Derivative of Witty

Full Circle into 2009 - the year in review.

So, 2008 really, really kicked my ass.  This was the most difficult year that I believe I've ever had, and I believe I've had some biggies.  Many are happy to see 2008 go, but from what I've seen and heard, most of that sentiment came from the events that have unfolded in the economy in the last 5 months or so.

Oddly, the last 5 months have been the best part of 2008 for me, which tells you just how shitty the first 7 were.

The end of December 2007 brought miscarriage #3.  My body revolted, and refused first to let go of the dead baby and then to stop bleeding.  From that physical multi-car pileup I drifted straight into a spiral of severe depression.  Getting fired for not getting well quickly enough.  Public humiliation of getting sacked.  Inability to interact with other humans without Xanax.  Moments looking down at my assortment of bottles and really understanding why someone would swallow all of them.  Staying in pajamas for days at a time. No sleep, no food, no bath, no future. Husband making quiet phone calls to hospitals and crying for his loss of not only a baby but his wife.

Just typing those incomplete sentences has made my chest tight, my eyes fill with tears and my teeth clench together.  Reading posts I made back in December, January, February, etc., I see just how bad my game face was.  I was a complete wreck, but thought I was holding myself together nicely.

Reflecting on those months, I feel sorry for that woman.  She was broken and bruised and needed so very very much.  She needed her family, husband, friends to wrap her up in a blanket and rock her, and they tried and sometimes succeeded.  I wish I could go back and brush her hair and let her know that it's not all bullshit, that time really does heal all wounds and she would be able to smile without the artifice of social obligation once again.

Months in the mountains on the river, with physical, rather than mental, work allowed me to heal.  I itched mosquito bites and got sunburns and started running again. I washed dishes and made cookies and drove trucks with trailers miles and miles.  I did laundry, pulled weeds, and waded in the river.  I took afternoon naps.  I read books.  I started to think I was attractive again.  I stayed up late with friends around a fire and told silly stories and drank wine and smoked cigarettes and looked at the stars.  I loved my husband.  I loved myself.

In September, the people I thought had abandoned me would not leave me alone.  They called, they e-mailed, they told me that they needed me to do this job, that I was the one they wanted out of all of Montana, and could I please start straight away with this fantastic salary and health benefits and a car allowance and cell phone and my own hours?  I didn't want to go, but I knew that as the leaves were turning on the river, the summer was over, and I was strong again.  Not as strong as I would be in a few months, but stronger than I had been, and strong enough.

I just returned from a trip to Costa Rica.  When we began planning that trip over a year ago, I expected it to be the trip that would dominate the year - the big story.  It was not, but it was just what it needed to be.  I needed that trip, and while I will show you photos of the dolphins, mountains, people, beaches, sunsets, and all the things that made me smile, I do not consider the trip to be the story of 2008.

The story of 2008 is me, and all the people who love me and hold me dear enough to them to keep calling me even when I don't call them back, don't e-mail them back, and don't answer the door when they knock.  Without those people I would be dust right now, and I'm so very happy I'm not.

I have held my tongue when others chat or blog about what a PAIN the holidays are and how HAPPY they are that they're almost over and how TIRED they are, and it frustrates me. 

I didn't decorate one stitch, didn't host one party, didn't attend one function thrown by aquaintences or friends who I don't have on speed-dial.  I didn't wrap presents, didn't bake cookies, didn't drink too much or eat too much.  Christmas happened anyway, and it was just lovely.  I held babies, ate nice dinners, taught a niece to knit, laughed with my siblings, sang my with my family to a silly musical, slept with my husband, slept in, smiled at store clerks, shoveled my neighbor's walk, and said no many, many times.  No to invites, no to functions, no to after-whatever-sales, no to another sweet, no to another glass of wine, no to a sleeping pill. 

I think this has been the best Christmas yet.  Others had more gifts and more visiting and more dresses, but others didn't have the utter inky black hole behind them. 

I don't know what 2009 will bring, but my list of wants has changed significantly since I was making this list of wants in 2007.  I want my family to stay healthy.  I want my marriage to flourish.  I want to take more steps toward expanding our family, whether that be adoption or fertility treatments.  I want to have enough money to pay my bills and keep my house warm and buy the occassional treat for one of my many friends.  I want to meet interesting people and talk about interesting things.  I want to pick myself up when I stumble, and to help someone else up when they stumble.  I want to be a friend.

