Why? Why, why, WHY?

My daughter is at the phase where she asks 'why'. A lot. It can be non-stop. An answer to any question is met with, "Why?" After I answer that question, I again get, "Why?" And why, and why and WHY? I have a surprising amount of patience for this relentless question of why, though even I run of answers at some point, and resort to, "That's just the way it is, I guess."

My mind is never quiet. My mind thinks 24/7. It is always trying to answer some endless "why" of whatever I may be thinking at the time. Even if I am quiet, even if everyone around me is quiet, my mind is still thinking. I must think about the same things an awful lot, because you'd think, after your mind works so much constantly, you'd think I'd run out of things to think about.

For the majority of my life, I didn't know that *other people* don't think like I do. I can't comprehend that there are *other people* who don't think constantly, who don't have a non-stop stream of thoughts running through their heads. It only dawned on me that perhaps this might be unusual when my doctor looked at me and said, "You know, it's really funny...you carry yourself so well, I would never guess that inside, all you do is think and you can't stop these thoughts." Then I got a prescription for Ambien, which takes care of my non-stop thinking, at least from 10:00 pm to 7:00 am each day. Now that I've been hooked on Ambien for several years, I wonder how I ever stopped thinking long enough to sleep before I had it, with the blissful black slumber it brings me each night, when I get a break from myself and my own overthinking.

Last weekend, AC was spending a night with her Grammy, so I used the time to catch up on a couple of movies that I'd bought and never bothered to watch. But of course, while I can give the movie the attention that it needs for me to adequately follow the plot, it doesn't stop my mind from running off and thinking of other things.

While I was lying on the couch, my mind was wandering, and of course, landed on a boy. A boy who didn't even like me enough to call, but nevertheless, I have placed him on a pedestal, and in my mind, he is flawless in every way, likely because I don't really don't even know him, much less know him well enough to determine his flaws. My mind got to thinking...why can't I have this boy? He meets all of my basic criteria, plus all bonus areas! Since I have no relevant explanation for this rejection that wouldn't hurt my feelings and/or leave me feeling like a loser, I told my psyche, just because. And then, of course, my mind answered back with why, why, WHY?!?

Much like when I grow weary of answering AC's non-stop whys, I just had to tell myself that's just the way it is...but it still fails to silence my whys.

Sometimes, nothing is better than when you've moved away from that quizzical phase of why, when you do eventually discover the reasons why. I have to assume, if only to soothe my inner loneliness, that things didn't work out with the boy who didn't even like me enough to call because, just like a subway that you missed, there'll be another one coming down the tracks in the not-too-distant future. And I hope that when that happens, it'll soothe my inner whys because I'll be able to see the reasoning.

That night, on my Facebook status, I updated it to reflect my never-ending why. A friend replied that she, too, could only ask herself why at this time in her life. Knowing that she'd had a baby a mere three days before, I told her that it was totally normal to feel this way...I sure did, thanks to the crushing phenomenon of the "baby blues", which I found to be more like, "Be prepared to sob hysterically, not sleep, envision your life falling apart and your child dying, and grieving from the loss of weekly visits with your OBGYN" blues. My friend later sent me a message that explained it all: it was believed, from an ultrasound, that her baby would be born with a slight defect that was easily fixable. Upon her birth, her baby was just fine, and my friend was told that the ultrasound reading must've been false, but her newborn needed to spend the night in the NICU anyway. The next morning, my friend was told that her baby had a "spell", in which she'd had trouble getting oxygen for a few moments, but things were now fine. Many, many tests and procedures have since followed, and her baby is still hospitalized in the NICU. The doctors have not told my friend what, if anything, is wrong with her baby, and have not even given her an estimated date of when she can bring her baby home. She is devastated, and cannot stop crying and asking herself why: why is this happening, why can't I get answers, why am I at home without my baby?

It caught me off-guard, as I was at home, pouting over something as petty as some boy I didn't even know not calling, and my beloved friend, who is miles away in Chicago, is stricken with grief and cannot even get an answer to her simplest questions of why. But it just illustrated that no matter the situation--from as simple as stressing over a boy, to dealing with your brand-new baby's possible illness--there never is an end to the question of why. I guess it goes without saying that "why" is just part of human nature.

