Bones

Pucker's asleep on the blue and white chair. Wrapped up in a blanket. Making I Don't Feel Well Faces. Pathetic eyes. Warmish nose. I thought originally? That she'd picked up a virus outside, or ate some of that smelly mulch I cannot stand (the reddish crap that everyone uses).

The fire place blowing heat in all directions, including hers, as I was quite concerned she was truly ill.

Right this very second, I'm thrilled she feels horrendous, as apparently, when you EAT THE HAMSTER YOU FOUND ON THE FLOOR OF THE STORAGE ROOM and then VOMIT it up, it's really hard work.

ARRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH.

Now, we've been concerned that perhaps, said dog may (or may not have) ingested said hamster before - however, this time, I found the proof.

On my living room floor.

Ewww. (hmm, that seems quite the understatement of the century - and why, may I ask, couldn't she do that when J was still here? He'd have taken his Stronger Constitution and cleaned it up without all the gacking noises I made, along with dry heaving several times.)

She looks rather sickly (as she should!) - that was quite possibly THE most disgusting display of beagleness I'll Eat Absolutely Anything I've ever witnessed. I'd know. I've witnessed a lot of this behavior, discussed it with C, while walking Molly; all the wee presents one could find, if one looked more closely at ...the...er....remnants of the...ah...leftovers.

I've found Legos. Plastic palm fronds. Dinosaur feet. Yarn. A lot of fluff. Plastic tampon applicators. Water caps, the tires from Matchbook cars, actual match sticks, the keys from a dead laptop. I'd wondered how she passed the military men, (the one kneeling, holding a gun, should anyone be interested, and the one laying down taking aim with the rocket launcher in hands) but not enough to ever investigate beyond the standard "that's so freaking gross Pucker Up" - this time, there were bones.

Bones.

Jesus.

She thinks she feels ill now? Wait til I brush that bitch's teeth, and make her gargle with Listerine.

I'm not using any doggie flavored toothpaste either: it's all colgate, all the way. Extra minty.

I'll tolerate a lot in this house, but canabolism? No way.

There are bones that we eat, and bones we leave alone.

Maybe a little minty follow up will clear up any misunderstandings she had regarding the two.

I came out of the closet...

This is the problem with cleaning out A closet... you get this whole We Should Do All Closets! type feeling going on - let's dump all the stuff from exes we'd forgotten about, or parents/siblings whose taste is....not mine... putting it politely - only to find?

In the middle of that first closet? You start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, you and one of those people on Hoarders have something in common. That whole concept of keeping things so you feel remembered, or loved, or ..... guilty for getting rid of them and someone else will be angry with you, so you hang onto it, even though you don't like it. Even though it sees the light of day for four days a year. If that. Some of it truly is only seen inside the closet, on, perhaps, what one might call the Yearly Closet Inspection During The Visit.

One closet is plenty. Too many memories to sift through; all that stuff I've kept for Who Only Knows What Reason -the itchy pillow cases I never use; the orange wool sweater from the ex who totally destroyed me. Why do I hang onto that? An. Orange. Wool. Sweater. Shoes that Pucker ate, that I replaced - but I still couldn't throw out the eaten one - they were my lucky shoes! K keeps digging, every now and again giving me that look, the one that says You'd Better Have A Damn Good Reason Why THIS Is Still Here!

Take, for example, the bag my mother gave me (with a matching hat, I shit you not) that looks as though she stole it off a huge southern lady, fresh from church on a corner cross from the liquor store, sitting in Popeye's Chicken, waitin' on her 12 piece all dark meat to take home to her youngun's. You know, that kind of bag. With matching hat.

She gave it to me for my birthday. I did what I always do: pretend to like it....followed by stuffing it in the closet.

In a word?

K looked at it, was all WTF - I tell her, mom makes this big freaking deal over stupid hat/bag combo - yes, I love hats; think big english wedding hats, high tea hats, the ones worn at fancy horse races, wide brimmed, simple, with a huge ribbon adorning the brim - not green, net, with sequins and weird flowers all over it. K wants to know why after 3 years, I've still kept it. It's soooo (add snorting laughter here) not your style.

Picks up matching bag. (more snorting laughter)

I explain, she'll KILL me if I throw this away - and, God bless K - she says, isn't it a pity that Pucker ate it?

Both pieces.

Boy. I'm just destroyed.

See?

This is why girlfriends help clean out closets. They talk us into realizing that a sweater didn't keep us feeling loved, or warm (nor was it terribly attractive to begin with! and, looking back on it, neither was he), a jacket purchased three years ago will never come back into style; not even Salvation Army would resell it. They justify tossing all the ugly stuff we feel obligated to keep AND will find acceptable reasons to give nosy relatives when they go looking for them in the closet.

Trust me on this one: mom WILL ask me where said bag/hat is.

I'll tell her I had to toss it. (which is the truth...) because Pucker ate it (not quite the truth...though given enough time and access? She might well have ingested it. Sequins and all).

All of it is currently, out at the curb, awaiting the trash tuck, which comes tomorrow.

Thank God Pucker can't talk - that bitch'd throw me under the bus in a heartbeat, especially if being grilled by a woman holding any form of Mostly Edible Item.

Come again?

Jonathan is sweet. Funny. Articulate. Thoughtful. Handy. A fabulous dad. I mean, a really GREAT dad. Still has all con's from previous list, but the pro side? Keeps growing. I'm even allowing him to store things in my basement til he finds a home for them.

Scares the ever living crap out of me, if you must know.

He gets that I'm a little things girl, that he totally has to "prove", as crappy as that is, that he values my friendship first, and then? if we're lucky? something might happen. He'll have to wait 6 months, at least for any Good Stuff to occur.

Sucker didn't even bat an eye at the 6 month part.

I did see the inside of his house (the apple wallpaper border plus lack of reaction to 6 month comment did lead me to ask if he wasn't gay. FYI: does not kiss like he's gay. Ooookkkkaaayyyy. Good to know.)

He hears me tell Fox that I need to buy new milk, not to worry, I'll go tomorrow to the store... He shows up with a full gallon, of whole milk.

(when you're raised on powdered skim milk, trust me, fat as you may get, you won't do anything less than 2%)

He went to NYC for work; I'd had One Of Those Days, of the Ugly Kind, he called (of course, he always calls, right when he says he will) so when I explained the entire Layers of Cake Theory to him, today being the Ice Cream Cake from Baskins Robbins, only I didn't feel like being seen in public-he got it. Asked if I wanted to talk about it; instead, had me laughing with tales of his dealings in NYC.

Upon his return, from NYC, he asked if he could drop by, (which is perfect timing as Fox wants me to build him a trundle for his bed. After all, I did get a drill for Xmas) so I say but of course! No one measures like a man - added bonus: if it gets screwed up? It's not my fault! See? Perfect timing!!

He arrives bearing white pastry boxes.

With something in them.

Oh. My. Goodness. I might have nearly orgasmed right there. Which totally worked to my benefit, as I then sent him and Fox upstairs to measure, plan, draw and organize what we'd need to create this trundle bed thing. In case you were curious? He's excellent taste in pastries.

F told him that I had a Pen Issue; that I collect Letter Writing Pens, as I'm constantly getting them used by someone else (gee, take a guess) so when he was at Staples, and he bought a set for himself, they came in pairs, so he shows up with a baggie of pens. The Really Good Kind. A variety of colors.

What is wrong with this man?

He asked Fox if it was okay if he asked his mom out on a date - naturally, my son takes all the time to say "Yes! I want a dad!" as someone else might take a breath - but since he knew all the stuff I'd dumped on the table while being Valentine's Date From Hell, he apparently didn't actually drive off the road and into a tree. Good thing, as he'd taken Fox to get donuts, so I could have a minute to try to tame my hair (pointless waste of time on a Sunday morning) or perhaps, get my Good Attitude out of hiding.

He wanted to ask Fox if it was okay first.

How sweet is that? I think he's so sweet he might be rotting my teeth.

I've labored under the impression that there is truly nothing wrong with this man. Trust me, I've looked. (other than the Con's listed in an earlier post - in case you forgot, tramp stamp, and, er, his hood) -

Til I found out that we've already slept together.

I didn't even get to finish!

Turns out, that Big Mike, lowlife Coast Guard (that we don't respect, at all, any of us, remember?) worked in the same plastic surgery office at the hospital as Jonathan's wife - Ex-wife at the time- but really, semantics are so not the point.

Big Mike has no problem evidently, shitting where he eats: he slept with Jonathan's ex-wife.

Do you see? Really? What this means?

We've already slept together.

I swear, we had identical expressions of horror, rearing back from our places on the couch, staring in shock that okay, yes, there were a lot of coincidences so far: our children go to the same school, we live less than 4 minutes from each other, I'd driven past his house everyday for years during football season, baseball parades, and drop off to B, we work in the same office park for Christ's sake! and yet, we'd never met- but this?!