Happy New Year, Indeed.

First kiss, metaphorically speaking.

Do you ever get the feeling that the events surrounding you at present are marked with importance?  That among all the days and weeks and months through which you survive, the actions surrounding a portion of your life are significant in the same way as your first kiss was significant?  The way a graduation, a marriage, a birth or a death is significant?

I feel that way every time I have a conversation with an undecided voter about the upcoming presidential election.  I'm not exaggerating for comedic effect.  This is serious.

I force myself to remain calm and appear open-minded and rational, in order to communicate in the most effective manner, but I know that this person may very well change their mind about their vote at the end of my conversation.  It's so important, so very important, that I get it right, that I figure out exactly their issue and how to couch my conversation or debate to persuade them that my guy is right on their issue for them.

Because it's important, so very important, that my guy wins.  Lipstick and pantsuits, teenage pregnancies and a special needs infant, Alaska from my front porch and barracudas and hockey moms and hurricanes.  These are the topics that keep new viewers tuning into the mainstream media for the presidential version of the Real World.

I am surprised many times a week, but I have come to the dismal conclusion that the American electorate is so fucking stupid I am embarrassed for them in the way that I'm embarrassed for the young co-ed on Leno who can't remember how many states there are in the country or what color red and yellow make when mixed together.  I don't excuse his stupidity, but his stupidity is so obvious, so clearly dangerous, that I pity him and want to take him home and tutor him to make him a better citizen.

I want to tutor the American electorate, because they've handed me eight years of the most dismal display of a President ever to grace space inside the oval office that should be held as a sacred center of the enduring spirit of a freedom-seeking, oppression-fleeing fledgling country, for which my ancestors fought.  I'm embarrassed for our American electorate, and I want to tutor it, one undecided voter at a time.

If I had a million dollars, I would cut an ad and run it in the middle of The Girls Next Door, Project Runway, The Rachel Zoe Project, Top Chef, Iron Chef America, Dr. Phil, The View, The Regis and Kelly Show, and any other vapid, content-devoid nonsense that is currently pulling in the Nielson ratings.  I'd speak slowly and use small words and make easy analogies with oreos equalling billions of dollars and discuss how if we took just a few oreos away from the pentagon and gave them to education, education would be GREAT! and the pentagon would still have a shit-ton of oreos on which to gorge and become bloated.  I would perhaps ask that nut Dennis Kucinich for some help on the research.

Instead, I'll let myself experience many small, memorable moments each day, knowing that I am part of something so much bigger than my first kiss - something that will change things for all of us, Democrat, Republican, Independent, Libertarian, Constitutionalist, Socialist, or Anarchist.  All of us freedom-seeking, oppression-fleeing Americans.

Class dismissed.  Vote Obama.

All things in my life are being Re-defined

 

I am not hip enough to be the target demographic.

 

I just received an e-mail from a San Fran company, CB2, about their new solution for those who are tight on space. Absolutely appropriate for the San Fran area and, coincidentally, my house. I clicked through, as I am in the process of re-arranging my home to a magic configuration that will yield 300 extra square feet (need pixie dust, url referrals welcome).

 

(image from CB2 website)

 

Cute, right? "Flex your Space"

"Convertible three-position seater/sleeper is the am/pm solution for the space-challenged or the friendly out-of-towner. By day it's an upright but comfy lounge that can also angle back 45 degrees for TV/reading. Shut-eye rolls around, the back flips all the way down and voilà…a worthy platform bed with real pocketed coil mattress innersprings that sleeps two."

Um. This is a futon. Am I missing something? Anyway – cute. I've always adored the futon, and I hope these lovely folks can help to bring it back.

 

Hyper-aware companies with great employees deserve enormous pats on back.

A while back, I posted and then checked out the site to ensure that all was well. Little question mark symbols riddled the screen, and so I opened up a help ticket with Typepad. I rec'd a response in very short order, by a human from what I could tell, with a very nice response. We went back and forth, and I closed the ticket with the thought that the issue would be resolved that day.

