Back. Off.

What is it with people these days?

First, no on has any respect left for personal space - especially men, who find you attractive - they'll totally breathe down your neck under the guise of needing something, or reading the same thing you are, reaching for a pack of gum from the Impulse Buying Shelf, or - I really don't care what reason they give, if I turn around with a knife in my hand, and you're so close I'd cut you in half?

Back the hell up.

For the record? Be very careful especially if you find her attractive; then it's not only irritating in an over-the-top-annoying kind of way, but the Really Very Creepy kind of way, leaving her skin crawling, and her wanting a very hot bath. I know this. That guy at the grocery store the other day, who hopped in line behind me, on the one time I didn't use the Self-Checkout, scootched so close to me I'm not sure dental floss could've passed between us. Supposedly, he was reaching for gum.

Let me be clear: if I don't know you?

Don't touch me.

If I've not given you specific instructions that it's okay to touch me?

Then don't.

Keep your ridiculous excuses Mr. Gum Guy to yourself, I'm not buying it. What you did was rude, obnoxious, and bordering on sexual harassment. Next time? I might not be so nice - maybe I won't simply move forward, locking eyes with the pretty little girl ringing me up, both of us sharing that Ewww Moment, maybe, just maybe?

I'll "accidentally" knee your nuts while I'm reaching for the latest copy of Martha Stewart Magazine. I did want to check out those blue eggs on the cover.

While I'm at it, people suck way more than simply rubbing up against me like a cat in heat on a hot July day; I've had it up-to-here with seemingly interested relatives who only want to chat when it's convenient for them, read: dinner hour. By the way? Beginning a conversation with "no one else answered when I rang, so I thought I'd call you to chat" while driving home from work, the cell phone going in and out? Not the best way to start a conversation - one that leaves both sides pissy - me, because I'm freaking cooking dinner - an event that does not deviate on a nightly basis - them, because I'm lacking the required enthusiasm and fabulous news to impart they crave.

The worst part of the above unnamed offender? It's not the first time during dinner that they've chosen to call. Nor, sadly, is it the first time that horrifyingly demeaning phrase has been used - frankly, I don't need to know that no one else answered, so you scrolled through your address book on your phone for some poor schmuck you know will be home so clearly, you'll have a captive audience. How might you know that I'll be home, you might be naive enough to ask?

I've a child and dog.

It's dinner time.

Say it with me...dinner tiiiiiiiimmmmmeeee.

You want my attention?

Simple.

Do not rub up against me, unless you've express permission, most likely in writing that it's okay to do so, and, for the love of God, have some respect, do not call during the dinner hour. Even if it's not your dinner hour, because you don't have children, or pets, so you eat at eight, or nine, whenever you feel like having something other than a glass of wine and some fruit you grabbed from your fridge, while luxuriating on the sofa catching up on the day's news. Or sit-coms. Or that hideous Sex in the City crap.

I can't follow a sit-com, as my tv viewing tends to be limited to that acceptable for the younger viewing generation - we're on a steady diet of i-carly, Phineas and Pherb, or something equally brain numbing. Don't tell me how fabbbbulous so and so looked in whatever dress she had on during a sit-com - because honestly? I don't care. I won't have time to watch it, and even if I did? Sleeping rates higher on my list. Or perhaps being allowed a moment to set my ass on a toilet seat without that bringing on the Child and Dog Brigade, lest I have one moment to do anything other than attend to their needs.

If I hadn't heard that the health care reform bill got passed? I might not know if Obama was still president. I learned second hand, that we were expecting more rain that this region has ever seen, severe flooding expected; all I knew was that it rained so much Pucker has taken to peeing with one paw on the door of the slider, lest I walk away prior to her being able to come in the moment her stream ended. Or even slightly before that.

A wee dribble of pee on the rug? Pfft. No big deal considering the torrential rain and high wind blowing severely up her un-furred backside.

So, yeah, I'm annoyed today. Totally irritated.

Screw chivalry, I'll take plain old respect any day of the week.

Holding open a door constitutes a lovely gesture; that is, unless you position yourself across the open door, so I've no other option than to allow my sleeve, or bag, or hip, or whatever, to brush across you - you (read: thoughtless prick) may think I don't notice your stupid attempts at being clever, and sort of copping a feel - but I notice. It skeeves me out. Wicked bad.

I don't rub myself up against a hot guy in the market, much as he may wish that were so; I don't stand behind someone at a counter, waiting for coffee and breathe down their neck hoping for a hint of cleavage over the shoulder, or being close enough to inhale strands of their hair.

I don't call during the dinner hour, unless I'm missing a limb, being mauled by bears, or bleeding from every orifice on my body.

I don't begin conversations by pointing that the one called only received said call because no one else I really wanted to talk to answered the phone.

And do you know why?

Because I have respect. For space. For other's. For dinner time.

That's right. Whether I'm serving PB&J's, or roasting a chicken along with a chocolate cake, dinner hour is sacred.

I'll eat my damn PB&J inside my Three Feet In All Directions of Personal Space, while opening my own freaking door.

You want to show off your chivalry?

Call someone - anyone- else during the bewitched dinner hour. Tell them how lowly they rated on your scale of folks to blather to while stuck in traffic. While you're at it, take on that fat lady over there in the check-out line, she may be thrilled to get felt up.

Because if it's me?

You'd do best to Back The Fuck Up.

Why didn't I think of that?

Yup. It's true. I'm a moron.


(add big, dramatic, heart felt fuck me sigh).


Even thawed, still warm, two log dog dumps clog toilet. Most disturbing was the whump gurgle cough cough whump noise it made right before I watched all the water get sucked out of the bowl. Only to not return. At all.


Started out as slightly concerning.


Stood there, for a bit, chewing on my lip, as the scent of freshly fed dog wafted from deep in the bowl, waiting....waiting.....waiting.......broke into slight sweat, waiting for water to appear.


Hmmm.


Had that conversation in my head - you know that one, when you've screwed up, and now you've got to tell someone about it? Goes something like this:


Poop is not frozen. Poop is not at fault. Therefore. Must not be pipe.


Okay.


Noooo problem.


Perhaps lots of people in their condos all flushed at the same time. Like all the people that live here, at the very same time.


Was not big log; I have a thirty pound beagle - she cannot create something so large as to stop up a pipe ...er...bigger than her own.


Right?


Wrong.


Fuck.


Now have to tell Jonathan, that not only have I stopped up the toilet (again) but I did it flushing dog poop. (ahem, again)


Which I swore I wouldn't do anymore. I pay for trash pick up, I don't even have to deal with the Pay To Throw bags; why can't I just throw it in the trash like normal people do? Really? Really? The double really gets me every time.


Only I'll stand my ground by pointing out that this was not frozen, which is the kind of poop I promised not to flush.


Did the whole Plunging Thing, Swearing Thing, Hanging My Head Thing.


Nothing worked. And worse? No water returned at all. Where did it go?


Bit the bullet, reached for phone, and sent my HoneyDo list to J.......


Shelves. For kitchen. Look at door for laundry, currently in basement, not on door hingey thingie like it should be. unclog toilet. Order dinner. Pick up dinner.


Bless his heart - he shows up, asked what was first on his list, so I went through list. Add fluttering blue eyes. Big toothy smile, cheshire cat grin kind, when I got to toilet part.


He asked me if I'd looked at the inside of the toilet. I think he was trying not to laugh, and be huffy at the same time. This is, perhaps, the third time I've done this. Only once it was someone else's fault. Someone who uses a lot of paper....wait, did he ask me a question? About looking inside the toilet?


Is he new? I'd not have a clue what to do with the floating ball thing attached so that slimy piece - on top of that? I don't have rubber gloves long enough to reach into there without having the icky water touch me.


Since we got busy with what I'm now sort of laughing referring to as The Triplets- I painted the downstairs bath, going from Old Lady Green to *gasp* New York Yankee's, he was giving table saw lessons (OMG, on a side note? He made three shelves, replacing the one that came with the armoire, as then all the shelving would match) -I'm sure he'll tell me that's not the kind of saw it was, but anyway, by the time we'd done dinner, shower three kids, blow dry hair on one, stick one back in the shower, as I meant use soap not soak, the movie bit, 9pm arrived before I'd realized it.


