Good Girls Gone Bad

Community Ed Drop-Out

2010-01-28T13:48:00.001-08:00

I've decided to drop out of my weekly community ed/ECFE class with AC. What kind of loser drops out of community ed class? I do. That's who.

This whole "semester" of class has been little more than heartache for me. I skipped the very first class, because I had my friend's pre-tummy tuck party to attend. When I went to the second class, during parenting time, the educator discussed the possibility of bringing in speakers. She mentioned the owner of a funeral home, who could speak to us on grief and explaining grief to children.

At that particular moment, I was overcome with my own community ed class-infused grief, and I sat staring blankly at the table. Secretly, I was thinking snide comments like, "How do you explain to your toddler that her family unit is dead?", but I really was in no mood for smiling. Much to my horror, the instructor must've seen the bizarre look on my face, and called my out by asking, "Did you have anything to add to the grief topic?". I found this to be a little more than rude: what if I was truly experiencing grief over a death in the family? Who was she to call me out on anything like that?

The past couple of classes have been rough for me, plus AC isn't enjoying them as much as she did last year, probably because she's already spent all day in "school", what we call her daycare, as it has a pre-school curriculum.

This week pushed me over the edge. The couple that reminds me of the Married Guy and his Wife both come to class, because two classes are held at the same time--one in the baby room and one in the big-kid room. The dad accompanies the kid in the big-kid room, the same room as AC. His kid decided to sit down next to AC to play Play-Doh, so here I was, one of the only mothers in the room without a wedding ring on, much less a baby daddy present, and I was stuck sitting next to the guy who reminds me of my Married Guy--the closest thing I have to an actual romance right now.

I cringed, sitting that close to him, because his physical resemblance to my Married Guy is just uncanny. Listening him talk to his son was gut-wrenching. I think that, to a newly divorced woman, hearing a man talk sweetly to his child is gut-wrenching. To a newly divorced woman sitting next to someone who strongly resembles someone she has feelings for while he talks sweetly to his child is near heartbreak.

In parenting class, the Married Guy look-alike and his wife sat together, and affectionately touched and teased each other. I kept tearing up, so I stared down at the table and tried to hold my eyes as wide open as I could, to prevent the tears from streaming down. After all, who the hell cries in the middle of ECFE class? If I broke down, it probably wouldn't be long until someone from child protective services showed up at my door, looking for evidence of my mental instability.

After class, it was time to put on coats, and AC broke down. In front of all of the parents and other children, she broke down, refused to put on her coat and screamed, "I don't want to go to Daddy's house! I want to go home!", over and over. I was so close to tears already that my own hot, salty tears did start streaming down my cheeks.

As I avoided eye contact with any of the other parents, I managed to wrestle AC into her coat, hat and boots, and pick her up to leave, as she continued to sob and scream. As we walked out into the below-zero freezing air, our tears both free-flowed down our cheeks and I pressed my cheek to hers, blending into one frozen tear that connected the two of us.

AC and I both cried the entire drive to her Daddy's house. She cried as he took her out of her car seat, and I looked away. When I got home, I crawled into my bed and cried some more. I could've spent the rest of the evening in that very same fetal position, until I got sick of crying and stumbled out of the bedroom to hunt down my bottle of prescribed Ambien, wait 20 minutes for it to kick in, then slip into the dark, dreamless, feeling-less sleepy relief it gives me from my feelings. Instead, I promised to meet some friends, so I had no choice but to haul my ass up and out.

The next day, I emailed the ECFE instructor and told her that we won't be back for the semester. As lame as it sounds, it's simply too painful, and since I get AC for only a matter of hours on those nights, I'd rather just be with her one-on-one, instead of blending our tears into one giant tear, frozen in time.

Memorable Quotes to Make Me Feel Loved

2010-01-28T13:22:00.000-08:00

So, I am feeling not very cute these days. Oh snap, how I hate that feeling. Typically, even if I am not cute, I would not have a clue. Because I think I am cute. But these days, I am wondering if I see something different when I look in the mirror than what other people do, because I am not feeling the love.

When I was married, it's not like my ex ever showered me with affection or compliments. I don't think he ever told me that I looked nice, come to think of it. It's strange, really. It's not like I had any more reinforcement of my cuteness then than I do now, but I just felt more confident, probably because I didn't have to deal with the societal expectations of finding a man.

Probably thanks to the single life and what I perceive as the constant rejection of online dating, my confidence in my cuteness is totally sapped. Sure, I still make all of the same efforts, probably even more so, since I've gone back to the fake nails and fake tan. It does seem, however, that I have been spritzing myself with eau de man repellent, because I sure don't have the boys comin' to the yard.

Sometimes, I feel pathetic because I rely so heavily on the approval of a man to feel good about myself. Other times, I just feel pathetic in general.

Lately, it's been a combination of both.

To bolster my lacking self-esteem, I sometimes lament these problems to my friends, and they in turn shower me with words of kindness that warm my heart and make me feel a little less pathetic, even if only for a short time.

I collect these quotes, because I like to re-read them every once in a while, and lately, that every once in a while has been better described as "every day".

I am terrified of losing my favorite quotes, so I'm gonna store them here in addition to multiple other places, because I will save them forever, like a lock of hair from your child's first hair cut or the corsage from the time you lost your virginity on prom night.

Here are my favorites:

"...You are an amazing, amazing catch. You are gorgeous. Just gorgeous - looks like you always have been. More than probably always will be. So lovely to look at, so pleasant to listen to... I wish I'd listened to YOU more the other day. You take the best care of yourself that you can, same with AC - no one could ask for more from you. You work hard - really, really hard, you're fun, you have an awesome sense of humor, and you are intelligent. You are gifted, witty, and STRONG. You have so much to offer and somewhere down the line, someone is going to understand that being a part of your life is a beautiful privilege. No one worth having could ever overlook you, J. You won't die alone..."

"...I ♥ you and look forward to your status updates daily. You're like the Queen Frostine on the Candyland board. The super magical, so happy I picked it, prettiest card, ever..."

"...As for you, you're really one of the coolest people I know. I mean that. You really have a lot of my sense of humor and I absolutely admire you. You’re young, fun, successful and still have the world ahead of you. You have a gorgeous daughter who is hilarious. You absolutely need to write a book. I would read it in a heartbeat. I check your blog every day. Okay, I’m a stalker. But you’re just so amusingly cynical, it’s great. You really seem completely confident in yourself, even if you apparently aren’t feeling it.

I suggest you wear your MWD (or other) crown to work tomorrow. Or dinner. Or wherever. I may be a dork, but if I'm feeling down, I'm going to wear a crown. It's really difficult to be upset when you're wearing a motherf*cking crown. I suspect the people at your work realize that you're as eccentric as mine do, and they won't really question it, although they might tell you you're a dork.

Just take the time to say f*ck it, I’m wonderful! You are, and shouldn’t let anyone tell you any different. You have a handful of good friends, a cool mother, and people who look up to you, including but not limited to your daughter and myself. Be an awesome f*cking role model for them..."

I have some pretty f*cking awesome friends. I'd offer to share the love, but I'm selfish like that and want to keep my friends and their love to myself.

January 20

2010-01-20T12:55:00.000-08:00

I haven't been to work in nearly a week. It's a bit rebellious for me, because I have not taken longer than a four-day weekend since my maternity leave--three years ago. Everyone likes to believe that they are truly indespensible at work, and I actually am. Trust me, it's not as terrific as you'd think. When I was on maternity leave, my boss called me to say, "I'm sorry I told you that a trained monkey could do your job. Will you come back now?". I did agree to one day a week. I am pretty sure the only way I could escape their relentless neediness would be to leave the country, and even that is doubtful, with the widespread mobile capabilities.

So, last week when I announced that I was taking a few days off, I told them that if they called or texted not to expect an immediate response. My co-worker stared at me and said, "You mean to tell me that you expect us to figure it out on our own?"

Since I haven't been at work, I haven't bothered to look at a calendar, since there was really no need. Then I noticed the date on my earlier blog post: January 20. The Soul Mate's birthday. He is approximately five years, one month and three days older than I am. No matter what, I will probably know this bit of trivia until the day I die, like it or not. For no real, logical or practical reason, it is burned into my soul like November 22, 1963; or 9/11; or 02/07/07.

Just one of those things that you never forget, I guess.

I Need...Me

2010-01-20T11:48:00.000-08:00

I will be the first to admit it: I am high maintenance. I like having my hair cut and colored. I like having acrylic nails, and I like having them done every two weeks. I like tanning. I like high heels, and rarely don't wear them. I like pearls and I wear them every day. I like makeup, and I wear that every day, too. I like buying all the newest beauty products. I like reading gossip and beauty magazines. For me, being cute is like a hobby. Some people hunt or fish or run or knit. I look cute.

Take it or leave it, this is me.

Problem is, I am attracted to men who are low-maintenance and outdoorsy. And they take one look at me, and leave it.

Looking at my online dating profile, typically the only men who look at my profile are old men in the 60+ age group, apparently searching for trophy wives. The second are guys who are barely 2s, when I am practically a 10. That is just wrong. I would rather floss my teeth with pubic hair than date men from either of these groups.

Alas, in the hope of convincing some man to date me sometime in the not-too-distant future, I have considered a potential plan to make myself appear a little less high maintenance. The only problem is that I don't know how to be anything other than who I am.

Likewise, I recently had a conversation with my friend S about my blog. S is perhaps my greatest blogging supporter, and in addition to having my ego stroked over being cute, I also appreciate having my ego stroked over my writing skills.

I was lamenting to S on a mistake I thought I made, sharing my blog with a date too soon. Do I reveal too much in here? Probably. That's just me. S took a look at it and told me that I come off as an "unapologetic bitch", and that some men can't take that, because they expect their women to be "fluffy like bunnies, both inside and out".

An unapologetic bitch, huh? Well...I suppose their is some truth to that. Even if I didn't say it, I would still feel it, and where's the sense in that? I am blatantly honest, possibly to a fault. I make no apologies for my high maintenance-ness, my anti-depressants and my anti-anxiety meds, for flirting with certain Married Guys, for still harboring unrequited crushes on Soul Mates 12 years after the fact, for choosing to raise my daughter as a single mother, for loving Britney Spears, or for the fact that I spent the majority of this day on tanning and hair appointments, reading Glamour magazine and blogging.

Even though it stings, I guess if someone can't accept me for the high maintenance, unapologetic bitch that I can be, then he really doesn't deserve the privilege of my company, anyway.

And, I guess to steal yet another line from Britney, here's all I probably need at this stage in my life: "I need time...I need space...I need me..."

Re-loneliness

2010-01-20T11:27:00.001-08:00

So, I saw my CNP this morning for my every-few-months med check, which I frequently confuse as a conversation that begins with, "Hi, I'm here about the Adderal", because chances are, you aren't going to get it. Plus, it poses questions on how you'd know enough about Adderal to ask for it by name. I have learned that this topic is to be avoided, because I have never once had the desired result. Not even ONCE. Not even ONE Adderal tablet per month. Nothing.

In the course of our conversation, I asked her what she thought was an appropriate amount of time to wait between divorcing and dating again. I was hoping for an answer in the range of one to two years, to ease my hurt that while my other newly-single friends have already embarked on new relationships, I have yet to even go out on a date.

Her answer to my question was six months. SIX MONTHS?!? Six months is all the time I have before I start to feel socially inadequate for my lack of having a dating life?

Her suggestion was to look for "dining companions". Dining companions? That sounds like a senior citizen concept, as though I should find someone to grab the early bird special with.

I left her office feeling no more fulfilled, and even more lonely. I desparately wanted a professional to give me the opinion that dating after divorce is an unhealthy idea for many months--if not years--after divorce. Then I would've felt validated, as if there was a medical reason to explain my lack of dates.