Unfortunately, about a week later, the marks were still there. I opened up another ticket, and explained the situation again. I rec'd another speedy response, from another kind human, explaining that while posts in the future would be ok, I'd have to edit through the last one to fix the errors that occurred when it originally posted.

I rec'd that last message on the tail end of a tense discussion argument with my husband, a searing pain in the middle of my back brought on by a shitty, 30-year-old mattress, and a knot in my stomach about a 20-page report due to a client in two days. The internet access at the lodge was dodgy (hah! Dodgy lodge!), and I didn't have time to sit and fix the old post. I fired off an angry Twitter about Typepad f-ing up my blog, and grumbled along my merry way.

I think it was within the hour that I rec'd an e-mail from Generva at Typepad Community Relations. She said she saw my Twitter, and wanted to know if there was anything she could do to help, and was kind and gracious even though if I were her I would have been mumbling under my breath, "Good Lord, it's not like her piddly little blog has any readers." I explained the situation, the access issues, etc., and SHE FIXED EVERYTHING. She went in and edited the muck out of my last post to make it readable, and told me she understood the frustration as her husband was sort of in the same boat with access issues, etc.

Basically, if Typepad/SixApart had logowear, I'd buy an extra-small and put on my push-up bra so people would look at the advertizing. This, America, is why smart people utilizing the internet as a new platform and re-defining how they deal with their client base is a VERY GOOD THING.

Amen.

I'm getting a haircut today

And I expect to have a conversation with Erin about a woman at her church who wants to pray over me and lay on hands and whatnot. We began this discussion the last time I was turned into a supermodel, and I'm up for whatever; I just don't want to make the experience all about the Jesus, you know?

 

Until next time,

I remain,

 

The SixApart Disciple.

Wax On...Wax Off...Wax My Car

All summer, in the field next to the lodge, a pair of sandhill cranes have nested. They picked the spot for its proximity to the river and shelter, and for the tall grass that surrounds their nest. I watched them in April fluffing their feathers and bouncing through their mating dance. I have listened to them every morning and evening as they call to the sun rising and setting, daring to match the splendor and steal a bit of glory with their gray and red plumage.

Sometimes after my morning run I'll grab a cup of coffee and walk across the lawn to the fence. They'll stand up straight and look at me, but they've become accustomed to my stares, and don't fly away. One will always keep an eye on me, but the other will feed or poke or groom freely. I consider them mine, and point out their existence to any guest staying at the lodge, puffing up slightly myself when they admire the birds in a manner I feel befits their majesty.

This weekend S. and I drove around Montana a bit and visited my family, first in my hometown where one sister and my brother were visiting my folks - spouses and babies all gathered around sipping Pepsi, snacking on Sour Cream & Onion Lays, and talking about how hot it was. I took a nap with one of my nephews, all 10 weeks of him, and sweated. After a flurry of kisses and hugs and promises to try to come back for the evening's rodeo festivities, we took off down the highway upon which I learned to drive to see my little sister and two more nieces.

The weekend was relaxing and fun, alternately inspirational and drunken and lazy. We stayed in a little hotel that had a little refrigerator and a little air conditioner and a little television. The bed was short and the ceilings were short and the shower nozzle was built for a five foot two inch person. It was all sorts of awesome.

We rose early on Monday, and took the scenic route home, which to us means about 45 miles of high dirt roads through the mountains looking at the winding river. About a half an hour into the drive, we'd (I'd) sucked down enough over-priced espresso to create a reasonable conversation, and we started talking about our little tiny room.

S:    But how did you sleep?
Me: OK - my back sort of hurts, but nothing crazy. How about you?
S:    Really well - like a log. Didn't even dream.
Me: Oh! I did! Really weird....

And then it happened. I remembered my dreams from the night before.

Dreams are intensely personal experiences, for the images don't properly translate to the written or spoken word with the clarity of knowledge that I have while sleeping.  I am equipped with a full set of facts without having experienced or been told any of it, and my emotions are deep and true and lasting.  I've been known to be angry with S. for days over some asshole thing he did in one of my dreams.  I can't help it - my heart and my gut are clenched as a result of my psyche's nighttime romps.