Quarantine the movie? Sucks. Don't bother renting it. Watching with J, while hogging all the Raisonets? Totally do again.


We brushed our teeth, him standing behind me, in After 5s, both of us staring at the bowl, sans water still! when he looks at me, I start laughing, toothpaste frothing down my shirt....he makes me promise, this time?


No matter how small, how fresh, how much smaller than I what I swear other's have flushed - No. More. Dog. Poop.


It's okay to not flush.


In fact, I live so darn close to the woods, why don't I just shovel it off the deck into the wee brook behind the condo hidden by woods?


Shit.


Why didn't I think of that?

Did you know...

...originally Jack o' Lanterns were made from turnips.

....a spiders silk is stronger than steel.

....other than humans, the only other primate with blue eyes is the black lemur.

...the blue hairs you see in dollar bills, are actually ground up blue jeans.

...the F-bomb is dropped 186 in the movie "Super Bad" - more than in the infamous Scarface which provided the number for the band, Blink 182 - because that's the number of F-bombs dropped there.

*we've never heard of them.

...a hedgehog heart beats 300 times a minute on average.

...a face off in hockey was originally called a "puck off"

...woodpeckeres scalp, porpoise teeth, and giraffe tails, have all been used as money - where on God's Green Earth remains at large -

...the oldest pig on Earth lived to be 68 years old. In human years, not pig years.

...a man who wore a beard during the time of Peter The Great, had to pay extra tax. (maybe for the lice they were feeding)

...in ancient Rome, it was a sign of leadership to be born with a crooked nose....which is pathetic, since most romans were born with a crooked penis. Wonder what that means

...Sean Connery wore a toupee (NO SHIT!) in EVERY James Bond movie starting with "Dr. No" in 1962

...it takes 81 days of rain in 70 degree weather, in Iowa, to grow corn

...it is illegal to be a whore in Sienna, Italy, if your name is Mary. No wonder there's so many of them!

...nearly 22,000 checks will be deducted from the WRONG accounts in the next HOUR

...apples are actually part of the rose family

....cherry trees are fertilized by ants (never plant near a house or standing structure, you'll be inundated)

...every second American's collectively eat 100 pounds of chocolate

...Venus is the other planet that rotates clockwise....which means, that men are always backwards

...on average, half of all false teeth have some sort of radioactivity

...according to US FDA standards for Orange Juice, one cup of juice is allowed to contain 10 fruit fly eggs, but only two maggots. (OMG OMG OMG OMG - good thing I like V8)

....contrary to popular belief, there are no penguins at the North Pole

...I never wanted to be a divorcee, I wanted to be widowed

...the largest eggs in the world are laid by a shark - but wait, I thought they had live births? must check this fact

....under extreme stress, some octipuses will eat their own arms

...Mag's and I should not be allowed alone with this app on her phone for hours...I'm already a warehouse of useless info, she's simply adding to it

...coffee drinkers have more sex than non-coffee drinkers .... stuck out in the wilderness? dandylion root can be roasted and ground as coffee substitute - but trust me on this one? you drink that after dragging my ass camping? you're still not getting laid

...to "testify", originated in the Roman Court, where a man would validate his statement by swearing on his testicles

...a barnacle has the largest penis compared to any other animal in the world in relation to it's size...so inch for inch boys, the barnacle wins, hands down

...there are more telephones than people in Washington, DC.

...the first alarm clock made could only ring at 4 am

and finally........

...per capita, South Africa, has the most assaults, rapes, and murders with firearms...and we brought them here again, why? Or perhaps, more important to ask, how? Why didn't our forefathers get raped and shot?

Food for thought. Happy Saturday Morning. If you've any interesting tidbits, please post!!

Lost, Found and Spit

Okay, WTF?

I started packing up the box to send to A, overseas - only to find that I cannot lay my hands on all the stuff I bought at CVS. Which includes a book for myself. Chapstick for Fox. A box of tampons. In the pink box. I'd buy way more tampons if they came like pink wash cloths do, wrapped with ribbon and tied with a bow. Also included the Tums I bought for J. Ultra 1000 strength, berry flavored, as the banana ones in the mixed fruit pack make me gag. Not that I'm the one who eats them by the carton. That'd be J.

Poor guy, big time indigestion. Could be that he'll eat anything. An.y.thing. He loves food the same way I do Lilly, and -

Right.

Stay on track here.

I've looked everywhere. Under the sinks. Found the last Biore' strip I was looking for yesterday for a little At Home Facial, (but had to skip, couldn't find it at the time). Also located the extra toothbrushes Fox swore to me we didn't have. A hair clippy too big for me; I don't have enough hair. I have to buy the babier clippys. Moved on.

Peeked in my closet, moving aside all socks to be laundered - turned right side out, if you're curious, divided into white with no patterns, white with patterns, and black, with or without patterns; all the Easter Bunny things, (though I had a coronary, because J said I put the bunnies he got into the closet with the rest of the things for Easter that I need to apparently return, as they're not cool enough, and the bunnies are not there either) but no CVS bag to be found.

Now I'm worried not only about CVS bag, but fucking chocolate bunnies besides.

I'm thrilled my head is attached, as is my ass - I could leave either one of them places and not even know it. Honestly. I'm so annoyed I could just spit.

Only I don't spit. It's gross. Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl. Ewww.

Looked under the chair dresses in my room, found only bunnies there, but of the dust variety, and a salmon flavored dog chew.

Checked trunk of car; nada.

I've torn the house apart. Called Mag's, to ask if she had any inkling where I might have placed it; finally broke down and call J, admitted that a, I've lost the CVS bag with stuff for A, but, b, the bunnies are not in my closet. Interrupted his showing his children "how to play the Wii Starwars Game" - oh boy. My bad.

Went back out to car. Tried trunk. Again.

Divine intervention, Providence - whatever you choose to call it: Thank Christ. I found the bunnies. He'd hidden them in a Sport's Athority bag (or something, whatever, who cares, the bunnies are found) so I'd figured the first time, it was Fox's array of sporting equipment I've been required to obtain over the past several years. The back seat? Empty. Clean even.

Kind of impressive, honestly, no stray schoolwork, errant army guys, the prerequisite matchbox car; nary a stray crayon. I wouldn't go so far as to say fresh off the showroom clean, but pretty darn close. Backseat devoid of anything but air.

Also means, no bag.

This woman slaves away, in Afganistan, and I manage to lose her conditioner? Lotion? Facial Scrub? Wax strips for her legs? What kind of adoptive parent am I?! I simply refuse to send a box containing only a freaking sock bunny I whipped up with Mag's this morning. (They're soooo cutie though! We just fell over with how fabulously they came out..their little Easter bonnets with embellishments, bow ties for the bow, even wee buttons - I digress)

25 minutes pass.

An agonizing 25 minutes: ran a tub for Fox, fed him his meds (sinus infection, double ear infection) and started from the top. Kitchen. Living room. Bedroom. Loft. Moved on. Searched weird places: the garage, the freezer, the office, the playroom, in drawers, under the sofa, under the kitchen sink.

Feel like huge boob.

Who loses whole bags of things?

Apparently, that would be me.

Delivered a handful of matchbox cars to small child yelling request at me to dig under blocks in basket so he may play with them while floating away in soaking tub. Wished I were the one soaking away. Is very stressful to lose things. Am rather pissy.

Made third goddamn trip to the freaking car looking in front seat this time. Under his school bag, beneath the artwork he brought home today, you know, where I swear the bag is not and................................there it was.

Right there, in front of me the whole time, under my very nose.

I'd say it was in the very last place I looked, but, DUH, you always find things in the last place you look! I hate that expression. Would you still continue to look if you didn't find it in the last place? Hmm? Would it be called the last place? I think not.

Otherwise, you'd still be frantically looking, gearing up for the immanent stroke, sweating, swearing, with some loved one telling you to calm down, just sit and retrace your steps, figure out where you took the bag inside - a voice so calm that your palms itch to slap them, because after all, you're so pissed you lost it calming down is. not. an. option.