To add to my sense of loneliness, I broke down and "dumped" my Married Guy. Not because I wanted to. Not because I was getting something out of our text daliances, but rather the opposite: I wasn't getting anything out of it. Though he was at least predictable in his texting habits and schedule, all it ever did was made me feel lonely at the end of the night. All it was, was a brief reprieve from my loneliness that only ever had the result of making me feel re-lonely for the rest of the week.

Alas, in reality, it is me and my morals that should take the lonely hit on this one. Married Guy sure doesn't seem lonely based on his actions, but I bet those actions of his have another impact on top of mine: the re-loneliness of his own wife. And if karma does truly come back around, it's only fair for me to back down from playing a role in her re-loneliness. After all, someday I want a Married Guy who is married to ME, one who won't leave me--or another woman--filled with that foreboding sense of re-lonely.

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The Book Jacket Theory

2010-01-18T09:51:00.001-08:00

I will confess to loving the process of buying books. Love it. I love reading the synopsis, the couple of paragraphs that give us an idea of what to expect the book to be about. It's so exciting, because of course this synopsis is selling you on the idea of reading the book. It's not gonna tell you that the book is crap and you shouldn't waste your time. It tells you everything you want to hear, in a way to piqué your interest and make you want to drop $24.95 on that hard cover.

I am notoriously sucked in by these book jacket teases. It could come via a magazine review--then I make note of it in my iPhone app, so I can remember to buy it--or it can be at the bookstore or a library sale. I am filled with so much excitement just based on these brief statements that I cannot wait to dig into my new book.

Recently, I had a similar experience with online dating. At the point I am at--one in which I am emotionally terrified of rejection--I do not make the first move or pursue anyone, even though I have a profile on the site. And, for the most part, I have been clicking "no thanks" on the "winks" of interest that I do get, because it seems like the only men I am attracting are "scrubs" with no jobs, no college, and no futures, who live at home in their mamas' cellars. The second group of men attracted to me strikes me as the type looking for a "trophy bride". They are mid-life and beyond, and it shows.

Sometimes, out of sheer curiousity, I do scroll through the list of who has looked at my profile, and I was interested in one, because he appeared to have the "tall, dark and stupid" look I am so attracted to. However, upon reading his witty and well-written profile, I could see that while he was tall and dark, he was most definitely not stupid.

I broke my no-initial-contact rule and sent him a reply that rivaled his own profile. The extreme lure to this guy was that our humor--dark, dry and sarcastic--was virtually identical. Going into this dating thing, that's HUGE for me, because my ex and I never saw eye-to-eye on that. Sure, this new prospect and I had a lot of differences in hobbies--he was into marathoning, winter outdoor camping and fishing--but for him, I could've made some exceptions. You can dress me up in diamonds, you can dress me down in dirt! And maybe I'd find I liked these things, if given a chance! Don't be fooled by my cutesy apperance!

We started out communicating really well, and I was slowly building trust in him, because he messaged when he said he would, and if he couldn't, he'd send a quick message to say when he could. Predictability = trust development.

Finally, after two weeks of almost daily conversations, he asked for my number. So excited! Things were progressing from inside the book jacket to the preface to chapter one!

And then...in typical boy fashion, he hasn't called. It's been three weeks. I am guessing he's not going to. I am confused and stung and wonder how I could've f*cked that one up, when it started with so much promise.

I feel like I picked up a book in a bookstore, read that book jacket, bought into what it promised...only to get it home and discover that the entire inner contents of the book are missing, and you don't know what you did wrong to lose the whole inside of the book you were so anxious to begin reading. And since you will never know more than that initial tease, you will never know what could've been, had things progressed beyond that book jacket...

This is one rejection that stung--and stung deep--but alas, I have no choice but to toss it into my ever-growing stack of books with covers that looked appealing, but turned out to have content that couldn't live up to the teaser you were sold on...

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The Sleep Cure

2010-01-18T07:41:00.001-08:00

To ease the ache in my heart and in my gut, I have thought often of the infamous "Sleep Cure", referenced in my favorite book of all time, 'Valley of the Dolls'.

The premise of the Sleep Cure is simple: a drug-induced, medically-monitored coma with the purpose of curing what ails you. The two examples cited in the book are quick weight loss and the ease of emotional pain. The Sleep Cure claims to erase fives years of hurt and inconsolable ache--in a mere three weeks!

I can't even fathom a better idea than the Sleep Cure. I am down almost two sizes, but there is always room to lose more. The sleep--in mere weeks!--would allow me to forget some of the more painful memories of my marriage, as well as soothe the empty ache I now have from feeling like I have no one: my daughter is gone from me fifty percent of the time, and I am frozen with the fear of being alone forever. Plus, I'd catch up on my sleep!

Alas, you cannot find such a thing as the Sleep Cure, at least in the US. Don't even bother asking your doctor, because she will just stare at you with a blank look. If you Google the Sleep Cure, results only turn up from other bloggers like me, bloggers familar with 'Valley of the Dolls', who themselves would also like the Sleep Cure.

If the Sleep Cure was offered in another country, I'd probably consider saving my money so I could have this procedure, the way my friends have saved for their own cosmetic surgeries.

Since it is not, I have no choice but to rely on my home-brewed version of the Sleep Cure: a good dose of Western medicine-provided sleep aids and anti-anxiety aids allow you to sleep whenever and wherever you want. It's funny, though, because I use my at-home Sleep Cure at least once a week, and the pain is still there...

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Signs

2010-01-13T14:08:00.000-08:00

"Breathe you out...breathe you in...
You keep coming back to tell me...you're the one who could've been...
And in my eyes, I see it all too clear...
It was long ago and far away, but it never disappears...

...I don't want to dream about all the things that never were..."
~Britney Spears, 'Out From Under'

All my life, I have believed in signs. Typically, I only believe in signs that I feel are good, and I ignore the bad ones. I like it better that way. And from conversations that I've had with other people, I've learned that you only see "signs" if you are looking for them.

Last night, I wasn't feeling great. I took AC to her ECFE class, and in class, I started tearing up. Multiple times. My other divorced friend JC wasn't there with her kids last night. I don't really know any of the other parents. Unlike last year, there's a lot of couples who come, so it's not just a "mom's night", like it was last year. And there's a happy, cutesy couple in class who remind me of my Married Guy and his Wife. The dad has a vague physical resemblence to the Married Guy. The wife has a vague physical resemblence to the Wife. I look at their two boys, and I think of the Married Guy's kids, because he's got two boys as well. And then I just feel kind of alone.

The loneliness was so bad that I snuck two Klonopin when no one was looking. Was I nervous or stressed? Nope. Just hurting. And I've found that Klonopin can knock the edge off the hurt, and at least help me avoid gasping crying fits. I felt rather smug for sneaking my tranquilizers in class, sliding them under my tongue and swallowing unnoticed.

To add the icing on the crap cake, after ECFE class, I had to bring AC back to her baby daddy. It's kind of a bad deal for me: I pick her up from daycare, bring her home for about 45 minutes, take her to class and then return her. I do, however, get her on Wednesdays. Damn custody wars.

After I dropped AC off last night, I went home and checked my phone, only to discover like, 10 missed texts, from my friend H and her boyfriend J, telling me to "dump those ECFE losers" and come out with them, because one of J's firefighter buddies was out. Sigh...I was tired. My eyes were puffy, from sucking back tears for the past two hours. I didn't feel cute at all. I desperately need a dye job and a cut, because it's now been close to two months because my stylist had surgery. My makeup was trashed, part from the crying bit and part from AC's rough treatment of me. My plan was to throw down a couple of Ambien and go to sleep early.

I tried every excuse with H to avoid this social interaction. I insisted I had nothing to wear. She told me that "boobs and jeans would be fine". I insisted that I wanted to go to bed. She said I could manage an hour and one drink. Finally, I relented.

In the midst of socializing with J's friend--whom I would date, and not just because he's a firefighter and he hangs out with J, someone I think is one of the coolest people ever--my other friend JC texted me. She was done with work, and didn't have her girls, so I told her to stop. I took her as no real threat to my flirting. Well, c'mon! I'm cute, right?

Once JC got there, all eyes were diverted to her. Sure, she's a cute girl, but she's not me. I nean, even in just boobs and jeans with pitifully patched-together makeup, I still think I'm pretty damn attractive. But she fawns over men, especially those with uniforms, whether they are in or out of the uniforms at the time. H and I both got irritated, because her real boyfriend was paying too much attention to JC and my wanna-be boyfriend was, too. It was sheer ridiculousness, especially since I was tired and vulnerable--and so was my self-esteem. Needless to say, I was not impressed by this turn of events.

Eventually, I'd had enough. Despite the fact that I was sitting next to H, I texted her under the table that I was going to leave. We exchanged some terse messages regarding the situation and her disappointment in both J and his friend, and I decided that I'd slam back my drink so I could get out of there as quickly as possible.

As I was drink-slamming, I happened to glance up at the ceiling, and guess what the ceiling tile was? Fighter jets. A ceiling tile with a photo of fighter jets on it. Not only did I feel mortally rejected by my failed attempts at flirting, I glanced up, and there's a blatant sign of my Soul Mate pilot (another mortal rejection for me, ha ha). Are you for real? What are the odds? Of all of the times that I have been to this establishment--and even been sitting at this same table--I have never noticed the fighter jet ceiling tiles before. It was a sign if I'd ever seen one before.

So, after that, I hit the road. So did JC. She was naive enough that she did not even realize what had gone down, that she was perhaps the reason I was leaving in the first place.

Done with the day and done with the pain, I indulged in my nightly Ambien. JC texted me to say goodnight, and I lamented on how awful I was feeling. She told me she was one step away from coming over and crawling right into my bed to cuddle with me. Shortly after that, I passed out from the Ambien. I probably dreamt about signs or fighter jets or pilots that I can't have. I don't know, because I don't remember anything but the relief of blackness and being completely devoid of pain, if only for a few hours. Sometimes, it's easier that way. After all, I don't want to dream about all the things that never were...

Wrinkled Like a Pear

2010-01-09T13:20:00.001-08:00

My friend found this old, shriveled, brown pear nearly frozen to death in a car:

Comparisons on the appearance of this wrinkled pear and my skin if I continue my avid tanning habit were made.

I'm pretty sure that she's just jealous that my glowing red skin matched my sweater so well. For everyone's benefit, I think it's best to just let this one go.

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Reasons Single Mothers are Late for Work, Part One

2010-01-07T16:44:00.000-08:00

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The Divorce Detox

2010-01-06T09:04:00.000-08:00

I've reached a stage in life that I've been predicting for years: the domino effect of divorce. Just like when you are in your early-to-mid-twenties and you are constantly attending weddings, it's now fallen into the cycle in your early-to-mid-thirties where you are constantly attending post-divorce celebratory parties.

I've fallen nicely into a group of friends who, like me, are recent divorcees, or divorcee wannabes. It can, at times, be the most fun I've ever had in my life. It's like re-living my early 20s, without the same pressures, because when it comes to marriage and babies, I've been there, done that. When I was in my early 20s, I was on a quest to find a husband, so going out always added to that pressure: I needed to find someone. It was fun, at times, to be single and young, because I had the vitality to stay out all night and still get up and work and go to college the next day. When I was young, I had so few responsibilities that I could do what I pleased, for as long or as late as I pleased. Now--just a mere 10 years later--staying out until even midnight when I need to get up and go to work the next day leaves me feeling like I've been hit by a train. No pun intended, of course, since I do actually work for a railroad, and theoretically, I could be be hit by a train on any given day.

