Sleeping Single in a Double Bed

Tomorrow, FireDaddy will return home after 11 days on the Appalachian Trail. 

My intent for these eleven days was to have one fun, relaxing day after another with my girlies – visiting family, swimming, beaching, hitting the gym.  Unfortunately, my hopes did not come true. 

Instead, we spent our time taking doggies to the vet, getting eyes dilated, hairs trimmed, roots colored, and running other non-thrilling sorts of errands.  I changed batteries in chirp-chirp-chirping smoke detectors, paid bills, anguished over budgets, made service calls, and scheduled appointments for still more doctors and dentists.  I accumulated piles of books and various household items for an impending garage sale  and piles of decorations for next year’s classroom, applied for a part-time job, washed/dried/folded/hung laundry, and washed/dried/put away dishes.  I reserved hotel rooms for our upcoming road trip, had Big Boy microchipped, registered dog tags, reregistered car tags, and cleaned out my refrigerator.  I rose around six with the doggies each day, while my girlies blissfully slept till nine or ten.  I baked blueberry scones, Mediterranean chicken, and fresh pound cake.  I filled the baby pool and emptied the trash.  I’ve washed booboos and blankies, heads, hands & toes… and everything in between. I fussed when they bickered, and nagged when they destroyed the den and their room and my room and the office.  I’ve answered countless times each day, “How many more days till Daddy gets home?” and “How many more days till our trip?”  I hugged and held them as they cried, fed them when they were hungry, and reached the cups when their throats were dry.

All of this is not to imply that I’ve been entirely miserable…don’t get me wrong.  During the past eleven days of uninterrupted girliness – I’ve introduced my girlies to the Bangles, Madonna, and Barbara Mandrell, as well as continued to expose them to pretty-much-inappropriate current tunes.  We’ve kept up with the latest Disney Radio tunes, and counted down to the big Disney premiere of Sixteen Wishes.  We’ve played games, held our breath under water and felt the wind in our hair as we sailed down the road with the sunroof open (ahem…in my brother-in-law’s truck).  We’ve stayed up late and cuddled in the night.  Together, we’ve danced the Cha Cha slide, the Chicken Dance, and our very best ballet and jazz. 

Coming from a mother who prides herself on being able to do it alone, I’m POOPED.  On nights like these, maybe a girl truly needs to stand in her kitchen with nothing but a glass of wine, a fresh slice of pound cake, and a Zune stocked with ridiculously old songs to keep her company.  It’s nights like these that I close my eyes and see myself standing in front of my white whicker dresser, and look into my own eyes in that familiar whicker framed mirror – so vivid and real that I am positive the cold mirror would meet my hand if I were to reach my fingers out far enough. 

It’s funny how some things have grown so much easier over the years – like skipping songs, once a careful lifting and lowering of a needle, now a simple click of a button.  Yet, other things – like the long, hot days of summer “freedom” – have grown so much harder. 

When I was little, I loved Barbara Mandrell.  She was beautiful.  She could sing, dance, and play more instruments than I could tally.  I played her records over and over and over again in my room until I’d memorized all the lyrics.  I was thrilled when Daddy took us to the Maude Cobb see Lee Greenwood --- because he had recorded a duet record with Barbara Mandrell.  I was worried and afraid for her when she was badly injured in the car accident.  I loved Barbara Mandrell. 

It’s funny how songs can take you away to another place.  Take you back in time.  The familiar click-click, click-click of the needle passing over blank lines between songs is fresh in my ears.  Where is that click-clicking now?  We push a button to skip forward and skip backward…there is no waiting.  No pauses.  Like MP3 files, the hours, days, weeks all flow seamlessly together on autoplay.

It’s halfway through 2010 already.  My babies are seven and four.  My anniversary is next week and my birthday is close behind.  I’m turning 33 and I’ve been married for ten years.  FireDaddy and I’ve been together for 14.  Where has my life gone???  Hell, where did these 11 days go???  Before I know it, I’ll be hunting down plastic duo-tang folders and sending my girlies off to 2nd grade and VPK. 

My throat is tight and lumpy; my eyes sting.

I miss the soft, scratchy static and click-clicking between songs. 