This by far outweighs all of them. It's very clear I've never slept with anyone my ex-husband slept with, and he slept with everyone, so it comes as a bit of a surprise that I meet someone amazing, and he's already slept with me.

Guess that makes the whole 6 month thing rather pointless.

In true Rosebud form, I've debated for a long time, what this means, and all I can come up with? Bottom line?

Was he good enough to repeat the experience? If so, I'd for damn sure better finish.

That way, nice girls may come in last, but at least we get to finish.

Tupperware.

I was told that hate was a very strong word, and should be used sparingly.

Fine. I can agree, therefore: I detest, loathe, abominate and despise Tupperware. In any form.

There are people for whom God (or, whatever Greater Being(s) you prefer) created Tupperware.

First, as a wonderful opportunity to give up the three martini bridge dates, and Do Something Productive - as though running a home full of raging pre-teen-testosterone and puppy estrogen wasn't enough, add the vacuuming, cleaning, laundry, shopping, cooking etc - make your own income. Your very own cold, hard, cash! Personally? I'd NEVER have been behind women's lib, if I knew I had to pass on said three martini Ladies Only Playdates. What I would give (my ex-husband leaps to mind here - I'd sell his sorry ass to scientists in a heartbeat) to be able to lounge around, display an array of plastic wares as an excuse to get completely blitzed before going home to throw a pot roast in the oven before adjusting my lipstick for Hubs to come home to.

I digress.

Tupperware. Wives were thrilled. Ways to save leftovers, reasons for parties, whole new reasons to drink in the afternoon! and free passes to get out at night, away from totally doted on, completely spoiled spouses who's idea of cleaning up was Dear, I'm Finished Eating. They came in intriguing sizes, colors, matching lids, even pitchers! (to hold said martini's) - the world re-joyced.

30 years pass.

New colors. New trends; new ways to keep the lids to the bases; ones designed for lunch boxes, freezers, single serve - you name it, Tupperware made it. Now? In my house? I've an entire lower cabinet devoted to Tupperware and it's ilk. Bottoms in bottoms; lids askew, I've taken to opening the damn door, just enough to get the bottom (or top) into the cupboard, before slamming door closed.

Retrieving Tupperware?

Yikes. Very Embarrassing, should I have company. All comes flying out, at the speed of lightening, much to the amusement of any house guest. Pucker learned one day to pop it open with her paw, and Holy Cow!

An entire new set of Chew Toys came flying out! Mecca from Chewing Heaven!

If my tops didn't match my bottoms before? They for damn sure won't now. I threw a bunch out - but that stuff multiplies while you're not watching. Screw the whole Poltergeist in the tv - or Gremlins - how they reproduce when touched with water (or whatever, my recall of that hideous movie's a bit shaky on details) - come watch it right before your very own eyes.

In my freaking Tupperware Cupboard.

I've a friend, K, who had a new baby; I dropped of three huge Tupperware containers. I've so far managed to completely leave them there. I gave some chili to a girlfriend, M, with a wee one sick at home, both parents running for all their worth? She brought it to a meeting we had - I declined to take it at the time. I thought perhaps, she'd tuck in her own Tupperware Hell and forget about it - but, I've never been lucky like that.

She practically hunted me down to return it.

Know why?

NO ONE needs extra Tupperware!

How sad is it when you can't even give this shit away?

The worst part is, it's practically a necessity: where else do I put all the stuff H didn't eat that is going to go into the fridge to die? If I throw away still good - well, I just can't, there are starving children somewhere that would give anything for the warm hot meal I assembled from a box and a pound of some form of ground meat. So I save it. Knowing, that it will die in there. We're programmed I think, so not only keep the leftovers we know no one will eat, but, also to then keep the container we stored it in in the first place!

You'd have thought, with the way I feel about Tupperware, I'd simply use it as a hospice for leftovers, tossing entire contaminated containers into the trash. It had served it's purpose: I would feel as though I wasn't wasting food someone else could benefit from (whom from my house specifically, I've not figured out) moving quite happily on with my life.

Enter Brainwashing: not only do I keep the damn original tupperware, I cannot for the life of me, throw out the plastic tubs that cottage cheese comes in, or already sliced overly salted deli-meat. Nope. I clean those suckers too, where they continue to multiply behind my back. Does everyone with a double x chromosome have the Save Everything Tupperware Or It's Variety gene?

I've noticed, it gets worse, this need for excess Tupperware - as well as the ability to tell friends and family how old said piece is - as we age.

Therefore, I'm starting now. I'm not getting liposucked, nipped, tucked, or enhanced - I'm going to age gracefully.

I'll start by throwing out all the damn Tupperware.

Glitter or Bust

• Oct. 20th, 2007 at 5:16 PM

Life just barrels on through, doesn't it? Birthday party invitations still arrive, snuggled up with the condolence card from the vet; someone needs to pay the electric bill. So what if I feel as though my life has ended abruptly? Or, perhaps, more accurately, if I wish that were merely so?

I still have to get up, feed the Fox, forage for appropriate, not-too-parts birthday gifts to give his pals, as you all should know that Karma has a way of finding itself smack in the middle of the birthday party gamut - if you give out that necklace making kit, trust me on this one, Santa, or some well-meaning relative without the brains God gave a goose will return the favor with the seventeen hundred piece beading set, the multi-tiered marble mania game, or my personal favorite, the Do It Yourself Soap Box Kit, sporting three thousand pieces, all the size of my toenails.

So off we went today, to not just one, but TWO back to back bday parties, from hell. First stop? McDonald's. Anyone who's read anything I've ever written knows my feeling on Ronald McDonald - a pedophile of the worst order, right up there with Michael Jackson, and well, all those other scary freaks, that get away with everything. Not. A. Fan. But alas, it's our neighbor, so after karate, we trek out to eat total crap, cake, more crap, and the bag of candy that seems to be a pre-requisite item at every kids party.

Off to number two; a party whose invitation needed far more careful scrutiny than I mastered - blast if it wasn't a freaking costume party....and us, sans costume. Forty dollars, and a madcap trip to I-Party later, we're gifted, dressed, and off to paint pumpkins at a small craft store brimming with joy and enthusiasm............as all the kids are sugar-highed to heaven and beyond, and now they're due to sit still, and paint.

No such luck. My pirate took to table dancing, (I kid you not) and smart-mouthing. Fabulous. We left, three goodie bags to the good (depending on your point of view, naturally) and a not-dry-acrylic-painted pumpkin in tow. With glitter. My theory on glitter is.........well.........it should remain in theory. Glitter is friendly. It's adorable. It's a fucking mess. Kids just love to paint their own hair, and that of their neighbors; did I mention the forty dollar costume? Covered in glitter? And red paint? Can we say, not washable? I knew we could.

Who gives out pixie stix, by the way, to kids? I thought only stupid, high teenages ate that junk. I had to employ the seat belt to keep my high as a kite kidergartener off the ceiling of the car, as driving with him up there would have been quite hazardous.

Now, we're home, comtemplating the secondary bash for Danielle, across the street. With the screaming that just floated up from the basement, I'll admit, I'm torn. Let him go work that off with other screaming sugar loaded freaky kids? Or, keep him home? To torture me?

Forget-Me-Nots.

After a While

After a while you learn
The subtle difference between
Holding a hand and chaining a soul
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning
And company doesn't always mean security.

And you begin to learn
That kisses aren't contracts
And presents aren't promises
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes ahead
With the grace of a woman
Not the grief of a child

And you learn
To build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow's ground is
Too uncertain for plans
And futures have a way
Of falling down in mid flight

After a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much
So you plant your own garden
And decorate your own soul
Instead of waiting
For someone to bring you flowers

And you learn
That you really can endure
That you are really strong
And you really do have worth
And you learn and you learn
With every good bye you learn.

A girlfriend had this on her fridge today; I''s read it before, somewhere - but I'd forgotten the impact it carries: today, of all days, I needed to be reminded of that. The weeding your own garden part? Sucks. Really really sucks. Especially if you have some of that horrendous hybrid bamboo that never seem to die, oh, sure, you think you've removed every last trace of it...only to find it reared it's ugly head when you weren't looking. Amid all those pretty flowers you planted yourself. Bamboo I've found, comes in three distinct kinds: the vertical, good luck kind, the spreading kind, but will stop at boundries, or, the Dreaded Hybrid, Which Eats Every Thing In It's Path, regardless of how often you illegally pour gasoline or oil on it; in trying to kill it, without digging it all the way out? All you've done is infect the entire garden you were trying to save in the first place, the end result being, perhaps, nothing will grow at all. Ever. Is very scary thought.