Now, sometimes, life can be really lonely. Sure, we are all recently divorced or trying to get there. It's a fresh start--a detox of our entire lives, if you will. Except instead of that freshness and newness and excitement that came with being single in our early 20s, we are jaded. We've come out of marriages and long-term relationships that ended up being nothing but wasted years of our lives. We've learned to stop trusting men, because our married experiences have taught us that they cheat, they don't live up to their potential, they don't do what they say they are going to do, they refuse to mature and take care of their families, which left us to do all the work. And all the while, we've grown exhausted and unhappy and unsatisfied. All men now come with a "proceed with caution" banner, because we are scared and apprehensive, because the fear of being hurt again is so great.

Western medicine lumps us young divorcees into a category that strongly suggests "medicate until the feelings disappear". We all have our "anti-anxiety meds" in hand, some of us with a "sleep aid" booster. What used to be so hush-hush and kept secret no longer is, because that is what the medical field and society drill into us: take this pill, and it will calm you through your situation. It seems to be the answer prescribed to each and every one of us.

But with our "fresh starts" come a lot of new expectations.

Last night I was out with my divorcee friends, as a final dinner for our friend H, who is having a tummy tuck this morning. It's something that she has wanted for five years, and now the day is finally here. Ten years ago, I would've never understood. Now, being single again, I totally understand. The strain of having a child took a toll on my tummy, and now that I've lost weight, it is even more noticeable. It makes me cringe. It's like your feet: you can diet and exercise as much as you want, and you will never change your shoe size. With your tummy, you can diet and exercise as much as you want, but you are still stuck with that dead, stretchy skin that exists as a result of baby-making days. I dread the day that I am naked with a man again, and I hope to hell that he's mature enough to have been with women who have had babies before, whether he's been married or not, because unlike H, my C-section scarred tummy ain't going no where.

It scares me that, just like when we were young, the pressure to look good has re-surfaced, only now it's harder than ever. We've had babies. We've endured hard, unhappy marriages that led to hard, unhappy divorces. We're scared of being alone for the rest of our lives. We're expected to hold the universe up, but all around us, the planets collide. Society tells us that we should fall into the category of "MILF", but we also have to take care of our children, take care of the homes that we won in our divorces, work full-time to provide for our children, maintain somewhat of a social life, be active at our kids' schools, be out and active to "find" a new man...and the list goes on and on...

I don't own a scale, so the only time I get weighed is when I go to the doctor. Last time I went, I weighed about 15 pounds less than my pre-pregnancy weight. I'm guessing I've lost more since then, but sadly, the difference is most profound in my boobs. I'm pretty sure that of the 25 pounds I've lost, 10 has come from each boob, and five from other various bodily parts. That is unfair.

Alas, that is never good enough. Even when I was young and I was skinny and fit (because I had the time to be!), I never felt good enough, never felt thin enough. Now I don't think I ever will either. Divorce and the stress that it has caused has led my appetite to shrink, which is what caused my weight loss to begin with. But now it's like a potato chip: bet you can't stop at just one.

My latest tactic is the detox. I tried a detox once, when I was young and skinny. It was intended to last 14 days, and involved a complicated regimen of pills, and a lemon juice, maple syrup and water diet. I made it all of three days, before I broke down, due to weakness and a virtual collapse during a work-out.

The newest detoxes, it would seem, are largely pill-based. So I picked up the Jillian Michaels 14-day detox, and so far, I've seen nothing. No results, no side effects.

I brought this up in conversation last night, and as it would turn out, all of my friends also "detox". Like, big time, serious detoxing. In fact, H had an auto-ship plan on her detox, so she had bottles and bottles left, because now that she's lost so much weight, she doesn't need to detox nearly as much. After a quick stop at her house--where baby daddy drama ensued--I am now the proud owner of multiple bottles of her detox pills, which she assured me caused her to lose 10 pounds in two weeks. Sadly, I can't wait to start. I feel obligated to finish out my Jillian Michaels plan, and then I'll kick right into the acai detox.

In some ways, the very assumption of the detox makes me want to crumble: we were expected to detox our lives. We had to eliminate our husbands or significant others, who were our partners for years. For some, we had to eliminate our homes. We have to eliminate some of our recreational spending, because divorce is hard on the pocketbook. We had to detox our personal lives and pursuits, because we are now single parents. And we are expected to do so with a vivacious smile on our faces.

And now, because society tells us we have to look a certain way, we have to detox our bodies, too, which is so deeply sad because we detoxed our lives to bring us happiness and serenity and a deepened sense of mental health. Unfortunately, the pressure to detox our bodies is too strong, and if we get all of the good stuff we so wanted from our divorce detox, we also get the risk of detoxing our good health--in a negative way, at least on the inside. The high, high cost of beauty in our society...

The Sunburntan

2010-01-05T09:57:00.000-08:00

I don't feel well today. I am chilled, and can't seem to warm up. I am itchy all over. My skin is stinging to the touch, and this feeling encompasses my entire torso, which, much to my dismay, must be entirely clothed. The virus? Sunburntan.

Now that I am single again, I have to put much more emphasis on being cute. It's not that I was ever uncute when I was married. I just didn't have to try as hard, so I could let things slide. Like tanning. When I had my hair dyed a deep violet-auburn a few years ago, I decided that I no longer needed to be tan. When I was blonde, I was expected to be all tan and sunshine-y. With dark hair, I had fine reason to be pale and un-sunshine-y. It was more socially acceptable.

However, now with my newfound singleness, I've taken up tanning once again, since my pasty, pale skin hasn't seen the rays of a tanning bed since the early part of the Bush administration.

Tanning is a hobby that I enjoy very much. It's somewhat sensual to strip down and crawl in the tanning bed, which boasts a nice combo of hot and cold, thanks to the hot bulbs and the fans used to cool it down. It's a nice mid-day break, and it's also nice after work. I am always bummed that my salon only lets you go for 15 minutes, and I'm pretty sure I got cheated last night, and the girl set my bed too short, and I only got like, 12 minutes, or something. Sometimes I see tanning beds for sale in the classifieds, and I think to myself that if I had my own tanning bed, it'd be the equivilent of a human pig roast. I'd just let myself roast until my flesh was tender and hanging off my body.

Since I've been tanning so many days in a row, I've developed a sunburntan across my entire torso. I am bright red, and worse, on my back, I have distinct white lines, obviously showing where I've been laying in the bed, in between bulbs. Even my poor bum is sunburntanned right now, and one of the miseries of being single is that you have no one to rub lotion on your poor sunburntanned back and bum.

Not one to easily admit to pain--much less self-inflicted pain--I keep going tanning, and keep working on my sunburntan. I don't care what the FDA has to say about tanning and its dangers. I think it's a good source of vitamin D, and a nice recreational hobby. I don't drink, smoke, do illegal drugs, drive unsafely or participate in extreme sports. I am entitled to one vice that could be responsible for taking my life, and my vice of choice is tanning. It does, however, seem appropriate that my vice locks me in a coffin-like device, not unlike what the end result of a lifetime of tanning will be.

Alas, I am now sitting at work, in near-constant pain due to my sunburntan. Apart from my torso, back and ass, my sunburntan actually looks good. People ask me if I have been away on vacation, or if I am planning to leave on vacation. What I really want to tell them is that the only place I've been to lately is divorce court, but I keep it to myself.

Fortunately, I have a pre-tummy-tuck party to attend tonight, so I won't be able to build on my sunburntan today, which is probably a good thing, since I am nursing myself through the day with lots of ibuprofen, iced tea and lotion.

Today's Facebook Personality Analysis

2010-01-04T10:42:00.000-08:00

According to the Facebook quiz I took today, Which Crazy Writer Are You, I fall into this category:

J completed the quiz "Which Crazy Writer Are You?" with the result Tom Wolfe.

"Ah, the life of a wall flower. You get to hang out with the most interesting people -radio DJs, hot rodders, hippies, Hell's Angels, Wall Street tycoons, frat boys - and are completely happy putting them into the spotlight. You're completely happy hanging back with your martini and your little notebook, jotting down all your little observations, in sight but out of mind. Sure, everyone at the party knows who you are - but do they know the real you? And, more importantly, if you want to fade into the background, what's with the bright white suit?."

I am sad to admit that I do not know who Tom Wolfe is. I do, however, agree with the part of making my secret observations, which will inevitably come back to haunt at a later time.

Obsessive Dill Pickle Over-Consumption

2010-01-04T09:56:00.001-08:00

I have a flat-out, weird, unhealthy relationship with dill pickles. And back off your dirty minds: I eat them, not use them for illicit activities. I crave them beyond a description of words. To say that pregnant women crave dill pickles is nothing compared to how I feel about dill pickles. There's been a few occasions when I've run out of dill pickles, and I've honestly considered drinking the pickle juice straight from the jar.

Yesterday, I was innocently reading my Sunday paper when the craving for a dill pickle struck. I was so consumed with the dill pickles that I had to put my paper down so I could go to the kitchen to get a couple, at 10:00 in the morning. That is just wrong.

I am also very particular about my dill pickles. I will not accept anything less than Gedney Kosher Dills. Gedney. It's the Minnesota Pickle. When I was married, I went through a phase where I liked to slice my pickles in half, and spread cream cheese in the center, and sandwich it together. My ex-husband thought this was the most disgusting thing he'd ever seen. Another case for divorce: he didn't recognize good eats when he saw them.

Over the course of about four weeks in the fall, my daughter did a unit on colors at her school. It was complicated, because she had to wear the color of the day. So I'd have to deal with finding a green shirt one day, an orange shirt the next. On green day, she came home carrying a picture...of a bright green glittery dill pickle. I still have it on the refrigerator, because I don't know what's funnier: that I pay this school to have them help my daughter color enormous green phallic symbols, or that she chose to make a picture of her mother's favorite food.

Right now, I am having an intense craving for dill pickles, and there is nothing I can do about it, unless I want to interrupt my day for a trip to the grocery store. This is the worst day ever.

Why Mothers of Toddlers Never Get Anything Done, Part One

2010-01-04T09:34:00.000-08:00

(500) Days of Summer, or T-minus 5 Months

2010-01-03T10:55:00.000-08:00

When I was married, I was unhappily married for longer than I can count. In theory, I could make use of that calculator feature on my iPhone to multiply the number of years times the number of days, but that would be a number so high that it might make me eternally depressed to know that this number is equal the amount of unhappiness and wasted time in my short life.

I've had four major relationships end painfully in my life, two with friends, two with men. In all four instances, I can name the exact moment when I knew the relationship was over, even though it wasn't entirely over yet. In one, a friendship, it was when he came back from a two-week academic seminar in Cape Cod. The trip was with some friends from his MBA program, and in those short two weeks, he'd gone from being my office husband to being someone I didn't know at all. Most telling was his conversion from vegetarian to carnivore. His wife was a vegetarian, and had been for years before she met him. He converted to vegetarianism shortly into their marriage--nearly ten years--but returned from Cape Cod a carnivore. I didn't believe him. I bet him it wasn't true, and told him that if we went to lunch and he ate a meat burger, I'd pay. He ordered a bacon cheeseburger, and I could see the defiance in his eyes at first bite. It was that moment that I felt that the person he was, was gone, and I was right. Thanks to the fact that we worked together five days a week, ours was a long, drawn out goodbye, that finally came to a full conclusion when he was fired. Even though he revealed his true colors in the year before he was fired, and even more so after the firing, I still long for him in some ways, when things feel tough for me. In being my office husband, his job included reminding me of how cute I am. I don't have that ego boost anymore.

I know the exact moment my relationship with my ex-husband came to an end, too.

On a Sunday, he wanted to go four-wheeling with some friends early in the day. I had no problem with this--I enjoy my quiet time on Sunday mornings to read my newspapers and enjoy my coffee in peace. I did, however, want to go to a movie that afternoon, so I made it very clear that he needed to be home by 1:30, so he could be ready to leave by 2:00.

