Finding Trust on Rt 30

Had coffee with a girlfriend - her birthday is today. Happy birthday! We met for coffee, chatted, about this and that, The Lovely J, The Messed Up B that she was into, but now not (such a good choice - looks good on paper, in person? not so much)...she's the one who took me out for my birthday, the night I met M, and she D; she lived the whole saga, and tells me, over blueberry scone I'm sucking down with slurps of peppermint latte (should've ordered decaf - but then, I never do learn) that M invited her for drinks. At his house. Wanted to sleep with her. Was out sleeping around. 

My phone buzzed; speak of the Devil himself. Wanted to know where I was; what I was doing. Told him, in text, that I never wanted to see or hear from him again. That I didn't want the money he owed me. He was completely dead to me. D.E.A.D. 

I knew he'd cheated on me; but to try to sleep with a friend? Seriously? And, to find out with whom else he slept? While we were TOGETHER??

And I called J, my Lovely J, getting into such a froth while driving that M could get so pissed at B for doing the very same things to me and M was doing! Hypocrisy at it's finest. J asks me, why should I care? I shouldn't give a rats ass about M; he's old news. On some level, I think J kind of gets the point; after all, he's still pissed (rightfully so, if you ask me) that his ex slept around, left him for someone else. It still eats at him. I am beyond gobsmacked to find this stuff out - and frankly? I don't want to know. It was hard enough to find out I'd been replaced, while I was still in his bed.

Now?

I'm embarrassed. Not that I can pinpoint why, other than maybe I'm humiliated I didn't see it, or I wasn't smart enough to leave when he fooled around on me; or maybe, because it's still what I do, I take the blame. Only I'm not the one that fucked up. 

If I'm totally honest - the kind that comes with laying awake, in the dark, in the middle of the night when you can admit things to yourself you could never admit in the daylight, because then other people might guess what you're thinking, and it's too raw, too hot, for anyone to know about - I needed to tell J, to hear him remind me that it's not my fault, and while he didn't come right out and say it, just hearing his voice reminds me: I don't ever have to worry about this with him.

I think. No, I know. Mostly.

I want to believe it, really, truly I do - but then I sit and look at the people I've trusted, the people who helped me feel like I was never enough; and I just.....can't ...go there again. While I'm talking, my boss calls; I take that call, the other line rings just as I'm finishing up. 

4:57pm. I think it's Lovely J, calling before he gets on his conference call - only, it's not.

It's M.

Wants to know what I'm up to; if I'm around. Would I like some company? 

I took a really deep breath, and very calmly (so calmly I think it scared him - it's never a good thing when I'm that kind of calm) that I was his friend first. Probably? His only true friend. He agrees. (I can tell you, he's not sure where this is going, and I'm not sure he really wanted to know -) I'm the only one that really knew- knows -you, even today, when we're not together, and we're not speaking, by MY choice for a change. As your friend, I'm telling you: do not ever call me looking for sex; don't try to talk to me about how you miss me, in bed, how great it was - because really? It wasn't. You made me feel like the only thing worth keeping was the physical part; and I will not be party to hurting MYSELF. I deserve better. I'm worth more. I won't go against something I believe in really strongly - fidelity - just because there were times I missed you so much I thought I might drown. More than that? I won't be party to you hurting yourself. I know what happens when you do.  As your friend, and M? bear in mind it's tenuous at best right now, I'm going to tell you the one thing I told you three years ago when you asked me to take you back: make choices that make you happy. Don't do anything you wouldn't want to admit to in the daylight. Stop hurting yourself.

More than that?

I've never cheated. I don't plan to start now. Not with you. Not anyone. Ever. M tells me he's fucked up - I agree - he left me, ME! for some woman with a stupid yappy fucking dog, and he's moving in with her, and already cheating - and yeah, he fucked up BIG trying to come to ME to do it with. Did he not understand the text? Can he not read? He's fucked up, he says, again. Yep, you are. And that's your problem, not mine. 

I didn't bother to tell him this part - but I won't hurt me when I've met someone really great, who's really good to me. Who I really like - who, if I'm honest, I think I might possibly, maybe, be falling for, who is amazing to me, my son, my stupid dog, that sleeps half-way up his ass, every time he's over here, or we're there. Who knows that I can be a total basket case, with seven shades of fucked up hair, even in the middle of the day; how I don't sleep well at night, and he's always right there when I need him, even when he's miles away. 

He said I could count on him. I made him prove it. In more ways than I care to admit - and some ways, I didn't even realize I was doing until much later (another one of those late night to myself admissions) - it's so odd; all the times I prayed to God to let M come back, let him be the guy I fell for, the one who made all these promises, the one I no longer had to prove myself to, all the time - and my prayers went unanswered. 

God answered; he said no. 

As usual, He was right. I'd find someone worthy of me, who was everything I'd ever dreamed of and more. 

He was right. 