Today? I did some weeding, a smart, savvy gardener by my side, reminding me to keep digging, even when it hurts, even when the job is overwhelming, and so alone. Other flowers all vanished, even the seemingly sturdy ones that swore they'd hang on - oh, they stayed long enough to see the crime-scene-tape put up, the EPA warnings, gawked and stared - found prettier gardens, to bloom in.

At the edge of the garden now? Only a hand full of Forget- Me-Nots courageously stand guard. I've always loved Forget-Me-Nots, partly for their name, and partly because in the 1800s, getting a packet of these seeds was akin to knowing you were growing a relationship, from the ground up, together.

I've always loved roses, gorgeous flashy blooms, bursting with colors - but truly? They're a LOT of work. Require constant care, extensively thorny.......they die very quickly, need loads of alone time - really, the blooms off that rose. I've only the withered stump to remove, and someday, (soon most likely) I'll be annoyed enough, or strong enough, to haul that sucker out of the ground. I'll finish off the Dreaded Bamboo, which sadly, one cannot use any large machinery on - you run the risk of missing one tiny piece, only to find the process begins anew - so you weed by hand.

In the midst of this hole, where the bamboo keeps growing, withered stalks of old flowers, brambles and chooking weeds accumulate; I've given up trying to revive the twisted stems, the curled in leaves; I've let the Venus Fly Trap (and you know who she is) completely be eaten by the bamboo - getting rid of two, for the work of one! I can still look up, towards the very edge, and there they are.

My handful of faithful Forget-Me-Nots.

I'll take them over flashy blooms, any day of the week. They may be slow to reproduce, but their roots run deep; far beyond the thorny roses, flashy fat lilies, nasty Venus Fly Traps - even, the Dreaded Toxic Bamboo.

Every garden, should start with Forget-Me-Nots.

Lucky for me?

Mine already does.

Do. Not. Flush.

So the VIP visitor that never came (yet) that had me doing the whole Melt the Yellow Snow off the deck, pick up deposits - which I kind of did? I also kind of...didn't.

Snow: melted.

Deposits: hidden under summer chair that I'd left out there and have totally forgotten to put away. (or, I can be honest and I say I didn't feel like picking up chair, as is M's, and well. I have trouble going there still - but that's another whole blog in and of itself) As we're due more snow tomorrow, I figured I'd go ahead and pick up all shit (literally), get deck ready so that Pucker doesn't go out there to dig up Poopsicles to eat. Ewww.

I had briefly considered using planter remaining from previous owner to "hide" deposits under new dirt - but had a feeling? That plan would have backfired. Pucker enjoys digging. No need to encourage horrendous habits, both digging and oral hygiene wise from eating "treasures".

Took shovel, Poop Gloves (in case you forgot: black glovies trimmed with cutie pattern? for dishes; purple gloves for poop) double plastic shopping bag, took deep breath, stepped bravely onto deck. Shoveled around some. Slid chair over with tip of foot.

Oh. My. God. In. Heaven.

Not realized how much got shoved under chair. Ooookaaay. No problem. Filled double grocery bags, some of which was snow, most of which was...not. Good news column? Is off deck. Bad news? Is to follow....

Since I ascribe to the whole Why Put In Trash That Which May Be Flushed, I proceeded to slowly feed snow encrusted logs into toilet, along with splashes of warm water. Flushed.

Nothing happened. Added more hot water, some soapies, as everyone knows that soap moves poop along like nobody's business! - flushed again. Faster than the speed of light, I found myself having been into garage, plunger firmly in hand, heart in throat as panic flooded the house - right along side the nearly overflowing bowl. In situations like this? Best to take breath, watch water level slowly lower, hit a couple of time with the plunger again, add boiling water to speed process.

No need to blow a pipe flushing frozen shit.

Don't even want to think about the look on the face of the plumber. How do I explain that the snow melts in trash can, leaches out of the plastic bags, leaving this gross slimy stuff on the bottom of the can - and do you have any idea how hard it is to bleach a blasted trashcan as tall as my tits when you've already turned off the outside hose so IT won't freeze? Most likely, I'd have to call Plumber Number Two.

Oh boy. That horrendous pun was totally unintended.

I have yet to do the front yard; I know, I should've started that one first - I do share it with the Lovely Neighbors....but as they saw me in my jammies, the footie ones no less! while snapping pictures of Guinea Hens hanging out on lawn this morning, screeching for all they were worth, I didn't want to get attacked while on Poop Patrol.

For the record?

They're not friendly.

They do NOT enjoy being photographed.

I departed, (ran like bat out of hell) being chased by six grey and one white hen. Evidently, the white ones are meaner than the grey - in my book, though, that's not saying a whole bunch. I got all puffed up myself, doing that inner version of Come Any Close And I'll Put My Size 8's Up Your Sorry Feathered Ass - but honestly? I was thinking that while running like hell.

Everyone up here in these condo's remains thrilled with the "natural wildlife that wanders about" - leads me to ask, do we have any "unnatural" wildlife roaming around? - personally, I can do without oversize, bossy, loud, sharp-beaked monsters chasing me off my own yard.

Cuz trust me on this one: they are SO not more afraid of me than I am of them.

Proved that this morning. Brings me right back to starting point: is now dark. Dog poop is dark. Flashlight is (gee, golly darn) out of batteries. Birds are gone; poop remains. No way to de-feces the front yard prior to storm without having to employ small dog to locate, try to pry Poopsicle from her maws, only to then think about flushing it so is not in trashcan -

However. I am a fast learner.

Frozen poop, no matter how small, how partially thawed that the powder room (or throne room, your choice) smells -

Do. Not. Flush.

Date.

Swapping emails with J, quite a few of them, really, and when I was so pissed with something stupid that B did (dissed my son, again) he offered an ear. I was all, no, really, you totally don't want to hear about my mundane crap in my life....we've only emailed, this is SO not the first time you want to talk to me! He says, let me make that choice.....

He called.

Has lovely voice. Got play date for F. Dropped him off. Freaked over clothing choice.

Freaked over mostly everything.

Pushed that voice that says all those horrible things to the far back of my mind, and decided that really, since I wasn't ready for dating, I would make it a Passive Aggressive I'm So High Maintenance Date From Hell that he'd run screaming in the opposite direction.

Picked out khaki's with pink whales on them (he didn't even blink an eye - admitted later, he didn't love them, but I wasn't dressing for him) with twinset - drew the line at the pearl earrings, as really, didn't need overkill. He was not only on time, but, brought flowers. Gorgeous mix of roses, lillies, winter berries....am touched. Didn't have to. I wasn't doing the whole Valentine's Day Thing, which he knew. Pucker? Loved him. Or, could be his long hair cat. (yikes).

He'd already gotten some gist of issues....so I answered honestly, awaiting the moment he made movements toward the door - only.....

He never did.

Let me hold the keys. (yeah, I know, I should get over my whole Being Left Behind Thing) Gave me his jacket, when I was freezing to death in front of the window, at this really cool little spot in town, where I was pretty damn sure I wouldn't run into anyone I'd have to introduce. Or deal with their snide faces and remarks. I'm not up for that yet.

He's really cute. Tall enough, but not tall enough to Loom Over Me - held hands on the way home, careful of my Hot Glued Thumb.....when we got back here?

He asked for his jacket back, in that slowly really sweet way of pulling the lapels closer and kissed me. Asked me after third kiss if it was okay; told him he'd have known by now.

Good kisser. um, really good kisser.

So Pros: very sweet, not scared off by whole...fall thing...., good kisser, not into rushing; great dad, I mean, GREAT dad, which is HUGE.....and he didn't even bat an eye at the Lilly pants.

Cons: not circumcised. (could be overcome I suppose) and long hair stupid cat to which I'm HIGHLY allergic. And apparently? Doesn't like other animals. Seriously? And this is supposed to go somewhere ....again....how?! He has a CAT! But he sleeps on the "right" side of the bed, not sure how he managed to finagle that one into the convo...oh, and? no back hair. Whew!

Laughed. Hard. For the first time, in a long time, like that; loved that he was honest, about everything; and didn't seem to even think it weird that I like to hang onto the keys, so he couldn't leave me behind. Ate more of his lunch than mine - his was better - which he totally gathered -

Oh, and the best part?

He wants to keep the date we had set for next week.

Me too.

Valentine's Day......

.....arrived. Cold, clear, with a hint of sun - dare I hope that our stroll to the post box will pleasant?

(25 minutes pass)

No. Brrrrr......windy cold! However, box was Filled With Pastel Hued Wonders for Fox. All I care about. He's so thrilled! Daddy sent a card (please excuse me while I wander into another room and retch - he didn't want to spend the day with him, but he can send stupid card instead? ugh) MiMi sent a card with - gasp! - tattoos. Pirate ones, no less!