No longer have that problem. Have found bag of goodies. Bunnies of chocolate. Bonus Biore' strip.

I'm exhausted.

I'll put this bag in a safe place (read: on top of dining room table) for the night. I'm too tired to pack the bloody box.

I mean, I can't really lose it again, right?

Been thinking....

....that always waiting for the other shoe to drop isn't quite fair - to me, or, really, more so, the Lovely Jonathan.

So I did the Thinking About Our Relationship Thing (I'm guessing here, that only women truly do this, or at least admit to it), and here's what I've come up with:

Pros:

He makes me laugh

He's great with my son

He's been there, when I'm having one of those Not So Great Days

He knows how to play with my hair, properly

He's handy, at all the things I'm not

He can admit when he's wrong, and, can apologize

We.....fit.....together, in lots of ways

We have the same annoying habit of cutting each other off mid-stream

He calls when he says he will

I love it that he ends his text/emails with "xoxo"

He is so into food, I think he should be a food critic

He's a GREAT dad

A great friend

It's more of a turtleneck than a shawl, thus, moved from Con to Pro column

He's really good to me, like, really good to me

He knows all my favorite detail things, and does it, just because - I like to wear his tees, to bed - he just pops them off and leaves them for me on my bed - I love that! knows I like tea, with honey in the am, how I take my coffee, will watch Girl TV

We have similar goals, taste in houses, shoes, pets - we've already named a dog we don't own, to live in a house we've seen, we talk about, that has drainage issues

He's romantic, thoughtful, hasn't noticed my bath towels are threadbare and need to be replaced as they're scratchy

His kids are great

Con:

Long haired cat

He thinks my dog should sleep on the ground (maybe she should, but I'm not ready to cave on that quite yet)

He's not fond of my Lilly Pulitzer

He doesn't think I should feed Pucker Up off a fork

He tends to wear his shoes in my house, forgetting to take them off

He chews in his sleep - not, however, that I've a leg to stand on - I kept him up all night grinding mine, so I suppose, that's not a fair one to list

Not a terribly impressive Con List.

Fantastically impressive Pro List.

Final analysis:

I think this could really go somewhere. You know what clinched it for me? When I realized that I'd be willing to (Oh. My. God. I can't believe that I'm about to admit this) let his cat live with me, even visit, and keep a kitty box for her while she's here. (not that I'll clean it) I mean, if this is going to go somewhere, (Mag's and I have, um, already picked out a dress) Pucker Up and Glenna (or Bitch Kitty as I call her) need to learn to get along.

Okay, so if cat ever came here, or we had a cat together, I'd be doing lots and lots of laundry; but let's face it: if the only issues we have is that to live with a cat, I have to have stuff washed more frequently?

I'd say we've got a pretty good start.

Plus also?

I really like him.

So I've decided my Lent/Easter item I'm giving up? Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It's just quite possible he doesn't have any other shoes to drop.

*I know this, because he sent me a list of his shoes, so I could figure out if we'd have a closet space issue in our house we don't own, with drainage issues

Peace. On paper.

I found something I never thought I'd find, or hear:

An apology from B.

Gobsmacked. Totally gobsmacked. I suppose, I never read any of this novel when he composed it, gave it to me - I've a feeling I tucked it away in this box, never to be seen, as I was so sure I didn't want to read the contents. Along with the anniversary card, beginning with an apology. For being Two Guys. I'm curious.

But.

I'm still not sure I wanted to read the contents.

He admitted to being two Bri's, the Evil one, and The One I Fell In Love With - how he didn't do the work to get better, to be with me, but he swore I was worth it, Fox was worth it, the dogs were worth it; getting "better" was paramount to him, his life, his love. Went on about his and Fox's day, how the dogs had gas, my gorgeous danes, that he tosses into this novel as an afterthought; how heartbreakingly sad it is that Foxy cried for me, as much as he did.

I don't know how to feel. Or if I feel. Anything. At all.

Years slipped by since this all came to pass, but I've it in writing, that it was his issues, not mine. That he knew I loved him, tried to help him. He rebuffed me. Among other things.

He was contrite, accepted the blame which belonged to him; apologized for things he's claims he doesn't recall, but knows on some level he did, he said, he inferred all these things that shredded what could have been with us.

I'm trying to recall that the important part to take away here?

He was sorry.

He apologized. For being overbearing, micromanaging, domineering.

I'm in shock. Can hardly focus, or breathe; I've waited for so long for him to apologize for being such a .....jerk.....for all the things he did, and said; who he became, because he didn't want to do the work, but blamed it on me.

I have this apology in my hand.

In writing.

I don't know what to do.

Or think.

Or feel.

Nothing, mostly. But kind of relived. In the kind of way that I was waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting for this, the importance of it growing as each incident occurred, each nasty word spoken, I needed the apology more - and now that I have it?

I don't want it.

I don't believe it, even though I'm sure he meant it at the time. I don't believe he wanted to do the work properly, or that turing over a new leaf while turning the pages to a new calendar year was possible, that he truly thought I was worth it.

He proved I wasn't. Fox wasn't.

I wonder why it was so important to me to have it validated that it was his issues; I don't feel any better, so why have I continued to wait?

Maybe, so I can finally forgive myself, for allowing things to get to where they did, for how they turned out, for not being strong enough to demand a different outcome, a healthier outcome, for us all.

Finally forgive me, for not being able to save everyone, or anyone, even me.

If I forgive me though, then perhaps, I should forgive him, realize that when he wanted to try, yes, it was too late, but at least he'd finally wanted to try.

That I was important to him.

And more importantly, Fox was.

Sure, he's screwed up since then, but when that day comes, when Fox asks me again, why Daddy doesn't love him, why didn't he want to try, I can tell him, without lying, that Daddy did want to try, it was simply too late, for his dad and myself.

But maybe, just maybe, he'll still want to try for Fox.

Perhaps, if I'm lucky, Fox will find peace in a relationship with his dad, whereas I think I've discovered the piece that's eluded me for years:

Finding peace in our separation.

Our divorce.

Finding peace within me.

A note to you.....

.....and yes, I think you know who you are:

Honey, I'm so sorry to hear that Radar joined all our other furry friends up in Heaven, where there's romping and steak, much doggie humping going on, and never a day that's too rainy to run, slide, dig, or roll.

As it took me nearly three years to finally bid my loved ones their fond farewell, I can imagine how much it hurts to still listen for the click of nails on the floor, cold noses on warm skin first thing in the morning, snoring at all hours, (if he a snorer be), how you'll miss even the layer of fine fur gracing each flat surface. So damn hard to let them go, even when that time is upon us, knowing the "right thing" lies in laying them down one last time, your voice in their ear, that you loved them, you'll always love them, and miss them, knowing at last, they're at peace.

I tried to call, yesterday; left you a message on you voice mail, so that you knew, without a doubt that we remembered you in your moments of unendurable grief, that we're here, with a shoulder, or very absorbent tee for you to bury your nose in, wipe your mascara on, recall all those fabulous moments that steal your breath and break your heart, all over again.

There are those that are not pet people; they don't quite grasp the fact that being loved so unconditionally by someone (let's face it, really, we think they're mostly human) grants us the right to be ourselves, good, bad, ugly, or indifferent - they love us anyway. Always happy to see us (unless there's been some shoe eating in the interim, or perhaps some house redecorating with toilet paper - though that may only have been in my house), who've known us their whole lives (as Foxy likes to say) and not once, do they throw bad decisions back in your face.

Keep the things you want to, toss the ones your don't; the toys or leash, collar or bowl you're not sure on? Tuck away for a day when you can face them without tears standing in your eyes, your heart somewhere around your feet, your throat closed solid - for someday, you'll look at them and recall all the loving moments, the laughter and joy, the idiocy R brought to your life.

Know that our thoughts and prayers are with you, as you navigate a very rough road, with a tee at the ready, as your water bowl runneth over with grief - for R may be gone, but the paw prints remain on your heart forever.

Love you.