The Universal Fix-It: The Band-Aid

My toddler, like all toddlers and all children, loves Band-Aids. She regularly critiques the selection of Band-Aids in our medicine cabinet. Typically, there's a good three or four boxes in rotation, from SpongeBob to Scooby.

Last night, I left the medicine cabinet open while we were brushing our teeth before bed, and she spied a fresh box of Disney Princess Band-Aids. The brush dropped from her hand and she exclaimed, "You bought PRINCESS Band-Aids? I love Princess Band-Aids!"

Naturally, once she found this fresh offering, she was suddenly covered in boo-boos. Most are invisible. Some are described as "huge" or "hurting". All are in need of a Band-Aid.

Last night, she presented a dried scab on her pointer finger, and I dutifully covered it with a Princess Band-Aid. And then her other hand mysteriously developed a boo-boo: the kind that cannot be seen with the naked eye. Nevertheless, a Band-Aid is not worth fighting over and makes her happy, so I applied a Band-Aid and we went to bed.

In the middle of the night, I awoke to AC poking me and screaming about the Band-Aid. It was in her hair. She insisted that I cut it, and in the dark, I fumbled to feel for the Band-Aid in her hair. Sure enough, I felt it twisted in her locks. I told her that it was okay and we would fix it in the morning. She told me it was not okay, and that I needed to cut her hair.

At this point, I was really tired. Not just a little bit tired, but dead exhausted. It was 3:30 in the morning. My three-year-old was demanding a haircut. In bed. At 3:30 in the morning.

In the interest of getting back to sleep quickly, I got the scissors and obliged. I scarcely remember the act, only that I tried to snip it as quickly as possible, avoiding as much collateral damage as possible. Then we both went back to sleep.

When I woke up this morning, the memory came back to me: I cut my three-year-old's hair in the dark at 3:30 in the morning to free her from a stuck-on Band-Aid. Before I even rolled over, I cringed, imagining the result.

Fortunately, there was little damage. In fact, I could hardly tell, though I was very tired this morning and might see a difference when I look at the 3-in-the-morning hairdo tonight. If worse comes to worse and it is noticeable, I will have no choice but to lie and tell people that she cut her own hair, because to admit that you cut your toddler's hair in the middle of the night in the dark is not socially acceptable.

This morning, AC requested another Band-Aid, to cover the gaping empty spot on her hand. I let her select her Band-Aid, and wondered to myself...if it's this easy to placate a child, why isn't there a universal Band-Aid for adults? Is it because most wounds that adults endure are emotional, and a proverbial Band-Aid would never fall off, because those wounds never heal, and everyone would eventually just be a walking Band-Aid?

My Soul is Bare...

My daughter's third birthday is four days away. In four days, she will officially be out of her "terrible twos", though I have been told that "terrible threes" is far worse. I can hardly wait.

When I started blogging a year ago, I meant it to be an archive of the funny things that AC has done and said over the past year. And that went well...for about six posts. Then I dumped the blogging thing altogether, until I started my divorce process over the fall. Then, instead of blogging about my terrible two-year-old, I blogged about divorce and break-ups and lost loves and heartbreak and dating. I used swear words and obscenities. I was lectured by some well-meaning friends that one cannot use such words and terms on a "parenting" blog. My ex-husband told me that my blog was the equivilent of "man repellent", and that any man who read it would never want to date me.

So, in light of the fact that my blog is now anything but a parenting blog and my child is anything but a two-year-old, I decided a name change was in order: My Soul is Bare...

Guess where I got the name from? Those of you who already read my blog would probably guess: a Britney Spears' song, 'Me Against the Music'. I've listened to those lyrics a lot, and whenever I hear that particular line, I always think that Britney has the right idea. Maybe to recover from whatever trauma we are facing in life--or life in general--it's just best to spill your guts until your soul is bare.

And, as we all know, I have no problem spilling my guts...

Community Ed Drop-Out

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.

Signs

"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...

Why Mothers of Toddlers Never Get Anything Done, Part One

A Lack of New Year's Plans and Resolutions

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

2009: A Recap

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?

2009: A Year of Cruel and Unusual Facebook Status Updates

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...

GIMME More!

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..."