He's spending part of the morning trying to figure out where to put them for maximum shock value.

I vetoed the face.

Yesterday, I have to add, (not to brag, but well...) my family sent up a surprise: one of those fabulously delicious Edible Arrangements I adore so much. (I know - my shocked face was well on display - poor guy who delivered it to me saw me in all my seven shades of morning beauty, complete with frog slippers) Truly, I was shocked. Gobsmacked. Not that I'll turn  my nose up at chocolate covered yumminess surrounded in plastic and delivered to door.

 We had it for movie night, after our play date left - because as much as I try to instill how great sharing good stuff with others really is?

Chocolate covered fruit does NOT fall into the Sharable File.

We noshed on the rest of it this morning, even going so far as to allow Pucker to keep the piece of cantaloupe she stole off the arrangement for her breakfast. See? I can share. Just not the good stuff.

Am off, to settle and argument between Pucker Up and Fox - he's building with Lego's, she's trying to EAT them.

Either way, for those of you who actually read this?

Happy Valentine's Day.

XO!

Vodka + Hot Glue Gun at 11 am.

While undoing the dishwasher (for the 4,529,309th time) I did what I appear to do once yearly (do we need to say once, if it only happens yearly? hmmm. not sure, will keep anyway just in case) I do that Multi-Tasking Mom Thing: popped chicken nuggets in microwave for F and his pal, H, to have for breakfast (we're very broadminded here on what constitutes what meal) reached into dishwasher to put away silver ware.....

....grabbed hold of HOLY MARY MOTHER OF OUCHY SHARP END OF FUCKING KNIFE!

Yes. (deep breath, regain regal, ladylike status) Appears I've slit open my thumb.

I'm blooding, as F says. Blooding, mama, like, A LOT.

No kidding, honey - thumbs have all sorts of blood vessels and nerve endings which is why my Ugly Voice on the inside is screaming obscenities like you'll never read about. Not if I have anything to do about it.

Applied pressure. (both to thumb, and to lips, to keep all words beginning with F and ending with UCK to come flying out with their counterparts....cocksucker, holy shit, this really fucking hurts....etc) 

Still bleeding like stuck pig. Not an expression I completely understand, as I've not once, ever, personally stuck a pig. But if this is what it looks like? Now I've seen it.

Thumb is wrapped in old, very soft, kind of cleanish towel, I usually reserve for those Bad Days, when it's useful for crying into - wrapped in duct tape.

Hoping to avoid stitches.

Especially, as looks bad, to Other Mom, when dropping off son mere one hour after arrival only for her to hear some version of "Foxy's mom plays with knives, and cut herself. You should've heard what she was saying...."

ER is out for today. I hate needles. Have no one to hold my hand; the good one, obviously, so instead, have decided to take powers into my own hands...er...hand: am going for Variation on ER Theme.

Am hot glueing ends of skin together, after thorough bath in antiseptic. If still ugly tomorrow, will go then. Will give ER staff good laugh over hot glued owie; but, then, I do tend to bring them all the Good Ones.

Please hold......one belt watermelon vodka for me, now douse hand.....

OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG - take breath, apply glue.....AAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Hot glue hurts. But. Wound is no longer bleeding.

Is now, ON FIRE!!! But not bleeding.

Is step in the right direction.

Whew. Crisis averted.

I knew I kept a hot glue gun in my dining room for a reason.

Traditions

Remember the Good Ol' Days, when we snuck out of bed at 6am, turned the tv on (by hand, no remote!) soaked up all the cartoons that were on, because they were only on on Saturday mornings? Bugs Bunny. Elmer Fudd. The Roadrunner - I loved him! Two blackbirds whose names I don't even recall.....then along came the Muppets.

Either way, you left your (what you thought were unknowing parents asleep in bed) loaded a serving bowl with cereal and milk, glued to the tv. The one morning you could do that. How great was life?

Around nine or so (or whatever, every house does, indeed vary - especially in mine growing up, there was always a squalling infant to cut tv time short) Dad would come in, snug up on the sofa, cup of coffee in one hand, laughing right along with you. He loved the Roadrunner too.

Meep. Meep.

There were more cartoons to be had, after that one hour of really depressing news about starving children in Africa, and all the ugly things occurring down there - but I don't recall that in as living color as I do watching Whil. E. Coyote chasing Roadrunner.

Skip ahead a generation. My little guy could be inundated, on a daily basis (and wishes it were so!) with every cartoon under the sun, any time, day or night. Flapjack. Spongebob. Chowder. Phineas and Pherb. Ugh. We have very limited tv watching in this house, on most nights - and while I may not hold dear many (read:most) of the skills my mother used when raising me, Saturday Morning Cartoons, remain sacred, holy ground.

He's seven and some change now; he can make his own cereal, or open a pop tart; he enjoys the freedom of knowing that he has to keep the volume down, but he can watch Tom & Jerry until I stagger out (no later than 8am) to join him. He laughs more at the Frankenstien/Medusa hair I'm sporting, with my jammies and pillow case marks still on my face -

We snug up, with coco, or something, and laugh. Just like my dad and I did.

Saturday mornings?

A tradition to never be broken.

Valentine's is a c'mon, and I've got a gun....

Managed to pop out 22 Valentine's that look like miniature paratroopers, in honor of the US Soldiers we adopted- I did, mention, right? that we adopted two US Soldiers, in the same unit? That we've essentially "Twins" as Fox calls them?

Well. If not, we did.

So, naturally, F wants me to be All Creative and pop out 22 matching totally cutie valentines. Which I did. Pink hot glue gun in one hand, burned to a crisp totally ruined mani on the other; there are glue wispies in my hair. ARG. However. Instead of doing that whole Let's Write Everyone's name on them?

Instead?

I bought those adorable Made With Love Martha Stewart line stickies, so all he had to do was sign his name, affix to top of coffee filter used as parachute, glued to ribbon, in turned, glued to Dum Dum pop, and place in bag.

Is adorable.

Is all I'm doing for this years Valentine's day. I'm done. This Doing The Holiday's Single but Putting On The Brave Face For Son? Is for the birds. I don't want to think about all the lovey couples out there, when I'm not one of them. Especially to find out that all those years he was with me, he couldn't tell me he loves me, but he can tell her? After knowing her a nanosecond? I get it, it's him, not me; but part of me?

Wonders if yet again, really, the problem is me.

I've put together our box, for The Twins; it goes in the mail today. I swear. Today it will. I'll make them each a valentine paratrooper, so they'll laugh. And send a card, snail mail, since they get like, no mail over there.

And, I'll send one to my girlfriend, who's got it worse than I do this year, to remind her that we love her, we think of her, and that yes, sometimes, life sucks. But we've not forgotten her, solo, or as a couple. She'll know what I mean.

But sucking together? Way less suckey than sucking alone. :)

For those of you in love? Cherish the moment; even if Hallmark inspired it. Don't waste a second getting in that good night kiss, or pass up a chance to touch them; always always always say I love you.

Do it for those of us who can't this year.

And who certainly aren't going to get a date anytime soon, when I've got to call salon, book appointment for haircut, because - that's right - hot glue does NOT come out of one's hair.

Dressed....in white???

Do I bother alerting my son that the pants he's wearing are technically karate pants?

That he's not worn for years?

That they're white? That it's well past labor day, thus, we don't wear white?!

Or, do I simply bask in the joy that is a dressed child, ready for school, down to his almost shoe shod feet, completely abandoning my own sense of Inner Fashionista that is screaming:

"WE DO NOT WEAR WHITE PANTS ANYTIME AS A MAN UNLESS YOU ARE ON A BOAT, AND, IT'S FRIGGIN' WINTER!!!!"

Thankfully, at least today (find some wood, knock on it) he's not in the position of the cross, naked, complaining he's nothing to wear, he's not going to school today. Nope, instead, I'm attempting to tape up the loose ends of the laces in the red and silver shoes that match the white, red and black jersey, sported with the white karate pants.

I'm having a stroke looking at him.

He's added the equivalant of a felt fez.

I recall the days when he'd dress like Batman, down to the cape, and we had to wear the cape everywhere we went -grocery store, Target, Dr.s office, anywhere involving exiting the house. And God forbid we lose the cape. (Which happened. Twice. I remade cape, late at night, hoping that the sound of the tv would mask the whirring of the sewing machine)

We've gone through the I'm Not Wearing Any Undergarments To School. Ever. Mama. Period. End of Discussion....into I'll dress myself, so long as there are clothes downstairs, that do not fall in the Itchy, Too Tight, Turtleneck, have Wrist Hooks, or You Picked It Out, I Never Said I'd Wear It catagories.

