My husband is forever frustrated by my complaints about my wedding rings.
These are rings he designed himself - taking care to make sure I didn't have a setting that sat up too high because he knew I didn't like that. Taking care that these rings didn't look like my other wedding rings because I needed to get away from that whole experience. I can get pretty shallow when I get going. Stuff like, "It was fine for my 27 year old hand, but my 42 year old hand needs better bling." "I wish I had got diamonds in the band...we spent a mortgage on our photos but why didn't anyone tell me to get diamonds in the band?!?" Spoiled girl shit like that. Yet, every time I lose my rings (and I have to admit it's been more than once but less than ten times) I get a feeling of horrible dread that starts right at the top of my head and travels all the way to my toes. And so far I've been incredibly lucky that they have been returned to me before I really have to squirm. I like to think that with each temporary loss I'm learning the lesson that these symbols of marriage represent much more than carat, setting and bling factor. That the reason I get them back is because I deserve them and this marriage and that maybe one day I will deserve the man who had them made them for me. It's much more likely that I am just a spoiled rotten little shit who just gets lucky all the time. |
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
Spoiled Girl Shit
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Being Paleo Made Me Shit My Pants
A hardworking friend of mine made the perennial comment to me that is part of being any LeaveMeAloneI'veGotThis woman and every fantastically excellent mom. She said, "I don't know how you do it." She was speaking to myself and another friend with a hectic life. Without hesitation I gave her my most truthful answer. I do it by letting something or a lot of somethings go. Right now it's my house that is the dropped ball. It's filthy and cheaply decorated sans any particular style and sometimes (a lot of the time) it looks like we've been robbed by a band of pirates. (Just today, I almost wiped some salad dressing off my chin with a dirty sock because it was there on the table and I couldn't find any paper towels. We don't even bother with napkins). If we had more time, which we didn't because we were all busy w.o.r.k.i.n.g, I would have gone on some excellent laughter infused riff swearing that I mostly speak to my kids in a way that causes self-esteem issues and everybody thinks our new puppy is so cute but so far her only big trick is dropping turds while walking up the stairs. When the time comes, I expect no less of a truthful and non-hesitant answer from my friend when it's my turn to gauge my life choices against her or someone else. This will probably happen tomorrow as she makes her own super cute clothes and they all look like something out of Boden catalog. Girl power.
It did get me thinking though. How DO I do it? And let's get something out of the way - I am in no way coming from the perspective that I think I am really great at this thing called life. I've made lots of bad choices, wasted tons of time and spent many night screaming at people who loved me. And those were just the college years. I also think I'm only possibly, possibly doing a passable job at this thing called "life with kids". For example, in real time, I just interrupted typing to run downstairs to tell my oldest son he was a bully and to go to his room until morning for telling his sister her piano playing sucked as a way to get her to stop playing so he could continue watching some really inappropriate show that is masquerading as a kids cartoon. The secondary effect was he needed to go up anyway to get his homework done. Actually, that example makes me look pretty good except that in my head I was thinking "Douche Bag. Asshole. I was just on a roll, dammit!". I don't know. Maybe that makes me look pretty good too.
So how do I do it? How do I keep piling it on year after year? One more kid. One more dog. One more job. One more dream. Sometimes I temper it all with some nice OCD distraction like eating Paleo for three months. Something to make me feel in control because I can't seem to keep the laundry load under twelve baskets or the grocery bill under $300....ok, $400. Sometimes I think I keep piling it on because there was a time where I did not have the energy or drive to really do anything but cry about how hard and yet, super boring my life was. Those were baby-toddler-husband-travels-a-LOT years. My life WAS, in fact, super boring. Maybe I'm making up for lost time. Maybe if I give anything up I'm afraid I'll go back spending hours not knowing what to do with myself, because having a perfectly trained puppy is just not going to do it for me anymore. In fact, it never really did it for me in the first place. And maybe I didn't really let the house go in order to make room for the husband, the kids, the dog, the puppy, the certifiable cat, the job, the coaching, and the yoga. Back when I had nothing to do the house pretty much looked like crap then too.
Paleo, by the way, was wonderful. I felt raw and buzzy and powerful and my taste buds were so awakened I could taste the sugar off tree bark. But it had to stop because Paleo made me shit my pants. A lot. And here I am...picking on the puppy.
It did get me thinking though. How DO I do it? And let's get something out of the way - I am in no way coming from the perspective that I think I am really great at this thing called life. I've made lots of bad choices, wasted tons of time and spent many night screaming at people who loved me. And those were just the college years. I also think I'm only possibly, possibly doing a passable job at this thing called "life with kids". For example, in real time, I just interrupted typing to run downstairs to tell my oldest son he was a bully and to go to his room until morning for telling his sister her piano playing sucked as a way to get her to stop playing so he could continue watching some really inappropriate show that is masquerading as a kids cartoon. The secondary effect was he needed to go up anyway to get his homework done. Actually, that example makes me look pretty good except that in my head I was thinking "Douche Bag. Asshole. I was just on a roll, dammit!". I don't know. Maybe that makes me look pretty good too.