J may not see why finding out who, or how many M cheated on me with bothers me - but he listened to me. He always listens to me, even when I'm being a fruitcake, or borrowing trouble, or trying to work something out for myself. I'm Just Me, when I'm with J, Just Me. I don't have to be anyone else. I like him as just him; just don't tell him the falling for him part. He has to fall for me first. 

I was never sure I'd ever believe anyone when they said they'd be faithful, that they were a one woman kind of guy - driving home from Starbucks, it ate at me - everyone I'd ever trusted took advantage of that. I really wanted to believe that J wouldn't do that, that he'd never hurt me like that. That he's a good guy....all the while knowing a teeny tiny piece of me still worried, still gnawed at the edges of a very raw wound, that someday, he'd meet someone else more alluring, funnier, better looking, sexier, more...sane. Put together. Less prissy. 

Getting off the phone, I'd wanted to hear J's voice, telling me something - anything - but he's on a conference call. Which is okay. I suppose, I wanted him to get it, even if I didn't say it over the phone - that he was right. It's not my issue. And? That nagging worry I had? It's gone.

I do trust you. 

With everything.

I already have.

I did right from the start.

Tying up loose ends....

Now that we're back from DC, I realized, much to my horror, that I'd done several stupid things:

 Packed so well the night before, that I packed my cell phone, in the suitcase, on silent. When I couldn't find the damn thing in my hand bag/up front car seat bag, I figured (naturally I didn't look for it til we were on the George Washington Bridge) that I'd left it at home.

Meant that I missed quite a few notices, updates, phone calls and texts, most of which deserve an apology of one kind or another, so, in no order of importance, but, in order of messages received:

To the friend that agreed to take Fucker Up and Shoot Me - er, my lovely Pucker Up - I completely blanked on that arrangement. I had that nagging feeling that I was forgetting something; yeah, because I was. Not that it's any excuse, but you know I've the memory capacity of a gnat, and I didn't write it down, so I did the thing I do best: booked the Panic Reservation at the Doggie Hotel, which slapped with me an extra fee, as I had to beg them to take her.

Nagging feeling persisted through the evening, into the wee hours of the am, when I finally dozed off, having checked the bag like 50 times for what I'd forgotten; it's a horrible feeling that, the Forgetting Something Really Important feeling.

Add in liquid Oxycontin they gave me for jaw, only to find myself with nagging feeling, just slightly hazier on what in hell it was I was supposed to remember.

Would have sworn on my life that I ran the fully loaded dishwasher. I recall putting in soap. I recall clearly, having to fill Jet Dry hole.

 Had I sworn?

I'd be dead.

Came home to horrendous odor of long overdue-to-be-washed milk-encrusted icky dishes, mouldering away in the dishwasher.

Made sure garage door was closed, front door locked....back sliders? Not locked. Sure, if someone really wanted to get in, all they had to do was break the windows, but why go through that effort, when I've essentially invited them inside?

I also missed an important call from a girlfriend with some long awaited news, of the either Fabulous, Let's Party! variety, or the Oh Fuck, Let's Go Get Drunk variety. Finally spoke to her last night; she called on Tuesday. I was her first call; we're going partying, but that part doesn't matter - I missed the damn call.

Kicking my own ass around the block.

There were some work things too, that needed my attention - another dropped ball.

I'd given out my vet's phone number as the back up person in case of emergency at the doggie hotel, without (ahem) reaching her to check if that was okay - it was - but I felt like a heel the entire time I was filling out the forms. Drunkenly, filling them out, might I add. That liquid stuff? Kicks ass. I could make a fortune if I sold it on the street....but I digress.

To all that are listed, and, God help me, all of you who are not, but got slighted anyway:

My deepest apologies.

I'd tell you about DC; but I'll save that for another post. Maybe later today, after I've finished beating myself up for not following my Usual Routine, which screwed me up royally.

Sure, I had all my undergarments. My toothbrush. My hairbrush. All the stuff I could replace, if I needed to.

I just managed to leave the most important stuff behind.

Sigh.

Naturally.

DC...packed or not, here we come

We're going to DC!

I'm supposed to be packing for DC.

We leave tomorrow.

But it's kind of too early for me to pack, for myself. There are 12 whole more hours until we even think about leaving, and, well, that means I don't have to pack right this second.

Except.

I kind of want to. I'd like to be packed, for both of us that way, Lovely J, would pop over to put bags in overhead bag-thingie he bought so the kids aren't actually sitting on top of the bags (this would have totally negated my necessary snackage and entertainment space) which means I can sleep tonight, without that dreaded feeling that I'll oversleep the alarm, and then I'll forget something vitally important when I throw clothes haphazardly into the bag - like a bra. (Did that last time. Got new bra; flight to airport with Gap Body in it? Embarrassing. Plane was cold. 'Nuf said) Oh, I've left the odd bit behind (razors, in the dead of summer, when you shave about every three hours, hair brush, toothbrush) but usually, I'm right on top of the Last Dash To Pack Game.