Mama

I was raised by a near perfect mother.  Our well decorated home was immaculately clean.  Her checkbook was balanced the day the statement arrived, every single month.  We ate home-cooked dinners FAR more often than not.  She was Room Mother Extraordinaire and her banana bread could win awards.

We had homemade, expertly decorated birthday cakes in designs that reflected our personalities and interests – a Barbie cake for me, a pizza cake for my brother, even a brown sugar sand trap complimented the fresh from scratch buttercream icing rough, fairway and green on the golf course cake she made for my lady golfer 4th grade teacher.  Our lunch bags were lovingly branded each morning with our names…in calligraphy.  My dresses were smocked with care by my own mother’s hands.  In fact, I even had a smocked nightgown with matching smocked barrettes. 

We were well mannered, well behaved children growing up.  We knew to say “ma’am” and “sir” to adults.  When called upon, we were trained to reply not with a “Huh?” or “What?”, but a “Ma’am?” or “Sir?”  We did not run in people’s living rooms or put our feet on their furniture; and if we did, we immediately stopped when corrected – sans sass talk.

We wrote thank you notes.  Our table was properly set with placemats and cloth napkins for each meal.  After dinner, as we cleared our own places, we thanked my mother for the delicious fare.  My older brother and I attended Cotillion when we were ten, where we practiced introductions and dancing.

My mother was not a “stay at home” mom.  She was a “work at home” mom. In addition to flawlessly running the household and raising children, she ran the family home building business from her desk - keeping books, helping Daddy manage contractors, and selecting flooring, wallpaper, lighting, and more.  She taxied us to dance, Blue Birds, Boy Scouts, soccer, T-ball and more.  She volunteered at the local hospital, served in the Junior League and occasionally worked in a friend’s gift shop. 

This was my mother. 

And today, as I sit in my pajamas, lazily letting my baby girlies sleep in on this summer morning, sipping a canned Diet Coke for breakfast, I marvel at the fact that she left dishes in her sink today when she left for work.

***

I remember sitting in my mother’s closet, in awe of her clothes.  She had so many clothes.  Clothes she’d hung onto for what, to my young mind, seemed like decades.  In reality, most of them were only a few years or perhaps A decade, I suppose.  She had a Real Wardrobe, not just a bunch of clothes.  I remember wanting to one day have a closet like that.  I remember wanting my closet to be organized and tidy like hers; everything in its own place with room to breathe.

I remember her long skirts, scarves, and jewelry.  She had earrings upon earrings and all sorts of zippered silky bags tucked away with gold and jewels inside.  Her shoes and her slips were so feminine and adult. 

I would sit on the little stool and help her decide which outfit to wear and how to accessorize it.  She asked my opinion and listened to my suggestions, almost as much then as she still does now.  She would show me shiny treasures - some hers and some mine – and tell me their stories, surrounded by the quiet in her closet. 

***

I am not my mother.  And, I will never be her.  My home will never be as clean as hers.  My cakes will never be as good, my sewing never as perfect, and my daughters’ school lunches will never wear their names in calligraphy.  My checkbook will forever envy the loving care hers receives, and my budget will never be so carefully balanced.  My closet is a shameful mess right now, and my baby doggie is much more at home in there than my girlies. 

The older I get, though, the more I am OK with this.  I am me.  This is me. 

I love and treasure my mother.  Her home is a comfort to me, as is my own.  My mother gave me love and safety everyday, just as I do for my girlies.  My mother was with me everyday; everyday she gave me herself.  I am with my girlies everyday; everyday I give them myself.  I kiss.  I hug.  I love.  I laugh and fuss and teach.  Just like Mama.

 

***** It’s been a while, I know.  I’m not entirely sure I’m back for good, but I thought I’d make an appearance.  I’ve also made a few appearances here in during my hiatus.  Hope to see you all again soon. *****

Would anyone miss it when it was gone?

The world has a way of sneaking up on you sometimes.

Today, I came inches from squishing this booger with my new springy pastel pink floral flops.  That would’ve been a tragedy. (I’ll let you infer into that statement as you wish.)