So how do I do it? How do I keep piling it on year after year? One more kid. One more dog. One more job. One more dream. Sometimes I temper it all with some nice OCD distraction like eating Paleo for three months. Something to make me feel in control because I can't seem to keep the laundry load under twelve baskets or the grocery bill under $300....ok, $400. Sometimes I think I keep piling it on because there was a time where I did not have the energy or drive to really do anything but cry about how hard and yet, super boring my life was. Those were baby-toddler-husband-travels-a-LOT years. My life WAS, in fact, super boring. Maybe I'm making up for lost time. Maybe if I give anything up I'm afraid I'll go back spending hours not knowing what to do with myself, because having a perfectly trained puppy is just not going to do it for me anymore. In fact, it never really did it for me in the first place. And maybe I didn't really let the house go in order to make room for the husband, the kids, the dog, the puppy, the certifiable cat, the job, the coaching, and the yoga. Back when I had nothing to do the house pretty much looked like crap then too.
Paleo, by the way, was wonderful. I felt raw and buzzy and powerful and my taste buds were so awakened I could taste the sugar off tree bark. But it had to stop because Paleo made me shit my pants. A lot. And here I am...picking on the puppy.
Monday, September 7, 2015
Survivor
Sometimes I feel a certain energy in my neck. Maybe it's a bad day hanging out in there, maybe it's PMS, maybe it's rage. Whatever it is it's like a collar of energy creeping up from my chest and cuffing my whole neck finishing off in a hard knot just under my skull. I am coming to recognize it as my sense of survival.
I feel this sense for varied reasons, like when I make a clever joke and someone repeats it and then explains it back to me. Me. The originator of all that cleverness. I feel it after a three-day weekend of the house being messy and smelling like dog pee and it was all good until suddenly it wasn't. I feel it right before I'm about to start acting like my mother.
How I used to judge my mother. She would come home from work and by 5:37pm was banging and throwing every pot we owned around the kitchen. By 5:48pm she was smoking a cigarette on the back porch. We all knew to just stay away. But I judged her. And I was afraid of her. I didn't always feel comfortable talking to her. My mother, the immigrant who fled her country as the Russians rolled tanks into her city square, has an outsized sense of survival.
I am my most productive when I feel my sense of survival. I write. I fold. I stay up all night and watch movies. It's all good until I have to explain myself or am interrupted. Dinner. Homework. Bed times. Laundry for business trips. That's when I feel like that hard knot at the base of my skull is nothing but a spot for a fetter. And that's when the pots start banging. But this time it's me banging the pots, not my mother. And actually, I am not a pot banger. I am a fight picker. A fight picker who blames to be more precise. I have realized nothing really prevents this. Wine postpones it. Yoga suspends it. Picking a fight gives it satisfaction and life.
Sometimes, if I am lucky, I can catch myself in the middle of all my surviving and apologize. It's easier to apologize to the kids. Their frowns turn right upside down. I hope they remember the apology and not that I just continued making dinner and stopped demanding that they put the couch cushions back together. My husband doesn't always let me apologize. He says he doesn't need it. I find this infuriating.
I love my strength. I love my sometimes manic and, for the most part, impractical energy. I love that I think writing this is more useful and productive than ever learning how to fold a fitted sheet. But, by some definitions, surviving means you end up alone. You win. You are untouchable. You don't get interrupted anymore. I have a husband who doesn't always know how to listen to me. Three children who may not always know how to talk to me. Maybe they won't always know how to love me either. I might disappoint them or maybe someday they might disappoint me, but one thing I do know is that without them I would be a survivor of nothing.
I feel this sense for varied reasons, like when I make a clever joke and someone repeats it and then explains it back to me. Me. The originator of all that cleverness. I feel it after a three-day weekend of the house being messy and smelling like dog pee and it was all good until suddenly it wasn't. I feel it right before I'm about to start acting like my mother.
How I used to judge my mother. She would come home from work and by 5:37pm was banging and throwing every pot we owned around the kitchen. By 5:48pm she was smoking a cigarette on the back porch. We all knew to just stay away. But I judged her. And I was afraid of her. I didn't always feel comfortable talking to her. My mother, the immigrant who fled her country as the Russians rolled tanks into her city square, has an outsized sense of survival.
I am my most productive when I feel my sense of survival. I write. I fold. I stay up all night and watch movies. It's all good until I have to explain myself or am interrupted. Dinner. Homework. Bed times. Laundry for business trips. That's when I feel like that hard knot at the base of my skull is nothing but a spot for a fetter. And that's when the pots start banging. But this time it's me banging the pots, not my mother. And actually, I am not a pot banger. I am a fight picker. A fight picker who blames to be more precise. I have realized nothing really prevents this. Wine postpones it. Yoga suspends it. Picking a fight gives it satisfaction and life.
Sometimes, if I am lucky, I can catch myself in the middle of all my surviving and apologize. It's easier to apologize to the kids. Their frowns turn right upside down. I hope they remember the apology and not that I just continued making dinner and stopped demanding that they put the couch cushions back together. My husband doesn't always let me apologize. He says he doesn't need it. I find this infuriating.
I love my strength. I love my sometimes manic and, for the most part, impractical energy. I love that I think writing this is more useful and productive than ever learning how to fold a fitted sheet. But, by some definitions, surviving means you end up alone. You win. You are untouchable. You don't get interrupted anymore. I have a husband who doesn't always know how to listen to me. Three children who may not always know how to talk to me. Maybe they won't always know how to love me either. I might disappoint them or maybe someday they might disappoint me, but one thing I do know is that without them I would be a survivor of nothing.
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