Usually, it's then when I shine. Excel even in packing! I can pack for three weeks in a carry on bag with my eyes closed, ten minutes before we're due to leave for the airport, with one hand tied behind my back. I wonder if it's the adrenaline rush I enjoy so much, or simply that I cannot be bothered with packing for myself until I'm sure everyone else is taken care of.

They are.

Fox: packed.

Pucker Up: going to doggie hotel bringht and early in am

Fridge: empty (is why we were forced to have ice cream and oranges for dinner. hmm. shame, that one)

Trash: goes out in about 30 minutes, when perhaps I get my lazy backside off the couch to collect the errant Lint Bunnies nesting next to the dryer.

I'm rather torn, however, not about whether to pack or not, at least, not right this second, versus, say, at 6:52am; more, over what to pack. DC will be in that InBetween Temperature Phase, that makes packing as a girl so damn hard. Mid to upper 60s.

Does that mean I dig out (dust off, perhaps even iron) cutie golf skirts, paired with long sleeves and sweaters, to show off pasty white New England stems, or, do I go the whole jeans and polo with layering sweater look, which  means if I over heat, I'll end up with sweat stains - I detest that. Of course, if I go the way of the golf skirt, and it's too cold, I'll lose the shave job to goosebumps the moment I exit any building. If I go jeans, I could be sweltering all day long.

Neither of those options look pretty in pictures.

As there is a pool, a suit is required - gggaaaaahhhhhhhh- I've got to try some on, to see which I can shoe-horn my backside into.

Must be a Mom-Suit. Nothing that shows too much skin, ie: one that if I jumped into the pool, I wouldn't be fishing the top or bottom out of the filter while putting all my goodies on display to terrify tourists in the pool area.

Not Such A Mom Suit though, that J wonders if we're trapped in the 20s, and I've donned a wool, long sleeve long legged bathing tog.

Wool is quite scratchy to start, and wet? I gather quite uncomfortable. Smelly. Wet sheep, alas, poor things, do tend to stench dreadfully. How did I get to the smell of sheep again.....?

Oh, yes.

Packing.

I suppose, I could simply go the easy route: pack essentials on the bottom (panties, bra, socks, hair dryer, brush, make-up) and then cram as many outfits as possible fitting into the In Betweness of the season before suitcase zipper breaks. That way, I've plenty of things from which to choose, I can be perfectly dressed for the weather, not to mention look smashing in any photos taken of moi, without truly having to make any decisions.

(20 minutes pass. I've the cutest clothes picked out! A little bit heavy on the pink, but running shoes have pink in them, and as we are going to be doing loads of walking, I do need outfits to match the shoes - heaven help the woman who clashes! Dug out bag, starting putting things in! So proud of me! Look, packing early!)

Found problem to this plan.

No one travels with steamer trunks anymore these days, and J did say that the bag needed to be about the same size as the kids' bags.

Fucketh.

Perhaps, this is why I pack at the very last second - to limit the number of choices I have to cram into said bag. Packing in a frenzy, rather like cramming for an exam has left me short of some essentials, some of the time - but nothing so hideous as to have failed with the Last Second Pack Job.

*deep breathing*

Okay. Am exhausted. Going to swap loads of laundry, locate some jammies for me, finish the Dreaded Sock Matching Game I've going on in the livingroom, and throw together enough choices for me so I can go pack it in for the day.

Unintentional pun, I swear.

Either way, whether appropriately dressed or not?

We're going to DC!

The Rules.

When I was in my Early Dating Years (think 20's here, not, teens - I didn't even get kissed til I was 18 - I had a long Ugly Phase lasting until maybe, like, three years ago or so) there was this book that was all the rage called The Rules.

Taught such lovely concepts as playing hard to get, never accepting an invitation if delivered after Wednesday at 4, because "you are a creature unlike any other, and are always in demand" - sure, I am indeed a creature unlike any other. We all are. But I don't need to prove how in demand I really am by (I kid you not) setting a timer for a 10 minute chat, only to end it with Gotta Run, So Much To Do Today!! so that I'll leave him hanging for the next tidbit of time I feel so inclined to dole out to him. Expect compliments. (hint at him they're required if need be, so you'll have "trained him") to do the "right things". Always always always wear your best duds, be perfectly coiffed, mani/pedi-ed, shaved, snipped, tucked and smelling delicately of perfume.

Supposedly, he'll be eating out of your hand, just before he slides the biggest bling he can afford on the same hand he's been kissing, most likely having spent the better part of his dating time with you on his knees already.

I do not ascribe to this.

Yep, I think they are indeed The Rules to dating, but being an ass isn't one of them. Neither, by the way, is hanging out by the phone to see if he calls. Thanks to modern technology, I can be rung, texted, emailed, pinged, facebooked and most likely probed by aliens to let me know he's reached out to me. I do agree he should do more of the reaching than I should; after all, who doesn't like to get a call from their honey out of the blue, just to check on your day? Even if it's a boring one?