That night, I'd had another miscarriage. This is where the knowledge present in the dream comes into play. I'd been four months pregnant, supposedly in the 'safe zone', and all was crazy good. The horrific curse had been lifted and our little family was on the move.  But in the dream sequence, my doc broke the news to me, I looked down, my baby disappeared, and there was nothing I could do to save him.

I was forced to tell everyone in the office, staff and patients, what had just happened.  I know that the reason for my forced communication was to prevent me from pretending that all was OK - to put myself out there and face reality the hard way.

So when I was asked about my dreams, and then remembered them, the emotion came with them as well.  I was in the office, experiencing the news and breaking it in turn.  I had a panic attack.

I could not breathe.  I could barely see.  I was dizzy, and kept opening the window, and gulping huge sobs back in a vain attempt at normalcy.  S. recognized what was happening, but had no idea why.  It took me about 20 minutes to restore my breathing, and another 30 to take oxygen into my lungs without conscious thought.  I could not verbalize the dream without the panic taking hold again.  I could think it, but I couldn't say it out loud.

We made it back to the lodge, and S. put me to bed.  I slept for four hours.  I woke up groggy, took a shower, and went to find a mind-candy book to read (finally, Scarlett, I can see Girl With A Pearl Earring!).  I grabbed a Diet Pepsi and a big cup of ice, and settled into an Adirondack chair on the deck, facing my birds. That's when I noticed the swather. 

It's haying time, of course, and every summer and fall for the last 34 years I've watched this chore with uninterested detachment. Even as a child, watching the Secret of NIMH, I couldn't get all worked up when Farmer Fitzgibbons took to the field in his swather.  What did the mice expect? To stay all safe and sound in a field? Come on! How is Mrs. Fitzgibbons supposed to buy groceries?

But this swather was headed toward my cranes, and I could hear them calling.  I don't know if they were trying to protect their baby, or just trying to fend off the large piece of machinery, but they were calling like crazy.  The sound was different than the good morning gutteral chatter - it was faster and frightened and angry.  And there was nothing I could do to save them.

And the panic came back.

Yesterday was the due date for my baby. 

I believe in the power of our minds to help us prepare for things that we normally would not be able to handle.  I believe that our resting psyche can warn us of potential emotional bombshells, so when those bombshells explode, we are a little better equipped to handle them.  I don't know that is what happened yesterday, or the night before as I was dreaming, but I know that the dream wasn't completely about my due date or my inability to stop a death or a swather or a miscarriage. 

I've been very safe out here in the mountain valley this summer.  There has not been a lot of stress, I get to care for my body, eat properly, exercise regularly, relax in the evening with interesting, fun people.  But this is not my real life, and I need to return to that life soon.

Just as I was forced to walk around confessing my loss to strangers in my dream, admitting that everything is not OK - I need to come to grips with the fact that I'm still profoundly affected by the events of this past winter, and the crippling depression that wrapped itself around my soul.  I'm better - yes - and more equipped to handle simple encounters that would have driven me to bed just a few months ago.. But I'm not all better.

I don't know that I will ever be all better.  But I'm certain that I will be able to make it through the occasional darkness and into light again, whereas in February that was not a certainty.

Maybe that's what being better feels like. Having the confidence that you will not crumble and disappear when real life happens.

Until then, I will continue to visit my cranes, for they flew away from the swather but just a few hours later returned to their nest. And they called to me last night.  They had not disappeared either.

Oh! Hi, there!

Y'all!

I have been PLAYING!

And now I have a better response to those who ask me What I Do.

"I'm retired".

I have been in the valley, on the river, hiking, playing, drinking to excess, pounding the bongos, cooing at babies, scritching dogs behind the ears, napping, reading, knitting.

Oh yeah, and someone hired me to do some work.  FROM HOME. 

I would feel guilty about having so much fun, but dammit, I deserve it.  ::tosses hair and flutters eyelashes::

I've been taking walks here

and here

and at night I sleep here.  In a King Size Bed.  With six pillows.  And then my husband brings me hot coffee and omelettes in bed for breakfast.

Yawn.  Stretch.  Sigh.

And in the afternoon, if I'm so inclined, I may take a drive to the local hotsprings to soak.  Through this valley.

If the urge strikes, I may stop to pick some wildflowers.