So, I waited. And I waited. When he hadn't called to say he was on his way by 1:00, I decided I'd get ready and go to the movie by myself, without him. The movie was (500) Days of Summer, and in my small-ish community, independent films are shown on short-lived runs, so I knew I had to go that day, or risk not seeing it.

When he finally called--at 1:55--I calmly told him I was going alone. I felt disrespected since he could not even manage to come home to do something with me, but I wasn't going to let it ruin my day.

It was after 2:00 when he finally walked in the door. The movie started at 2:30, and was a good 20-minute drive. Like a teenager caught after curfew, he insisted it wasn't his fault and that he could get ready *that* fast. Since he took nearly as long to get ready as I do, I knew this was a lie.

In earlier stages in our marriage, I would've been furious. However, on this day, I was not, probably due to a combo of age and meds.

I calmly slipped my wedding ring off, put it on the counter, and walked out the door.

It was the first time I'd ever done anything alone. Sure, I'd been grocery shopping or to Target by myself, but never to a movie or out to eat. I was shocked at how liberated I felt, to be out and doing something for myself, sans wedding ring.

I enjoyed the movie, due in part to the fact that in my afterlife, I secretly hope that I come back as Zooey Deschanel, with her enormous blue doe-eyes and dark, dark hair.

When I got home, my wedding ring was still laying on the counter, and my ex-husband was in bed, napping. He had no remorse, no regret, for the fact that his failure to do the one thing I asked of him--show up on time to take me to a movie on a Sunday afternoon--resulted in me being so hurt that I was no longer wearing my wedding ring. His attitude was that of complete nonchalance, and that was when I knew: not only did he not respect me, he took me for granted.

It was roughly five months after (500) Days of Summer that our marriage ended for real. My only regret was that I didn't do it five months--or 500 days--sooner.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

You Won't Feel A Thing...

2009-12-31T15:09:00.001-08:00

So, I've got this friend, a guy I've known for 10 years. We had the briefest of flings, waaay back in the day, that never amounted to anything, because the odds were entirely stacked against it. He lived four hours away. We worked for the same company, and that company considered dating co-workers to be incestuous and frowned upon. We were both nearly done with college, me for my BS and him for his MBA. It was nothing more than some super-steamy kissing, anyway. I could elaborate on the details of this kiss, which wins my award for "Hottest Lifetime Kiss", but then my friend Ang (thisiswhatimmadeof.blogspot.com) would lecture me again that my blog needs one of those "adult content" disclaimers, like her ever-so-nifty blog has. Let's just say that it was hot enough to keep me wondering about a progression of activities, even 10 years after the fact.

To make a long story short, he begged me to go back to his hotel with him. Begged me. I refused, because I was a nice girl who was looking for a husband, and nice girls who are looking for husbands don't have one night stands with boys they've known all of eight hours. Looking back, I regret that decision with every ounce of hormone in my body. See above: potential for progression of the Hottest Lifetime Kiss award.

A few years ago, we became Facebook friends. We were both married. He still is. Eventually, I busted him on his secret Facebook relationship with me, because I could not stop myself from Googling his wife. What?!? I just wanted to see a picture! It wasn't stalking! It was investigating! I found her Facebook. Him and her are not "friends". I am his only Facebook friend, on his secretive Facebook account. I am, in essence, his dirty little secret.

We exchange messages that have, from time to time, been a bit, um, scandalous. Not the kind of thing that I'd want to find, as a wife, that's for sure. Worse, I feel no guilt over it. I don't think about her. I don't think about his sons. I don't ask anything about his life, because to see him as a father or as a husband or as anything in real life would cause me to feel an emotional attachment, and that would hurt too much. His actions are his actions...I can't control that, even though I know that I would be a participant in something that could break his wife's heart, because my willingness to respond to him is obviously implied consent. Perhaps I have the ability to be so flip about it, because when I was married, I prayed for a woman to try and steal my husband away, so I wouldn't have to do the dirty work of divorcing him myself.

I have told him that I am like a burning match: he can't stop himself from lighting it. The temptation is too great. But as the fire burns down and the heat gets too close to your skin, you have a choice to make. And his choice is always made in fear, and that is to drop that match. But yet...he always comes back to strike that match right back up, even though I suspect it is more for his satisfaction than mine. I am sure, for a married 40-year-old guy, toying with me is a bit of an ego boost. Sometimes, I wonder to myself: if it really came down to it, if he decided he wanted to let that flame burn instead of drop it, could I actually follow through, or would I run? I'd probably run like Bambi from a hunter.

I have often thought of this "flirtation", and like to play a little game with myself, based on the lyrics of a Diddy song: "Let's play a game...let's pretend for a second you don't know who I am or what I'm about...and let's just put it to the test..." If things were different--if I weren't so lonely and hadn't been trapped in such a lonely marriage for so long--would he even be a consideration in my life? If I were to meet him right now, today, would there still be that intrigue, that attraction? I doubt it. He's let slip some pretty unsavory behaviors, including drinking at home after he puts his sons to bed, and drinking whiskey starting at 3 in the afternoon. Totally not classy, at least by my standards. But right now, it's the closest thing I have to attention from the opposite sex, so it's easy to fall into that trap. Besides, because I never had any real feelings for him to begin with and because I already know he's an untrustworthy cad, I don't have to be concerned about actually developing emotions for him or getting hurt.

Needless to say, we don't ALWAYS have inappropriate conversations. He messages to say Happy Halloween. He messages to say Happy Thanksgiving. He messages to say Happy Birthday, and Merry Christmas and today, Happy New Year.

Today's hit me especially hard...he thinks of me often enough to remember to send a message marking every occassion, but tonight, at midnight, he will be kissing his wife. And I will be alone.

There's something to be said for those New Year's Eve "dolls"...tonight, it will add a whole new meaning to "this won't hurt a bit..."

A Lack of New Year's Plans and Resolutions

2009-12-31T11:38:00.000-08:00

I don't bother with New Year's resolutions. Why would I? I'm perfect in every way, so there is no real reason to attempt to improve on perfection. Besides, since I've lost at least 25 pounds since my divorce, I've knocked off the number one resolution people choose: weight loss. Who needs resolutions when you've got divorce?

Alas, since every year I feel the need to resolve to do at least one thing, if only to be socially acceptable and fit it, I resolve to watch more television. Currently, I watch little to no TV. I resolve to change this, because I figure it would be a way to settle me down and make me less busy and less commited to things. I never follow through with this resolution, though.

New Year's Eve is among my least-favorite "holidays". It is not a holiday. It is a day. That's all. A day. The last time I went out for New Year's Eve was when I was 22. My BFF at the time was a total alcoholic, and she peer-pressured me into drinking, like, seven Quick Carlos shots. I threw up twice and passed out before 1:00 am. I was with my ex-fiance, and we'd been together all of two weeks. It was pretty classy.

Since that occassion, I have avoided going out for New Year's. My ex-husband works every New Year's Eve, so going out with him was never really an option. And since he works tonight, I have AC, who is the perfect excuse for my lack of social interaction this year. And really, there are very few places I would like to go on New Year's. I detest waiting for a table at a restaurant, and don't care to invest two hours of my time waiting for a table at the Olive Garden, when I could go there any other day and get right in. And I sure don't care for going to the bars, because just the thought of being around that many drunk people makes me hyperventilate.

My typical plan for New Year's Eve goes a little something like this: eat mac-and-cheese with AC; give AC a bath; watch Spongebob with AC for quiet time; put AC to bed; draw up a hot bath and throw in a bath bomb from Lush; slip into the bathtub with my copy of 'Valley of the Dolls'; re-read the New Year's Eve ending of 'Valley of the Dolls', and then, in honor of Anne Welles and 'Valley of the Dolls', take two Ambien. Why not? After all, it's New Year's Eve!

"She brushed her hair and freshened her makeup. She looked fine. She had Lyon, the beautiful apartment, the beautiful child, the nice career of her own, New York--everything she had ever wanted. And from now on, she could never be hurt badly. She could always keep busy during the day, and at night--the lonely ones--there were always the beautiful dolls for company. She'd take two of them tonight. Why not? After all, it was New Year's Eve!"
~Jacqueline Susann, "Valley of the Dolls

Phantom Missing Ring Syndrome

2009-12-31T11:19:00.000-08:00

So, yesterday I went to my regular nail salon, because I needed a fill, and I figured since I still have money left from my holiday bonus, I'd get a pedicure, too. Not that anyone sees my toes, mind you, but it was a good way to have a little relaxation in the middle of the work day. It's my version of the "afternoon delight" right now.

One thing I totally hate is being in the presence of really cute girls. I am pretty dang cute myself, but every so often, you encounter one who is so cute that it makes you sit and stew and think about how uncute you are. This is what happened at the nail salon.

As I soaked my feet in the lovely peppermint foot bath, I noted the cute girl. And she was cute: perfect hair, well dressed, extremely tan. And then I realized who she was: it was this girl that used to work at the tanning salon I used, like, 12 years ago. She was really skanky back then, and at the time, we were so young that we were going to "dry night" at the local bars, and she was known for stripping down to her bra. It took me a long time of discreetly observing her to decide that yes, this was indeed Pammy. The Pammy I knew was totally classless. This cute girl had a lot of class. But when she opened her mouth, it was the squeaky little Pammy voice, so I knew it was her.

Pammy and I were scheduled to be married on the same day--the first time I almost got married. I didn't get married that day. She did. She ended up divorced within two years--maybe even one. She moved back in with her parents. At least I managed to stay married for a whole seven years, and I have my own house. Pammy ended up in the same category as my ex-husband: cellar-dweller in the parental basement.

Because I always notice rings on both men and women, I noticed that Pammy was not wearing an engagement ring or a wedding ring, so I would assume that she learned her lesson the first time around and has not re-married. She did, however, have a fabulous ring on her middle finger, and now I am coveting it.

Even before I was divorced, I stopped wearing my wedding ring. My ex-husband did not know this, because I'd wear it out of the house, and as soon as I could, I'd slip it off and store it in my Coach pill case. But suddenly, looking at Pammy's ring, my own left hand felt really empty, and I can't shake that feeling. Usually my bling-y watch takes care of that, but now I can't get over the feeling of the missing ring--the Phantom Missing Ring Syndrome. My left hand feels so empty, even though this is what I wanted more than anything.

While I claim that I will never marry again, this is a blatant lie. I do hope to marry again someday, and sometimes even spend time daydreaming about my beach wedding and my wedding ring. My next wedding ring, I have decided, will be a cushion-cut diamond of 2.5 carats--minimum--and have two pave accents surrounding it: one in amethyst for AC's birth month, and the second in diamond. The wedding bands will be two--one for the top and one for the bottom of my 2.5 carat ring--and will be pave amethyst to match the pave amethyst row on my engagement ring. I hope my next husband has a lot of money, because I plan for this to be one hell of a custom ring. That's the only thing that is missing from my future wedding plans: the groom.

Alas, with no grooms lined up, I think I might need to do something about my Phantom Missing Ring Syndrome and shop for a nice middle-finger band, like Pammy's. I'm thinking tomorrow will be the perfect day to shop for this. New Year, new ring.

2009: A Recap

2009-12-30T13:47:00.000-08:00

Since my last post, I have regained my positivity and my sarcasm and my charm. I do not know why. I had yesterday off work, and my toddler rode my ass like I was a racing greyhound. AC refused to take a nap, so I missed some valuable sleeping time. My friend J was having a boy crisis and insisted she come over, which then forced me to clean my house in a hurry. When I told her my house wasn't clean, she said, "Don't worry about it. I'm used to seeing your sh!t everywhere." This may not have been meant as a compliment.