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Karma: A Pain in the Butt

At work, we have what I refer to as a One in a Million Person: we will never, ever in our lives encounter another person such as him. Or, at the very least, we all HOPE we will never encounter another person such as him.

D is a man who has worked at the museum for 17 years. He initially came to us to work off his community service hours for a DUI charge, and he never left. He is rude, pompous and downright offensive. There is not a single person in the entire building who gets along with him, or can genuinely say that they like him. Nevertheless, we have no choice but to keep him around, because he volunteers for the entire winter season--a full seven months--to keep the gift shop open. Though our employees are lucky to be paid minimum wage, if at all, he is a treasure in that he will work for free.

Adding to D's offensiveness is the fact that he has no problem disclosing whatever personal health problems he is experiencing, and at the age of 75, his problems are only increasing. A particularly memorable time in our history was roughly three years ago, when, at the age of 72, he required circumcision. He announced this was due to a "sore that would not heal", and had no qualms about sharing the details of this on a daily basis--for weeks. It grew to the point that there was hardly a person in the building who had not heard of Dave's circumcision, or of his penis. A kind, sweet old woman who works at our visitor's service desk looked at me with anger in her eyes, and announced, "J, if I have to hear D talk about his PENIS one more time, I don't even know what I will do!" Fortunately for D--and the rest of us--he survived his circumcision just fine, and his sore that would not heal did eventually heal. And fortunately for us, he did not provide photos, as he did of his recent colonoscopy.

Lately, his health concerns have been increasing at a rapid pace. After he missed a couple of days at work, I made the mistake of asking him how he was feeling. He responded with, "Well...I feel somewhat better, except I can't get rid of the fatigue in my buttocks." It took virtually every ounce of strength I had to not burst into laughter. First, who uses the word "buttocks"? Second, how does a 75-year-old man get fatigued buttocks, anyway? It led to much thought on my part: what activities would cause this? Riding a mechanical bull? Unlikely. Wild sexual activity? Even less likely. His fatigued buttocks remained a mystery to me.

Not more than two weeks later, a friend announced that he, too, was having buttock pain--but his was only in one cheek. While he claimed it to be unexplained buttock pain, I smiled smugly. The guy also claims to have a sex life equal to that of Ron Jeremy. There was no question in my mind of how he acquired his fatigued buttock.

Needless to say, after a month of wondering the source of fatigued buttocks, I woke up with a fatigued buttock of my own today. It is really quite uncomfortable, considering I have an office job, and I am a slave to that job this week. And it led me to wonder: how did I acquire a fatigued buttock? It surely wasn't from riding a mechanical bull. It definitely is not from sexual activity.

Finally, I came to the conclusion that my fatigued buttock is the result of AC. Since my divorce, she has insisted on sleeping in my bed when she is with me, and I have yet to protest. She looks so dang cute, snoozing in my bed, snuggled between the pillows. Other than the fact that she has to wake me up an average of twice a night because she has fallen out of bed and needs help getting back in, she is a good sleeper. Last night? Not so much. She has a cold, and it has made her a bit of a beast. She refused to let me sleep with a pillow. She shoved me to the edge of the bed. It became clear to me: the fatigued buttock was the result of hanging on to the edge of the bed for dear life to prevent myself from falling out. I feel strongly that if I am going to be hanging on to the edge of the bed to keep from falling out, it better be for more pleasurable bedtime activities than being shoved out of the way by a toddler.

However, I came to this conclusion: lesson learned. After making fun of fatigued buttocks for weeks, the joke was on me. Karma came back to bite me, and it's a pain in the butt.

Golden Nuggets

AC has been resistant to any efforts to potty-train her, much to my frustration. When she was 14 months old, in a random act of excretion, she peed in her Royal Potty. I praised her efforts, as did the Royal Potty, playing its regal melody to symbolize its receipt of liquid. This marked both the first and last time AC used the Royal Potty as a potty. It has had many uses since, including step stool and unfortunate instance of serving as bath toy. It later occurred to me that perhaps AC was appalled by the song the Royal Potty played, as I myself would not appreciate a toilet that cheerily announced each deposit.