There were a few birthdays of note.  First, my nephew Tyler turned 11 on July 11th.  He is a beautiful little boy, but I was a moron and didn't have my camera out for his party, which was held on the banks of Deep Creek in a log cabin around a fire.  We are country and our necks are appropriately red.  Proud of it.

Miss Madelyn made her one-year milestone, and celebrated with her very own cupcake.  She didn't quite know what to think at first, but got the hang of it.

And last, but certainly not least, Miss Ruby turned two.  The morning of her birthday (the day after her cousin Tyler's, so still in the woods), I sat with her on my lap next to the campfire to warm up for the day.  She clutched her pink/gray/stick-infested-and-mud-grubby blanket in her right hand, with her left thumb  firmly planted in her little cupie-doll mouth.

Her big sister Josey tiptoed up to her and whispered, "Ruby!  You're two!  You're a kid now!"  As opposed to a baby.

I anticipate her future birthdays will have the lines a bit more blurred on stages of growing up, but until then, we will enjoy this two-year-old, who looks remarkably like her mama did at that age.  Nutty hair and all.

Broad Strokes.

Quickly, as I really should be doing other things but feel I need to dump some things here in order to remember...

My scooter is up and running for the season.  We've had officially 7 warm days, and I've spent 6.5 of them out of doors.  I have a second degree burn and a big smile as a result.  My lilacs are in full bloom as of....now...and a family of big purple irises are showing off in my front garden.  I actually look forward to mowing the lawn.  Note to self:  remember this feeling of overall happiness and fulfillment in mid-November when your house is messy and your birthday is looming and your husband is on a trip for work. 

Mine is pink, though. And her horn sounds like the road-runner.

MEEP!  MEEP!

There is a vintage clothing/antique store uptown, and weekly the two mannequins are re-dressed in another fantastic outfit fitting the time of year.  Christmas ball-gowns, spring sun-dresses, late-summer cocktail dresses.  This is one corner guaranteed to bring a smile to my face, and I regularly divert my regular driving route just to roll by its windows to see what the gentlemen owners have put out for me this week.  For over a year I've wanted to take snapshots of the visual, and have been too shy.  I know, weird.  This week I'll begin.  I hope you like them as much as I do.

I've spent much of the last two weeks in a river valley about 30 minutes from here with no cell service, and some of the untouched beauty that is becoming, sadly, less easy to find in Montana.  This is the valley where I fell in love with my husband, the summer we camped each and every weekend and he taught me to flyfish.  This is the valley I drive to when I can't breathe from the anxiety and self-imposed pressures, and the instant I turn onto the winding two-lane that continues for the next 100 miles, I feel my chest expand and my toes uncurl.  My husband is managing a fly-fishing lodge there this summer, and needs to be on-site at all times.  I'm lucky to be able to join him most nights.

Blink...blink...blink...

The local public high school is graduating their senior class today.  While we have friends with children graduating, my husband and I are, at a very minimum, about 19 years out from that particular milestone.

I do, however, get to watch from a distance as my siblings' and in-laws' children grow up.

My oldest nephew, technically, is almost 20.  (I didn't get to watch him grow for his entire life, as his mother married into the family when he was 13.  13 to 20, though - wow - those are some changin' years.)  I have nieces and nephews, then, from age 20 to one week.  For two decades, the blood in our family has been growing and growing, and though the jury will be out for a bit, I believe them all to be fine individuals.  All Eighteen of them.  Sheesh.

Example:  two little girls - my little sister's progeny.

Exhibit A: Miss Ruby.
Miss Ruby is seen here with her fairy wings on.  She was eight months old in this photo, and the cheeks...can I just say?  POKE!




















Exhibit B:  Miss Ruby

This is little miss a couple of weeks before her first birthday.  Favorite past-times included smiling, giggling, crawling away, sticking tongue out, and smiling.  She is a very fun little girl to be around.

(set design by Lazy Homeowner in the Scattered Things motif - big ass rock given  by friend for wedding with quote from Song of Solomon from our invitations; wooden duck impulse buy under pressure to be 'homey'; tomato plant acquired at Farmers' Market under husband's protests that I will 'just leave it on the front porch to die'.  It died two weeks later, of thirst and loneliness, I'm told by husband. )











She really did learn to walk, eventually, though she was in no hurry.  She is what her pediatrician called a 'comfort baby', which does not mean that she's comfortable to sit on.  She was just comfortable to sit.  Anywhere she was placed.  Why the heck not? Smart kid, that one.

