DRUMMER! You can't play drums in that skirt!"
I rolled my eyes and reminded him, "it's just a GAME, and that's not ME, it's my Evil Twin Sister!"
And then I learned that tattoos are FREE in the Rock Shop, so I headed over there and got upper arm and chest tattoos (some sort of scrolly-hearts and angel wing things), and my son got all mad and said, "Now THAT'S just DISTURBING..." and refused to play RockBand with me for the rest of the night.
So, now you see why I can't get a tattoo--it would just be "too disturbing."
But, if I ever did get a tattoo, I would probably get some sort of flowering vine that wrapped around my ankle, or maybe a tiny little intricate heart design somewhere the sun doesn't shine...(not that I've actually put any thought into it or anything...)
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Adventures in Backpacking
Two weekends ago, I went backpacking with my son's Boy Scout Troop. I am not what most people would consider an "outdoorsy" person. While I do like to go camping and fishing, that's kind of a private side to me and it's just not how people "see" me. I am a woman who wears skirts or dresses every day--even on the weekends. I never leave the house without makeup on. I have owned the same pair of tennis shoes for over 10 years--they haven't worn out yet because I rarely ever wear them. So, people were surprised to learn that I was going on a backpacking trip. I decided to capture the excursion on film to prove that I did it, and when I came home, I put together a Power Point slideshow to share with my family, friends, and co-workers spoofing the weekend. It was a hoot! So, I decided to capture it here as an exercise in posting photos on this blog.
This is my pack. It weighed 35 pounds. I am NOT kidding!
Headed for the trail. I knew it was going to be 2 miles, but I didn't know it was going to be all UPHILL!
This is my son. He is only smiling because he finally got to sit down. He is probably cursing my name under his breath for making him go on this trip.
Is it just me, or do these trees look like they could burst into flame at any moment? We were hiking through a TINDERBOX!
Look at the lovely, rustic sign! (Yeah, well, the trail was equally “rustic”…full of fallen trees, debris, exposed tree roots, boulders, rock and mud slides, creeks you had to cross by walking across a single log, preferably without losing your balance and tumbling in!)
The Lake! The Lake! We finally reached the Lake! (Well, actually, it was more of a pond--we don't really have lakes in New Mexico--but I was excited to get there because it meant we were at the half-way point, and I hadn't died yet.)
One mile later, we had reached our destination! A grassy meadow...
...covered with cowpies because we were sharing space with the local wildlife: Domesticated Ungulates, a member of the Subfamily Bovinae. (Seriously--these are the only animals we saw on the whole trip!)
This is me. My face is red not because I was sunburned, but because if I had to go any further, I would have had a heart attack.
HELP! I've fallen, and I can't get up!
The stream near our campsite was partially frozen. I considered this to be a very bad sign (that we were going to freeze our arses off come nightfall!)
Another bad sign: one of our first tasks was to put all of our food into nylon bags, so we could suspend it from a high branch to discourage any bears that might come lumbering through...(gee, I'm going to sleep just great tonight! NOT!!!)
Hmmm, something tells me we should have tried setting this tent up at home first...
This is a $165 Coleman 2-Man Backpacking Tent. I have learned that the more compact and lightweight camping gear is, the more expensive it is!
Being the Pampered Princess that I am, I packed mascara, an eyeliner pencil and an eyebrow pencil in one of the pockets of my "Tough Girl" Cargo Pants. These items were NOT on the Official Boy Scouts of America Supply List. The Scoutmaster confiscated them on Saturday afternoon.
I MADE IT!!!
(Who says you can't go hiking in a skirt!?)
Three things I said this weekend that I NEVER thought I would ever hear myself say:
1) Gee, these antibacterial wet wipes can be used on your hands AND your face! (Sorry, Mary Kay, but I was desperate...)
2) I can tinkle in the woods without sprinkling my $95 Hiking Boots!
3) I cannot WAIT to use that Pit Toilet!
Best Part of the Whole Weekend:
My son telling me, "It's fun to go camping with you, Mom!"
(Made the whole trip worthwhile!)
Next Best Part of the Weekend:
Coming home to my Jetted Tub! AHHHH.....
The Pampered Princess Goes Backpacking
This is my pack. It weighed 35 pounds. I am NOT kidding!
Headed for the trail. I knew it was going to be 2 miles, but I didn't know it was going to be all UPHILL!
This is my son. He is only smiling because he finally got to sit down. He is probably cursing my name under his breath for making him go on this trip.
Is it just me, or do these trees look like they could burst into flame at any moment? We were hiking through a TINDERBOX!
Look at the lovely, rustic sign! (Yeah, well, the trail was equally “rustic”…full of fallen trees, debris, exposed tree roots, boulders, rock and mud slides, creeks you had to cross by walking across a single log, preferably without losing your balance and tumbling in!)
The Lake! The Lake! We finally reached the Lake! (Well, actually, it was more of a pond--we don't really have lakes in New Mexico--but I was excited to get there because it meant we were at the half-way point, and I hadn't died yet.)
One mile later, we had reached our destination! A grassy meadow...
...covered with cowpies because we were sharing space with the local wildlife: Domesticated Ungulates, a member of the Subfamily Bovinae. (Seriously--these are the only animals we saw on the whole trip!)
This is me. My face is red not because I was sunburned, but because if I had to go any further, I would have had a heart attack.
HELP! I've fallen, and I can't get up!
The stream near our campsite was partially frozen. I considered this to be a very bad sign (that we were going to freeze our arses off come nightfall!)