Apart from the fact that I need to work to support us, I appreciate daycare as an opportunity to pay others to potty-train my kid. AC's current daycare has a potty in the shape of a frog. On a recent occassion, I picked AC up from daycare, where her teacher told me that AC had been placed on the frog and told to "make the froggy wet and dirty". It took virtually every ounce of strength I had to keep from bursting into immature and childish laughter over the thought of making the froggy wet and dirty.

Since AC's baby daddy and I separated, his mother has been working diligently on potty-training efforts, an easy task for her, since when AC is in the custody of her baby daddy, they live at his parents' house. Again, I have no complaints if someone else wants to train my kid, but it did sting to know that AC used the potty for the first time while she was with her grandma. For God's sake, I gestated that child for nine months, where she used to pee right inside my uterus. At the very least, she could appease me with being witness to her first use of the toilet!

Since that day, AC has been using the real potty more and more for everyone--except me. So today when she told me that she wanted her pants and Pull-Up off, I didn't think much about it, apart from encouraging her typical toddler exhibitionist traits. Much to my surprise, she soon sat down and actually used the potty for its intended purpose. Had I not known better, I'd have accused her of pouring apple juice in the potty, but since I knew that was not the case, I celebrated her accomplishment with much fanfare and cheering.

My parenting duties complete for the moment, I decided to check out my recently downloaded Britney Spears videos, hoping that I could perfect her moves so I am prepared next time I encounter a 'Womanizer'. AC realized who I was listening to--"That maybe Britney? My favorite!"--and proceeded to dance. And dance. And dance. I ran to get the camera to catch video of her shaking her bare booty to Britney. I smiled with pride, knowing that on my hands I have either a future exotic dancer or a budding pop starlet. I am hoping for the latter.

While I was laughing the video--and laughing until I cried--AC plopped herself down on her potty...and plopped down a generous handful of poo nuggets. When I say "handful", I mean it, as before I knew it, AC was running toward me with a handful of poo nuggets in her hand, proudly shrieking, "I went poopy!". Having no other choice, I graciously accepted the handful of nuggets as if they were golden nuggets. Hey, she might've been confused on what to do after the action happened, but at least she got her potty both wet and dirty today. Now that's what I call progress.

Ouchie! I Need a Band-Aid, Please!

When AC was very young, she loved the "Itsy Bitsy Spider". It was virtually the only song I knew with hand gestures that didn't include the middle finger or Satan's horns, so we sang Itsy a lot. She became so well-versed in Itsy that she could do the hand motions by seven months old. Perhaps the cutest pic I have of her is sitting in a laundry basket, hands stretched above her head, imitating the climbing up the waterspout portion of the song.

At the height of AC's Itsy phase, I found an adorable board book based on the rhyme of Itsy, with a new rhyme on each page. My favorite was the rhyme where Itsy fell down and shrieked, "Ouchie! I need a Band-Aid, please!". Of course, based on the fact that Itsy has eight legs, she requested eight Band-Aids, but her mother only had six.

I, too, am having an eight Band-Aid sorta day. The day started out smashingly, with me packing up a bunch of my ex-husband's stuff, a task I refer to as "taking out the trash". However, after I picked up my daughter, my sadness started setting in. Holidays are never good for the newly-single girl. Your usual support system is gone, caught up in their own families and new boys.

As the icing on my heartbreak cake, I said goodbye to an online flirtation, who is deploying to Iraq in a couple of days. Sure, deep down, I knew that it was unlikely that anything would come of it, apart from the occassional sexting exchange. But what a fool believes is that what seems to be is always better than nothing, and he was always reliable for some occassional drunk texting.

The other victim of my weekly drunk texts is a married guy I like to refer to as my "one night stand that got away". Coulda, shoulda, woulda...but even 10 years after the fact, he still likes to play my game. I consider his receipt of my infrequent drunk texts to be a true honor on his part; I doubt his wife would agree, because I have typically found that while I don't care, most wives don't wanna share.

In thinking of this--why would someone as intelligent and beautiful as me continually throw myself at Someone Else's Husband?--the answer dawned on me: I can't trust the guy. If I know I can't trust him from the start, there is no reason for me to ever build trust in him. No trust equals no heartbreak for me, because I already fully expect him to break my heart. To expect it means that essentially, your heart cannot be broken. I have equated my broken trust issues to Santa Claus: I feel like I carry it in a huge sack tossed across my shoulder. The good thing, is that just like Santa delivering his gifts, I toss out a little bit of that mistrust each and every day.