Eggzactly

Easter looms just around the corner, and this year? I'm determined to get it right. I think I've finally got the hang of egg boiling - yes, I admit, I can bake circles around Martha Stewart, whip up a 5 course meal using only the items in my pantry, a toaster oven and a microwave, diaper a child on the move without once slowing them down - but I cannot apparently, under any circumstance, boil an egg.

However, I think the boil has come full circle: there are really no other "mishaps" to be had with eggs. I think I've done them all.

Lesson #1: The Much Dreaded Second Boil: where yes, I've re-boiled already dyed eggs, upon discovering they weren't all the way hard as they should be (amazing what you find out when your dane eats one right off the counter) negating any possibility of eating them on Easter morning.

Lesson #2: a personal favorite, as I'd spent quite a bit of time on the prep...checked that I'd bought enough eggs before everyone was out, looked up the recipe to boil eggs (I shit you not), laid out the supplies, made the colors in cups the kids could get their wee hands into only to find that idiocy arrives at Easter right on time - I boiled brown eggs for dying, completely oblivious they were indeed brown until I'd already announced to two small children it was time to do eggs.

Pathetic that a 2 and 4 year old broke it to me: you cannot dye brown eggs.

Lesson #3: arrived on Easter morning itself, upon discovering great danes will indeed eat all eggs stupidly hidden by Easter Bunny in the middle of the night, in preparation of an early Easter morning. Even the innards of baskets and plastic eggs. Like stickers. Temporary tattoos. Sidewalk chalk. Bubbles. Easter grass wrapped around any candy that might have been present.

This year, I think I've got it down. Baskets are nearly ready to go, not just mine, but J's too - I got a wee tad carried away with all the cutie Easter stuff in the $1 section at Target - I love the $1 aisle!! - my egg boiling recipe at the ready, sea salt on hand, baby sized hand made drying rack at the ready. Dying kit to be picked up, along with all the items I saw in the William's Sonoma catalog to make really fabulous looking eggs - somehow, I think I know that the decoupage eggs won't happen, but you know, just in case J decides to get All Creative on me, I'm ready.

Eggs won't be hidden until just shy of say, 6am; Pucker Up will remain under lock and key until eggs are found. Having a hound led by her nose around actually is a plus - I'll not have a repeat of the much dreaded Lesson #4 - One Egg MIA. Found off the coast of the playroom, six months later, by inquisitive child who then cracked open offending egg.

Offensive it was. For weeks the smell lingered. Gah.

Mag's and I actually managed to blow eggs - the only thing either of us will blow, fyi - it only took a half dozen or so before we got it right. Too much pressure of the ear wax blowy thing(Mag's swears it's a nasal aspirator, like the ones they send home from the hospital for your wee one, not that anyone ever sticks that thing up their babes nose) either way? It blows the ass right out the egg; not enough agitation leaves yolk too intact, leading to egg ass blowing as well. Upon finally getting it right - yeah us!! - we then realized, much to our dismay, that yes, we've a repeat of Lesson #2: fucking brown eggs. Mag's and I agree - no more buying of brown eggs - let's face it, brown just looks dirty. And the fucker's won't die - er, dye. Yes. That's what we meant.

Sadly, I realized we've been upstaged by the I Swear He's Not Gay boyfriend, who tells me nonchalantly, that he has indeed, blown eggs before. Successfully. Bastard. Like he needed to rub that in - to top it off? He wasn't even married at the time, leading me to wonder, WTF was he blowing eggs for? I suppose, perhaps, the twins.

Still. Everyone knows we do not allow children to dye blown eggs.

As H proved. He cracked my one and only successfully blown egg only to tell me it was empty. No shit sherlock. I'd only spent a half hour or so with Maggie, being totally grossed out by egg goo leaking out the end like snot from a babies nose, and he goes and cracks it. Like he couldn't tell from picking it up that there was nothing inside? Nope.

Granted, it was brown. Thus, dirty. And undyable.

What have we learned? Simple: Maggie and I suck at eggs, we hate brown ones, and apparently? Lovely J is way better at Easter than I am.

Therefore.

I'll handle the shopping for the baskets, I'll hide eggs, I'll bake the dessert, to have with Creepy Aunt H; but I defer the remainder of Easter to those in the know. Lovely Jonathan.

He can buy the eggs, boil the eggs, dye the fucking eggs, and I'll hide them.

And I'll take the credit for the one Easter I've finally managed to pull off.

And there you have it.

What is that smell?!

My house smells. Of something sweetish and sickish, sort of noxious with a faint whiff of what could be a soothing aroma - it's right on the tip of my tongue - it's. Oh. Damn.

Maple syrup.

Not the real stuff, (the kids won't eat that) but Eggo syrup (with 25% less sugar, should anyone be keeping track)....perplexing, as we've strayed away from breakfast for dinner straight into Whatever Falls Out Of The Cupboard - not that our dinner eating habits are really the point. A week passed, without any syrup consumption, no doggie treats baked using syrup, certainly no Random Syrup Sightings. (Obviously we're not including the random sampling of chocolate syrup - an entire food group unto itself, which takes place standing directly in front of the open fridge door. If you're going to eat directly out of the fridge, have some respect. Leave the door open.... But then, everyone does that, right?)

Yet, walking through the front door? One is accosted by the scent of syrup. The Not Quite Right smell of syrup. Kind of nearly rancid syrup. Turning of the stomach overwhelmingly mapely syrup.

In short?

Yuck.

I'd rather my house smell of wet, drooling dog. I know how to combat that. Loads of practice in that department. I've actually considered moving the Dog Couch up here, just to mask the damn syrup odor.... I'm not sure I want those two specific odors fighting for breath in the same space. Lit candles, burned matches, airspray - so far? Nothing doing. Maple syrup lingers in the air with the ferocity of humidity during a Boston summer heatwave - it's oppressive, cloying, sticky.

More frustrating? I can't even find the well-spring of said smell. Wiped down the walls. The cabinet holding all bits of dog toys, mittens, mufflers and scarves, the knewl post got a good passing of the bleach wipe as well.

Still there.

Did the floors. As in, swept, vacuumed, mopped, even had J move the fridge so I could clean under it! kind of floor cleaning. Through the dining room. Wiped down the dining table, again, with windex - top and underside - as sticky fingers on the bottom of glass could I suppose, spread syrup hither and yon. Wiped down leather chairs, door knobs, stair rail - even washed the bottoms of the shoes in the hallway!

Still. Freaking. Smells.

While the exact location escapes me, I can say, it stems from some nebulous place in the hallway. The kitchen doesn't smell funny. Nor the living room, or, thank Christ, my room. Just the hallway. I've managed to avoid actually physically cleaning the stairs in the same fashion as the rest of the hardwood floors for nearly a year now, so perhaps this is simply their way of getting my attention to clean them thoroughly - however, I'm afraid that if I succumb to the call, scrub the stairs and risers clean, the goddamn scent of syrup will prevail, leaving me sweaty for no real reason.

Because really, who looks to judge you by the shining cleanliness of your stairs?

Why scrub that which no one pays attention to now, when one could wait until, say, October? Clearly, other cleaning trumps that any day. Putting clothing away leaps to mind here - though honestly, I'm rather coming to like the self designed, man-made closet in the living room. A hip, modern take on Sheer Laziness. Plus also? I find carrying overstuffed baskets of clothing upstairs exhausting. Yes, I'm admitting I'm so out of shape that a basket of laundry upstairs leaves me nearly hyperventilating. However, I have a plan: Maybe I'll actually meet someone who likes to iron and put clothes away in their rightful places, so I don't have to. Genius idea! I figure, I can do without an extra living room chair for about a year, before it starts to annoy me - easy now, as no big holidays are coming, thus fewer visitors.

Not that I'm inviting guests while the house smells the way it does - especially as Mag's detests the smell of syrup. She visited the other day - I left all the doors and windows open, even as the temp dropped in the late afternoon, freezing out Mag's on the sofa, but I dared not close the doors lest she bolt earlier than I'd anticipated. Really, she's that not fond of the smell of syrup. I can't say as I disagree; unfortunately, I live here, battling the horrendous haunting of Eggo.