Another bad sign: one of our first tasks was to put all of our food into nylon bags, so we could suspend it from a high branch to discourage any bears that might come lumbering through...(gee, I'm going to sleep just great tonight! NOT!!!)
Hmmm, something tells me we should have tried setting this tent up at home first...This is a $165 Coleman 2-Man Backpacking Tent. I have learned that the more compact and lightweight camping gear is, the more expensive it is!
Being the Pampered Princess that I am, I packed mascara, an eyeliner pencil and an eyebrow pencil in one of the pockets of my "Tough Girl" Cargo Pants. These items were NOT on the Official Boy Scouts of America Supply List. The Scoutmaster confiscated them on Saturday afternoon.
I MADE IT!!!
(Who says you can't go hiking in a skirt!?)
Three things I said this weekend that I NEVER thought I would ever hear myself say:
1) Gee, these antibacterial wet wipes can be used on your hands AND your face! (Sorry, Mary Kay, but I was desperate...)
2) I can tinkle in the woods without sprinkling my $95 Hiking Boots!
3) I cannot WAIT to use that Pit Toilet!
Best Part of the Whole Weekend:
My son telling me, "It's fun to go camping with you, Mom!"
(Made the whole trip worthwhile!)
Next Best Part of the Weekend:
Coming home to my Jetted Tub! AHHHH.....
Saturday, September 13, 2008
40 and FABULOUS!
I neglect this blog terribly. I started it because my Other Blog had become too familiar and "known" by Real People. I came over here to be more anonymous, so I could write things I wanted to write but felt I could not post at the Other Blog. Plus, I also recognized that my Other Blog was becoming far too boring because I KNEW I had an audience, and I was pretty much writing for that audience, instead of writing for ME. So I started this Blog, and then I realized that whatever I posted here (outside Sunday Scribblings, of course) was basically anonymous and completely ignored by the Universe, and that offended me because I felt I was saying really significant and important things.
What a Narcissistic Blow-Hard I am, huh?
Yeah, well, so what? I DON'T CARE. And you know WHY I don't care? Because I turned 40 more than a week ago, and it did NOT bother me one iota!
A lot of really good things happened to me in my 30s, but a lot of really bad stuff happened to me, too. As my 40th birthday loomed on the horizon, I took stock and realized that I was starting off this new decade in my life in a very, very good place. I have a fabulous new house, a job that I love (which is, nicely, recession-proof), and I have GREAT kids, lots of friends, and a wonderful (although small) family. Yeah, I'm overweight and single with Lots O' Baggage, but that is OKAY. I have learned that I can take care of myself. I have accepted--FINALLY--that I'm smart and talented and I deserve everything that has come to me because I earned it.
And you know what I did for my 40th birthday? (Well, on the actual day, I flew to Washington, D.C. for a work trip, so I really didn't celebrate until 4 days after my actual birthday.)
I threw myself a PARTY!
It was a New House/Promotion/40th Birthday Party, and while I struggled with the audacity of throwing myself my own party, I also recognized that nobody was going to do it for me, and, dammit, I wanted to have a party! I spent hundreds of dollars on groceries and booze, and I invited everybody I knew--co-workers, Boy Scout Parents, College friends, High School friends, Church people--you name them, I invited them.
It was a lot of work, but it was wonderful! I have an awesome house. I'm also an awesome cook. My friends and co-workers are awesome people with cool kids. What's not to love?
Tomorrow, I am hostessing a Women's Group from Church. Next Friday, I will be hostessing a Scrapbooking party. A few weeks after that, I have out-of-town company coming for a visit during Balloon Fiesta, so I am already planning a Weekend Itinerary of all things glorious and wonderful about New Mexico (besides Hot Air Balloons), like the World's Longest Tram, the Jetsons-inspired Spaceship House, a Miraculous Staircase within a small, old church in Santa Fe, a haunted restaurant housed in the Oldest Residence in Albuquerque, fresh-roasted green chile, and home-cooked meals served on my Back Patio with a fantastic view of amazing and awe-inspiring sunsets.
I no longer sit around feeling sorry for myself. I'm BUSY--I've got things to do, people to see, places to go...
Unfortunately, that also means my garage is still filled with boxes of stuff I have yet to unpack, not to mention my Ex-Husband's Worldly Possessions (he got divorced from the StepMonster and is back in town, living with his parents for now, and storing his "stuff" in my garage and in my shed because despite being a highly-empowered Woman of Substance, I am still incapable of being a complete Asshole to anyone that my kids happen to care about. SHUT UP!)
40 is good. I'm totally okay with turning 40, and I honestly don't "get" why it is such a huge issue for so many women. Women who have trouble turning 40 must be women who have lived their lives based on "their looks." They freak out at 40 because that's when "aging" becomes visibly apparent. If you base your value to the world on "how you look," well, then I guess turning 40 is a problem. But, I'm happy to report, it was NOT a problem for ME!
I have always had to rely on my brains, my wit, and my personality because I never have been much to look at. It has served me well--I don't need superficial attention to validate my existence. I am who I am right now, and I have finally, for once in my life, STOPPED caring about what "other people" think about me. I care what my friends think. I care what my family thinks. I care what my co-workers think. But I don't really care what anyone else thinks.
What a Narcissistic Blow-Hard I am, huh?
Yeah, well, so what? I DON'T CARE. And you know WHY I don't care? Because I turned 40 more than a week ago, and it did NOT bother me one iota!