Nevertheless, in my bout of positivity, I decided it'd be a good idea to recap the major negative events of my 2009, and fill them in with the good stuff they actually brought. So here goes:

*I divorced my husband.
--> To normal people, divorce is a major, life-changing decision that leads to depression and sadness and other maladies. For me, it was the best thing I've ever done, and a long time coming. I could pretend that I'm feeling some pain, but nope. My Give-a-Damn's busted on that one. I feel nothing but happiness and gratefulness and relief over my divorce. Best. Decision. Ever. I had zero feelings left for my ex-husband by the time we divorced: no anger, no love, no affection, no nothing. It always reminds me of my favorite book of all time, 'Valley of the Dolls'. Anne Welles had everything she ever wanted--the husband, the child, the career, the NYC penthouse--but yet her husband was a cheater, and she knew it. And each time he'd cheat, she'd be hurt a little less, but she'd feel a little less love for him...until in time, there was nothing: no love and no hurt. My marriage was a little bit like that. Only minus the cheating part.

*Thanks to my divorce, I have my daughter, AC, only 50 percent of the time.
--> At first, this was a tough pill to swallow. Then I realized that this just might be the best thing ever: I can go out for Tequila Thursdays with my friends. I can sleep all by myself in my big, beautiful bed. I can sleep for as long as I'd like, uninterrupted. I can watch whatever I want on TV, and I don't have to watch Dora the Explorer. I can read magazines without the tiny tot grabbing it out of my hands and screaming, "No! ME!!!" All my friends who are a few steps ahead of me in the divorce process assured me that I would appreciate my time. They were damn right.

*I almost died twice due to various medical issues.
--> For those who don't know, I have an enormous pain tolerance. You'd never know it by looking at me, but I could rival a Marine. I also have little sympathy for those in pain, because I think they should suck it up and deal. I'd make the worst nurse in the entire world. I'd be better off pursuing a career as a dominatrix. However, over the course of the year, I had two events where I could've died, at least according to me. With the first, I postponed a visit to the ER until I had quite near hemorrhaged to death. The registrars stared at me in disgust, shocked at the fact that I had driven myself to the ER and that I was there alone. I got priority treatment. It rocked. The second time was the infamous ambulance ride for my extreme tachycardia--the highest heart rate the fire department guys had ever seen! The one that almost caused them to stop my heart and re-start it! I would've truly been legally dead--but only for about five seconds, according to the paramedic, who told me he was bummed that my heart regulated on its own, because he's never been able to administer that heart-stopping med, and I would've been his first. Thanks, buddy. From both of these near-death experiences, I have determined that the ER is like a five-star resort for single mothers. It's pretty terrific to spend time in the ER. They bring you heated blankets and prop you up with pillows. They bring in enormous syringes of federally controlled substances to treat your pain, and shoot you up so high that they need to put the bed rails up so you don't fall out of the bed in your drugged stupor. You can watch whatever you want on TV. You can eavesdrop on other rooms, to decide if your condition is better or worse than the person next to you. Doctors and nurses and your family show sympathy and concern. I can think of very few places where I can relax in such a peaceful environment.

*I can date again.
--> Okay...not so much progress on this one. I've had one date. And it was highly unsuccessful. But it's that hope that I'll stumble upon a good one that keeps me going. But this isn't Hollywood, this is a small town, so we'll see...

*I have effectively eliminated the need for eating and sleeping, thanks to stress.
--> Since my success in eliminating these two seemingly basic needs, I have lost a minimum of 25 pounds. The way I see it, stress like this is equivilent to doing meth. Both eliminate eating and sleeping, so you lose weight. I just got to stay pretty with the stress, unlike what would happen if I did the meth. Right now, I can literally take my pants off without even bothering with buttons and zippers. This could come in handy at some point. See above: dating. Alas, this also came with a negative benefit: the DDs are sneaking away on me. No fair. I am seeing the need to invest in some new lingerie for 2010. Again, see above: dating.

*I feel as though my work load has increased exponentially, and my productivity has decreased exponentially.
--> I got a rockin' year-end bonus. And I still have a job. That always helps.

*I finally joined the 21st Century and now have an iPhone. This has resulted in me downloading $600+ in iTunes.
--> Well...I needed the iPhone for, you know, texting and phone calls from prospective dates. It wasn't a want, it was a need. Besides, it was really gratifying to learn to use iTunes all by myself.

*I wasted an enormous amount of money to see Britney's Circus tour.
--> C'mon! It's Britney, b!tch! Plus, I stayed in the same hotel as Brit, which was extraordinarily fabulous. The shower was amazing. As soon as I hit it big, I am so getting a replica of that shower, with dual shower heads. Oh, and the headboard was etched glass, that lights up. Fabulous. And I drained the mini-bar, of virtually everything, except for the overpriced sex toy kits, because I'll be goddamned if I'm gonna pay $27 for a mini-vibe that you can get at the sex toy store for under $10. I did not appreciate that bill, but it sure was fun. I can't wait until I find myself a boyfriend, because a weekend at the Graves 601 is definitely in order. It'd be a total bonus if Britney was also in town, since the Target Center is right across the street, but that would be highly unlikely, so I should consider other fantasies for my next stay at the Graves 601.

*I drank so many tequila shots that I had to throw up at the bar. At 9:00 pm.
--> Pfft...this happens to everyone, whether they are 21 or 31. I didn't get it out of my system at 21. I did get it out of my system at 31. Literally.

*After a bout of depression caused by a med change, I self-diagnosed myself as bipolar.
--> Yeah, I might have to opt with my medical provider's opinion on this one: not true. But it was a good excuse for a while, plus it was a way to bond with Britney. I never got to the head-shaving part, but I did think the neon pink bobbed wig was pretty sweet. I thought that'd be the best Halloween costume ever: Brit's 'Womanizer' cop costume, only with the neon pink wig instead of the blonde hair. But, alas, I guess I will have to side with my mom on this one: "It's not YOU who is crazy. It's your MARRIAGE that makes you crazy." Touche, because once my marriage ended, so did my craziness.

*I planned a hell-raising bout as a really, really bad girl. I fully intended to have one-night stands, drink a lot, smoke cigarettes, maybe smoke some greenery, date a plethora of boys, go to sleep way past my bedtime...
--> I was a total failure. A complete, full-on epic fail. Of this list of things I planned to do, I succeeded only in drinking a lot, and that resulted in the tequila-vomiting episode mentioned above. I smoked a cigarette, in the midst of a five-week bout of bronchitis, and looked like an ass when I coughed and coughed. I decided that I've never had a one-nighter, and don't plan to, since the idea of getting it on with someone I am actually dating freaks me out right now. Smoking the greenery? Forget it. Too much work. Dating lots of boys? I can't even find one. As it would turn out, I will forever be the good little girl next door. And I guess that's probably okay.

I'm sure I made many, many more negative or questionable decisions throughout the course of 2009, and I am sure I'll do the same in 2010. But at least I can laugh about it, right?

75 Hours...and counting...

2009-12-28T18:48:00.001-08:00

I hate seeing myself as a negative, chronically pessimistic person. I like to think I am not. Sure, I am a bit cynical and sarcastic, but overall, I like to think of myself as positive. Or at least able to fake positive to the outside world.

I am not, however, feeling so positive or happy right now. Not at all. Maybe it's the holidays. Holidays can be no fun when you are alone, because it leaves you feeling so...alone. And the Christmas holidays just may go down in the history books my worst, and I don't expect New Year's to be much better. See? Cynacism. Or is it simply realism?

Right now, I am feeling pretty damn sorry for myself. Like, all-out, unproductive, lay-in-bed-with-the-dog-and-cry sorry for myself. My house still has that FMH look I first debuted a few posts back. It takes me an eternity to finish even a small task, because I will find a way to divert my attention to my own patheticness instead.

I realize that there are people out there who have it way, way worse than I do. I know this. There are people who are jobless and homeless. There are people grieving the loss of a loved one. There are people dealing with terminal illnesses. There are people eating Kraft Mac-n-Cheese not by choice, like me, but because they truly cannot afford anything else.

Alas, I still feel sorry for myself. I could make a list of all the things that make me feel sorry for myself, but then I'd have it in writing, and one day in the future, when I am out from under this giant cloud of self-pity, it will surface, and I will have no choice but to mock myself over my "problems". Worse, someone else would find it and make fun of me. There are few things worse than that: being made fun of. I'd rather be dishing it out than taking it in.

So, to cope with my incapacitating sadness, I am allowing myself 75 hours of sorrow. 75 hours. I chose this, because as of right now, there are 75 hours left in the year 2009. Once 2010 hits, the sadness and patheticness have got to go.

So, here I go...75 hours to get out all of my tears and sadness and anger...

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

2009: A Year of Cruel and Unusual Facebook Status Updates

2009-12-28T13:10:00.000-08:00

For those of you who know my Facebook persona, you know that I like to update my status. No, I don't just like to update my status--I LOVE to update my status. Like, crazy-mad-beautiful status updating.

Thanks to a tip from another blog I read, nineandlight.blogspot.com, I learned that FB has an application that allows you to pull up your status update history for the past year. Unfortunately, because FB reports that I have had 791 status updates over the past year, it would be cruel and unusual to publish them all. However, I offer some highlights:

December 2008/January 2009:

* is having a 2 tranquilizer sorta day, and it's only 10:30 am. Or to be more politically correct, a "2 anti-anxiety pill" sorta day.
* once had a friend tell her that if her dog was human, he'd be a serial killer since he was raised to believe he could do no wrong. She fears this for her kid.
* is ashamed that her dog did not turn out like his namesakes, JFK and RFK. Instead, he's the nasty Kennedy cousin: bad, rude, self-entitled, lazy, spoiled...
* response when asked if she's planning to have more children? "Not on purpose!", followed by sarcastic shrieks of laughter.
* kid is now obsessed with Beauty and the Beast, and runs around the house yelling, "Booty!" Her daddy does the same, though hoping for different end result.
* feels that Yo Gabba Gabba is tailored for toddlers and stoners, but is best described as "giant dancing BOBs". A BOB, you ask? Battery Operated Boyfriend.
* feels that the cure to her lethargy and unproductively would be a short-term meth binge, which would allow her to super-clean, super-work and super-mom.
* was amused to read a theory that JFK's rampant affairs were due to his feeling that f*cking someone else's wife was the sincerest form of flattery. Touche.
* is filled with fizziness for both Obama and champagne, which led to her champagne supernova all before noon.
* would have postponed this getting married-having babies thing had she known that someday, there'd be the opportunity to date Bret Michaels on national TV.
* vows every Sunday that she will stop being cynical, mean and gossipy. And then she gets to work on Monday, and that whole resolution just goes down the drain.

February 2009:

* is always grateful that she had a little girl, for if she'd had a boy, she'd inevitably raise him to be a drag queen. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
* is somewhat ashamed that in her parenting class last night, she could not help but snicker immaturely at the term, "refuel your love tank."
* wishes that it was not illegal to sell unused prescription drugs on the black market, as she could use some extra funds right now.
* is secretly hoping the schools AREN'T closed tomorrow, because she does know if she can take another iced-in day with her two kids: her toddler & her husband.
* is sometimes bummed that she isn't and never will be The Hot Girl, but then remembers that of all the words used to describe Jackie O, 'sexy' was never one.
* is guessing that she'll get exactly what she asked for for Valentine's Day: nothing.
* shares the dream of many middle-class children across America: she hopes to one day have her own bedroom.
* looks like a model, except she's got a little more ass.
* read a study that said the more liberal a person is, the less neat she tends to be. Looking at her house, it would be evident that she is very, very liberal.
* just found the perfect lunchtime spot for picking up men: the McDonald's by the air base and Cirrus. How did this not dawn on her sooner?
* would like a Get-Out-of-Hell-Free card.
* thinks that finding a good man is like finding a good job in this economy: all the good ones are taken, and the leftovers are too much work for too little pay.