Instead, I propose The New World Order on The Rules Of Dating, According To Me:

First off, be witty and charming (or, really, just yourself will do, even if you're not necessarily the sharpest grapefruit spoon in the drawer - there really is someone for everyone) and then? Especially when dating as a Second Timer? Be honest.

That's right.

Lay all your shit on the table, let them get a quick peek into Your Real Life, because there is no way, with children, to lead the Dreaded Double Life. I have tried to do it; it is a miserable existence. Sure, I can go from hairy-legged wildibeast to Black Tie Ready in under 20 minutes. I just don't want it to be expected for every date we go on.

Let them see the Real You, scary haired, shocking as it may be - they need to know you're, say, not, a morning person, think anytime After 5 is a great time to put on pj's, (only you call them something fancier, like, duh, After 5s), that you'll serve cereal, fruit and yogurt for dinner, in front of the tv, because your day was a bitch, and now, so are you. That you do not, under most circumstances, shave your legs everyday just on the off-chance they'll get to get near them, up close and personal. Let 'em in enough, if you really like them, to meet you. Not your Game Face. Not what the rest of your acquaintances see, but what your dearest pals see - you with no make up on, going to the bus stop, having thrown on a sweatshirt so no one will notice you couldn't locate a bra by 8:30 in the am; you, laughing so hard you snort at something so funny, that now that you've had the baby? You might just pee a little. That some commercials make you cry, perhaps you have a nasty habit of leaving laundry lint bunnies lined up next to the space between the dryer and the wall; let him see that flowers make you misty-eyed, (especially the ones my son picks to which I'm highly allergic, and the fucker's won't ever die) as much as you can talk about raunchy sex, you're still a bit of a prude when it comes to the follow through.

See, my new rules?

Show them the good stuff. Wear the clothing you like, even if he's not in love with it, because one day, he may very well be in love with you and what brands you like, won't really phase him. He may even buy them for you. The same goes for him; he may have some totally unacceptable wife beaters that he swears he only wears for doing yardwork; you won't love the wife-beater shirt, trust me. But you may one day, love the man. You can always buy him new shirts.

Accept someone for who they are, and let them do the same. The Rules? Doesn't cover this part. The part about how to live once you've "snared your partner for life". I'm not trapping a well dressed overpaid bear; I'm not snaring anyone, thank you very much.

At the ages we are, there really is very little "training" on a grand scale that's going to occur. Can you train him to not leave the last sip of juice in the carton, and place it back in the fridge? Nope. That's an inherited man gene. We'd have nothing to bitch about, if they didn't do that, or track sawdust on freshly done floors, or whatever it is that your man does. That sawdust may very well have been from something he was doing for you.

Say Please, Thank You; compliment her, and him! because let's face it: all the stuff that got you laid in the first place? You have to keep up, or you won't get laid in the second phase of this life you're trying to build together.

The Rules, when it first came out, all the rage, hit the stands, and women lined up by the score, because finally someone had figured out men - and, really, for such a surprisingly simple breed, they're pretty damn complex - while I hate to be the one to point it out?

She got it wrong.

Love isn't just about loving someone at their best, it's loving someone at their worst. And, knowing how to handle it, when those days arrive - as we all know they will - with grace, aplomb, perhaps a soupcon of irritation.....and in my house? A good old fashioned birthday cake.

Now, I know I've gone about this whole dating thing wrong from the start; I was a royal pain in the ass (on purpose!) for the first date; got progressively less finely dressed as time went on, and there were days when he saw jammies he was sure only refugees wore. He accepted me for who I am, today, (most likely tomorrow) and who, perhaps, I will be. (with newer jams, that's for damn sure).

You know what? I like him, Just The Way He Is. Even if I don't understand why his cutting board lives where it does, or how it doesn't freak the shit out of him to leave an iron out (a huge no-no at my house - but it's not my house, it's his), or that he actually enjoys eating those God awful Circus Peanuts.

The Rules should have taught us that beauty truly is only skin deep; the clothes don't make the man. (Especially when you could accidentally ruin that one wife beater he owns by giving it to the dog to shred - oops) The important things are not being so uncatchable that the chase is better than the staid, laying around the house together bored part; that having to tell him you may have ruined a vacuum (yet another one, mind you) because you sucked up one of the rubber bouncy balls every birthday party goody bag contains, and now the house smells like burning rubber will one day be That Funny Story you tell at bbq's, sharing the memories you've made together - even when they didn't seem funny at the time.

And that while his cat loves you, that affair may have reached an abrupt end, because you, um, actually picked her up and vacced her. (For the record? Unless properly trained, this falls under the category of Do Not Try This At Home). Ahem. She still adores me. Just from a slightly greater distance.

I've always believed life isn't a chinese buffet, so when dating, why do we offer up only the choicest bits? So someone can fall for half of us?

Been there, done that. It sucks. Take my word for it.

Marriages last for years and years and years because they knew, both of them, exactly what they were getting into, and they loved them anyway.