A lot of really good things happened to me in my 30s, but a lot of really bad stuff happened to me, too. As my 40th birthday loomed on the horizon, I took stock and realized that I was starting off this new decade in my life in a very, very good place. I have a fabulous new house, a job that I love (which is, nicely, recession-proof), and I have GREAT kids, lots of friends, and a wonderful (although small) family. Yeah, I'm overweight and single with Lots O' Baggage, but that is OKAY. I have learned that I can take care of myself. I have accepted--FINALLY--that I'm smart and talented and I deserve everything that has come to me because I earned it.
And you know what I did for my 40th birthday? (Well, on the actual day, I flew to Washington, D.C. for a work trip, so I really didn't celebrate until 4 days after my actual birthday.)
I threw myself a PARTY!
It was a New House/Promotion/40th Birthday Party, and while I struggled with the audacity of throwing myself my own party, I also recognized that nobody was going to do it for me, and, dammit, I wanted to have a party! I spent hundreds of dollars on groceries and booze, and I invited everybody I knew--co-workers, Boy Scout Parents, College friends, High School friends, Church people--you name them, I invited them.
It was a lot of work, but it was wonderful! I have an awesome house. I'm also an awesome cook. My friends and co-workers are awesome people with cool kids. What's not to love?
Tomorrow, I am hostessing a Women's Group from Church. Next Friday, I will be hostessing a Scrapbooking party. A few weeks after that, I have out-of-town company coming for a visit during Balloon Fiesta, so I am already planning a Weekend Itinerary of all things glorious and wonderful about New Mexico (besides Hot Air Balloons), like the World's Longest Tram, the Jetsons-inspired Spaceship House, a Miraculous Staircase within a small, old church in Santa Fe, a haunted restaurant housed in the Oldest Residence in Albuquerque, fresh-roasted green chile, and home-cooked meals served on my Back Patio with a fantastic view of amazing and awe-inspiring sunsets.
I no longer sit around feeling sorry for myself. I'm BUSY--I've got things to do, people to see, places to go...
Unfortunately, that also means my garage is still filled with boxes of stuff I have yet to unpack, not to mention my Ex-Husband's Worldly Possessions (he got divorced from the StepMonster and is back in town, living with his parents for now, and storing his "stuff" in my garage and in my shed because despite being a highly-empowered Woman of Substance, I am still incapable of being a complete Asshole to anyone that my kids happen to care about. SHUT UP!)
40 is good. I'm totally okay with turning 40, and I honestly don't "get" why it is such a huge issue for so many women. Women who have trouble turning 40 must be women who have lived their lives based on "their looks." They freak out at 40 because that's when "aging" becomes visibly apparent. If you base your value to the world on "how you look," well, then I guess turning 40 is a problem. But, I'm happy to report, it was NOT a problem for ME!
I have always had to rely on my brains, my wit, and my personality because I never have been much to look at. It has served me well--I don't need superficial attention to validate my existence. I am who I am right now, and I have finally, for once in my life, STOPPED caring about what "other people" think about me. I care what my friends think. I care what my family thinks. I care what my co-workers think. But I don't really care what anyone else thinks.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Sleep
My sleep habits seem to be defined by stages in my life--by my current priorities and worries. How well I sleep, how often I sleep, how many hours I sleep--all impacted by what events are important in my life at the time. I remember being in college and pulling those "all-nighters" during finals week. Or meeting someone new at a party and staying up until all hours of the morning talking and flirting and perhaps heading to the International House of Pancakes (open 24 hours) for coffee and Belgian waffles. Finding a potential "Mr. Right," staying up all night laughing with and confiding in the closest set of Gal Pals I have ever had, and getting good enough grades to keep my scholarship, were the priorities for which I would go without sleep back then.
Eventually, children came along, and I slept the sleep of an expectant mother--someone who was "new at this." I was awakened every night at 2 am while pregnant because the growing baby inside me always chose that time of night to be most active--a portent of the fact that once he was born, he would awaken at this time of night for the first six months of his life wanting an additional feeding or some attention. I never minded (because I was "new at this," and it felt good to be "needed"). Then I progressed to the next sleep phase--the phase of "Working Mother Determined to Breastfeed Despite Having a Full-Time Job." Even after my babies started sleeping through the night, I still got up at 2 am to dutifully express breastmilk for them to have during the day while I was away. I'd go back to sleep for a few hours before getting up to start my workday, feeding the baby on the couch before I left, wearing nylons, high heels, business-like skirt, and my pajama top. During the night, I could awaken in a split second at the slightest sound, yet fall back to sleep in mere seconds, too. Nothing kept me awake except for my childrens' needs. Once they were satisfied, I slipped right back into dreamland, although this often meant that babies slept curled beside me in my bed because I couldn't be bothered to put them back in their cribs. I couldn't bear the "cry it out" method either--I worked full-time--I needed my sleep, so Mom's bed was baby's bed because it was just easier that way. Baby #2 came along, and while her older brother had been banished into his own toddler bed, there were those nights when he wandered back in to Mom's bed, where we slept as a family through fevers and head colds, bad dreams, and separation anxiety. I had a husband who worked the night shift, so there was always plenty of room in the bed for the 3 of us, although hindsight tells me that, over time, my children, my husband, and I began to exist in separate groups of 3--again, perhaps, a portent of things to come.