It's sad, really. Maple syrup used to evoke visions of mile high stack cakes, big, fluffy waffles, sausages fat and hot from the oven, Sunday mornings with rowdy kids, an open paper, Sunday Morning tv show on, a partially drunk cup of coffee to my left, hair a-mess of something fierce - right now? It's invoking my gag reflex.

I'd rather be overwhelmed at the door by the scent of decaying fruit, the Standing I Forgot To Flush Presents left in the downstairs bath, even dog gas. Pucker Up passes some serious gas. Being near her Business End is not for the faint of heart - she's let quite a few blast away from her lower intestinal tract recently, none of the eye-watering-dry-heave-causing beauties dislodged the strangle hold of maple syrup.

I'm bringing out the Big Guns: Fox's fresh shoes, fresh from his feet, right after a good long sweaty run. I'll leave them, their gangrenous odor wafting out, tendrils as seen on Scooby-Doo rising into the air, withering plants, sending all living beings running for cover - my only thought:

If that doesn't kill it, nothing will.

Backwash

Fox stole my water.

In the grand scheme of the World According To You, this may not matter all that much. In The World According To Me?

Matters a lot.

Now, my water, the water I lovingly poured over icy cold ice in the tall glass for myself, to go with the "dinner" I concocted from the spare contents of my pantry: yes, that meant Easy Mac and Pop Tarts, was offered to my son, before he left the kitchen. I would have happily poured myself another one. He didn't "care for one".

Thank you for using such lovely manners.

He got thirsty. Naturally. Easy Mac has enough salt in it to de-ice all the roads in our town, and maybe the next town over. I'm not terribly fond of Easy Mac, but I admit, it has a time and place in life - it qualified as something I needn't actually chew, but could swallow without much issue. Enter: glass of water. My water.

Not to harp here, but when I offered him a glass, of his own, to do with as he pleased? He didn't care for one...but my water looks so refreshingly ...well....refreshing, that he simply couldn't resist! I'm a good mom. I shared my water with him, only to discover that in The World According To Him, this means he drinks all the water, after supplying it with a fair amount of Claiming Water Backwash.

The trick lies in the backwash: just enough to piss me off royally, setting me up to refuse drinking anymore Backwashed Water With Floaties, because he's nearly 8 dammit, not 3 thus leaving entire glass of icy cold, already prepared, out of the kitchen in front of the tv water for his sole consumption.

Dude.

Not cool.

He knows what he's doing too - he's no dummy, my child. Oh, no. He's done this before, usually when we're having a "picnic" dinner on the sofa, lest he miss anything - like the annoying commercial from J. G. Wentworth, "877-CASH-NOW" - to which he enjoys singing along. He sucked the ice clear of water, and offered me the remaining chips, coated with Easy Mac Slime.

I've ingested so much salt, I'm currently turning into a pillar of it, drying up before his very eyes. We're at  an impasse: I used You Kill It You Fill It, but I'd guess I'd be waiting til the morning for water at the rate he's moving. Yes, I could get it myself, but then we're not really learning anything about sharing are we? Hmm?

I didn't think so.

I think instead, we've learned Mommy Is A Sucker Who Won't Touch Backwashed Water, which means  he can have the entire glass to himself. I think we've also learned that we both turn into stubborn asses when we're tired, cranky, and already settled into the couch for the evening - a trait I'd like to say he got from his father - but sadly, the tilt of that nose, the snotty twitch to the head? That's all me.

I've thought about stooping to his level: going to get a popsicle, only one, making him get off the couch too to get one. (soooo grown up of me, I know!) With my luck? Tonight will be the one night he doesn't care if he has one or not. I'll have gained no ground.

Instead, I'm sitting here bitching, getting thirstier by the second, waiting for my Man In Training to get his butt off the couch, and get his poor mama a glass of water. The dog? Rubbing it in. She's in the kitchen, slurping her water, deliberately loudly! so I  know she has water and I don't.

Fuck it.

I'll go get my own water. With fresh ice. And a popsicle.

He'll ask me why I've my Annoyed Face on, I'll tell him, he'll look at me with a totally blank stare, and say in that Man Hurt Voice, gee, all you had to do was ask.

AAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGFFFFFFFFFFHHHHHH!

Right this very moment?

I still have no water.

Aha! The phone rang, ending the Great Stand Off of 2010.

How sad am I? I've entered into a stand off with my seven year old son!

Am now sufficiently cowed to go get my own water.

Putting my cranky self to bed.

Maybe, if I'm lucky, Prince Charming will call, take my mind off my irritation, and all will again, be Right With The World According To Me.

Get Well Soon Cards.....

Whining is unladylike. It's annoying. It's soooo beneath me.

Except, for, maybe, today.

My jaw is killing me. So yes, I knew I needed to do something about it; my dentist has told me, my primary care doc had told me....go do something about that horrific TMJ, that leaves you snapping and popping every time you chew. Cereal for some reason? Pops uncontrollably. Maybe as its the first thing in the morning; maybe not. Not only is it uncomfortable for you? But those of us around you, we'd like to enjoy a meal with you where our focus is conversation, not how in hell you make those noises with your jaw.

Plus also? It's right in my ear, so I hear it. It's gotten loud, and, um, the noises are different. Scarier. Ouchier. Sort of....squishier. Hmm. I wondered if I should give that any thought. Decided not to.

Naturally, being me, I've waited until my jaw totally locked up, and I can't open my mouth, and I'm on the phone with the office in tears, before going to see someone. My own fault I feel as horrifically as I do; but seriously, who takes time out of their day to get their TMJ looked at? Like anyone really follows the advice doctors give us. Exam sounds so ugly that it Rated low on the Priority Totem Pole of experiences I'd want to enjoy.

I put it up there with putting clothes away. Since currently, a majority of items that are supposed to live upstairs are resting quite comfortably in the blue chair in my living room, I've decided to strategically arrange all folded items, as though it was a conscious design choice, not an indicator of Extreme Laziness.

I used to joke with a girlfriend, that when company was coming, and you've no time to clean, put up Get Well cards on the mantle - it'll forgive any and all Dust Bunny Discoveries, and Skid Marked Toilets you may have lurking in your house. Pretty cool trick, as it works.

(FYI: with an almost eight year old boy? All my toilets contain skid marks. Add in a shedding beagle, it looks as though it snows dog fur. Daily. )

I've taken the Flexiril, as they've recommended - wow, that stuff works like a charm! However, when taken, I have to plan to do absolutely nothing, as it not relaxes the muscles in my jaw, (sort of, not totally) but every other muscle I have. Including my brain. Double vision generally ensues - conversations end abruptly as apparently, I come to a full stop mid sentence. (Sorry Jen! That happened to you yesterday on the phone with me!)

I kind of enjoyed the smoothie diet - for like three nanoseconds - sucking breakfast lunch and dinner up a straw holds very little allure at the moment. Even though Mag's brought some fab bendy straws, and I've put Carnation Instant Breakfast in there, for some protein. I know why old people are bitchy - their food has no texture. It could also be their hideous perfume - but I'm going with they can't eat chips, or cookies, or all the really great crunchy things I so enjoy. Like lettuce, on a sandwich. Or toast.

There's no kissing, not the Real Kind, and I like the Real Kind. A lot. Am wondering if J is going to be less sympathetic as time passes, realizing that he has to kiss me like he might in the 1920's, as kissing does take two, and he's big on kissing as well. If my jaw gets wired shut? Oh boy.

Summary? My jaw hurts. My face hurts. The ear that the swelling is swelling into hurts; I have a headache, and I stubbed my toes on the edge of the shower stall, because I wanted to shower my face with hot, toasty water, and forgot just how loopy I get when taking the Flexiril. I broke a nail putting the blender together, spilled smoothie down the side of the stove, and burned my hand yesterday on Easy Mac - my thumb still throbs.

There.

Am done whining.

I'd say that I'm going to think positively! Take action! Make today productive! Like maybe I should tackle the Blue Chair Design today, dismantle it!

Let's not get carried away, shall we?

I think a little Flexiril could make even that design look pretty groovy.

It's kicking in. I've not once in my life used the word groovy.

Hmm. Not bad - from Whiney Mess to Loaded Groovy all in about a half hour.

I peeked in the bathroom....and have decided.... My mantle looks particularly empty...... where did I put all those Get Well Soon cards?