Thank you, Fox, for pointing out I awoke with hives on my chest and neck - most likely from Pucker spending a good portion of her early morning "kissing me lovingly".....God help me if it was right after she kissed her butt lovingly.

Am now going to do Good Mom Deed of the day: I'll thank him for getting ready, all on his own, including the much fought over sock issue; for brushing his teeth, and I'll slam mine together before any unkind fashion "helpfulness" spills out, only to hurt his budding sense of his own "Look".

Maybe upon returning home, I'll take a quick belt of vodka as a reward.

Tripple Sec = Pound cakey goodness

Orange kissed pound cake - of the Real Kind - went into oven.....love love love how the house smells with pound cake. So...sensual.

Or, it could be the hit of tripple sec I took, which I also used in place of vanilla, as I ran out. Tripple sec had been in cupboard for a while - I simply can't use past their prime ingredients! Naturally, I took nine of my free range, highly cared for chicken eggs out to warm up to room temp - though I did wonder if any of the dye they use to stamp Eggland's Best onto egg gets into egg-ish-ness itself; which is why I tasted Tripple Sec.

Seemed like the right time to me.

Double sifted the flour, in the 23 minutes it took to appropriately beat one pound of butter (unsalted) into submission, and then add in one pound of sugar (2 cups for you keeping count), beating until nearly the color and consistency of whipping cream, partially whipped. (not stiff peaks - you won't find a stiff peak around here for any reason) Add eggs, in four batches - interesting to note? 9 eggs = 2cups =16 ounces=1 pound of eggs! Right, add half a cup at a crack, mixing on medium, til thoroughly blended.

It took a while. Long enough for another wee taste of tripple sec, which honestly? Mixed much better with the juice I had on hand, than alone. Bit much alone. However, in mixture? Double the amount called for. Add double sifted flour and coarse salt in four batches, blend, pour into greased bundt cake, and viola.

House smells lovely.

Mellow buzz quite lovely as well. As not picking up child for several more hours, am going to lose all buzzedliness by heading out into frosty weather to take Fucker Up and Piss Me Off for a walk.

Nothing kills a wee buzz like a whiney puppy.

Leads me to add one more step to recipe:

Take dog to daycare, invite friend over, as then is less pathetic than sampling the "cake flavorings" alone.

psst.....

you know who you are :)

Worried about you. Hope you're doing well; we're expecting all that snow you had, so I might just have a snow day on my hands. Not sure then, when book will arrive; and, am hoping to get out my latest and greatest recipe - the doggie biscotti.

Need more than one taste tester, so your gals are it!

Thinking of you, okay?

Love you.

VIP....they already came today.

My VIP's just left. Not the ones that were due to come; but ones that truly embody VIP. I'll even roll out a red carpet when the arrive next time. Or at least make sure there's no doggie bags (and I don't mean leftovers) to greet them on the front porch!

I have two wonderful friends that showed up today, to view in living color, my nine shades of beauty going on (F asked me not to get out of the car, in my jams; hair was bad enough!) to help me through what could have been a Very Rough Patch.

They did it without my asking; they knew, I'd a VIP coming, and, that the house was rather...not VIP ready...one showed up with yatte's, (not the decaf ones, so we found ourselves bouncing off the walls) ... the other, called, to say he was five minutes out, would I like some company while I prepped the house?

He arrived, she already here; I'd been procrastinating, trying to to deal with the fact that my Uninvited Guests were coming, I didn't want them to, so the longer I sat there drinking a yatte, the less time I'd have to freak out. After the Hello Thing, he jumped into it - where are we shoving (insert toy here), where is the vac attachment to suck fur off sofa, chairs, floor and dog? They dusted. Wiped. Polished. Stacked books, let the puppy in and out and in and out and - well, you get the picture. I kind of wandered, doing this and that - yes, I helped clean my own house too - but the thing is, I wasn't embarrassed that they saw my house in all it's Lived In Glory.

Wait, let me get the door while you're handling the Outdoor Portion of today's program - in about an hour, my house was done, pictures were framed; I don't know how to repay them. Or even properly thank them...the bursting into tears part? They went, got lunch, I got in the shower, blowdried, tried to find something presentable yet totally on the Comfy Cozy list of items in the closet.

Checked in on Foxy's farm, on farmville. He loves it. I'll learn to love it too. :)

I'd like to say I'm the kind of friend who'd drop everything, skip the gym, or whatever, to be there when my friends need me; I can only say, that these two? They were here today. When I needed them the most; for that, I'll be forever grateful.

Since damn VIP isn't coming til next week, I'd better repay them damn fast, so I can get them to come back!!!

Swap sprint for dance moves....

Day 2.

Did not get up to run with dog. Instead, located (without even moving)  ass muscles I didn't think existed. Yeouch.

Note to self: JOG before sprinting. Is Good Thing.

Now, am skipping jogging/sprinting until Arm Jerked Out Of Socket by small dog: we've embarked on a new form of torture,  exercise this am: we're melting her Litter Box off the deck. Yes, I know. Bad habit to even allow her to begin - only here's the deal. As you may have learned (see: earlier installments) beagles are notoriously tough to house train. Thus, we do the doggie version of the We Peed In The Potty Dance with Bribery Treats! for every outside potty. Thus, the deck. It's outside. Also very convenient for lazy dog owner who refuses to walk beagle 83 times a day, to train.

However.

Have VIP company coming today. Seeing Doggie Training Ground, NOT a good idea. Seeing poopies iced into Training Ground three deep? Worse yet.

Since snow is not arriving until after said visit (damn damn damn) I'm left hefting lobster pots full of water out to the deck, tinted with vinegar and lemon juice, to melt, and then ....er....collect the remains.

Good new?

Fully counts as working out, as ass is killing me!!! It also incorporates newest exercise format: dance moves. There are plenty - it's the Dont' Get the Frog Slippers Drenched, or Splash Water on Jammies, and my personal favorite (do note the sarcasm here) Don't Trip Over Blasted Dog Running Through Your Feet While You Carry Large Heavy Pot of Steaming Water.

We did it.

Day 1.

Took good look in mirror, only to find out two things:

Have a shape.

Not. In. Shape.

Got further than driveway; got all the way round to the open field, before Pucker tuckered out...I wasn't much further behind her - she did her business, at least, I think so - I panted, hunched over knees. I never did learn to start jogging - it's either sprinting, or nothing. I didn't take a flashlight, so as for evidence? I haven't any. (also means, I couldn't have located it to pick it up, oops:)

Wasn't sure I could manage run, with dog, small little guy throwing a football expecting me to catch on the run, while lugging 2 pound Maglite.

I do know we whipped through about half a mile again, without stopping - it is 18 degrees here, so I'm kind of impressed. We did it!

Legs are shaking. Am slightly winded. Pucker's panting for all she's worth! I feel better that the other bitch in this house is in worse shape than I am!!

Considering putting in the ten minute video of pilates, just to round things out (or, um, unround them:) but I've been overruled.

Wallace and Grommit in "A Close Shave" it is.

Wouldn't want to do the entire workout in one day. Should leave something to look forward to.

Plus, Fox has me on the Drop and Give Me 20 if I swear.

Between the two? I'll be in shape by next week.

Trainers.....back in training.

HMO paying for visits for someone to tell me I don't know how to be angry.

Huh. I certainly feel angry. But what to do with all of that energy?

I'm nearly to asking complete strangers - how do you behave when you're angry? - usually, I've resorted to Experimenting With My Loud Voice, hiding in a corner following rapidly on it's heels. I used to take kick boxing- going sometimes, four times a week.

I thought I was angry then.

I was angry with how my ex treated my son; now? NOW? I've finally gotten really angry with how he treated me.

Ran into C while waiting on H...naturally, she sat, and chatted while I simmered and stewed - over the dumbest things, from years ago. How long horse hair plaster takes to settle (it NEVER finishes settling). I told her being angry was beneath me. Ridiculous waste of energy - of course, she says to me, what you do - you have to get angry to move on. So, get angry. Mag's said the same thing. Get pissed. Get it out. You really will feel better.

OK. How?

Breaking things isn't acceptable, and I'm running low on things to smash ( I like the rest of the things I own!)...knitting is a little too serene for True Anger Management - so she said, didn't you mention you ran a 5K?

Take up running. Pound things into the ground. Put some serious miles between you, and then. Maybe, you'll be so tired, the nightmares won't rear their ugly head, and you'll have squashed all that stuff so much it'll feel like a bloody pulp under my toes.

Dug out running bra. Sneezed from dust on bra. Found running pants.

Tied on trainers. Leashed up dog. Told her we're running til we cannot stand, legs shaking, lungs heaving, throat sore.

Stupid bitch said in the shape we're in?

That's most likely the end of the driveway.

Sigh. Every journey starts with the first step, right?