My children have never been "easy" at bedtime--they were always wanting "one more story" or a song, or a glass of water, or needing to tell me about something "important." Because I was afflicted with Working Mother's Guilt, I always acquiesced because I knew that bedtime was the one time of day that my children had my undivided attention. When I arrived home from work, their father left for work, so I was running errands, doing housework, and fixing dinner without help, all while trying to keep an eye on them. I was unable to provide them with my full attention--I was always multi-tasking or pre-occupied or distracted. Bedtime became their one opportunity to have me to themselves. It was the only time I sat down and stopped thinking about other things, and that was okay, even if it meant that my kids' bedtime would begin at 9 pm but always truly be 10 pm, even on a school night. That extra hour of their bedtime routine is important, and I don't have any desire to change it, even though it means my bedtime becomes midnight or later, and I survive on 5 hours of sleep a night.
Now that my children are older, the hours between 10 pm and 5 am are no longer dictated by their needs--night-time feedings, childhood illnesses, and nightmares--leaving me free to sleep uninterrupted for those 5 hours, right? Wrong. Because now I'm a grown-up, full of grown-up responsibilities, and I am shouldering them single-handedly with no one to share the burden. My restless mind is tortured by sleep. I would lie in bed, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep because of the worry--the fears. If I did manage to fall asleep, I had dreams that bothered me--filled with confrontations with two men in particular who left me with much unresolved anger--anger I was either unable to express or prevented from expressing. It would be manifested in my dreams, and I would awaken, agitated, pissed off, and ready to fight, even though the altercation was completely fictitious. In my dreams, I got to scream, and yell, and say ugly things I would never have said while awake. But, those confrontations were not helpful--they only left me upset--too bothered to go back to sleep because they were not real. If I were worried about a particular problem--like money--I would wake up, groggy, and not thinking clearly, start thinking about the problem and then, because I was only half-awake, the problem would become horrifying and insurmountable, and would keep me awake. I would eventually fall back asleep, and once I had really woken up, had my shower, and thought the problem through, I realized that my night-time panic was irrational and ridiculous, and that my sleep-deprived state had given that particular problem far more weight than it deserved. And I would be angry that I had been deprived of sleep that I undoubtedly needed because I don't possess logic and reason at 2 am.
So, for the last few years I survived on 2 or 3 hours of sleep most nights, catching up occasionally, from sheer exhaustion, a few days each week--usually on the weekends. That began to change last summer, when both my custody battle and my money issues were finally resolved. My sleep patterns changed yet again. I sleep 5 hours a night without any problems at all. I have no trouble falling asleep because my worries are, for the most part, under control. I still have the occasional "freak-out" moment like Thursday night when the hot water line to my kitchen sink burst and flooded my kitchen, and for some odd reason, I was panicked about getting a hold of my landlord the next day to have it fixed. Why I was so reluctant to call my landlord is beyond me, but at 2 am it seemed like a horrible thing. I was worried he might be out of town, and I'd have to call a plumber and pay an exorbitant amount of money before I could have hot water again. I was pissed that I was so flipping "helpless" and ignorant about plumbing, that I had to call my father to figure out how to turn off the water. I was feeling desperately like I needed to buy a house of my own--and SOON, but I'm not ready because I haven't saved up enough money yet, and the idea of packing all of our stuff up and physically moving it is daunting. I was angry at the houses for sale in my neighborhood that are 25 years old, made by a cheap-ass builder, and they all have hot water lines and cheap pipes that burst for no good reason, leaving me with no option but to buy a more expensive house in a newer subdivision with a dinky lot and a backyard devoid of landscaping that I will hate. These are my 2 to 4 am ramblings.
But last night, I slept okay. My landlord came over and fixed the water line while I was at work. The kids are at their dad's for the weekend. I spent the evening with some other Cub Scout moms, drinking Hurricanes and assembling all of our sons' various patches, badges, neckerchiefs, and other Cub Scout memorabilia into lovingly-arranged shadow boxes, to be "presented" to them when they have their "cross-over" Ceremony next week and become bona fide Boy Scouts. (So, you see, there was a plus side to my kitchen flood because while frantically yanking things out from under the sink, trying to locate the valves to shut off the water, I found the Pat O'Brien's Hurricane Mix I had purchased in New Orleans last summer! Admittedly, my son's shadow box is not yet completed, but I've got a week to finish that up without being under the influence of rum.) I slept a full 8 hours last night and my dreams consisted of mundane things like walking past my bathroom mirror and catching a glimpse of myself, only I was thinner and in better shape--perhaps a portent of my future self, now that I am diligently trying to exercise daily. In another dream I had a glimpse of the back of my friend M's head, and his hair was thinning, and I teased him about it. Again, perhaps a portent of things to come?
But at least my sleep is filled with peaceful, non-threatening images, for a change. Everyday things that really could happen, instead of crazy "drama" that I hope has been banished from my life, leaving me free to sleep, without interruption, for the first time in a decade.