But yet, the truth always remains...after saying farewell to my brief--but steamy--online military boy, my automatic defense mechanism was to text Someone Else's Husband, even though I know he is really no different from Itsy, though far more dangerous: a poisonous spider just waiting in the corner, fulling willing to silently and slyly break his wife's heart while playing with mine.

Ouchie...I need a Band-Aid--or six, or eight--for my scraped and scuffed heart.

The Love of My Life

Society seems to impress upon us that there is that "one" person out there, waiting to be found--a soul mate. I knew early on in my marriage that my husband was no soul mate, and I doubt I hid this opinion from him very well.

Instead, I determined that I had another soul mate: a boy I dated briefly when I was young. He was a ANG pilot. It was bad timing. The loss of him caused me to hurt every moment that I was breathing, and for what seemed like years, I could not make my bed in the morning, for fear that the sheets would be so wet from crying myself to sleep that it would result in mildew.

Alas, since everyone in my life insisted that I was meant to be with him and that he was, indeed, my soul mate, I believed it, too. The cynic in me wanted to snicker, knowing that soul mates just don't fall from the sky (no pun intended--really!), especially when you are 19 years old. But deep down, I desperately wanted this boy to be my soul mate, and I have been guilty of passing my time thinking of scenarios in which we could re-unite and live happily ever after. Perhaps my favorite is that of the book signing: it involves me finding fame and fortune as an author, and him showing up at my book signing, where he would be forced to ask my agent for permission to approach me. Intense eye contact ensues, and usually the Jessica Simpson song "When You Told Me You Loved Me" is playing in the background. He realizes that I am his soul mate, too, and we can live happily ever after, even though, deep down, I know that his happily ever after includes a wife who is a good "homemaker", something I have been told that I am not.

One summer, my Soul Mate was on my mind considerably, thanks to an air show in my area. Thanks to my OCD, I can easily let something and someone dominate my every thought, and this was certainly the case. At the same time, I heard of some friends who a visited a local "psychic". I was told that they heard truths about themselves that the psychic could not possibly know about them, unless she actually was psychic.

I thought, a-ha! Brilliant! I will visit the psychic--for the low, low price of $40 for a 45-minute session--and the psychic will tell me that Soul Mate and I are meant to be together! This will be perfect! If the psychic tells me that Soul Mate is indeed my soul mate, I can live in peace, knowing that we will be together one day!

I eagerly made my appointment to visit the psychic's home for my reading. I discussed the situation with my boss, who was so amused by my enthusiasm for my psychic reading that he ponied up the $40, in exchange for me giving all details of the event. I happily agreed.

I arrived at the psychic's house, full of giddy anticipation. Upon entering her cluttered, stuffy house, I immediately tripped on an elevation that led to her living room. As a pyschic, shouldn't she be able to forsee these things and warn me of a possible injury?

After I gave her my $40, my psychic had to leave the room to "prepare". She returned, ready to give my reading. Her first insight was that she saw a baby following me closely, attached to my shoulder. She asked if I'd had a miscarriage. No, I had not. Had I had an abortion? No, not that either. Had my mother had a miscarriage? Nope. An abortion? Nuh uh. How about my grandmother? Any miscarriages or abortions there? Again, I answered no. Finally, she came to the conclusion that the mysterious baby was the stillborn brother of my husband. I began to question her abilities based on the fact that when she didn't crack one code about the mysterious baby, she kept going down the line. Had I not confessed to my mother-in-law's stillborn son, would the pyschic kept going? Would she have to made it to, "Has your second cousin's third wife's former sister-in-law ever had a miscarriage or abortion?"

I had to broach the subject of my Soul Mate. Her first question was, "Is in on Earth's Plane?" I thought, a-ha! I KNEW it! She said the word "plane"! "Plane" and "pilot" virtually mean the same thing! Alas, she dropped my hopes to the ground when she told me she did not believe in soul mates, thus Soul Mate was not--and could not--be my soul mate. This was not the answer I wanted to hear. I paid this "psychic" $40, and she couldn't at least entertain me by telling me what I wanted to hear?