Where's the beef?

(will admit: is a repost, as I'm trying to get all posts from one place to another; is a 2008 posting - enjoy!)

Evidently, there is quite the debate brewing, over the cost of cloned meat and dairy, as well as whether or not, it’s technically, ya know, MEAT or DAIRY. Which, naturally (pardon the ill-timed pun) got me to thinking about all the things we’ve cloned, without really considering it - we effectively, to a certain extent, clone dogs, to achieve “breed standard”. We’ve done the same with grain, corn, farm produce, and oranges, for YEARS, yet where is the hue and cry over that?

There IS none. Which clearly brings us to the point where it’s okay to create and keep, say, the seedless watermelon, the seedless cucumber, (which in turn, becomes the much loved seedless pickle) because …. why again?

That's right, we prefer seedless produce. We'd prefer to deprive our children of watermelon seed spitting contests, spare ourselves listening to them whine about seeds in their clementines. Everyone prefers seed-less grapes.

I’m all for seedless produce. Personally, I think we’d be accomplishing a hell of a feat if we could create shitless, seedless, slime-less tomatoes, seedless blackberries too would really tickle my fancy, but no one asked me. Instead, after the world lauded the first cloned sheep (we even quite adorably named her Dolly) now, we’ve an issue with cloned cattle. Was Dolly and her ilk any less delicious? Was her wool any less desirable? I hardly think so.

Hell.

If we can take a fabulous breed of beef cattle, and create lots more of those delicious beasts, wouldn’t it be akin to popping out bin after bin of hot dogs? Only, obviously, closer to filet. Or. Well. Really filet. Plus also, the cost of leather goods might also fall, which would make that too die for pair of Ralph Lauren calfskin boots I’ve been eyeing a lot easier to attain. Kate Spade and Coach could bitch; their profit margins might be smaller - then again, maybe not. If I’m honest (and when it comes to fashion, I’ll deny having said this) we’re not buying a quality of leather. We’re buying the style, the name, the prestige, the quality of the sweat shop they’re running. We're buying the tag.

Perhaps, too, we can “clone out” the undesirable traits - (hello, this is what we’ve been doing for years!) - say, for example, mad cow disease, or, hmmm, that icky cholesterol I’m supposed to be worried about. Build in extra iron, for those of us suffering from anemia.

If I can inhale cigarette smoke, against my wishes, mind, be exposed to radiation when I fly, far more than I ever will on land, visiting either the dentist, or the mammographer, be polluted, smogged, acid rained on, while also considering the effects of butterflies sneezing in the amazon, and how it’ll bring in the next substantial snow fall (due tonight, should anyone care) then really, I think I can indulge in a little faux-beef with my upper-class, Kate Spade carrying meat-eating counterparts.

Note to you....

...and you know who you are. :)

My Very Dear Friend,

I have trouble, finding words, as you know, to express the depth of grief in which you find yourself; dealing with the twin demons of overwhelming desire to hibernate (only I learned something gross: bears reuse their own urine, so I'm thinking? not a good choice anymore) along with the Flogging Rod, we use, on ourselves, for not being the parent we think we need to be: strong, unflappable, there, for our kids, who are also going through this process. How to find the strength, to someday, even take a breath, as your heart, so shattered, fails to beat, your lungs, not even wanting to draw air - only you have to, because there is no way to walk away, for a week, a month, a year, to fold in on yourself, and let that part of you that did die with him, be buried.

You, are, an amazing parent, warm, loving, strong - even when you don't feel it. Beautiful people can and more importantly may have ugly days, so angry that yes, you throw dishes (or in my case, double bag them and bang them against a wall -they were ugly, I wasn't keeping them anyway!), days you're so sad that allowing kids to find their own way into the pantry qualifies as dinner. Put on your After 5's, even if it's only 3pm. Allow your friends voices to wash over you, on the answering machine, even if you don't feel up to answering - because, really, you need to hear: we love you, we'll never know, how it feels to lose your soulmate; only you know that - the parts of grief some of us do understand? It hurts. A lot. Grief rears it's ugly head in the lightbulb aisle of the grocery store, on a random day in July, not just around the holidays, or anniversaries; mourning the losses, all of them - him, you, you as a couple, your plans, your life - know, honey, the light, at the end of the tunnel, isn't the train doubling back to nail you, it's flashlights of your friends, your loved ones, doing the only thing we can: lighting your way to the other side.

We (and yes, I speak for everyone here, rude though that may be) will never forget him; never forget you. Even when you think you've forgotten you - but then, maybe that was just me.

Ah, yes, my point: call. Middle of the night, when you've a moment, alone, to realize you're so blasted angry this happened to you! That it snowed, and dammit, YOU had to shovel, take out the trash, make sure the oil gets changed, the home insurance is in place - all those things that weren't your job. Regardless of how you got here: Welcome, to Single Parenthood - it comes with the Rights To Bitch on the phone, to eat pop tarts for dinner, and to smell socks to see if they're clean enough for a re-wear. Laughing is okay, I swear - even if it's at all the screw ups in the day - or you were screaming so loudly, home alone, you wet your pants. (again, that may just have been me :)

I'm glad you know I called, that I'm thinking of you, often; keep an eye out, I've a book in the mail to you - I love it. It's a total Fluff Read, but in the middle? When she totally melts down? There's a woman there, who tells her:

Honestly, chicken, you don't have to know everything, just what comes next.

Like putting on your After 5s, popping in a movie with the girls around you, opening up a fresh box of pop tarts, served with those fabulous Fruitables juice boxes.

Love you.

Actual Dinner

Told that my response last night, that dinner was good, drinks were good, made new friend was not enough dish, especially for a girl!

So, for those Enquiring Minds That Want To Know:

I was late. By a whopping 15 minutes. So rude. I did, however, send the text:

Am girl...(wait for it)..... running late. 5 min. On way.

No response. That whole cocktail of fear and nerves started roiling; had this image of getting to restaurant only to find that he either didn't show at all, or, didn't wait, even though I was polite and said I was late! At the time, I would've only been 5 minutes late, but the PD pulled over two people, on either side of a two late road, so guess what: a third cop showed up to direct the bottlenecked one lane traffic piling up.

GRRRRRRRRRRR.

He was there, when I arrived; I apologized, he winked (winked! and made jokes about my being a girl, and being late, but that I looked great, was worth the extra 15 minutes he sat there) - ooh, a compliment. Wow. I blushed. (yes, am still idiot who blushes at what seems to be honest compliments) Was not smarmy I'm Trying To Get Laid compliment; was the kind of almost cast off compliment, like he was surprised he's said it too - but wasn't trying to hard.

He ordered a beer; I ordered a cosmopolitan - about three sips into, blurted out I was only doing this for my little guy, that I'm not even datable, that'd been proven time and again, and really, I wasn't ready. Don't expect me to roll over and part the thighs to heaven, because it wasn't happening Mister.

He mentioned he was hungry (I'm pretty sure he was chuckling, under his breath) - opened menu, and said, you know, we're going to be friends, that's the important part, so let's get something to eat, and spend your one day a month off doing something other than talking about kids. Or dogs.

Let me order MY favorite pizza: chicken, pepperoni, mushrooms, spinach and pineapple. Oh, yes, extra cheese. Not the goat cheese, (that belongs on salad, not pizza, but feel free to disagree with me) - he didn't even bat an eyelash.

2nd round appeared. Along with four glasses of water (my request, as I'm so parched these days, I'm afraid I'll turn into a pile of ash if I'm not hooked directly up to a running hose) - I graciously gave him one of them.

We laughed. I was....interested...in what he had to say, Great Tummy Condors gave way (or surrendered to alcohol, who knows really) we laughed. Hard. He thought it was hysterical that I was dying to flip the tag on the sweater of the guy seated behind him into proper position - we parted, at 10, like friends who have kids do, knowing that someone has to get up in the morning, do (in my case: laundry, clean the house, have a visit on Tuesday of the Important Kind so really, should tip house on end, dump everything into someone else's yard, only put back in the necessary items - like furniture) Domestic Goddess type things - no handshake, no kiss on the cheek - he didn't touch me at all.

Whew.

I'm not always good with being touched.

Said goodnight.

Got home to find text:

Thank you, for a fantastic evening - let's do it again. Soon. :)

See? Friends. I'm good with friends.

Whew!

Was not a date.

Was drinks, dinner, a lovely conversation of laughing, and chatting....and No Pressure. Nothing. Not even a presumptuous kiss on the check.

I don't know why I'm so relieved - I suppose, I should feel less attractive or something?

Took Pucker Up for a quickie walk and whiz...she's annoyed she's not been out enough today, evidenced by her current inhalation of pencil shavings from a sharpener she just shredded - it's 18 degrees! I don't care how much fat she's packed on, even with her coat, it's too cold out for her.