They might as well meet The Real You up front, because they're going to one day - and I'd rather know, without a doubt, that they fell for The Real Me, and I for The Real Him.

Take that stupid book The Rules, and use it as kindling. Create your own set of rules: what you can live with, what you simply cannot; make sure that not all your dates take place outside of your home, where you're your real self; for pete's sake, don't hide your true light under a bushel basket.

That's all the stuff he's going to fall for anyway.

Real Mom's vs. Real Dad's

I broke a nail.

Fixing Fox's bike.

Now, it should be fore mentioned, that I can indeed, replace the air filter and change the oil and spark plugs on your standard lawn mower. Not that this has anything to do with today, but just so you know I'm not, like, a total loser. Just mostly.

Right, back to Fox.

He drove over something he "didn't see" (read: a bungee cord, that is BRIGHT YELLOW) which them got all tangled up in the clippie thing that holds the wheels onto the bike frame (I'd guess the axle, but don't hold me to that). All I needed to do was find the appropriate wrench (at least, heaven help me, I think that's what it was called). Dug through J's tools, lingering here for all the In Process Projects we've going on. There's a certain amount of conviction that Mom's (or perhaps just this one) have no clue how to fix bikes, or build Tech Deck super platforms, or any other inherently Penis Requiring Activity, nor are we expected to pick out the right tool the first time around.

Which I did. Without swearing.

Okay, without swearing aloud. I mean, come on already, I broke a nail! Actual Real Live Blood Appeared! J owns like a million freaking wrench like things, and none of them looked like the right size! There's going to be some inner swearing.

Not much, mind you, but enough. Being manly apparently involves blood shed while nonchalantly finding just the right tool, and, shrugging off incredible pain. Talking all about the safety in what we're doing with our tools...yadda yadda yadda (as I nicked my hand on the saw blade he had sticking out of the box housing the wrench-y things). I skipped the safety part, because, well, I don't know it. Clearly.

For the record, I suck at both; so I relied heavily on my acting degree. It's from USC...I'm well educated in the art of Making It Look Natural, even when really, I've not the slightest clue as to what I'm doing, but if I can Make It Look Good, I'm Golden!....but as my life sort of feels like that anyway, I've this whole I'm Totally Fine Act down pat.

We got down to business.

Shrugged off searing agony as ripped rest of nail to the quick out of it's place between the lug nut and the bolt, actually spitting it onto the lawn (as I've seen many an athlete do) acted as though nearly losing a digit was par for the course today, and then did all that other Manly Type Stuff I've heard about. Like testing the resistance on the chains. Peeking at the gears. Thumping the tires, double checking their pressure....something along those lines anyway. The chain part? Not really all that much to look at; if it'd fallen off? I'd be fucked. That's how little I know about bikes.

(Look, the last time I owned one, I lived in LA, got it taken from me by a really big guy, with a red cap, white sneakers, and a HUGE GUN POINTED RIGHT AT ME. When I reported it to the LAPD, they told me my description of the gun was spot on - apparently I can indeed pick out a Glock 9 mil without breaking a sweat, good to know...the guy? Well, they'd need more than red hat and white tennies. And that he was dark skinned. Said that didn't really narrow it down, as we lived in The Hood. But I digress.)

I was proving to my son, all my inherent Manliness. That really, at heart, I'm not too much of a girl to do Guy Stuff, because as he so succinctly points out, he needs a man, to show him how to be a man.

I figured, if push came to shove, I could do that. I'm at least game to try.

However.

Perhaps, I too need better male role models. I should stop watching Wrestling Mania, and focus more, on say, This Old House. Except that Bob Vila drives me insane. And, I kinda like the part where the really ugly guy with all the tattoos gets clobbered by another really ugly guy brandishing a folding chair. Opposite ends of the extreme, but I'm beginning to wonder if this is how folks with gender identity issues feel: constantly confused as to ones role in society, or a family, when it's okay to cry, when I'm supposed to Suck It Up Buttercup, because that's what Real Men Do. How I'm supposed to know what tool to look for anyway. How am I supposed to know how to Be A Man?

You know something?

I'm not a Real Man. Hell. I'm not a man. I'm not even remotely butch in any way.

If you looked up Preppy Prissy Princess in the book?

I'd be staring right back at you.

My vision wavered as I severed off my nail, tears threatening, my inner voice shouting mother fucking cock sucker this hurts like a bitch in heat among other such lovely thoughts. My hands shook, while unwinding an unusually long length of bungee cord..... a drop of blood graced the front lawn.

I nearly swooned.

Another dad, across the way, offered to help; but no, oh no, I can do it myself. (what am I, two?)

I did my best Man Impersonation: savagely tore at the nut (going the wrong way the first time, and retightening the blasted thing), loosened it (finally) with a great deal of panache, if I do say so myself, (I'll skip the needing to jump on the wrench to undo the now overtightened freaking nut, and landing on my ass on the front lawn) unraveled the damn bungee cord, which gave way unexpectedly quickly, whacking me right and proper in the left boob.