Eventually, children came along, and I slept the sleep of an expectant mother--someone who was "new at this." I was awakened every night at 2 am while pregnant because the growing baby inside me always chose that time of night to be most active--a portent of the fact that once he was born, he would awaken at this time of night for the first six months of his life wanting an additional feeding or some attention. I never minded (because I was "new at this," and it felt good to be "needed"). Then I progressed to the next sleep phase--the phase of "Working Mother Determined to Breastfeed Despite Having a Full-Time Job." Even after my babies started sleeping through the night, I still got up at 2 am to dutifully express breastmilk for them to have during the day while I was away. I'd go back to sleep for a few hours before getting up to start my workday, feeding the baby on the couch before I left, wearing nylons, high heels, business-like skirt, and my pajama top. During the night, I could awaken in a split second at the slightest sound, yet fall back to sleep in mere seconds, too. Nothing kept me awake except for my childrens' needs. Once they were satisfied, I slipped right back into dreamland, although this often meant that babies slept curled beside me in my bed because I couldn't be bothered to put them back in their cribs. I couldn't bear the "cry it out" method either--I worked full-time--I needed my sleep, so Mom's bed was baby's bed because it was just easier that way. Baby #2 came along, and while her older brother had been banished into his own toddler bed, there were those nights when he wandered back in to Mom's bed, where we slept as a family through fevers and head colds, bad dreams, and separation anxiety. I had a husband who worked the night shift, so there was always plenty of room in the bed for the 3 of us, although hindsight tells me that, over time, my children, my husband, and I began to exist in separate groups of 3--again, perhaps, a portent of things to come.
My children have never been "easy" at bedtime--they were always wanting "one more story" or a song, or a glass of water, or needing to tell me about something "important." Because I was afflicted with Working Mother's Guilt, I always acquiesced because I knew that bedtime was the one time of day that my children had my undivided attention. When I arrived home from work, their father left for work, so I was running errands, doing housework, and fixing dinner without help, all while trying to keep an eye on them. I was unable to provide them with my full attention--I was always multi-tasking or pre-occupied or distracted. Bedtime became their one opportunity to have me to themselves. It was the only time I sat down and stopped thinking about other things, and that was okay, even if it meant that my kids' bedtime would begin at 9 pm but always truly be 10 pm, even on a school night. That extra hour of their bedtime routine is important, and I don't have any desire to change it, even though it means my bedtime becomes midnight or later, and I survive on 5 hours of sleep a night.
Now that my children are older, the hours between 10 pm and 5 am are no longer dictated by their needs--night-time feedings, childhood illnesses, and nightmares--leaving me free to sleep uninterrupted for those 5 hours, right? Wrong. Because now I'm a grown-up, full of grown-up responsibilities, and I am shouldering them single-handedly with no one to share the burden. My restless mind is tortured by sleep. I would lie in bed, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep because of the worry--the fears. If I did manage to fall asleep, I had dreams that bothered me--filled with confrontations with two men in particular who left me with much unresolved anger--anger I was either unable to express or prevented from expressing. It would be manifested in my dreams, and I would awaken, agitated, pissed off, and ready to fight, even though the altercation was completely fictitious. In my dreams, I got to scream, and yell, and say ugly things I would never have said while awake. But, those confrontations were not helpful--they only left me upset--too bothered to go back to sleep because they were not real. If I were worried about a particular problem--like money--I would wake up, groggy, and not thinking clearly, start thinking about the problem and then, because I was only half-awake, the problem would become horrifying and insurmountable, and would keep me awake. I would eventually fall back asleep, and once I had really woken up, had my shower, and thought the problem through, I realized that my night-time panic was irrational and ridiculous, and that my sleep-deprived state had given that particular problem far more weight than it deserved. And I would be angry that I had been deprived of sleep that I undoubtedly needed because I don't possess logic and reason at 2 am.
So, for the last few years I survived on 2 or 3 hours of sleep most nights, catching up occasionally, from sheer exhaustion, a few days each week--usually on the weekends. That began to change last summer, when both my custody battle and my money issues were finally resolved. My sleep patterns changed yet again. I sleep 5 hours a night without any problems at all. I have no trouble falling asleep because my worries are, for the most part, under control. I still have the occasional "freak-out" moment like Thursday night when the hot water line to my kitchen sink burst and flooded my kitchen, and for some odd reason, I was panicked about getting a hold of my landlord the next day to have it fixed. Why I was so reluctant to call my landlord is beyond me, but at 2 am it seemed like a horrible thing. I was worried he might be out of town, and I'd have to call a plumber and pay an exorbitant amount of money before I could have hot water again. I was pissed that I was so flipping "helpless" and ignorant about plumbing, that I had to call my father to figure out how to turn off the water. I was feeling desperately like I needed to buy a house of my own--and SOON, but I'm not ready because I haven't saved up enough money yet, and the idea of packing all of our stuff up and physically moving it is daunting. I was angry at the houses for sale in my neighborhood that are 25 years old, made by a cheap-ass builder, and they all have hot water lines and cheap pipes that burst for no good reason, leaving me with no option but to buy a more expensive house in a newer subdivision with a dinky lot and a backyard devoid of landscaping that I will hate. These are my 2 to 4 am ramblings.
But last night, I slept okay. My landlord came over and fixed the water line while I was at work. The kids are at their dad's for the weekend. I spent the evening with some other Cub Scout moms, drinking Hurricanes and assembling all of our sons' various patches, badges, neckerchiefs, and other Cub Scout memorabilia into lovingly-arranged shadow boxes, to be "presented" to them when they have their "cross-over" Ceremony next week and become bona fide Boy Scouts. (So, you see, there was a plus side to my kitchen flood because while frantically yanking things out from under the sink, trying to locate the valves to shut off the water, I found the Pat O'Brien's Hurricane Mix I had purchased in New Orleans last summer! Admittedly, my son's shadow box is not yet completed, but I've got a week to finish that up without being under the influence of rum.) I slept a full 8 hours last night and my dreams consisted of mundane things like walking past my bathroom mirror and catching a glimpse of myself, only I was thinner and in better shape--perhaps a portent of my future self, now that I am diligently trying to exercise daily. In another dream I had a glimpse of the back of my friend M's head, and his hair was thinning, and I teased him about it. Again, perhaps a portent of things to come?