For me too.

Am already jammied up, book in hand, waiting to nod off - thinking about Date That Wasn't, how Foxy would be less thrilled, as he'd want something to happen - and all I think here? A good pal. He's funny. Makes me laugh. Enjoyed my company, even though I was a (gasp) whopping 15 minutes late.

So rude of me.

Met some really great people recently, good friends in the making I think; nothing better than good friends.

Truth be told: I don't want to date. I'm not ready. I may not be for a long time.

But now I know at least?

I can do drinks.

Without totally falling apart.

Late late late.

Am supposed to be on road.

Received impromptu drink invite: texted yes.

I know. Shocked me too.

Whipped home from seeing a client, (Fox with his father, as you may recall) jumped in shower, decided to take hacksaw to legs. Had cutie slides all picked out (black, with tassels - sounds ugly? is very cutieish - hello, they're Lilly - a million years old) to go with jeans with boxers on them (Lilly, 5 years old) black sweater bought with AM at outlet mall. Turtleneck sweater. Not suggestive. Not racy. Could wear suggestive racy bra, though; he won't be seeing it. That's for me. Yep. Am wearing sexy bra.

Oh, yeah - the legs. Need new shoe choice, as sliced open one knee, and both ankles - downside to small child: only Snoopy bandaids on hand. Very obvious. Even under hem of jeans. Damn. At least didn't ruin new manicure with razor, during Dangerously Overgrown Shaving Adventure. Maybe less adventure, and more....chore.

Think I could be procrastinating. Now means I have to send I'm Running A Wee Tad Behind text, so he doesn't think I'm rudely standing him up; instead, will call it Making An Entrance.

Will do make-up in car. Then, if end up in total panic, can call, from ...somewhere...on the road and claim child emergency. Or something.

I hate dating.

Left dog to own devices, (Idiot Owner Award, Please Send Here) - she's cleaned out bathroom trash. Redecorated living room rug with trash. Is not my style.

I voiced opinion; she's hiding back in kennel (aka the kitchen) which is good, since she should've already been in there, being bitchy because I'd already left.

Is 5:46.

Still here. Debating shoes. Fighting with self to get in car, drive to destination, and THEN throw up. Is no big deal. Is only drinks. Right. How hard can drinks be?

Is much easier with P and J there. Then, if I fall out of seat, spill liquor, end up yelling across bar for bartenders attention? They find me charmingly amusing, not drunken slob. Or a cross thereof. ooohhhhhh.....maybe, should send email as to location, thus, perhaps, they'll join us.

Is now 5:48.

No time. They already have plans, I am sure.

OH ALRIGHT.

I'm leaving. I swear.

Floaters

Getting ready to zip Fox over to Police Department - is drop off day with his dad.

I've an entire 30 hours with myself.

How did this morning start off? Quite well in fact! Seems Volcanic Ire remained "resting", dog went potties outside, Fox took her for a stroll, got in shower, went to get dressed - only to find?

Contacts. Floating. In. Toilet. The case was not closed. Two slightly tinted contacts winked at me, while lazily swimming around.

Yes, I've just cleaned the toilet, yesterday, within an inch of it's life - but.....they're IN THE TOILET.

A gf tried to tell me it's okay, that water is cleanest water there is - and she knows this because I told her this, in relation to : when you're stuck in a house after an earthquake. That's the water you drink first (if you've not prepped for this kind of emergency. We live in MA. There's very little chance I'll ever need to hydrate myself from that bowl) - so it'd be okay, right?

Really? Would you use a toothbrush that fell in there? No? Hmm, but I should stick that water in MY EYES?!?!?!?

*insert stomach grabbing, snorting laugh here*

Perhaps I should note, they're disposables, bi-monthly, so it's not as though it was my only pair - but I'm cheap. I make each pair last as long as humanly possible (shy of that icky infection I got a couple years back my "abusing my contact lenses") - this foray into the bowels of the bowl (ew, that was a bad pun, sorry) cut their lifespan more than in half.

I opened them, four days ago.

Thus: yet again, Fox: 1. Mama: 0.

Am so stopping for a latte. I deserve one for not blowing my lid over that!!!

Lost books, good things, no laundry

Fox: in bed. "Not tired".

Pucker Up: next to him. In bed. Exhausted.

Mama: looking for lost book, considering throwing in one last load of laundry (decision made: not going to happen) before climbing into bed, in mismatched jams. Would be reading, if could locate said book.

Went online, as last ditch effort awaiting response from our adopted Twin Paratroopers (yep, we adopted some soldiers, as they've no one, through the US Adopt A Soldier Program) as to number of guys/gals in his unit, so the box we put together tonight can get posted tomorrow. Found some quirky, fun games to send, as well as some poker chips, as they're up in the mountains (my guess, they say they've snow, not sand) since currently, they may well be using rocks. Or multi-hued snow. Ewwww. Added chocolates, lots of them, (they won't melt!) -

Instead?

I find that match.com has sent me 5 new matches!! Aren't I excited?

No.

Not. At. All.

But. I did this for Fox; so I'll make a token effort. I admit: I'm a snob, I try to hide it, but I am. A bit. (makes me slightly less snobby that I can and HAVE admitted it) I don't think Orchard Beach, a rental house with four college buddies, my son and I qualifies as an "ideal vacation", I don't do camping, find the opening line "wazzzzup!" a complete turnoff, and, am constantly amazed at the ones so-called "hand picked" for me, all seem to live far enough away, that they feel it's too far to even email me. (I really appreciate that, honestly, I do; but from another perspective, seriously? forty minutes on a straight shot on the pike is too far?) If everyone was meeting such high quality folks so close to home, then why would we need to even be on such a site? Hmmm?

I also don't understand why it is, I'm constantly paired with guys who do not want to date someone with children - they want their own; not someone else's. Please, tell me, does the computer settings which send out all these ridiculous matches not actually realize I come with a child? Trust me on this one: he's not imaginary. He's not going to boarding school (don't tell him, I'll lose all threatening power) and he lives with me. All. The. Time.

I'd find some of it amusing, were it not that I'm still trapped in my Raging Bitch pants - it also, makes it very easy to tell Fox honestly: no honey, there is no one I want to wink at, email, talk to, or date.

There is an upside: quite lovely for a change to be on the end to say no, thanks. I'll pass on that...the goatee is too much, the picture of your back, standing next to your "hot" car leaves me cold, instead? I'll go back to what I'd said to P that night, out - Eye Candy. They can look, they may flirt - hell, I may flirt back - but Im a look but don't even think about touching kind of girl. Kinda finding my sea legs, ya know? Conversations: excellent. Getting my phone number: Not going to happen. I'm okay with this - in fact?

It's a Good Thing.

The Greatest Gifts

...not in any particular order:

Sleep.

Friends.

The Big Guy (Gal) Upstairs

Suisse Mocha Instant Coffee stuff - that comes in tin that when done? hides cutie scrap booking items, or coins, or that collection of odd sized nails I have from...um...something.

Doggie Daycare. This is a biggie - especially today, as Pucker helped herself to not one, but two cups of MY wake up juice. Tea, with honey (like she needs any more help getting obnoxious!) followed closely by my Suisse Mocha. Watching her run on the back of the sofa (read: top of sofa, like tight rope walker) while banging away (something she never usually does, unless it's at Lois, and that's totally acceptable) I remembered, Doggie Daycare.

Oh, how I love doggie daycare - today, in particular - you know how the Big Guy always gives you exactly what you need, when you need it? Guess what: daycare doesn't close until NINE PM! Nine!! They'll even feed her dinner!!

She gets to play with her pals, run around like a maniac; I can concentrate, on work, or the house.

Silence.

I suppose, it really is that whole If The Plane Is Falling, Put On Your Mask First, Then Save The Others: if I take her to daycare, I'm taking care of me; if I take her to daycare, I'm taking care of her, because she won't stuck inside, loaded on high octane beverages.

Plus also? I adore the gelatto scoop I bought to use as a cookie dough baller - it works smashingly.

Sometimes, the greatest gifts, are the ones you give yourself.

ps....

Kindness pops up when least expected: in the friend that offered pizza and a movie, adult conversation, revolving around something. Or other. Or nothing.

Or, the friend, that called, before she got the email for Help! I'm Catching On Fire I'm So Mad! And I thought I'd be able to skip this part, and go from Pathetic Mess to Perfectly Put Together in a matter of weeks - who says, really, it's a good thing, to finally get angry, to get that all out; she says, it's IS GOOD silly, to get rid of all the toxic stuff - you can think about revenge, but c'mon, I know you, it's not in you - besides, when you're angry? You're really flipping funny.

When she laughs, I can't help but laugh too.