Took a deep breath, trying to see beyond the bright stars dancing too and fro, steeled myself to not even look at the offending injury, tiny droplets of blood, ignore the now staggeringly thumping left tit.

I'd've given my eye teeth to ice down immediately both hand, and breast, or better yet, curl into the fetal position, and call over the neighbor who I'm sure, has just had the greatest laugh of his entire adult life, along with an EMT with an Epidural from the shoulders down...but I, stubborn ass that I am, panting through the pain, replaced the nut. All by myself.

I swaggered into the garage, tossing tools into their appropriate boxes, made noises about how having the 11/16's wrench is one of the most important ones to own, jogged up the steps as though to go pop open the top of a cold one, perhaps even adjust my junk......- right til the door closed behind me.

And the gig was up.

I swear to God I thought I'd cut off the end of my hand. That perhaps stitches may be needed. That blood, leaking from under the nail bed is never a good sign; that the baby pink polish I'd selected to use, maybe tonight even, if I had time for the At Home Manicure may not cover the damage done.

I think my left breast may indeed fall off. Already the swelling's up to being too big to fit in any bra I own. I think I'm sticking with it could fall off. The iced peas aren't doing much to ease the pain either. Why couldn't it have hit the right one? It's bigger, with more fat, so it should hurt less, yes?

Why in the name of all that was holy did J have to go today to NYC? (hmmm, I'm glossing over the fact that he goes every other Tuesday, so this is not really a surprise here, but still - allow me to have the righteous indignation moment) Seriously.

He's a Total Real Guy, right down to his tool belt. He knows how to do this stuff with his eyes super glued shut.

I use super glue occasionally (to fix a, uh, broken nail I don't want to trim), but mostly I lose the tiny little tubes it comes in. Until J came along, my tools (what few, rusted, totally mishandled and unloved ones I owned) lived in a Gucci bag.

Yes, a Gucci bag. It was classy, clever, and cute. Plus, it held all the tools I owned. I'm proud to admit, I owned like 10 tools. Not to brag, but I have the most straight screwdrivers than anyone could ever hope to need, and the phillips head is easy to find - Pucker chewed on the end. So what if the pliers rusted together; it's not like I really knew what to do with them anyway, other than bead crafts. Oh, yeah, and I had a level. (Not that any artwork or shelving in my house looks as though that was put to use)

I also own the outside part to a caulk gun. (not the caulk anymore, I've blown through three tubes: one on a totally cocked up window sealing job, one got stuck in the gun thing, and had to be cut open with a box cutter I had to borrow, and the third one shrugged off it's protective wrapping becoming hard as a rock in no time flat, therefore, I discovered, unusable). I basically assumed I had all the Right Tools to do all the Guy Stuff around the house. Or in the garage. Or on the front lawn.

I mean, really, how hard can untangling a stupid cord from a bike be anyway?!

Holy. Cow. How was I to know that untangling a bungee cord would be so....so....fraught with danger? I'd never have so blithely entered into this, filled with pride (read: stubborn stupidity) in a bid to show my son that Real Mom's can be Real Dad's too.

The absolute worst part about this whole thing isn't my neighbor laughing his ass off (not that it's the highlight of my night either)....it was watching Foxy put his fucking bike away in the garage right after I fixed it.

If I'd known then, that he wasn't going to ride anymore tonight? Had I been able to draw a full breath without wondering if I'd die, I'd have strangled him. I pulled a total freak show for him to not even ride the damn thing around the block? Are you kidding me? I had so many other options had I known that.

I'd have fallen back on what us Real Women have done for ages:

"Just you wait til J gets back. He'll fix it right up for you, honey." All the while inspecting my lovely pale pink manicure.

I'd deliver this line, just before heading back into the domain where I know what I'm doing, with all the right equipment, sharp tools, and flattering outfits.

I've never nearly severed a breast in a horrific kitchen accident.

And I for damn sure have never broken a nail baking cookies.

As sexist as it sounds -and hats off to you mom's that can do it all - I'm hanging up my tool belt.

Digging out an emery board, nail snippers, and a snifter of scotch. And not necessarily in that order.

I may have broken a nail, sent my left tit so far through my chest it's hanging out my back -but in my son's eyes?

Real Mom's can be Real Dad's too.

Covet or eat?

How wrong is it to openly covet your child's Easter Bunny?

Is eating it worse? Or on the same level as coveting? The Big Guy upstairs wasn't terribly clear - I mean, if coveting falls beneath actually purloining said object, then it's better to eat it, than covet it. Right? Plus, once eaten, one may no longer covet, avoiding that sin entirely.

Wow.

I'm impressed with myself for that circular logic.

Back to the bunny. Foxy's bunny, to be precise. The one the Easter Bunny left on the table to be ignore by him.

It's totally edible. He won't even know it's gone. So it's okay, then, to steal my son's bunny?