Instead, I gasped and recovered quickly enough to grab my Nikon and paralyze him into a digital image…or 9.  Which is really quite funny, because I really do not care for frogs or toads or, pretty much, any of the reptilian and/or amphibian classes or phylums or whatever you call it.  But nearly smearing this ugly dude’s guts all over my coveted sandals was more than enough to merit a moment of inspection and pseudo-appreciation.  I mean, he did just have a near miss with his chance to be reincarnated as something a little higher on the food chain, right?

After I satisfied my urge to photo document all of life’s little oddities and chance encounters, I packed up my camera and set off for the day.  As I rambled through my usual routines of prepping a classroom, Friday spelling tests, giggles and gasps at our adored daily read aloud, spring recess (the very best kind), spinach salad eaten en route back to the dining room, raised hands, messy backpacks, and our beloved alma mater ceremoniously bringing our school day to a close via “all call”, that same ugly mug played chicken with me over and over again in my mind.

I thought about him (or her?) as I backed out of my driveway.  I wondered where it would go.  Was it already gone?  What if it decided to escape and made the fatal mistake of hopping towards the driveway - rather than away from it – and I murdered it with my Firestone?  I have to trust that, were that the case, it was just meant to be.  His (or her) number was up.  The universe has a way of making things happen, you know?

Sometimes, it’s just time.  Sometimes, the jig is up.  Obviously, this fellow (I’m just going to run with the guy option.  Surely if it was a chick she would have some rosy cheeks or something, right?  I mean, it’s hard to find a good man out there, right?  If she ever wants to make some tadpoles with a nice, family sort of toad/frog/thing, then she’s got to strut her stuff… right?) has completed his cycle of life.  I’ve seen the diagrams in our science labs at school.  He’s at the top of the circle.  All arrows lead to him.

And you know what else?  I don’t believe in coincidences.  I’m certain that things happen for a reason.  I think little Tommy Toad was planted for me to write this post.  It’s a post that I’ve been stewing on, sitting on, trying to squish down for a while.

Sometimes, I think I’m like that toad. (Except, I’d rather be a frog, thanks.  Smoother skin.)  Sometimes, all I can do is freeze.  Hope I blend in.  If I smile and stay really still, no one will notice my buggy eyes.  Be veh-wee, veh-wee quiet.

I’m going into quiet mode for now.  I’m going to try to blend into the scenery for a while and just watch the world around me.  I’m not motivated to write what is appropriate to share, and not willing to share what I’m motivated to write.  I going to lie still beneath that pink sandal hovering above my head, and hope the shoe doesn’t drop. 

After all, a frog’s best defense from predators is it’s camouflage.  Well, unless it’s a poisonous frog.  Then it’s painted all sorts of pretty colors.  While I do like pretty colors, I think I’ll save the poison for another fairy tale.

*****

Just a note…

Thanks for reading.  I’m taking a break.  There’s a lot bumping around in my head right now – about the blogging and internet world, friends, family, marriage, and boundaries.  Lots and lots about boundaries.  I am going to take a hiatus with my notebooks and freely express without hurting feelings, offending beliefs, or being judged. 

Love to you all.

I’ll keep you posted on my impending return.  I hope you’ll be open to the possibilities.

Jenny

Sunday in Snaps: Raining Cats and Dogs

This morning, the girlies and I welcomed the rain from the comfort of my bed.  We cuddled beneath the covers watching Barbie hang ten and save the mermaids from evil Eris.  My sheets are littered with Pop-tart crumbs, but my heart was as warm as the coffee on my bedside table.

Meanwhile, out back….

Daisy rested against the glass door between mad dashes after silly squirrels.  Bo lingered beneath the trees, patrolled the perimeter, and made laps through the wet grass.  He was so filthy by the time I was finally able to lure him back inside, I banished him straight to the shower for a complete overhaul. 

For the remainder of the day, my four-legged babies pouted and paced, scratched and begged to, once again, be granted their freedom out in the elements.

 

Mean Mommy that I am, their romp in the rain was over for the day. 

They made the best of it, though.  Bo in his red club chair…

and Daisy on a soft, faded quilt…

my little ones finally figured out the second best way to spend a rainy Sunday. 