Ink stains.

My Lilly Pulitzer pen that I adore, you know, the pink one? The one I use to write all my important work notes?

Blew up. In my handbag. Barely missing my wallet.

I didn't realize this, naturally, until I was seated across from essentially my boss, at a table, only to find that seven of my fingers were coated in sticky, dark blue ink. Ink is slippery at first, but soaks into ones winter-dry hands rather quickly. Becomes icky in the sticky very quickly. At first, I thought maybe the end was loose, so I kinda of twisted it around, allowing evidently, all the ink to come pouring out of all places in a pen ink can escape. Not pretty. I tried to catch it, not that I had any clue what I would do with a handful of ink, but I did know that ink on khaki pants is not a great plan. I learned something else too.

It doesn't come off.

Not with soap. Or toothpaste, which the lovely lady at a shop I popped into on the ride home told me might work. I used acetone, or nail polish remover - it dulled slightly, but didn't take it off the nails either. Seven digits are blue. The other three might be jealous. Or simply embarrassed by the ink stained other seven.

Plus also? That was my lucky pen.

Jonathan doesn't believe in lucky pens. He believes in any pen that writes; ones that are free? Love those. He'll take any slogan, any company pen, pop it in the nerd pocket, and he's good to go. Luck is what you make of it or something along that line is what he said over lunch - but really? Luck is like faith. You have to believe in that which you cannot see.

I believe in lucky pens.

Lucky pens, I tried to explain, are confidence, in Lilly Pulitzer pink; it's girly, yet still professional, so I can use it in any meeting. I'm not worried about it getting stolen; I'm the only Lilly Snob I know, so it'd be easy to locate it, should anyone just happen to wander off holding it in their grubby paws. Most importantly, however, it was comfortable to write with - none of that third finger pinching that some of those cheapy pens inspire. No hand cramps, as the barrel isn't too small or too big; did I mention, it's pink? And girly? And lucky?

I feel naked without it.

Sort of like Dumbo and his feather - sure, he gets it at some point, that he doesn't need it to fly, but he feels like he does. Not, mind you, that I'm comparing myself to a baby elephant - there are some very clear distinctions: I don't do feathers. They make me sneeze, birds carry all sorts of ugly germs, my ears are cute and adorable, not big and flappy. My best friends do not, in any way resemble crows, though one does enjoy wearing a vest; we do not, no matter how many may disagree with us, belong in a circus. Just because we're the Lucy and Ethel of our town, doesn't mean we belong in a circus. Sadly, the saggy skin on Dumbo's ass? How his "pants" sort of bag on the top of the thigh? So he can grow an ass into them?

Yeah, my pants do that too.

Hmmmm.

Damn.

I resemble a stupid baby elephant that needs a lucky feather to hoist his baggy ass off the ground to do what he's supposed to do.

No matter what J says.

That pen was lucky.

So what if I placed my faith in something tangible, pink, girly - something so me - my talisman of faith in myself. Men get their balls.

I can have my Lilly pen.

Just Me Thing.

There are times and places for little white lies.

One of them lies in the whole I Realize You've Slept With Other People But I'd Like To Think That Some Of This Is A Just Me thing. You know, all those cute, adorable little gestures that you (or, say, me) finds incredibly compelling, and sexy that he does with Just Me. Only Me.

As in, No One Else Has Done That. It's a Just US thing.

Do note the importance of Just Us.

And, the more important, Just Me.

I realize J's slept with other people. He has children. While Foxy remains completely convinced that I've "never made the noises that daddy's girlfriend makes" in bed, (and boy, if she's screaming "who's your daddy" he's spot on) he didn't arrive here in a stork sling; just reading the blog he can glean the idea that he's not my first.

But I'd like to be the First At Something. Something not done with anyone else, so there's no Ghosts Of Girlfriends Past looming or lurking around. I so don't want to end up doing that mental comparison in my head....was she better at this? Or that? Was she fatter, thinner, bigger boobs, ones that didn't succumb to the rigors of vigorous nursing that my son did, so they hang nearly to my knees? I don't want to wonder, if this nebulous she was any more attractive, cuter, more adorable, or better in bed than I am. I can be insecure enough without any help!!!

So J? When I ask you, all snugged up into your chest, smelling your neck, if this is a Just Me thing?

The answer is unequivocally yes.

I don't want to know that something I thought was a Just Me Thing turns into a I Did It With Everyone Thing. It's bad enough that essentially, I've slept with his ex-wife in two ways, (obviously, he slept with her, but so did an ex of mine - so...ewww) but to know, without a doubt that a tiny little (hmmm, tiny's not quite the right word for it) something that I thought was me, turns out to be the same something that lots of other people did?

So not cool.

In the same way, (I will deny this, to my dying day, FYI) we know we look fat in certain pants. Or dress. Or whatever. We ask you anyway. We seek the reassurance that you still find us attractive, over everyone else, even if our pants are ...tighter...say...than they might have been. In the same fashion, that I want to think that there's something left, that is a new, first thing with me. And him.

A Just Us thing.

You know?

Pride.

Funny, all the little things, that I've finally managed to accomplish about which I'm proud - I'm proud of me:

1. I went on a date, and wore something that I liked and felt good in; even if he didn't care much for the outfit. I wasn't dressing to impress him. (If you've been keeping up at all, you know I dressed to scare him off, but...well, that didn't occur. He's still here. Still lovely.)

2. Stood up for myself. (even if it was with J, in my kitchen, on a really little thing)

3. Asked M for my things back: not because I wanted on needed an excuse to see him, but because I finally got it: I deserve better. I'm worth more.

4. Organized my closet, with K, bless her heart, got rid of things that only made me feel...ugly...and kept all the stuff that helps me feel smart, and beautiful, and whole.

5. I baked a huge, three tiered lemon cake, for me - though I shared it with some of my closest pals, and J's mom, who was under the weather - but I didn't ask what everyone else wanted first. I did it for me.

6. Knew J was angry with me, and while I shook the whole time he Talked It Out Like An Adult (I took notes, by the way, on how to do that) we had the conversation. Which didn't end with me in tears, hiding, waiting for him to be un-angry anymore.

7. Got really angry, using something other than sarcastic bitter, ugly remarks about others and lashing out as a coping skill - I mean, I did some of that too - but I've found more constructive ways than shoving it all in a closet and waiting for it to go away on it's own.

8. Did my own eyebrows the other night, and actually managed a really great job, even though I was doing it with my glasses on (makes it way harder, and, you get wax all over the glasses too) as I couldn't recall exactly, earlier, why it was I was going to keep my contacts in. So I took them out as I slipped into After 5s.

I've looked at the list; I'm embarrassed to admit, that these things don't come naturally to me - I'm always the consummate people pleaser. Everyone is always more important that I am - except, they're not. I can't take care of anyone else, if I don't take care of me.

Not that I have to bring me my own flowers or anything: J's quite sweet about that - though I can tell him I don't like tiger lilly's, and he won't be upset. Not entirely sure yet, why Lovely J hasn't done the Great 100 Yard Dash for the hills - however, I'm keeping him around, if he'll have me, as I like him.

My final word on the subject.

How dare M make ME out to be the bad guy! How dare he tell me I shouldn't be bitter - being hurt leads to bitterness - he should know, isn't he the king of that? Isn't that why we got to where we did? Because he was a bitter, old man - there, I said it! he was OLD!- who didn't want to work on his own personal demons. Just point out mine. Jesus. I'm so..........gobsmacked that he's the balls to tell me that when I simply ask for my things back that I'm comparing him to B - if that was my plan, I'd have spelled it out so clearly a blind illiterate couldn't have missed it! I can't hurt him the way he hurt me - when IS HE GOING TO GET THAT?!?

That this isn't about HIM for a change, it's about ME. What I NEED. And I'm so sorry that doesn't fit in his fucking plans, but it just doesn't. I'm not going to be his pal, tell him how to save his fucked up "relationships" with his fuck buddies that he says he loves, or give him any help with his fucked up kids. I don't want or need a drinking partner who makes me feel lousy- I'm sorry to a certain extent that he feels the need to make sure all of the blame lands in my lap - hmm, projecting a wee tad are we M? - but make no mistake, I did not leave him. He left me.