But at least my sleep is filled with peaceful, non-threatening images, for a change. Everyday things that really could happen, instead of crazy "drama" that I hope has been banished from my life, leaving me free to sleep, without interruption, for the first time in a decade.
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Fridge Space
I've been reading Sunday Scribblings for years--even before I actually had a blog here. I was always too intimidated to post an entry of my own. I write professionally for a living, but I write reports and briefing papers and executive summaries. Facts. Data. Active voice. There is nothing creative about my writing. I am not clever or metaphorical or symbolic. But "Fridge Space" is a topic I can write about because I can tell you the facts, provide you with data.
I have a "Mom Fridge." It is covered with magnets from all my various work trips: the nation's capital, Seattle WA, Portland OR, Atlanta GA, Jacksonville FL, St. Augustine FL, New Orleans LA, Cincinatti OH, Phoenix AZ, Milwaukee WI, Austin TX, Baltimore MD. This summer I will acquire St Louis MO. My magnets hold nothing up, with the exception of the Atlanta magnet which is atop a list of phone numbers--people my kids should call if something ever happens to me. My favorite magnet is one I got on my last trip to Washington. I visited the International Spy Museum and picked out a magnet that contains the words from an actual memo issued by the U. S. Navy back during WWI. It reads: "Beware of Female Spies! Women are being employed by the enemy to secure information from Navy men, on the theory that they are less liable to be suspected than male spies. Beware of inquisitive women as well as prying men. SEE EVERYTHING, HEAR EVERYTHING, SAY NOTHING concerning any matter bearing upon the work of the Navy. Silence is safety."
I'm not sure why I found this to be so amusing. I guess because I like to think of myself as a clever (and dangerous) woman now that I've learned not to put up with anyone's crap anymore. I'm older, I'm wiser, and I have learned that men my age have things to hide and can't be trusted (admittedly, that statement could probably apply to me as well--I have things to hide and can't be trusted, either). My Best Guy Friend told me once, "You know, it took getting divorced for you to finally grow a backbone and learn how to stand up for yourself, but now nobody will ever want you because you are just too bitchy." I laughed and laughed! So be it! (Of course, this is also the same Guy Friend who told me I could only date "much older men" from now on because "women age in dog years." Sometimes I wonder why we are still friends...)
But, I digress...this entry is supposed to be about my fridge.
The inside of my fridge contains certain items that are ALWAYS there--the things I purchase every week at the grocery store without fail: milk, fruit juice, eggs, real butter (no margarine--I do things right), yogurt, tortillas, lunch meat (always smoked turkey, sometimes honey ham), cheese slices, cheddar cheese, broccoli, apples, broccoli-slaw, carrots, green onions, celery, and salsa. And then there are those other staples that I buy every couple of months: mustard, mayonnaise, worcestershire sauce, BBQ sauce, ketchup, soy sauce, raspberry jam, grape jelly, ranch dressing, Italian dressing. Quite boring, nothing unusual or out of the ordinary. The typical American fridge, for the mom who cooks for children who prefer their food to be, shall we say, unadventurous?
I like to think that there are different items in my fridge that are different, now that I'm divorced. There are those exotic purchases I have made that I never would have purchased when I was married: hummus, whole wheat pita bread, hoisin sauce, olive tapenade, funky pasta sauces from Trader Joe's. There is a chunk of gruyere cheese awaiting some homemade French Onion soup. These are the things I buy for myself on the weekends my kids aren't with me, and I can indulge my "inner foodie." My ex was strictly meat and potatoes and ketchup was his condiment of choice. I shopped with him in mind, and fixed what he liked to eat.
The biggest difference in the contents of my fridge are the leftovers. I still seem to cook for four. We never had leftovers before, now we do. They go into small plastic containers and become lunches for me at work. This week's haul: chili beans (pinto beans cooked with a whole lot of red chili powder, cumin, garlic, and onions) and an exceptionally-good pasta dish of my own creation--my attempt at re-creating a favorite dish from the Macaroni Grille restaurant: bowtie pasta with pancetta, grilled chicken, artichoke hearts, and mushrooms in a parmesan-cream sauce. It turned out quite nicely, although, as usual, my children wouldn't eat it because it was way too "adventurous." There is almost always some leftover chicken in a container somewhere. We eat chicken a lot, and I always make a little extra because it can become an entirely different meal with a little planning. Leftover chicken is great for chicken quesadillas--the 5-minute dinner often thrown together on Scout meeting nights, when I only have 30 minutes to feed my children before needing to leave the house again.
The best thing about my fridge is that it is actually rather clean. It's a new fridge, you see. My old, dirty, smelly fridge stopped working last year, and I went out to shop for a new fridge, planning on buying the cheapest, most basic fridge I could find. My mother went with me, though, and she said I should buy the fridge that I really wanted because, after all, I'd probably be living with it for a decade or so. So, I spent $1700 on a fridge with French doors and the freezer compartment on the bottom. It has glass shelves and pristine compartments. It is beautiful and new and represents my newly-found feelings of success about my life. I didn't have to settle for the cheap fridge--I had gotten a promotion and could splurge on getting what I wanted for a change.
And so I keep it clean. I mop up spills and throw out aging leftovers and produce. I arrange everything neatly. I know what's in there. I take care of it and value it because it is one of the few nice, new things I have ever owned. I want to keep it new and beautiful. I want everything in my post-divorce world, to be new and beautiful. First it was a new car, then some new clothes, the the refrigerator. Next it will be a new (and much bigger) house, and then some new furniture. All the choices are mine. I no longer have to "settle."