I sure do love rainy “stay-at-home days”. 

P.S.  My Big Boy sure does smell purrty tonight.

Motivate Me

As you may recall, I’m currently in the midst of an intervention.  And, as interventions may go, it’s moving along quite nicely, if I do say so myself.  As with anything in life, finding the motivation was half the battle, really.  You know, that whole mind over matter thing.  To be quite frank, I tend to struggle with a little condition of “matter over mind”.

Recently, though, I’ve reacquainted myself with my inner strength and motivation.  I thought perhaps you all might benefit from some of these highly technical tips and techniques, too.

Money.  As you probably already know, money can be motivating.  I encourage you to consider financial punishments and/or rewards when setting up a personal goal.  If you’re like me though, this alone is easy to lose sight of…like the cost of my gym membership.  The thought of wasting that auto-drafted chunk of change every month has never once been motivation enough for me to drag my lazy bootie to the treadmill. 

Public humiliation.  When in doubt, plan your own roast.  I did and I really hope I get to cancel it.  I REALLY hope I get to avoid that.  Really.  I don’t know if I can survive that.

Circle of friends.  Peer pressure is a good thing…after about 21 or so.  Get a partner – or more – and put them on speed dial.  My partner in crime and I have talked each other down from the ledge more than once already.  With her support, I was able to resist the temptation of the fresh, hot pizza calling my name.  She, with the assistance of my psychological prowess, was able to throw away a completely untouched small fry from McDonald’s.  Together, there is nothing we cannot resist.  Last year, I had a workout partner…until that crazy chick moved without my permission.  While we ran our mouths, and laughed till our sides ached, we worked our booties off multiple days a week – despite our busy schedules and irrational harassment from a tacky gym patron.  Everything’s more fun with a friend.

Tunes.  Not only does music keep your energy level up while your working, but it’s been known to keep me going a little longer, too.  For instance, I may be in the last two tenths of a run when a favorite song comes on.  All of the sudden, I go all music-Nazi-slave-driver on myself and make a rule that I can only listen as long as I’m running.  If I quit, the music goes off.  Usually, a great song will be worth another few minutes of weary muscles and chest pains for me. (Then again, I’ve often said I want to find a gym where it’s completely normal to bust out in song and dance while you’re on the treadmill.)

Open your eyes.  If fitness is your goal, take a good hard look in the mirror.  Naked.  Recently, I started my own ritual.  After arriving at the gym, I drop off the girlies in the play area and head straight for a private dressing room.  Then, I strip.  Nothin’ but skin, babe.  I stand there in the obnoxiously poor lighting from the one pitiful 60-watt incandescent hanging overhead and try to disgust myself.  I look at all the places I usually suck in and cover up.  Then, I suit up and head to the torture chamber, ready to do battle.

Jealousy…I mean “role models”.  Choose the treadmill, elliptical machine, or mat right next to the hot chick.  Watch her.  Get jealous.  Really, really jealous.  Like – bitter and mean jealous.  Let the envy soak in deep until you feel like a fat pig.  Then, push harder, run faster, lift stronger – because you can be that flaming hot, too.  Show that biotch what you’ve got!  Yeah!

An audience.  Be aware of the men watching you.  You may think you look awful – sweaty, stinky, ragged and pale.  Apparently, they don’t agree.  Either that or they just don’t care, because men watch women working out.  That’s all there is to it.  Married  men, single men, old men, young men – they’re all looking at you.  Feel the heat of their eyes boring holes into your arse.  Imagine what they see.  I don’t know about you, but if somebody’s going to be looking at my backside, I hope they see a nice, firm buttocks with just enough softness for a good pinch – not a bowl of jell-o and orange rinds.  Somehow, I think you might agree.

Eye candy.  Look right back at those men.  Sometimes, you get lucky.  Just today, this totally hunky Tim Tebow look-a-like pulled up to the elliptical right next to me. Wow.  Not a minute before, I had begun to back down and woos out.  Miraculously, I got my second (third?) wind, found a little more strength, and stuck it out through the remainder of my mission.  And, as an added bonus, I also noticed a nice looking man downstairs who, through squinted eyes and the red metal handrails of the stairs, looked an awful lot like a scruffy Chris O’Donnell. I was thoroughly entertained. 