He made his bed, picked his bed mate, now he can go fuck her til the cows come home for all I care.

He wants to "make things better"? Try a fucking apology. A PROPER one:

I'm sorry I cheated on you. Lied to you. Made you feel like shit. Treated you with disdain, disregard, and worse? Took you for granted. I'm sorry I had a hand in driving you around the bend, and had the heartlessness to just leave you there, when I made promises I couldn't keep, and was too cowardly to tell you to your face. With the respect and dignity that you deserved. I miss you. I wish I'd told you I loved you when I did. You deserved better. You do deserve better. I'd like to be your friend, and I'll be here, in case that day ever arrives.

But, I won't hold your shit hostage anymore, I won't treat you like you don't exist, or aren't worth it, or are beneath me, even though I said those words to you, out loud, ripping you so badly you couldn't even breathe. I'm sorry for all the things I did that I KNEW would hurt you the most, and I did them anyway. I'd like you to forgive me, but I'll accept it when I hear that you won't. Ever. Forgive. Me.

Because what I did WAS and IS unforgivable. But you, Lis, you were never forgettable.

There. We both know that day will never come. So he'll just have to suck it up, and deal with it that I no longer want any part of him. Why would I? Someone who could treat me with such disdain, and act as though I don't even exist - because he is dead to me.

Dead men can't hurt me.

Ever again.

Always, Never, Only........What If?

I always said I was never going to remarry.

I always said Fox would be my only child.

Damn always and never.

Suddenly, I'm not sure sure. About either of those things. Stupid always and never. Anytime those words are used? The Big Guy laughs really hard, because honestly? Those aren't decisions one can easily make, when only say, in the not-quite-mid-thirities. Not on the downward side to f-f-f-f-orty, at least not yet; but far enough along, that 30 seems ages ago.

Babies, with their new baby smell, their tiny fingers, baby toes, little noises, scrunched up faces. How cuddly they are, warm, tender, bringing out that very comforting Mom Rock, that soothes even the grownup that's swaying. Little clothes, tiny shoes, first smile, first .....everythings. Only this time around, maybe I'd not do it alone. Maybe, someone would recall all those details with me. Hold my hair while I puked for like 93 months. Didn't make fun of me for waddling around - let's face it, Mag's'd have a field day with the baby shower. It might even have the wandering storks I've always wanted!! Someone else to share the business end of the camera with - so maybe this time, I'd be in the pictures too.

But then....Babies? At my age? With a nearly 8 year old? Do I want to be one of those moms, dragging a wee infant to football, along with the puppy, the drinks, snacks, helmut and blanket out to the field? Up at the ass crack of dawn, to get to the Away games? Shoot, just up at the crack of dawn with a screaming infant? Diaper duty, midnight feedings, daycare, strollers, baby seats, bottles, sippy cups? Finding a home for a high chair?

Since I won't be doing the Baby Thing while Not Married this time around....that leaves the Entire Marriage Thing front and center as well. Trust is so not easy for me, so do I have it in me to walk down the aisle again? What if he already has kids? There's the blending, again, with adding perhaps another half-sibling in for good measure? Talk about going from the pan to the fire - one child to...who knows how many.

That Cinderella Me, with the Rosy Glasses (read: complete blinders) thinks maybe, just maybe, I could pull it all off. Be that stay at home mom that Foxy'd love me to be, bake all the time, H's and my Business Idea would take off, my office, snugged up to the nursery....the house vacuumed everyday, with my fabulous in-home-central-vac, dinner every night the way I'd always pictured it. Cocktail parties, a husband I actually want to come home to me, to sleep next to me at night - even if he makes chewing noises while he sleeps. Monogramed whiskey glasses. Holiday's when the table is set for more than two.

Except. Let's face it: I don't live in a fairy tale.

I have a darn near 8 year old, who's idea of slowing down is taking a shower, and throwing his smelly socks at his dog. The condo? Only has two bedrooms. Adding another baby, not to mention the pre-req family that went with it? Won't fit here. I suck at moving.

I've searched, scoured texts, rambled through the ancient stories told to young'uns here and abroad, and not a one of them stars the Single Mom Princess, With Small Gassy Dog, who finds Prince Charming, with his own munchkins, and Lives Happily Ever After.

While pondering this? I'm witnessing my version of Parental Hell: I can't tell the difference between the gas of the dog, and Foxy's feet; he's throwing (though I've REPEATEDLY asked him not to) a tennis ball (that belongs in the dryer - cuts drying time, thus electric bill) up at the edge of the loft wall. A trick I detest. I ask him to stop? I get that snotty I'm Damn Near A Pre-Tween Voice, that sets my teeth on edge.

See? How to make this decision? Looking at Fox right this very second I think, this, THIS is the reason I have only one.

Take out the always and never?

Leaves me with maybe, could be, might, and the tiny opening for the chance to make a different choice.

The tiny part is what bothers me - the disappointment of it not occurring, after setting my heart on it?

That's where never and always are, well, always safe, in that they never leave room for change.

Blasted always and never.

Dare I even contemplate the What If?

Moms, Coffee Makers, and loads of Luck

Spent the weekend with J. A packed one, to tell the truth.

Yet, I still can't find anything wrong with J.

Seriously, I've really looked. Thoroughly. So far? I've come up empty. He spent the night last night (scandalous, I realize, but I do, indeed, sleep better with him around) after a day spent meeting his mother (who is just lovely), hitting an auction house in Boston, (with his mom in tow), a bite of lunch, and the Round the World Revisit The Past To Bury It Trip.

Who offers to go on that? I wasn't even positive I wanted to be there.

He insisted that I should not go alone; he was already in the car, Pucker, hopefully shedding pounds at fat camp, we had plenty of time.

Big breath.

We went out to the Dream Home. The new owners haven't done much; the matching pink dogwoods I'd planted are still there, on either side of the deck, the weeping cherry, still in the front yard, the baby peach tree, gracing the huge expanse of empty front lawn. They've added the lights out to the end of the drive as I'd wanted; sitting there, with J close at hand (literally, in hand) I waited for that keening noise to come from nowhere - the one I'd stocked up for this very day.

Never arrived.

The house leaves me.......cold. Indifferent. Yes, I miss certain things: my kitchen, my central vacuum, playing with Fox on the front lawn, the puppies....but I don't miss the work, the heartache, the sadness surrounding the house. Revisiting my Den of Hiding Out, where, let's face it, I hid for a long time, til thrown out, if we're honest - he kept asking how I felt. If I was okay.

I was. I am.

We tackled Raymond Street next; I'm so pleased that a family has moved in. Truly. They've a little guy too, maybe two or so; they've managed to get the permit to put in a driveway that we couldn't get while we lived there - it looks like a happy home. Not my Ugly House. Not B's parent's house. It's their house. I'm happy for that.

Though I'm sorry for them too - that damn bamboo that I spent so much time and effort trying to kill? Still there.

We went, picked up Pucker Up, settled into After 5s right after the 5pm hour, only to hang around the house, just us. Very cozy. Comfy. I love that I don't have to be perfectly groomed all the time (hell, not even most of the time lately!!) as we're doing one project or another, or simply enjoying each other's company. Watched tv, the totally oblivious We've No Clue What We're Watching, Or Why, ate popcorn for dinner, snugged up together. A perfect night.

We ended up going to his house, early this am (okay, have found one flaw: the man gets up at 7am on a SUNDAY for crying out loud!) to do a little straightening - funny thing, to me, straightening up includes a quick scrub down in the bath, putting away the toys, the vacuuming, running laundry and dishwasher. Heavy cleaning? Scrubbing baseboards. (clearly, not done for a long time in THIS house) - I suppose, he thought I'd gotten carried away. Maybe I had.

I was only trying to be as helpful to him, as he is to me. Kind. Thoughtful. It was one less thing he had to worry about, when the kids came home. We didn't see it the same way: apparently, I've put my foot into it, right and proper. So I took Pucker Up for a stroll, (when in doubt, leave the house, right?) we left to go to my house, and there he presents me with yet another gift: the Kuerig coffee maker I've wanted for years. With all the little cuppies to make the coffee, tea, cocoa.