I went home nearly devastated that night. It was like losing Soul Mate all over again. I spoke to my mom, and I sobbed about this, and demanded to know why, ten years before, she had told me that Soul Mate was the one for me when this really wasn't true? How could she lie to her flesh and blood like this? There was dead silence on the phone, followed by a motherly, "Oh honey...I don't know why I felt like that at the time, but you probably just still have strong feelings for him because it was the first time you ever had grown-up feelings in a relationship..."

I figured that if I could not get the psychic or my mother to relent to the fact that this was my soul mate, I'd best be moving on. A few weeks later, I was at the beach with my husband and my daughter, when a small metal fighter jet washed up on shore. Only moments before, I'd been watching a tourist helicopter, and thinking of Soul Mate, because after all, if it flies, it would make me think of Soul Mate. It could be a flying cockroach, and I would still think of Soul Mate, simply because of the flying parallels. I smiled to myself when the plane washed up at my feet, and tossed it back into the water, in a display of what I figured was letting go. A week later, I insisted on going to the beach, back to the same exact spot, so I could frantically dig through the sand and rocks, searching in vain for the plane that I was now certain was a sign that Soul Mate and I were meant to be. After all, why would something so random just happen to wash up to me?

Feeling certain that Soul Mate was the love of my life, and I'd let this opportunity slip through my hands ten years prior, I began demanding of each of my friends to reveal his or her Soul Mates, the loves of their lives. My boss--who has been married for all of three years of his adult life--is still involved in the day-to-day life of the woman he divorced nearly as many years ago as I have been alive. We all know that this is the love of his life. However, when asked this question--Tell me! Who is it?!? Who is the love of your life?!?--he smiled and said, "Me. I am the love of my life."

I was speechless, and after much thought, realized that he was probably right. After all, if you are your own love of your life, there is no one to let you down. It's taking that old self-help adage of "love yourself first".

After that, I decided that I would, indeed, be the love of my life. I will never let myself down. I don't ever have to worry about lack of trust in myself. Hell, if need be, I can even service my own physical needs, possibly event better than any real soul mate could.

Then, one day, I was stroking my daughter's fine hair, and smelling her sweet toddler scent, a combination of grape jelly, Play-Doh and Pull-Ups, and it dawned on me: SHE is the love of my life.

In re-entering the dating world, I realize this has taken a lot of the pressure off of me. I don't need to find a soul mate, or the love of my life. I've already got two--me and my daughter--and that's more than anyone could ever ask for in one lifetime.

It's Britney, B!tch!

Okay, okay...I will admit that I like Britney Spears a little bit more than your average 32-year-old woman should. One of the things I like best about her is that typically, we go crazy at around the same time. When she was crazy and shaved her head spontaneously, I was also crazy with postpartum depression, and sobbing over the fact that I could no longer see my OBGYN on a weekly basis, a complete devastation to me as--much to my ex-husband's dismay--I was certain my OBGYN was my soul mate. When Brit was crazy and locked her naked self in the bathroom with her son, I was also crazy with depression that would later transpire into a "mood disorder" diagnosis, which, in my mind, actually means "bipolar". My mother adamently disagrees with my self-diagnosis, and frequently tells me, "It's not YOU that's crazy. It's that you are in a crazy situation with your so-called husband." Nevertheless, I take pride in the fact that Britney and I share a commonality, at least in my own mind, though my "bipolar" has all but disappeared since I made my now ex-husband disappear.

As a newly single girl with newly single friends in a town of transient "pipers", we discussed one night how we ought to assume names when we go out. We vowed to never, ever give the pipers our real names, because we really aren't looking for anything long-term and really only want to be wined, dined and pipelined. Because I like the opening part of Britney's 'Gimme More', I decided that I would go by 'Britney B!tch', because really...calling your friends and saying, "It's J, b!tch!" has far less impact than quoting Britney word-for-word by calling your friends and saying, "It's Britney, b!tch!", just like she does in 'Gimme More'.