Sweet success.  As a friend of mine said recently, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.  No pain is worse than the sting of defeat.  The miles never look more doable than when you’re looking back over your shoulder.  You never feel fat and lazy AFTER you work out.  Focus on these things. 

I don’t claim to be an expert – by any means.  But, I’m pushing.  I’m hurting, I’m sucking it up, and I’m trying everyday to do better than the day before.  And, that’s all anyone can ever ask. 

 

 

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/d_vdm/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

Line, please.

This feels foreign and uneasy. I've missed the success and escape, but stage fright can be crippling. These bucket loads of dry sand I've been trying to hold between two bare hands are beating me. Emotions, thoughts, memories and words run through me as long ribbons of blurred grains - smooth like silk, warm like the sun - leaving me hollow and limp.

I turn to my bed. The book on my nightstand, once filled with passion, adventure, images and culture, now lies silently beside my clock, resting beneath my mobile wake-up call, counting down boldly to 4 A.M. Reluctantly, 5. Regrettably, 6.

Each night, I turn off the day and blanket my soul with the safety of an old quilt, cushioning my nighttime thoughts with a pillow, sweet with the scent of home. This is my retreat.

I read my friends' lines and directions through the filter of distance - miles and years. I can hear through these flimsy walls the soundtracks of their own dramas, romantic comedies, documentaries, and musicals as their stories carry on. My own movie is paused like an old VHS. Someone needs to fix the tracking. It's shaky and wiggly.

I'm waiting for direction, the next pages of my screen play.

Improvisation is harder than it looks.

The show must go on. Put on a happy face.

How the hell did I get here?

Whose line is it anyway?

March 12x12

The day started ridiculously early.  When I took this picture, I was up and dressed, packed and almost ready to walk out the door.  Coffee in hand. 

It was all worth it, though.  What a fabulous day.

Sitting in the airport, one my fellow travelers- after taking a Zantax for her fear of flying – noticed we were flying on a small, commuter jet and texted her last wishes to her mother from gate A7. 

“Take a nice trip with my money and donate the rest to the ASPCA.” 

Her mother’s reply: What’s the ASPCA?

After a cab ride of endless traffic, we hit the streets for some shopping.  The cold and rain, along with an intense desire to find deals, steals, and irresistible finds, drove us into H&M for a thorough visit.  We canvassed their three floors and emerged victorious.

At tiny tables wedged between the kitchen and the wall, we devoured a warm pizza lunch.  We entertained ourselves watching the hopelessly unorganized supervisor try to communicate with his non-English speaking crew and observing the constant stream of locals pouring into the little pizza joint – ironically called Firehouse Pizza.  It was a welcome break from the cold and wet.

Heading onto MoMA, I ooooohed and aaaaaaaahed at Monet’s Water Lilies.  We laughed and marveled at Burton’s quirky perversions, questioned and stared at the performance art and all agreed that some art just isn’t for us…namely the scary stuff. 

Afterwards, we ducked into the Magnolia Bakery for a sweet treat on the go, paired it with a glass of wine at a warm, dry pub before making our way back to the hotel to check in and freshen up.  We were checking out our view of the Empire State Building and gray skies when room service surprised us with a gift from my brother Jethro – a yummy bottle of champagne to celebrate our retreat. 

An old friend of mine (whom I hadn’t seen in too many years to count) met us at our hotel, guided this group of lovely bumbling tourists through town to a little dive for a drink and hailed us a taxi like a true gentleman.  He sent us to the Coffee Shop for the most delicious fries and chive dressing….on the side of our burgers, of course.  Girl talk poured all over the table like the little bottle of Heinz 57 and our energy finally began to wane.

Back in the room, Steph and I giggled like girlies playing with our cameras and smiling at  faces and moments frozen in time on the digital display of our DSLRs.  While our roommates slept, we shared one set of earbuds, Zuned some tunes and Googled craziness on my Blackberry.  It was the adult version of hiding beneath the sheets with a flashlight past lights-out. 

What a fabulous day.