Now the tears came.

I didn't deserve the house I'd had, or - all those old demons reared their ugly little horned heads - It's....too much. He's too much- too freaking perfect, I'm not entirely sure I deserve him. I don't know how to keep up. He's sweet. Makes me laugh. Holds my hand, all the time. Like he's not going to let go. Here he was, angry with me for missing his little hints that he didn't want me going all Domestic Goddess on his house - and he still shows up with something he knew I'd adore?

It wasn't (and isn't) about the gifts...it's the other stuff. He wasn't angry at me still that I'd screwed up and not listened to what he was really saying? No lecture? How am I supposed to know what to expect, if he's so freaking....grown up...all the time?! He talks to me about what bothers him; wants to talk about what bothers me - even when I'm quite sure I don't want to discuss it, thank you very much.

I can't imagine, most days, why he'd want to put up with me - my array of Leftover Stray Baggage, so much some days it feels like it requires it's own claim check no matter where we go - he's patient, loving, knows how to end a discussion, and make up. Properly. I suck at that. It's a skill I hope I can learn fast enough. Or at all.

He keeps asking me how did he get so lucky to find me?

Funny, I keep thinking I'm the lucky one.

Fat Fairy visited....

Taffy, my neighbors dog, down the cul-de-sac from us, (thankfully a basset hound) literally couldn't get up to walk on her own. She needed to be lifted. She was huge. I'd walk her, as she was the only thing close to my "own" dog I'd have for a bit yet....she hardly made it down the driveway. It was downhill. I've always said, I'd never have a puppy that looked like that.

Careful what you say.

I mean, I suppose I knew that Pucker Up was a little....chubby.

Festively Plump covered it for a while...only the holidays have come and gone. I put her on diet food - a puppy! on diet food!! I cut back on treats. The only thing she was losing? Her manners. Training became tougher, using the dangling carrot method. As is, Real Carrots. Less interesting than say.....anything else. She won't lay down for a carrot...not that I might either, but that's not the point. I don't have to lay down on command.

AM came for dinner, with G, and Gracie, their lovely, lithe, fully in shape (the right one) Shepador (german shepard, lab, and maybe something else) - first words out of her mouth? Oh My God! She's so fat! (enter laughing) She's put on so much weight!!

And.

Well.

She has.

Watching her attack both her dinner, and Gracie's, which she's never really done before, showed me a greedy side that left me speechless. Gracie, who usually happily eats Pucker's food, turned her nose up at the high quality low fat offerings in Pucker's bowl - not that Pucker minded. She took that down too!

I'm embarrassed. I walk her, wondering if folks are making the same kind of noises in their heads that I have done, when seeing a heavy pup - what are they feeding that poor thing? Twinkies? Ding Dongs? Bless it's little heart...not enough exercise....lazy ass owner.

I want to say, No, I swear! I run with her! She's just Fluffy! (except she has short hair, so that excuse falls rather short) or...um...big boned. She's not. She's just plain fat.

Bless her heart.

I cut down on her food; she's resorted to Revenge: she ate my photo portfolio, sections of the wall, the bottom of a cabinet. Chair legs, table legs all bear the frustrated marks of the starving. Which, clearly, she's not. Seated? Fat hangs over her legs from her hips; I nearly threw out my back picking her up the other day to trim her nails.

I'm not sure how I missed how heavy she'd gotten - even after losing some weight! - maybe, because I still see her as the less than 3 pound puppy Mag's and I picked up. Not the...30+ monster she's become.

The sad part? She's lost weight, so I can only imagine AM's comments, had she not already located a bit of her waist again. She no longer bears as much resemblance to a root beer barrel with legs; however, she certainly won't qualify for "svelte" anytime soon. She looks even fatter, standing next to Gracie - who has long hair to boot!!

We've taken up running, her and I; neither one of us terribly fond, however, her four legs quit long before my two. I've located two of my abs; she located a short cut through the woods, after slipping out of her collar.

She in for a surprise, because I read online how to turn my tub, with the jets, into a swimming pool for pups; less issue with her joints, especially as she's carrying some extra weight, all I need? Either a "floatation device", or, stand there and hold a towel under her tummy so her paws won't hit the bottom.

I suppose, I'll be working on my arm strength.

I swore, I'd never have a Taffy. I won't.

Not before she's even hit her first birthday.

Fore Ever.

Some idiot in Boston (here are our tax dollars at work folks) filed legislation, Senate 1777, complete with debate needed (March 2nd, should anyone besides me care) on whether or not any male child under the age of 18 should be allowed to be circumcised.

In case you don't recall my stance on this, hoods belong on the back of sweatshirts, or in the ghetto. Now, I must admit, I'm trying to get beyond this, as well, Lovely J is....um...hooded....but here's the rub (do pardon the untimely pun)-

Under this provision, barring medical necessity (what constitutes medical necessity? I got my son done because to me, that WAS a medical necessity) - anyone violating the ban?Possible 14 year prison sentence, and an unstipulated fine. Is the fine contingent upon how much you had removed? Does this moron really want to encourage the back-door circumcision business leading to a bunch of poorly trimmed, disfigured male wannabes running around?

Not to mention, possibly emotionally scarring your poor, misshapen little peanut as all his friends have nice clean, easy to see penis's, and his is well.....burrowing around in his drawers like an anteater.

Apparently, the penis pendulam swings back and forth continuously, has since the late 1800s, when snipping was thought to curb masturbation, which at the time, was thought to be harmful. I'll bet you the wives totally disagreed: quite frankly, there is a time and a place for the Go Do It Yourself Honey method. It's on the nights I've not shaved my legs, or have a headache, or he's been an asshole, and I don't feel like putting out. I could think of other reasons, but it's getting late, and honestly, that list could be long, and possibly endless.

So I read on, gobsmacked that an entire section of the paper was devoted to this guy -but in the interest of journalistic fairness, let's take a look, shall we, at the particulars:

Benefits of losing the hood:

Easier genital hygiene.

Slightly lower risk of urinary tract infections.

Less likelyhood of penis cancer. (that would be plenty reason for me)

Prevention of foreskin infections as well as phimosis (a condition that makes fore skin retraction impossible- ewwww)

A slightly lower risk of getting STD's, including HIV (which, accordingly to the article, causes AIDS. So glad they cleared that tidbit up - do note the sarcasm.)

A much HIGHER F rating. (read: you get laid a hell of a lot more often, not to mention more bj's and road head, but I digress)

Benefits of keeping hood:

*I can't think of any, but, let's check the article for their opinion

Risks include short term bleeding and infection, though, it does point out, that choosing a good snipper is important - not too short, not too long, just right is the key.

Apparently, it "provides additional sexual pleasure", and, the hood provides some protection to the head of the penis.

I kind of thought that's what boxers were for; but no one asked me.

So let me get this straight: of all the things we need to fix in this country, in this state, this idiot chooses to spend our valuable time and money debating the merits of snipping, or not. Making it mandatory to leave it unsnipped, even if the fore skin is so long it drags on the ground, making locating the actual penis impossible. (That might have gone a tad far, but still)

I'd have thought balancing the Big Dig budget might have come ahead of this issue; and I would be mistaken.

I sort of think, no, I honestly think that if I have to allow for mandatory enlistment in the armed forces, should World War III ever occur, I should, at the very least be allowed to choose if he dies with a hood on, or not. If you ask around? And I did, (thanks, J, for being honest) even those still sporting the hood snip their little ones.

There's the issue, in the flesh, so to speak: it's the right, for every parent, to choose whether to leave their little guy as God delivered him, or spiff him up a wee tad.

As for J? I still haven't found out if we're talking 1940's shawl collar, or mock turtle neck, but one of these days, I'll get around to finding out. Not sure what I'll do if it's more....than, say...less.

Then again, maybe, since I won't be breaking any laws, I can talk him into getting that snipped when the Other Big Snip occurs.

A two-fer, if you will.

If I'm really lucky? He'll dip it in platinum.

To remind me, I'm his, Fore Ever.