March 2009:

* thought it was hilarious when the toilet at work had to be serviced for "Thomas the Tank Engine in toilet". It was not so funny when it happened at her own house.
* had an astonishing realization: her mental health is much like her hair color. It's been so modified and medicated, she is not sure of its natural state.
* had a boyfriend in the 1st grade who gave her a love letter with the following proclamation: "You will be my first wife." She wonders if the offer still stands.
* wonders if any of her fb friends have lived through a separation/divorce, and how'd you do it? Any attorney recommendations? Any wine recommendations?
* just endured a human resources meeting that included the words 'f*ck' and 'bullsh!t', in addition to her own slip o' the tongue with the word 'pecker'.
* has a backache, but not like the kind her husband has, which once caused him to declare that he was "in more pain than any human being has ever been in before." J would like to point out that he has never endured child birth.

April 2009:

* is exhausted from the weekend, due in part to the fact that she tends to confuse "passing out" and "sleeping". It would seem that they are not one and the same.
* is stressed, and to deal with her stress, she decided it would be good to take three Klonopin. Unfortunately, her latest stress is that she now feels wasted at work--never a good feeling, unless it's an after-effect from a particularly good night before.
* in an effort to take off a few pounds quickly, is wearing two pairs of Spanx today. She is trying this, as she has an appointment with her gorgeous OBGYN tomorrow, and she'd like to look extra hot...but then she remembered that all the Spanx in the world ain't gonna help when she has to undress.

May 2009:

* wonders why--at the age of 31--she still gets nervous and giggly when she has to place a business call to the hot insurance guy--she feels like she's in junior high again, though this would be "Junior High: Cougar Style".
* daughter started daycare for the first time ever today, at a daycare called the Think-n-Play. However, when her husband initially did a Google search on the Think-n-Play, he mistakenly typed "Thonk-n-Play"...a search that returned Adult Friend Finder, and makes J wonder what she is missing out on, since she has never "thonked".
* was amused by the young Baptist boy who kept trying to flirt with her while on a group tour at her museum today. She wondered what this 16-year-old boy would see in her, but then looked at his companions and realized that compared to the girls he was with, she looked like one hot MILF.
* had a low-grade fever yesterday, so she called in sick to work under the excuse of "not wanting to expose her coworkers to a potential case of the bird flu." Uh...bird flu? Fail. Major fail. Her excuse now is that the low-grade fever caused her to space out the fact that she actually has the SWINE FLU.
* grant me the serenity to accept those I cannot change, regardless of how hard I've tried; the courage to get through this once-a-year beast of a day without snickering or making inappropriate comments or gestures; and the wisdom to know the difference between sexual harrassment and simple jokes.

June 2009:

* daughter, when offered white milk, demanded chocolate instead. When her Grammie said no, her daughter proceeded to grab the cup, throw it against the wall and scream, "F-ck it!" J thinks it's time for some anger management classes for all members of her family.
* wants to be the sort of girl who always sees the glass as being half-full, and she does...except that glass is half-full of crap.
* is off to fetch supplies for a last-minute Father's Day BBQ, and since she's going to Walmart, she decided to skip showering, washing her hair and applying makeup, with the hope that she might fit in and go unnoticed for once.
* is glad for her tranquilizer prescription on days like today, in which a simple pill offers new meaning to the term, "This won't hurt a bit."

July 2009:

* is heartbroken that both of her childhood crushes--John Ritter and Michael Jackson--are dead. By way of statistics, this does not bode well for her long-lost first-grade boyfriend.
* knew that she reached a new level of nonchalance in parenting when, while waiting in line at Wal-Mart, her toddler looked at her and screeched, "You got boobies, Mommy?!?" Instead of freaking out and looking to see if anyone heard, J just nodded and agreed.
* was singing to her daughter, when her daughter screeched, "Nooo, Mama! Stop it!" She paused in her rendition of Baa-Baa Black Sheep to ask her daughter if she liked it when OTHER people sang to her. Without a beat, her daughter answered, "Yes!" J guesses this means her pursuit of the American Idol title is off.
* feels that rearing a toddler is like running a marathon that you are woefully unprepared and untrained for: the twists, turns and uphill sprints keep you guessing and winded; and the brief water stops leave you exhausted and begging for mercy. She wonders when the finish line will appear.
* learned tonight that Emergency Room x (morphine + IV drip) - pain = a happy, drowsy and slightly stoned girl.

August 2009:

* cringed when she saw the highway patrol while driving to work this morning, knowing that she was going roughly 15 miles over the speed limit. But no worries, as she figured she'd rely on her lip gloss and cleavage, attributes that have gotten her INTO and OUT OF the majority of problems she's run into throughout her life.
* finds that very little cannot be cured with a hot shower, Kraft Mac-n-Cheese and a Klonopin. Or two.
* will be taking on a daunting task this evening: she plans to take her 2-year-old to her first movie. She expects this will not go well, and suspects that by the end of the evening, she will have earned herself a place in either the Carlton County jail or the mental health padded-down lockup cell.
* was helping her daughter get dressed this morning when she looked at her and said, "You got boobies, Mama? Big boobies!" Yes, honey...Mama does have big boobies. DDs to be precise.
* is off to uncork a big bottle of whine.
* just bumped into an old acquaintance, who left his wife for a woman 9 years his junior who was pregnant with another man's kid and had yet another kid. So, together, they are blissfully raising her two children AND his two children...and the guy's completely manic and ecstatic with life. J questioned if he was taking meth, but he reported that no, he was just that happy. Huh. Whatever he's got, she wants some.
* knew that her daughter's obsession with boobies had gone too far when she asked her daughter what she wanted for dinner, and her daughter replied, "Dinner and boobies!" Now, she understands this is probably the desire of a lot of men out there, but does it also need to be the desire of her two-year-old?
* daughter was playing with her Dora doll in the bathtub, and looked up and said, "Look, Mommy! She's taking a sh!t!" Sigh...is there no end to this child's potty mouth? Sadly, her excuse is a whispered, "Daddy says that...", so it looks like it might be Daddy who needs a good scolding.
* spent an enjoyable day at the Public Urinal Bath--AKA, the community pool--where she scored a new boyfriend. She doesn't know what lured this hot 7-year-old in--perhaps it was her smokin' hot legs that haven't seen the sun since the Bush administration, or her barely covered DDs. All she knows is that it was a total bonus to be waited on by someone willing to go to the deep end to get her kid's wayward toys.
* in an angry rage, screamed at her husband that she wanted a separation. His response? "Well...maybe we could just have sex like, you know, people who don't know each other or whatever."
* is craving some excitement, so she considered adding former flings and exes to her fb friend list. But then she remember that there were so few of them and that she was either engaged and/or married to such a high percentage of them that at this point, any efforts to pursue a flirtation would be pointless. Sigh...such is the life of a good girl.
* is disgusted that even though her daughter just announced that "Mommy has big boobies", J's appearance in her shirt today does not seem to confirm that. She's gonna have to resort to spritzing on some Love's Baby Soft and using Kleenex to bump these DDs up to DDDs, just like the good old junior high days.
* life is purely a work of fiction, and any resemblance to actual people--living or dead--places or events is merely coincidental. Unless, of course, you are a person, place or event that has made it onto her notoriously naughty list. In that case, expect a scathing rehash of every detail of your mistake committed against her through her meticulously nonfictional life.
* is trippin' on Ambien, and strongly suggests that should you receive any messages from her, you delete them without reading or questioning why. It's not that the information contained in the message is untrue; it's that the information contained in the message IS true, but she doesn't want you to know it. Ambien = truth serum. And all the more reason to get off Facebook and into bed.
* is hosting her very own Whine Tasting...there's My House Looks Like it was Hit by a Tornado and I'd be Better Off if It Was Merlot; My Husband Bitches at Me for Things That Are Mostly Out of My Control chardonnay; I Will Never Catch Up at Work and I Will Get Fired Cabernet; and her personal fave, My Strong-Willed Toddler Caused the Tornado and is Now Beating Me with a Plastic Hammer from the Fair pinot. Wanna join?
* is bored senseless with the mundane pace of her life yesterday, so after a charming conversation with a very dear friend yesterday, she has decided that perhaps the answer is to become a phone sex operator. Work from home...$1 a minute...and as an aspiring writer, she is perhaps capable of saying just about anything to just about anyone. Sigh...why is it that she's consumed with the insatiable urge to cause trouble?
* just heard her boss utter the following phrase: "If you have boobs, don't even come anywhere near me." Umm...she doesn't know if she should laugh or cry. Or laugh until she cries.
* 's boobie-avoiding boss offered to pay for a fireworks show at her next wedding. Ha ha ha. As if there'd be a next wedding, though with a fireworks show, the entertainment value alone might be worth it. A next-day annulment is always an option, though as this point, she's pretty certain that she won't have to worry about this, as she's going to be alone for the rest of her life.
* isn't used to what she's feeling...what could this be? Failure? She doesn't know, because it has happened so few times in her life, but her current situation indicates an EPIC FAIL.

September 2009:

* got a scathing reprimand over her weekend activities, or rather, her failure to perform her weekend activities. She would rehash the mistakes made for everyone's amusement of her epic failures, but since she was already reprimanded once, perhaps it best that she just keeps her mouth shut from now on, much to her dismay, as she's really not a keep-your-mouth-shut kinda girl.
* was scorned again today over a FB status update, so she has had no choice but to create of Naughty List of people she has deemed unworthy of her brilliant and creative updates. If you can read this, she feels you are worthy. Congratulations on earning such an honor. "...But sometimes, man, it just seems, everybody wants to discuss me...so this must mean I'm disgusting...but it's just me--I'm just obscene!"
* much to her dismay, is again blaming her pillows for her lack of sleep last night. How many pillows does a girl need to go through to find a good one? It's like trying to find a good man...after about three months, it starts to show its true colors and ends up being a pain in the neck, so you have no choice but to kick it to the curb and start shopping around for a new one.
* baked brownies, and washed multiple loads of laundry. She changed the linens on three beds, and ironed a week's worth of clothes. She tried to tame a toddler who is virtually untameable. She loaded and unloaded the dishwasher, and even sorted the good crayons from the bad. Meanwhile, she caught her husband...watching The Jonas Brothers. His defense? "The chick on there is really hot."
* thinks that, once in a while, she'd like to be something other than tired. It's funny...when she was growing up, she doesn't ever once remember thinking, "When I grow up, I want to be tired all the time!", but somehow it's become almost a career for her.
* would like you to know that according to her FB quiz results, Jesus thinks she's a selfish bitch, and all she does is "shop, eat and complain". Alarmingly, J is not at all unsettled by this, either by the disapproval of her lifestyle according to Jesus, or over the scorn for her favorite hobbies.
* 's concentration at her board meeting was broken first by her boss calling a volunteer a "horn freak", and second by the arrival of the only sexy man who has ever served on this board. She meticulously catalogs who wears rings and who does not, and for the past two meetings, he has not. So she wonders...separated/divorced/it's complicated, or likes-to-work-with-his-hands-and-doesn't-want-to-ruin-it?
* wonders, have you ever had a friend who is so obnoxious, you hope to never encounter that person in public? It happened to her today, at Target. Much to J's horror, the unnamed friend pointed at a group of three USAF boys in fatigues and yelled, "Look, J! It's a 4-some potential!" They were barely legal. They heard. J bumped into them nearly every aisle. Not good.
* does not play games she cannot win, especially when she was the one who initiated the game. Forget that.
* really wants to be like Foofa, who's pink and happy. She wants to be like Daisy, who simply says, "Lavender lollipops!" when things don't go her way. She wants to be like Patrick, who is too oblivious to really understand his own--and Bikini Bottom's--frustrations. Instead, she is more like Gargamel, who shrieks, "Asreal! You stupid idiot!" at his cat when angry.
* 's daughter got a hold of their dog's Christmas leash, and was running around the house with it. AC's Daddy told her that she was "not big enough to play with leashes yet". It made J wonder: what age WOULD be considered big enough to play with things such as leashes, whips, handcuffs or chains?
* bought Cover Girl's Outlast Lipstain, and wants you to know that it does live up to its advertised potential. She applied it last night before bed--what? It was NEW and she just got home and had to try it!--and after two showers, she can still see some vague color, as though she's been drinking Kool-Aid all day. In the event that she ever decides to take up one-night stands as a hobby, this product would be a must.
* is celebrating her seven-year wedding anniversary with her "estranged husband" today. She researched marriage statistics, and found the average marriage headed for divorces lasts 7.2 years, but the risk of divorce at 7 years is only 1 in 6. Hmmm...might have to get a move on this.
* really needs to invest $2 for a box of Kleenex for her office, to avoid the awkwardness that ensues when she needs to stumble out of her office to look for communal Kleenex while also covered in the tear stains and mascara that leaves her looking like a sleep-deprived raccoon.