Today, she runs and jumps (sort of, she's getting better), and is hysterical to watch dance.  In the beginning, though, it was perseverance of the first degree.  Her days looked a lot like this, filmed during the Day of the Pie event I spoke of earlier.  You'll hear us chatting to hear ourselves chat in the background, and see that despite the many capable and watchful eyes around these girls, they are mere minutes away from eating and drinking out of the dog dish.  Again.  *sigh*



Ruby keeping up. from MontanaJen on Vimeo.


Exhibit C:  Miss Josey

This picture was taken the same day as her sister's fairy wing picture above.  That would make Miss Josey almost two in this shot.



















We had fun that day - picked dandelions and sat in places people don't normally sit.  It was quite silly for Miss Josey.
 

Which do you prefer?

It was a very busy day, all in all.















Exhibit...what letter are we on again?




Josey a year later.  Curls are longer, chubby is gone and replaced with....hey!  are those tattoos on my precious girls' hands? 

Sheesh...some people.















And of course sister must help.  While sitting on top of the table. 


Really - what irresponsible person is supposed to be watching these girls, anywa....oh.  Never mind.  I think it was me.

Carry on.










Tomorrow - how my dogs disprove the adage "Working like a dog", or, if said adage is indeed true, then working in the manner of my dogs would involve a lot of sleeping, napping, and peeking at me from under one sagging eyelid.

Junk Drawer of Posts

Hoo boy, there's a ton of stuff rattling around in side of my brain and in order that I may sleep tonight, I've got to put some of it down...

You'll notcie throughout this post a few spelling and rgrammatical errors.  The reason for this will become apparent later on in the post.  If I were to pu continue the title metaphor, I would say right around the fourth dead battery.

List additions

• Visit New York and:

• Stroll through Central Park in the spring
• See an opera at the Met
• See a Broadway musical
• Ride the subway, wearing black, reading the Times
• buy a handbag on the street
• kiss my husband at the top of the Empire State Building

• take a float trip in the Grand Canyon

• No electronic devices for two months straight

• Take ballroom dancing lessons

• Taste wine at a vineyard in the Napa ValleyTequila in an alley in Tijuana, Scotch on a golf course in Scotland, Guinness in a pub in Ireland, Champagne in France

• Teach a child to fish

Marketing tactics with which I disagree strongly

• Intentional misspellings, especially with alliteration  (Klipp Korner, Kidz Korner, Kidz Krazy House, Kwik Kaffiene...ok so I made the last one up, but you get what I mean).  Just use the real spelling.  You don't look clever, you just look illiterate.
• Children of proprietor in radio/TV ads as talent unless said child is bona fide Talent.  I'm sure Grandma thinks it's just adorable that your four year old's voice is blasted across KTVwhatever, but trust me when I tell you that no one else does, and besides, we can't understand the script, so your ad dollars are wasted.  Unless that's what you're after, in which case, knock yourself out.
• Not allowing me to just get one item for 50% off  during a  buy-one-get-one sale.  Really, it pencils out for you, and I've limited storage space, so work with me, please?

Phrases i've googled recently that give some insight into my weekend

• Bury a saint in your yard
• Dogs smell like boiled cabbage
• DIY drain un-clogging recipe
• beautiful flower garden with no work on my end
• spilled coffee backspace key broken help
• jeans that make you look thinner
• sneaky ways to save money while not noticing you're saving money
• cheap travel tickets
• effects of eating too many cherries

Monopoly lets us, why can't the feds?

I've got to figure out a way to counterfeit about $5,000 before October.  I just got word that a good friend is getting married in Houston in July (THAT should be comfortable), another is getting hitched in Dallas in October (never been to Texas and now twice in a few months?  Universe?  What are you telling me?).

(Do you think I could jump over and do a shot of tequila in Mexico on one of those trips?  If only life lists were tax-deductible.)

On top of that, I had planned on attending the National Convention in Denver in August, and we've already bought tickets for Costa Rica in December.  NOT the best time of my life to be making what I did in college.