Especially if they've shown no interest in it whatsoever, and it's lying there, awaiting inhalation by someone who's blown right through PMS (and took it out on someone else's house - looks fab, if you ask me - now, ask him? he'd tell you I put stuff in the wrong places) and into Aunt Flo Snarkiness. I hate it when it sneaks right up on me. Being continuously licked by Idiot Fucking Dog is not helping. Is making it worse.

Is kind of snarkiness not assuaged with cake.

The kind that not only needs, but requires chocolate.

Sure, I could go purchase my own Easter Fucking Bunny, off the sale rack, if they're any left, but the ears would be all smashed, or the tail demolished, lying in inedible bits at the bottom of a cellophane wrapped box; none of that will do.

Nope. The damn thing needs to be in Excellent Condition.

Which brings me back to Foxy's.

He's not even asked to open it. He's not even looked at it. It's in full view too - not like I've hidden it away - he's gone through the Snicker's eggs, even the ones in the freezer (not that I can chew those, but I digress), the peanut m n m's, the gross gummy ickiness that J and the kids adore (but I detest) and I've peeps in the freezer for J. See? I thought of everyone else. Doesn't that earn me points?

For all my Easter Fabulousity?

Shouldn't I be able to inhale Foxy's Bunny without repercussions?

Plus also?

It might help raging bitch attitude I'm currently sporting; well, not quite to that level, I've not had to deal with any insurance companies, sales people, or the general public yet. Lois, however, might do best to keep her distance.

Elaine Lundgren is another one that should stay as far away from me as possible. Today, I'm likely to give her what's left of my mind, should I actually focus enough attention on that over-processed-blonde-backstabbing-whore to tell her how I feel. Funny how raging, uncontrollable irritation gives way to some serious unladylike behavior.

I'll need what little patience I have left to deal with those I like.

And my idiot dog, who has proceeded to sit directly on top of me - MORE than a little too close for my comfort today. In fact, if she were smart? Which beagles are supposed to be?

She'd mix me a cocktail, open Foxy's Easter Bunny so I needn't take the blame, and deliver all to me, flipping on the fireplace, all the while loving tending to moi, snuggled up in agony on the couch.

I suppose I could skip the waist expanding chocolate (God knows, that's what water weight is for) and simply pop a few Midol.

A waste of expensive over the counter meds, when there is a bunny staring me full in the face.

Don't you agree?

Tears and Urine

This just frosts my cookies.

I've spent the better part of my life being told what I like, how I like it, and whom I like - by someone, whom in all honesty, I don't like. What's more, they cannot even be able to retain the smallest (or largest) details about me.

Those of you who've been around a while?

You know about whom I'm speaking. For those of you that don't, let's just say, she's a good (or at least decent) mom to my two sisters and brother. Me? Not so much. She greatly prefers to tell me who I am, what I like, and what I don't like. Or, how I like it.

So perhaps it should not come as a surprise that suddenly out of the clear blue sky I've been a Sudoku fan. You know, since it's inception.

Really? Because I know me, and if you asked me? I'd have to say:

I detest Sudoku.

I've always detested Sudoku.

Her usual, in a nut shell. Getting it wrong. The Sudoku thing is the tip of the ice berg - it's in the fashion that I do not, for example, drink my coffee black. Now, she'll tell me to my face (repeatedly) that I take it black. (I'm a cream a sugar gal, and really? greatly prefer the caramel latte - anyone who knows me in the slightest most likely knows that). She carted cherry pie out one year, from across the country, made a HUGE presentation of said pie, only to then berate me for my look of confusion (and not well concealed horror, I admit) when faced with a congealed mess of cherry pie peeking at me from underneath the Dreaded Tupperware Lid. (Tupperware, mind, she left behind. A well used Cool Whip container, with a cracked lid. What, I don't even rate a tupperware container in one piece?! yes, I know, bitching at straws here)

"What do you mean you don't like cherry pie? You've always loved my cherry pie!" (do add in condescending tone, with the slightest tinge of edge) - no, I reply, I've always loved apple, or pumpkin pie. Cherry pie?

NEVER.

So, at the great risk of looking like an ungrateful, snotty prat, I am yet again royally irritated to open a box, from her, with a book for Fox (nicely selected, might I add) and a goddamn Sudoku book for me. Complete with note on how much she knows I love these. Anyone who loves these stupid things? Let me know. Currently, I'm saving them to send to her at Xmas, because she loves them. To note? She's got the rest of the pack brainwashed into thinking they like them too. Trust me on this one: only my brother does. I found a whole host of them holding up a potted plant at one of my sister's; and the other one uses them at Bathroom Entertainment Fodder, for those Hard To Read visits to the Library.

The Others, by the way, just carry on, as though being told what they like or don't is part and parcel of the Natural World Order.

Now, me, you might ask?

I love CROSS WORD PUZZLES. I'm good with words. Not numbers. I find those puzzles annoying to the highest degree - I'd rather have bamboo stakes driven under my nails than do one of those.