(And why do we call them "fridges" when the word "refrigerator" does not contain a single "d"?) No wonder people can't spell. None of our spelling rules make any sense.
I have a "Mom Fridge." It is covered with magnets from all my various work trips: the nation's capital, Seattle WA, Portland OR, Atlanta GA, Jacksonville FL, St. Augustine FL, New Orleans LA, Cincinatti OH, Phoenix AZ, Milwaukee WI, Austin TX, Baltimore MD. This summer I will acquire St Louis MO. My magnets hold nothing up, with the exception of the Atlanta magnet which is atop a list of phone numbers--people my kids should call if something ever happens to me. My favorite magnet is one I got on my last trip to Washington. I visited the International Spy Museum and picked out a magnet that contains the words from an actual memo issued by the U. S. Navy back during WWI. It reads: "Beware of Female Spies! Women are being employed by the enemy to secure information from Navy men, on the theory that they are less liable to be suspected than male spies. Beware of inquisitive women as well as prying men. SEE EVERYTHING, HEAR EVERYTHING, SAY NOTHING concerning any matter bearing upon the work of the Navy. Silence is safety."
I'm not sure why I found this to be so amusing. I guess because I like to think of myself as a clever (and dangerous) woman now that I've learned not to put up with anyone's crap anymore. I'm older, I'm wiser, and I have learned that men my age have things to hide and can't be trusted (admittedly, that statement could probably apply to me as well--I have things to hide and can't be trusted, either). My Best Guy Friend told me once, "You know, it took getting divorced for you to finally grow a backbone and learn how to stand up for yourself, but now nobody will ever want you because you are just too bitchy." I laughed and laughed! So be it! (Of course, this is also the same Guy Friend who told me I could only date "much older men" from now on because "women age in dog years." Sometimes I wonder why we are still friends...)
But, I digress...this entry is supposed to be about my fridge.
The inside of my fridge contains certain items that are ALWAYS there--the things I purchase every week at the grocery store without fail: milk, fruit juice, eggs, real butter (no margarine--I do things right), yogurt, tortillas, lunch meat (always smoked turkey, sometimes honey ham), cheese slices, cheddar cheese, broccoli, apples, broccoli-slaw, carrots, green onions, celery, and salsa. And then there are those other staples that I buy every couple of months: mustard, mayonnaise, worcestershire sauce, BBQ sauce, ketchup, soy sauce, raspberry jam, grape jelly, ranch dressing, Italian dressing. Quite boring, nothing unusual or out of the ordinary. The typical American fridge, for the mom who cooks for children who prefer their food to be, shall we say, unadventurous?
I like to think that there are different items in my fridge that are different, now that I'm divorced. There are those exotic purchases I have made that I never would have purchased when I was married: hummus, whole wheat pita bread, hoisin sauce, olive tapenade, funky pasta sauces from Trader Joe's. There is a chunk of gruyere cheese awaiting some homemade French Onion soup. These are the things I buy for myself on the weekends my kids aren't with me, and I can indulge my "inner foodie." My ex was strictly meat and potatoes and ketchup was his condiment of choice. I shopped with him in mind, and fixed what he liked to eat.
The biggest difference in the contents of my fridge are the leftovers. I still seem to cook for four. We never had leftovers before, now we do. They go into small plastic containers and become lunches for me at work. This week's haul: chili beans (pinto beans cooked with a whole lot of red chili powder, cumin, garlic, and onions) and an exceptionally-good pasta dish of my own creation--my attempt at re-creating a favorite dish from the Macaroni Grille restaurant: bowtie pasta with pancetta, grilled chicken, artichoke hearts, and mushrooms in a parmesan-cream sauce. It turned out quite nicely, although, as usual, my children wouldn't eat it because it was way too "adventurous." There is almost always some leftover chicken in a container somewhere. We eat chicken a lot, and I always make a little extra because it can become an entirely different meal with a little planning. Leftover chicken is great for chicken quesadillas--the 5-minute dinner often thrown together on Scout meeting nights, when I only have 30 minutes to feed my children before needing to leave the house again.
The best thing about my fridge is that it is actually rather clean. It's a new fridge, you see. My old, dirty, smelly fridge stopped working last year, and I went out to shop for a new fridge, planning on buying the cheapest, most basic fridge I could find. My mother went with me, though, and she said I should buy the fridge that I really wanted because, after all, I'd probably be living with it for a decade or so. So, I spent $1700 on a fridge with French doors and the freezer compartment on the bottom. It has glass shelves and pristine compartments. It is beautiful and new and represents my newly-found feelings of success about my life. I didn't have to settle for the cheap fridge--I had gotten a promotion and could splurge on getting what I wanted for a change.
And so I keep it clean. I mop up spills and throw out aging leftovers and produce. I arrange everything neatly. I know what's in there. I take care of it and value it because it is one of the few nice, new things I have ever owned. I want to keep it new and beautiful. I want everything in my post-divorce world, to be new and beautiful. First it was a new car, then some new clothes, the the refrigerator. Next it will be a new (and much bigger) house, and then some new furniture. All the choices are mine. I no longer have to "settle."
(And why do we call them "fridges" when the word "refrigerator" does not contain a single "d"?) No wonder people can't spell. None of our spelling rules make any sense.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Intro
Nothing like a new blog site to waste more of my precious time! I've been blogging for years on another site, but felt like a change of venue was necessary, so here I am, trying to figure out Blogger.