October 2009:

* got to see her beloved OBGYN today, and she's not 100 percent sure--but she's about 99.5 percent sure--that he gave her a quick wedding ring check...just to see if one is present or not. J just KNEW that he was in love with her, too, and now she has proof. Either that, or there's that half-percent chance that he was actually checking out her poor choice of nail color, which J is afraid matches a porn star's.
* is thinking D-I-V-O-R-C-E. For real this time.
* is starting the first day of her new life, and it's taking all her strength not to have a Britney-like moment...not the head shaving moment, but the moment that she locked herself in the bathroom with her son because she didn't want to give him up. That kinda moment.
* is thinkin' that the single life ain't at all what the 'Sex and the City' girls hyped it up to be.
* is single for the first time since December 1, 1999. Luckily, her 50-something nerdy train-queer co-worker took the time to tell her, "J, I just want you to know that K found me. Even though you have a young child just like she did, you are still attractive, and there are men just like me out there who will want you." Umm...thanks, buddy.
* had the misfortune of her car dying on the freeway, despite the previous visits to the dealer where the mechanics ogled her Pussycat Dolls CD instead of doing their job. The bad news: J didn't have her cell phone. She had to use the highway patrol's phone. When she say the picture of the little girl on the screen, she considered saying, "Cute kid. You still married to the baby mama?", but figured it'd be a tad inappropriate.
* used to appreciate having the bed all to herself. Now she's not so sure that's a good thing. But she's trying to keep her chin up, because hopefully, someone, someplace, will ask her on a date someday, and maybe she will once again get to be aggravated at sharing her bed.
* encountered her unrequited crush today at work, unexpectedly. Had she known that she would be facing such an encounter--especially since she's now a single girl--she would've freshened up by applying new lip gloss, doing a better job at hiding the oh-so-pathetic circles under her eyes and shedding about 25 pounds.
* is watching 'Bob the Builder' with her daughter, and Bob just attended a dance where his crush told him how terrific he looked. First, should Bob the Builder even HAVE a crush--it's children's show! Second, if Bob the Builder can score dates, J's pretty sure she can, too.
* has decided it's time to put on her big-girl panties and deal...even if they are gigantic, white cotton briefs designated to keep her from getting too carried away with her new single life.
* is soliciting qualified candidates for her first rebound relationship. Qualities should include: 1) Fits her type of "tall, dark and stupid", a type that a friend once not-so-discreetly pointed out that she prefers; 2) Lacks traditional moral standards, as J is not exactly legally divorced; 3) Has his own home, or at least his own bedroom; and 5) Possesses the funds to meet her entertainment needs.
* has decided to leave her wedding pictures on her fb photo albums, because let's face it: she looks good. However, to deal with the fact that she is no longer married to the groom, she has decided that she will Photoshop the faces of her various crushes instead. Jeremy Piven one day, Josh Duhamel the next...
* is praying for the serenity to accept the man she cannot change, no matter hard how she tried; the courage to control her temper so that she does not kill the aforementioned man; and the wisdom to know that her life will move on and be good. Even if it doesn't seem like it now, and even if the aforementioned man tells her, "The only boyfriend you will ever find is the hard, plastic type that comes from Sex World."
* needs to shop for a first-date outfit that makes her look as skinny as possible. By tomorrow. Sigh...she thought that she was done with all these worries ten years ago.
* is not morally bankrupt. No, not all of her morals and standards have been depleted. It's more like...a moral recession.
* because she isn't having a rough enough day already, just got dumped VIA TEXT MESSAGE. The message: "Thought about it and you are just not my type. Sorry." Wow. Being a single, vulnerable girl is hard, and she is hating on herself for being so upset over some stupid a**hole of a guy with an ignorant Texas accent who gives too much sloppy tongue when he kisses.
* can't believe that she shed a single tear over her idiotic "date" who dumped her via text...he used the word "motherf*cker" in every sentence. He has multiple ex-wives and kids named Dallas Jr and Fancy. He chose to wash his truck instead of take a shower before their date. She saw an actual live mouse at his place. J believes she was born and bred to be a Kennedy, and she got sad over losing THIS treasure?
* "...shoulda, coulda, woulda..." my ass. Can't we just do it now?
* thinks that unrequited lust is like a burning match: you can't help but light that match because the temptation is too strong, but then as that fire in your hand burns hotter and hotter, you get scared and drop it. But yet...you can't stop yourself from going right back to it, because that fear makes it both scary and fun, an irresistible combination for pleasure.
* would like to point out that dating other men while separated from your husband is a bit like smoking pot and not inhaling: the devious intent is there, but since the act was not carried out to completion, it does not count. It is not, as her boss suggested, cheating, though J got a laugh out of his complaint of a railroad partner "cheating" on them: "Oh wait...that's something you know a lot about these days."
* brought her daughter to ECFE class last night, and during open play, her daughter discovered the plastic food section. J was dismayed when her daughter selected a plastic weiner, and started trying to shove it into J's mouth, insisting that she take a bite. For J, it brought back bad memories of so many first dates gone awry when they turned into that same scenario, minus the plastic part.
* after doing the walk of shame via her fingers to check for drunk texts sent from her phone or fb last night, checked the Txts Frm Lst Nght site--her FAVORITE site ever, hands down. It's her daily routine, because it makes her laugh and because she is certain that inevitably, one of her own texts or fb statuses will be featured sooner or later.

November 2009:

* is snug as a bug in a rug in her bed right now, torn between doing the right thing and getting up to get ready, or the wrong thing, and cuddle deeper in bed and doze back off. It's moments like this that she both loves and hates having the bed all to herself.
* is starting to think that she may need to curtail her status updates, as the ads on the side are now displaying lesbian dating events. She's had ads for David Sedaris; she knows this makes sense, since her profile clearly states her adoration for David. However, she does not recall clearly stating her adoration for being a lesbian, because she is not one.
* was driving her daughter home from daycare today, when AC pointed at the local Gospel Tabernacle and screamed, "That place is for CHEATERS!" J's heart froze for a moment, so she asked her daughter to clarify. Turns out, he daughter actually believes the Tab is for TEACHERS. J is not sure why, but perhaps this conversation was has to teach her a lesson.
* would like to share her latest experiences with boys: the first one dumped her via text message. The second wanted to "look but not touch". The third, and possibly most alarming, tried to talk her into having a threesome with one of her good friends. J's pretty sure that successful dating is not in her future at this point, if ever.
* looks socially unacceptable thanks to this crazy itching that has developed on her hands and arms, causing her to scratch herself until she is bright red and blotchy. Since J has never had allergies, her coworker suggested that perhaps God is punishing her for having impure thoughts about other peoples' husbands and military boys met on the Internet
* is reminiscing on the eight-year anniversary of the day that she scored her second diamond engagement ring and second fiance within a 16-month timeframe. Obviously, she was unsuccessful in both ventures, but has come to the conclusion over the years that if she really wants to collect diamond rings, she can buy them herself.
* was alarmed by how much she enjoyed the scent of her freshly-washed laundry while folding it. Typically, fresh laundry is one of her favorite scents; however, she usually only takes this much interest in it when it is attached to the activity of snuggling with a boy. Since it was not, she is now concerned that her inner domestic goddess gene might be attempting to emerge.
* has been told that she seems "different" since her separation from her husband. Today, she asked her coworker if he has noticed that she is "different". He took a moment to think, and then responded with, "Well...I guess you seem sluttier." J will admit to laughing at this blatant display of sexual harrassment in the workplace.
* thinks what she does is innocent...just for fun and nothing meant...Could someone please inform her ex-husband of this, as he hacked her blog and now thinks J is the devil's spawn?
* ♪♫ "...So let me go, just let me fly away...Let me feel the space between us growing deeper and much darker every day...Watch me now, and I'll be someone new...My heart will be unbroken, it will open up for everyone but you...Even when I cross the line, it's like a lie I've told a thousand times...I'll get it all figured out, when I'm out from under..." ♪♫
* ..."been so many things when I was someone else...boxer in the ring, trying to defend myself...and the private eye to see what's goin' on..."
* is thankful that she was finally strong enough to make a decision and stick with it, even though right now she feels as though she's in purgatory: too soon to know what's up ahead, but too late to change her mind.
* is thankful for the spare time she has on her hands tonight, which will allow her to focus some energy on packing up some more of her ex-husband's stuff and getting it the heck out of her house.
* is thankful that she spent the majority of her child-free time this week in bed, as she's now well-rested and recovering from her disgusting cough. She would, however, be even MORE thankful had she spent the last three days in bed next to someone, but perhaps she will put that on her wish list for next year.
* has decided that having the bed all to herself is by far the greatest advantage of being single, and she wonders how she ever even survived the past eight years, between sharing a bed and the husband himself. She may never date again, for fear that her date might get the impression that he can infringe on her bed territory.
* is having SO much fun with her new hobby: de-husbanding her house. It is so empowering to pack up his trash, and even more empowering to "split" their daughter's posessions, as J is in a position of power in deciding what goes to Daddy's house. Guitar? Check. Xylophone? Check. Yo Gabba Gabba Brobee microphone? Check. Drums? Talking Elmo? Check. Barney DVD? Check.