It's not the fact that maybe once she screwed up, and sent the wrong thing; nope, this is a constant in my life. No longer am I as hurt, bewildered why it is that she can say, recall all sorts of details about the other's, just not me.   Now, I simply consider her a thoughtless moron, who doesn't know me in the least. Sure, on one level, that still cuts me to the quick, she has known me my whole life, but on another?

I've finally (sort of) faced the fact that she doesn't really know me, nor is she interested in doing so. If she were? She'd not send me stupid ass Sudoku books, insist that I take my coffee black, adore cherry pie, put my unmentionables in the dryer (a cardinal sin in my house), or re-arrange my entire kitchen so it mirrors hers when she arrives. She absolutely would not try to divest me of my Lilly Pulitzer shoe boxes (clearly, I'm still not over that incident, or the fact that she wrote on the Kate Spade box - both sides, so I can't even pretend she didn't vandalize the entire box!). I don't wear yellow gold jewelry. I look like death in it, and I Don't Like It. I asked for pink plaid footie jammies? I got blue ones, with polar bears. I must have screwed up; she was absolutely convinced that I'd hate the pink plaid ones.

huh?

I don't, much to her surprise, might I add, eat mustard. In any form. On anything.

I'm not the one into Asian Art, or follow the Final Four (whatever in hell that really is) - I don't adore (hell, or even like) Tapas restaurants, and for the record? Just to set it straight? I like my cosmopolitans on the sweet side - that does not mean extra juice. In fact, unless I'm about to die from a kidney infection, I loathe cranberry juice.  And yes, if you're coming to my house, and you'd like to present me with a "thoughtfully selected" (do note the sarcasm here) gift from the liquor store, you'd know because you're freaking related to me that I'm a Grey Goose girl. Mandarin, if you can find it. Straight up, if you can't. Don't tell me that I'm sooooooo into that Polish, Gluten Free Potato Vodka - I can't stand the stuff. Take your You Should Be On A Gluten Free Diet and stuff it where the sun don't shine. When it comes to vodka, moonshine remains a better option that the Polish Potato Shit.

Basically?

Stop trying to tell me how to be me .

If you don't like me enough to know the little things? Clearly, you're not going to know the biggies. Like bad days call for cake, good friends can make you laugh until you pee (really, it's true) - that you'll both be laughing so hard you have to tinkle at the same time while still on the phone, which only makes the joke funnier. That I'd drop everything for a friend in need, or a crying one, especially if I've only heard them cry like three times, so I know it's bad news. I'll even let you blow your snot all over my cashmere sweater. Because I love you, and you're important, and in that moment, cashmere is not. If you call too early in the morning, I'm bound to answer the phone with "are you missing a limb, or are you bleeding from every orifice on your body?" - really, if you're calling at 5 am, it'd better be damn important.



Blood may be thicker than water, but I'm convinced that blood is not thicker than urine and tears. Those suckers bind people together for ever.

I like sleep.

No, really, I adore sleep.

Eight hours at a crack, in a row, totally unimpeded by small dogs, children, peeping frogs, chirping crickets, annoying early morning birds....so what if one needs a wee touch of help to get there? That's why NyQuil is an over the counter med. Along with a whole host of other remedies - either way, to wake (okay, so I sort of overslept and Lovely J had to call and wake my sorry backside, after his kids were on the bus and it was headed my way - details, details) sans hangover, to skip to the coffee maker (skipping being a term very loosely - I am NOT a morning person, no matter how well I've slept) begin the day with a gesture of good will not stemming from my beloved Communication Finger.

I even (gasp!) took Pucker Up to Tufts for a good long walk (for moi) run (for Fattypants) while chatting nicely with some other early morning walkers with their pets.

I think I even smiled. With my teeth. Kind of unheard of that early in the am.

The walking humans were lovely. Their pups? Many of whom need to learn that muddy paws do not belong anywhere near the upper regions of my body. Or really, on me at all. Now, my own pet is still "learning" the art of Four On The Floor; however, the oversized ugly-ass poodle (with the Snooty Cut no less!) who went swimming in mud had no business planting her stupid looking mud-covered fluff-balled paws on J's sweater.

Hmmmm. Perhaps should have skipped exactly whose clothing got mauled.

Anyhoo. Back to me.

Tis not even 10am, my child is in a collared shirt worthy of photo day (not, mind you, the Dread Fox the Pirate Shirt he sported last time - this one has dead fish on it) my dog walked, run, tongue lolling out the window now curled up in bed, and I, airing out the house, am pondering just which project I shall tackle on this unusually glorious day in April.

Perhaps, I shall begin with a coffee on the deck, and begin some long overdue painting.

I'd consider using some electric and totally cool looking tools in my garage - but I'm not up for an ER visit, followed by a yelled lecture of the WTF WERE YOU THINKING??????? variety.

I gather, at this point, with one more cup of coffee under my belt, the sharpest tool I'm up to engaging is a razor: today is a totally smooth leg in baby skirt worthy day.

Aha! A visitor has arrived!

Am off - do enjoy the day!!!