So, more about me. Me, me, me, me, me! (Why I blog--to talk about ME because in real life nobody wants to hear you talk about yourself, so instead, we foist ourselves upon the internet).
I have two great kids, that makes me, primarily, a "Mom." That title still surprises me sometimes because I don't always feel qualified, and because my relationship with my kids is often rather goofy and silly and decidely un-Mom-like. But I like it that way. I think we are a pretty close-knit little family unit. We are very open and honest with one another, and I think my kids trust me and find me to be pretty dependable. We laugh a lot, and that's important.
I've been divorced for 3 years. 3 horrible years. The divorce, itself, wasn't all that horrible for me--after all, I was the "petitioner," but the fall-out was horrible. It cost me thousands of my hard-earned dollars, and it is still costing me to this day. I've had to deal with a Custody Evaluation, alimony payments, false police reports, a "scandalous affair" and subsequently devastating "break-up," and the emergence of a particularly evil woman who is my kid's new stepmother and who takes great personal satisfaction in making my life Hell. But, hey, I've come through it all okay, a little worse for wear, but okay. I'm still smiling, and, if anything, all of these experiences are still turned into amusing anecdotes for whoever wants to listen.
Since my role as "wife" has gone away, I find myself struggling to claim a new identity. I went from my parent's house, to a sorority house, to being married, so I've never really had the particular "life experience" of being single and on my own. It's kind of strange, but kind of fun, except that now I'm old, so I can't have the kind of fun that 20-somethings are out having. I like that I don't have to balance my checkbook anymore because I'm the only one spending money out of my account. (There are no surprises in there anymore!) I like being able to make all my own choices without having to consider someone else's taste or preferences. I like being in charge. I like being able to try new things and go places. I don't like joint custody. I hate for my kids to be away, even though I have come to enjoy my "alone time." I have a great job and a great career. If anything, my life has improved since the divorce, despite the monetary losses. I am making more money, have better credit, and more freedom to succeed than I ever had while married. But, I worry sometimes, about what my future holds because I know that eventually my kids will grow up and move out and won't need me as much anymore. And then who will I be?
Well, I would like to be a fun and interesting person, so I am trying to change my hermit-like ways. On the weekends when my kids were away, I used to go to the library, check out a bunch of books, and then lay around reading all weekend, only leaving the house to go grocery-shopping. (I have read over 50 books this year!) I fear I am destined to become a "crazy cat lady" if I keep this up. So, I'm trying to "get out more," which is hard to do when you have to either do it alone or go out with your parents. I need some new friends, don't I?
So this is what my blog will be about--my adventures as an independent woman. When I first started my other blog, I was more of a "Mommy Blogger," but now I want to capture ME, and what I am doing, saying, and thinking.
So, more about me. Me, me, me, me, me! (Why I blog--to talk about ME because in real life nobody wants to hear you talk about yourself, so instead, we foist ourselves upon the internet).
I have two great kids, that makes me, primarily, a "Mom." That title still surprises me sometimes because I don't always feel qualified, and because my relationship with my kids is often rather goofy and silly and decidely un-Mom-like. But I like it that way. I think we are a pretty close-knit little family unit. We are very open and honest with one another, and I think my kids trust me and find me to be pretty dependable. We laugh a lot, and that's important.
I've been divorced for 3 years. 3 horrible years. The divorce, itself, wasn't all that horrible for me--after all, I was the "petitioner," but the fall-out was horrible. It cost me thousands of my hard-earned dollars, and it is still costing me to this day. I've had to deal with a Custody Evaluation, alimony payments, false police reports, a "scandalous affair" and subsequently devastating "break-up," and the emergence of a particularly evil woman who is my kid's new stepmother and who takes great personal satisfaction in making my life Hell. But, hey, I've come through it all okay, a little worse for wear, but okay. I'm still smiling, and, if anything, all of these experiences are still turned into amusing anecdotes for whoever wants to listen.
Since my role as "wife" has gone away, I find myself struggling to claim a new identity. I went from my parent's house, to a sorority house, to being married, so I've never really had the particular "life experience" of being single and on my own. It's kind of strange, but kind of fun, except that now I'm old, so I can't have the kind of fun that 20-somethings are out having. I like that I don't have to balance my checkbook anymore because I'm the only one spending money out of my account. (There are no surprises in there anymore!) I like being able to make all my own choices without having to consider someone else's taste or preferences. I like being in charge. I like being able to try new things and go places. I don't like joint custody. I hate for my kids to be away, even though I have come to enjoy my "alone time." I have a great job and a great career. If anything, my life has improved since the divorce, despite the monetary losses. I am making more money, have better credit, and more freedom to succeed than I ever had while married. But, I worry sometimes, about what my future holds because I know that eventually my kids will grow up and move out and won't need me as much anymore. And then who will I be?
Well, I would like to be a fun and interesting person, so I am trying to change my hermit-like ways. On the weekends when my kids were away, I used to go to the library, check out a bunch of books, and then lay around reading all weekend, only leaving the house to go grocery-shopping. (I have read over 50 books this year!) I fear I am destined to become a "crazy cat lady" if I keep this up. So, I'm trying to "get out more," which is hard to do when you have to either do it alone or go out with your parents. I need some new friends, don't I?
So this is what my blog will be about--my adventures as an independent woman. When I first started my other blog, I was more of a "Mommy Blogger," but now I want to capture ME, and what I am doing, saying, and thinking.
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