December 2009:

* is starting to feel like her life is a video game: she makes it through one hurdle to advance up a level, only to immediately find her next fight. She is hoping she can make it through all the levels to come out on top, though she sure does wish that she could find one of those guides that forewarn you of what to expect from your enemies so you can be prepared with a game plan ahead of time.
* is still in her bed, nice and snug and happy (albeit alone), and cannot muster the ambition to get up. She has decided that she just may stay in here forever, or at least until her planned 5:30 Tequila Thursday with H and A. Whichever comes first.
* is amused over a dear friend's message, telling J that she saw a story on sexting and automatically thought of J. J is really not sure if this is a compliment, but she is slightly embarrassed to admit that she does have proven skills in this area. Skills so good, in fact, that her sexting brings all the boys to the yard...damn right, it's better than yours...she could teach you, but she'd have to charge...
* is having a pathetic moment, because she received a group email message about the 2010 Duluth Air Show, and she teared up, knowing that with no husband, she has no guaranteed date for the Air Show next July. Granted, she has been known to go to the Air Show to LOOK FOR prospective husbands, but still...
* never used to dream at night when she was married to her ex-husband. She used to blame it on the fact that she had to be heavily medicated to sleep next to him. Now that he's out and she's sleeping alone again, she is dreaming again. In fact, this morning she woke up all sweaty after a dream about...her iPhone. Okay, okay...not the sexiest of dreams, but a girl's gotta have a starting point, right?
* wonders why Sundays always seem like the loneliest day to her...she is never actually "alone", but still can't shake that deep-down feeling of loneliness. Sigh...since she had perhaps the loneliest marriage ever, she doesn't understand her loneliness now, since it's not like anything has really changed.
* thinks that when it comes to dating, boys find her as cuddly as a cactus and as charming as an eel.
* likes to think that she is the sort of girl who doesn't give up easily, even when she should. For example, it took her six pageants to finally win one time. She is applying the same philosophy to marriage: perhaps it will take her six marriages to finally win one good husband.
* wonders, is "careness" a word? Used in a sentence, "I would like a woman to show her careness for me". Yeah, that's what J thought, too. Not a word. And if that is an example of the candidates on online dating sites, J now has confirmation that she will be alone for a long, long time, because she lacks a certain careness for this quality of man.
* finds her relationship with her ex-husband to be the equivilent of today's weather: frosty, icy and filled with a raging, biting wind that will not quit. On her drive into work, she very narrowly missed slamming into a median. And on Jen's phone call from her husband, she very narrowly missed slamming the phone down. She sees a lot of misery between the comparison of a nasty Minnesota winter and a nasty divorce.
* is glad that you found your happily-ever-after, but can you please be respectful of the fact that she is no where near finding hers, and no Band-Aid in the world seems big or absorbant enough to take on the broken heart and broken trust she is nursing right now. Thanks in advance for your consideration.
* is thinking of that old adage, "God never gives you more than you can handle", and is thinking that she might need to have a little chat with God, because clearly he thinks that she is one tough b!tch who ain't deserving of a single break these days.
* ...sigh...Baby Daddy Drama...If only Baby Daddies came with a warranty replacement program, like electronics. If they did, in hindsight, J hopes that she would've been wise enough to pay for the five-year extended warranty
* was sitting in her office today, pouting over the current state of her affairs (read: non-existent), when suddenly, a thought dawned on her: now that she is single, she has a chance to pursue her fantasy of vying for Bret Michaels on 'Rock of Love'. Finally, the opportunity she has been dreaming about for years!
* thinks that sex with a new person is a bit like putting your iPod on Shuffle mode: you don't know what's coming next, which leads you to have to make the decision on whether you should lay back and enjoy, or click 'next' to move on to the new--and hopefully more rewarding--choice. Not that she knows. Ha ha.
* realized that today would mark the day that she would've been married for seven years, three months. She wishes that she could go back seven years, three months, and re-do that whole mistake, but since she doesn't get a do-over, she is just hoping that seven years, three months, from now, her life will be a whole lot different--in a good way.

It would seem, based on these FB updates, that I tried in vain to become a bad girl--and failed miserably.

While I make no promises, I certainly hope the upcoming year will be able to depict the rise of a new relationship, instead of the fall of an old one...

Random But Deep Four-in-the-Morning Thoughts

2009-12-28T03:06:00.001-08:00

Remember my last post--the FMH post--where I elaborated that rather than clean my pigsty of a home, I'd rather read my Sunday papers? It only went downhill from there. At 2:30 in the afternoon, I decided I'd much enjoy a "nap".

I hate Sundays. No matter what I do or who I am with or whether or not I have to work the next day, I hate Sundays. Hate them. No matter the weather, my mood is always cloudy, gray and down.

So, for the second Sunday in a row, I have decided to "nap". And by "nap", I don't mean "I will sleep for a couple of hours and then get up and resume normal life activities". What I mean by "nap" is "I will sleep until Monday morning and then get up and resume normal life activities".

Nap involves wake-ups on a semi-regular basis, as so not to tip others off as to your true activities. So, I make sure I wake up at least once or twice throughout the duration of the "nap" to return phone calls and texts, and again in the later part of the evening to turn off the lights, so the neighbors don't know that I've been asleep all day and all night.

My boss, who has himself been through an unpleasant divorce, calls this "depression". I call it "catching up on my sleep". When I was married with a baby, this 15+ hours of uninterupted sleep would've sounded like it was heaven sent, but believe me: it's not as splendiferous or as rewarding as it sounds.

So, now it is 4:00 am, and I have been awake since roughly 2:30. Sure, I could take an Ambien, but--for once in my life--I just don't feel like it.

I could clean my house or catch up on my reading, but that makes me feel like a vampire. So instead, I am lying on the couch, in the midst of my piles of Christmas cr@p, with my iPod on shuffle, just thinking random thoughts. Among my thoughts on this cold and early morning:

* I hate when people sign correspondence "take care". I don't know why, but "take care" holds a certain finality to me. My boss signs everything with "take care", and it certainly does not mean that he is not interested in talking to or seeing me again. It's just what he does. But it irritates me. And it irritates me that a person I would definitely be interested in talking to and/or seeing again signed an email to me with "take care", and now I haven't heard from him in nearly a week. I know I should give cut some slack for the holidays, but "take care" seems so formal and final, and now my OCD mind runs wild, trying hard to re-create what had yet to be created.

* Why is it that I am barely out of a bad 7-year-marriage, I am so anxious to "find" someone? I insist out loud that I don't care if I find another man ever again because I don't ever want to be treated the way I was when I was with my ex. But the truth was that the whole time I was married, I don't know if I ever stopped looking for a husband in the first place. Sure, there might've been temporary reprieves, when my ex was actually good to me, when I postponed this search, but I think, deep down, I never stopped searching. So...where is he?!? If "he" exists, then where the hell is he? Have I been bad in this current or previous life, and now I will live forever without "The One"?

* Why did I never dream when I was with my ex? Never, ever. The only time I would have a dream was if it was traumatic, the sort that always makes you sit straight up in bed, sweat drenched and terrified. And those dreams almost always centered on a certain fighter pilot who got away (after all these years? Really?!?). I assumed that I didn't dream with my ex thanks to the heavy amount of drugs required to chill me out to sleep, but since I can drug as equally now as I did then, that doesn't seem to be the case.

* Why does my iPod play Britney songs like, every other song when in shuffle? Okay, I probably know this answer: because I have too much Brit downloaded, so it is envitable. Never mind.

* Why was I not born a hot girl? My friend H is the perpetual hot girl. She dances on top of bars and gives lap dances. I do none of these things, no matter how much Patron I have consumed. H lost a ton of weight after her divorce and is even having a tummy-tuck in a few weeks. She brought me a bunch of clothes that don't fit her anymore. I am torn between feeling slightly hurt, because now I know for sure that I need to lose weight, and that makes me feel really unpretty. But at the same time, I cannot help but laugh, because she included some corsets and lingerie that she never wore, because in her words, her husband "never wanted to have sex with her". It makes me laugh to think that she thinks that there are men who want to have sex with me.

* Why do so many books and movies need to feature the leading character losing weight to gain success, especially a man. Is that really a cure-all? If so, then why didn't I have more men when I was skinny and fit? And if I choose not to lose weight now, does it mean I have doomed myself to being alone forever?

* Would it be hopelessly sad to announce to everyone and anyone that the reason for my weight is an endocrine disorder called PCOS? Living with PCOS rarely makes me feel angry or cheated or like life is unfair, because I was one of the unlucky ones who got stuck with messed-up hormones. I just live with it, and that's that. But how lame is it to try and use it as an excuse for my lacking love life?

* Why do I work at a job where I am guilted into not taking vacation time, and I do so with a smile? Later today, I have to go in to do payroll, even though I "take the week between Christmas and New Year's off". I will also go in on Wednesday and Thursday, and this doesn't bother me. Am I a sucker or do I merely like my job? Or do I see it like PCOS and I just live with it?

Now that it is 5:00 am, it seems appropriate to end my 4:00 random thought session, so perhaps I will have a bowl of cereal before resuming my nap.

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FMH: F*ck My House

2009-12-27T11:52:00.001-08:00

One of the good things about Christmas is that you get lots of gifts and new stuff. One of the bad things about Christmas is that you get lots of gifts and new stuff.

I am currently sitting at home, looking at the outright disaster that my home has become. It is going to take me, at a bare minimum, a good day to repair the damage. That's a whole day that I could be spending on other worthwhile and more rewarding activities, like reading fashion magazines and getting that hot-stone massage I so desperately need for my chronic buttock pain.

Last night, when my desire for a hot bath and a Jacqueline Susann novel overtook my urge to clean, I came up with a brilliant idea. So many of my friends enjoy the FML web site--to those not in the know, that would be F*ck My Life. FML features brief blurbs from people like you and I, who have encountered unpleasant situations in their lives. An example would be: "I just met the hottest girl ever at my family reunion, only to find out she is my cousin. FML"

It dawned on me that I could start my own site, called FMH: F*ck My House. It would be the hottest new site for people like me--those who have been told by their ex-husbands that they are "no homemakers!"--to post photos of their own household disasters, while also having the healing experience of seeing that others might just have it worse.

I will kick off FMH with photos of the aftermath of Christmas at my house:

I'd like to say that I have the ambition to do something about this, but unfortunately, my assortment of Sunday papers is draining what little focus I have today.

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GIMME More!

2009-12-24T09:47:00.001-08:00

Despite my best efforts, AC discovered her Christmas Pig well before Christmas morning.

Since my divorce, she has been sleeping in bed with me. Other than the fact that this has triggered some sciatic nerve pain that hasn't been present since I was pregnant with AC and the fact that I am lucky if I get three hours of sleep when she's with me, I don't really mind all that much.

However, last night, she announced that she wanted to sleep in her own bed. Busted: the Christmas Pig was in its cage--IN her bed. I had no choice but to move it, and since the cage is pretty close in size to that JFK aircraft carrier I want, it was impossible to hide it from AC, even though it was covered in a blanket.

The questions started immediately: what is that? Why? Who brought it here? Why? It has toys? Why? That's its food? Why? That's a caterpillar? Why? Why? Why?

I agreed that it was indeed a caterpillar, and told her I didn't know why it was here.

At that moment, the Christmas Pig darted out from its piggy bed, and I was caught in my own lie. AC screamed, "It's a chipmunk!". I did not disagree.

Because I was so busted and poor Christmas Pig was so scared, thanks in part to my 120 pound golden retriever, whose attention had been captured by the fuss, I took Christmas Pig out for a visit.

AC gushed over her new cutesy "chipmunk", and I asked her what she would name her Christmas Pig. No answer.

Since it was so close to bedtime, I hustled AC off to bed, where she threw a toddler tantrum. Naturally, my phone had to ring at this moment. A few days prior, I'd made the juvenile decision to download the Britney Spears' song '3' as my ringtone. It is inappropriate in every sense, and makes me wonder how, when I was a kid, the song 'Me So Horny' caused such a controversy, and now Britney singing about a threesome with "Twister on the floor" is appropriate.

Anyway, AC easily recognizes Brit's voice, and demanded more songs. With the hope of getting her to sleep, I decided I'd let her watch some Britney videos on my phone.

Now, apparently it slipped my mind that there really is no such thing as a family-friendly Britney video. We landed on 'Gimme More', infamous for my favorite quote in recent history: "It's Britney, b!tch!"

'Gimme More' features little more than Brit pole dancing. I cringed, hoping AC would avoid the question of "What that? Why?"

Luckily, Brit calmed her and she was ready to go to sleep--but not before one last goodnight to "Gimme". Yes, AC has named her guinea pig after a Britney Spears song: Gimme.

I am hoping that well-meaning people will think that she is saying "Guinea", not "Gimme", so I don't have to explain the fact that my two-and-half-year old named her new pet after a pole-grinding, semi-naked, infamous for its poorly performed at the VMAs, "It's Britney, b!tch" song. As the song says, its "got me in a crazy position...but if you're on a mission, you've got my permission..."

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