And He said Go Forth and Multiply.  (But no long division?)

It's official - I have eighteen nieces and nephews.  My sister-in-law had twin boys Tuesday morning, after a mere 3.5 hours of labor.  The little ones join an older sister of a scant 11 months.  I don't care if it's not your style, you must pray for these people and the loss of any sleep for years to come.

The boys were good, pink, round, and healthy.  They nurse like champs, and love to be swaddled together as one unit.  Simon sucks Noah's fingers, and really, when I think about that and the love that is limitless to give to our ever-expanding family, my stinky-ass dogs, clogged drain, and soggy keyboard are mere background noise.

 

Coming out of the closet.

We live in a 1920 Craftsman Bungalow, and while I love her birdseye maple floors and original woodwork and lathe & plaster walls, I have closet the size of my earlobe.  Therefore, each spring and fall I empty my closet, take items to Goodwill that haven't seen my body at all, bring up the big plastic totes from the basement with the alternate season's goodies inside, and do the switcheroo on my bed.

This actual process is fodder for a much longer post about my neuroses and unhealthy penchant for hoarding, but as I pay my therapist for that and not YOU, I will pick one teensy thing the process reveals  about my twisted brain.

I have reverse body dysmorphic disorder.  In my brain I look way better than I actually do.  I'm reminded of this each time I look at a photo of myself and think "Dang!  Put that cupcake down, already!", but by the time I find myself with another cupcake in my hand, I've forgotten about said photo, and chomp happily, content in my knowledge that I look like Charleze Theron in a bikini. (see aforementioned disorder)

It's a wonderful way to trip though life, and I highly recommend it.  It may help if you never were in a situation where mirrors were present, or allowed anyone to photograph you if the frame is going to be larger than your left eyeball.

So today, with my collection of flirty skirts (labeled 'Fun and Flirty Skirts' on basement Rubbermaid tote - Macy's?  Hello?  Copywriting job anyone?) spread out on the bed, my mind thought, "So cute!  But certain way too big for little old me!" and then I tried them on, and realized that yes, I am the same size I was last fall when I did this all in reverse.

It's not as if I'm a dang lumberjack woman (insert obligatory not-that-there's-anything-wrong-with-that qualification), but I do carry 30 pounds around that I'd rather would just go find something else to do for a bit.  I'm in the 'curvy' category, my titties, they are generous, and I have always, always, had junk in the trunk, even when sporting a size 6.

Despite the Fun and Flirty Skirts that now are either airing out on the line, being washed, or already hung in my thimble of a clothes closet, I feel myself lacking in a couple of dresses that travel well, do not have to be dry cleaned, don't make me think about my extra weight, can be dressed up or down, and...and this one is important...do not have spaghetti straps or a halter top.  I need to wear a bra, people, and though other women in my family have the top-sides that allow them to toss on a strappy shoulder with freedom, this girl needs her undergarments.

So it begins.  The search for the perfect traveling dress.   Wish me luck, and if you'd like to go shopping with me, I'd be ever-grateful.  Just don't take my picture.   

This is rated PG-13, you old hags.

In comments of this post by Mrs. Kennedy, someone tipped that when using Firefox (which I do), you can simply type "slang _______" and fill in the blank with the word that you're wondering about, and it'll take you to the Urban Dictionary.

This particular post references cougars, and so I tried it.  And lo said commenter was accurate, and I walked over to Urban Dictionary to see what the kids had to say.

The #1 definition was submitted by a young cherub by the name of Angie.  Methinks Angie was left for a woman of a certain age - am I wrong?

               

1.	cougar
	An old dried up hag who is looking for a last chance of romance or sexual fling with a horny younger male or one with mommy issues who didn't suck on his mother titties long enough. If you want to date someone more sophisticated and mature why would you date a saggy bitch who acts like a younger women. And about the sexual experience, whatever, any younger girl can give you an awesome blowjob or a good ride.           Any woman who could be your mother!

Word to horny younger males, and also, while we're at it, women of childbearing age:  please be certain to either suck or have your babies suck your titties [sic] long enough, lest he grow to desire a saggy bitch who acts like a younger woman.  We all know he would be better off with a younger girl with a gift for fellatio.

That is all.