When I was still married to my husband, I begged and pleaded for tickets to Britney's Circus concert tour--for my 31st birthday. He obliged and went, particularly because he thought he was going to get a great night of sex after the concert, since he believed I'd be all heated up by both the Pussycat Dolls and Britney. Unfortunately, what he really got was chaos, because Brit was staying at the same hotel; no dinner because all of the restaurants were too packed before the concert; me downing champagne and Klonopin to control my stress; and Britney's Lip-Synching Extravaganza. To top the night off, we discovered that there were no restaurants in the area still open at the late hour of 11:00 pm, and ended up ordering room service, so the only sex he got was a quickie in which I yelled, "Hurry up! Room service will be here any minute!" I enjoyed the room service meal much more than I enjoyed the quickie, and enjoyed my luxurious shower in the posh tiled doubled-headed shower even more.

After I got over my shock and horror that Britney did no actual singing at the concert, I decided that it was still fun, so I taught myself how to use iTunes specifically for the purpose of downloading each of her concert songs, in set order, so I could re-live the event over and over in my car. With my OCD traits, if I have something new like this, I tend to play it over. And over. And over. Eventually, I will tire of it, as I have now, when Britney comes up every other song when my iPod in in shuffle mode, because there's so damn much of her on there.

However, during my Britney phase, I took AC to Target, an adventure that, round-trip, takes us roughly an hour-and-a-half, so we had plenty of time to listen to Britney. It should've been a warning when AC shrieked from the backseat, "Hey Mama! You wanna piece of me?" Sigh...I told her no...no, I did not want a "piece of her".

AC took her Britney obsession even further when we arrived at the McDonald's drive-thru to place our dinner order. She insisted that I "make it bigger!", and her favorite song was a less-than-innocent Britney song called, 'Hot as Ice'. For an adult, it is obvious what Brit is referring to as being "cold as fire, baby, hot as ice...never been to heaven? This is twice as nice...", but for AC, it quickly became her favorite song.

The line at the drive-thru was long and slow, and we had to wait with our car window down the entire time, with Aidyn yelling, 'MAKE IT BIGGER' while I had to play "Hot as Ice' over...and over...and over... I felt the glares from adults, who probably assumed that it was me, not a two-year-old, who insisted on playing the same obscene Britney song "bigger" and over...and over...and over.

But hey...it's Britney, b!tch. The kid's got good taste in music, and at least it wasn't Brit's current (and my favorite) obscene and even more suggestive hit, '3'.

You not a mans...anymore!

Last night I had to pay a visit to my hair stylist, even though I was certain that I just paid her a generous sum of money, like, when? Yesterday? It seems like that check just cleared! She pre-books all of my appointments, usually for a full year in advance, so I have no way of escaping her, because I don't have the balls to call her and dump her, and she knows she has me trapped with the pre-bookings. I receive a lot of flak from friends, who believe that I should just dump her, based on various reasons, including the fact that she has given me the exact same haircut for the entire time she has been my stylists, despite my protests and photos. But...we've been together for 13 years! That's twice as long as I was married! And in my divorce, it was agreed upon that I keep custody of the hair stylist, so I continue to see her, and might possibly for the rest of our lives, until death do us part.

Now, I am quite girly-girl and fastidious with grooming. Some people have real hobbies, like golf or hiking or music. My hobby is self-grooming. I love to color and wax and tint and make up and do anything else that requires altering of my personal appearance. I, of course, find myself quite adorable. I don't necessarily know if all people agree with this, but in my own mind, they do. How could they not?

While at my appointment last night, I was getting my usual eyebrow wax, when I announced that I would like my moustache waxed. My stylist snickered and insisted that I did not have a moustache in need of waxing. However, with some pleading from me, she agreed to wax my upper lip and through much pain felt on my part, managed to rip off the fine hairs that I considered my moustache. I felt gratified.

I like to believe that there is nothing manly about me, apart from my need for moustache waxing. I wear skirts, dresses and heels virtually every day. I would never dream of leaving the house without makeup or without my hair styled. I sometimes wonder if perhaps the reason that I do not get asked out on dates has to do with the reason that I simply look too high maintenance and men just don't want to deal with me, and really, can you blame them? All the same, I have no intention of changing that, even if it means having to find a man experiencing a mid-life crisis and needing a trophy wife.

However, apparently to AC, I bear a distinct resemblence to a man. When I arrived home after my appointment, she gleefully looked at me and said, "You not a mans...anymore!"

Huh? I'm not a mans, ANYMORE? I never knew that I was a "mans" to begin with, but perhaps it is through the mouth of babes that we learn how the world actually views us.