It's the girlfriend I emailed, who couldn't exactly follow what on Earth I was talking about, but not only read it anyway, sent her love, and her hugs, and says, really, I didn't need to explain: I'm with you, there, anyway.

Finding a Zen moment using toilet cleaner someone who read this knew I needed, and got for me, even wrapped it in pink tissue! because he knew I'd get a kick out of it.

Life is a process; some parts are pretty, some parts are .....not so much...it's the ones that are there to laugh at the good times, wipe your face at the bad ones, pour you a martini only to toast to getting through today - at least, I don't have to live it again.

It's finding a new opportunity, to be excited about, and BE excited! and know, that everything happens for a reason, even if that reason is to be so white hot pissed you singe the furniture, as it clears the way to focusing on what really matters: me, my little guy, my lemon beagle.

And, my friends.

Without whom, I would never have gotten this far - for that, I thank you. For reminding me (some of you constantly) that you love me, even when I don't feel very lovable.

As one great pal pointed out last night:

Bad stuff: 32 years.

Denial:32 years.

Sad/crying part: 7 months.

Anger: day 2.

It's 11:11. Make a wish. Say a prayer, for the ones we love, the ones we've lost, and even, for the ones we don't like so much. Really, the Big Guy (or Gal, Mags :) keeps score way better than I do.

Serial demolisher

I feel an intense desire to throw things out.

I'm kind of afraid, that after all these years of burying all this resentment, anger, frustration etc, that now? NOW? I'm might just seriously lose my mind - again - only this time, it'll be less Laying In The Closet Crying My Eyes Out, Feeling Invisible, to feeling So Fucking Angry I Might Break Every Piece Of Glass I Can Lay My Hands On.

I had a fabulous day - so it's not like anything specific set me off - and yeah, I could assume that some of it is simply PMS, rearing it's ugly, bitchy head, but honestly, deep down where I've hidden nearly all my "real" feelings? I think is a volcano about to erupt.

Sure, I've known my "editing pool" has been low....I've said things that have brought my Polite Argyle Wearing Me to my knees inside, wondering who on God's great green Earth is that woman over there losing her marbles because someone forgot whipped cream on her latte, or cut her off in traffic - suddenly?

I'm really fucking angry.

I wish I still took kick boxing - I may have to, because the swearing has gotten out of control, at least in my head (and sometimes not), I find myself saying things out loud I'd never have been caught dead saying before - while some liberation is a great thing? Too much is......dangerous.

I started with breaking the mugs that I'd had since God only knows when; plates I don't like, a hair brush I was tossing anyway - but it's not helping. It's not making a dent. That guy? Who was SO mean to me before? I want to grab him and shake him til his teeth shake - which would be really hard, as he's such much bigger than I am; and that bitch that was in on it with him? Yeah, well, I've some thoughts there too.  Sadly, telling her off won't work, she has the vocabulary of a gnu; very little satisfaction in that. She's not worth going to jail over; I drove home, after this AMAZING day! and it slammed into me, like walking into a wall of humid summer heat in Boston, in the dead of July, after being in the air conditioning. Everywhere sweats, hair sticks to you, clothes feel too tight - so hard to breathe - for no reason.

What I'm getting at, is this is why I don't DO really angry - Hollow Victory, and, I don't really feel any better. There's still no closure. There's no one else to deal with all this shit, no one to accept their part of the blame other than me -

And I'm scared, that if I'm this angry, that at some point? I'll say something that I can't take back, that will be so hot I'll burn my own tongue, which no apology can take back. Or I'll break my hand slamming it in to the wall, the garage door, which I already hit with the car, and my mom nearly had a coronary when she saw it. I blamed it on the  guys that plow. What, like she's going to know?

I'm angry I'm single, and alone, and facing a life of morning after morning dealing with the never ending Getting Ready Battle, the Get Out Of The Dog Bed, Strop Dragging It Around The Goddam Floor Fight, and the fact that at the end of every day? The only one to hug me goodnight is me. I'm angry B couldn't get his shit together for me, or for his little guy; that my family is.....my family; that M left me when I needed him, said horrendous things - and I NEVER WENT WHERE I COULD HAVE BECAUSE I CAN'T DO THAT TO HIM! I'm so pissed that the only one to put away the clothes is me. That I always take out the trash, take the trash away from the dog, that I'm the only one who worries when there are funky noises at night. I'm SO ANGRY that M has the balls to tell me to get MY shit together, but he won't do the work on HIM so that WE can be together, and he's not such a selfish prick.

More than anything? I learned that while I can stand up for anyone else, I CANNOT STAND UP FOR ME - and I HAVE to. That Pucker digs at my couch. That I have to tell Fox everything FIVE times for him to do anything and there is NO BREAK for ME when I get home. I can't even pee without him and the dog at the door, needing something, anything, his feet smell like his dad, suddenly everything he does, from hounding me to yanking at me is like his dad  - this is NOT the family I planned. It's not what I wanted.

I'm mostly angry, with me.

Because I still don't want to feel it, I don't want to be angry, or sad - I just want to be. I don't want to feel anything. It's safer, and I'm big on safety - because really, at the end of the day? If I'm this angry today, what if it's worse tomorrow?

What if I turn into this nasty, bitter serial demolisher who takes out other peoples kitchen counters with sledge hammers, destroying anything in my path? Appliances, who've done nothing to me shattered to bits by a rage so great it can't be measured on the Richter scale.

See? This is why I bury all this stuff so far down. It makes me ugly, and unlovable, to know that I'm so pissed that I couldn't even stand up for myself, to make someone else remember me, to do anything other than hide. EVER!

Christ, I was warned, one day, I'd wake up pissed.

Fuck me.

It's today.

Man vs. Broadzilla.

Holy Mary Mother Of PMS Batman.

I've NO patience - not upon discovering that "my teacher didn't give us any homework" is code for "I just didn't bother to bring it home", I don't want to walk the dog, it's too cold; you left me too long at daycare - I wanted to stay to do the craft, not be, like, the last child to be picked up.

Do you hear that snotty, ugly pre-teen voice emerging here? I do. I HATE it. Don't throw things over the edge of the balcony today, do not tell me you've made you're own dinner, but spilled half a gallon of milk under the stove and didn't bother to even drop a dish towel on it, and if you want to live to see the light of a new day?

DO NOT in Holier Than Thou tones tell me I just lost a point for swearing and using my ugly voice.

If you had answered the first FOUR times I asked you to let out the dog, get your backpack out of the car, turn off the tv, (a privilege you lost this morning for being bratty) - why is it that men, even men in the making, think that the one day of the month you've abso-frickin-luetly NO patience is the day to tap dance all over your last nerve?

Girlfriends? We don't do that - we've this innate sense of Impending Doom, and just let things slide...maybe it's that look of Push Me Too Hard And I'll So Eat All Of Your Oreos, or how we just get it that some days it's simply not wise to be a smart mouth. Perhaps it's the widening of the eyes, til you see whites and the inner portion of the brain combined with brows knitted so tightly together that not even air could pass through them hovering above the bared teeth - but men/boys?

They miss all these clues.

They'd get a hell of a lot further, with me at least, if they'd at least pay some modicum of attention to detail....if, for example, I've walked the dog in the cold, by myself (which is your job) brought in the trashcan, only to trip over your shoes in the middle of the fucking doorway before I've even had a chance to get my coat off - it's not going to be the best night of your life.

Wisdom of past experiences should remind you that sassing off? BAD IDEA.

Pucker, who's not the sharpest spoon in the drawer (yes, I am trying to say she's a complete bonehead) finally got the point, after I shoved her rather roughly off me, like five times. I could almost see the little light flickering gently above her head - like wow, I recall feeling like that -I was at the vet...something happened....I was tired, and pissy, I didn't know why, and I thought I might bite someone if they looked at me funny - yes, pet me, no don't touch me....yep, all coming back to me now. Maybe best if I leave mommy's shoes alone, at least til tomorrow, and focus my attention elsewhere: on my toys for a change.

Shockingly, she has. She's chewing a bone.

The other one? The one that will turn into a clueless man who then wonders why women are so damn hard to figure out (because they learn to simply ignore the giant neon signs going off around them) has driven me round the bend. And not, mind you, like I need any help. I can get there all on my own, thank you very much.

It's not hard: do what I ask. When I ask it. The first time. Take your shoes and leave them outside, so they stink up the garage, instead of my house - that does NOT mean in the doorway. And for God's sake, when I say, turn off (enter electronic item here) do not, under any circumstances tell me "just a minute".

It might be the last minute you have before facing Broadzilla.

She took on Godzilla, and do you see him around? Hmmm? Nope, I didn't think so either. Evolutionary lesson: Godzilla left his shit all over the house and what happened?

Broadzilla lived to tell about it.