Summertime Blahs

I loathe summer.  I always have, save for when I was younger and was out of school.  I don't do heat.  This summer has been especially dreadful because Riley's too young to wear sunscreen, so my usual summertime beat-the-heat outdoor activities are out.  Which is a shame because he LOVES to be outside.  Of course, when it's hotter than a Georgia whore in a pepper patch, I prefer my AC, thanks.  Any time I break in to a rolling sweat by walkin' from the house to the garage, it's too damn hot outside.  Which leaves me indoors to entertain my five-month-old.

Thus, Riley and I read a lot of children's books.  Daily.  He loves to be read to--which I am grateful for.  We had a collection of about eight books until very recently.  Before that, I was reading him interesting NPR articles.  I am a nerd.  I know. 

My in-laws saved everything from John's childhood.  Every.  Effin.  Thing.  Whew!  (And I wonder where his propensity for hoarding comes from . . . duh!).  So, Riley inherited a slew of books.  The most current copyright on any we've read thus far is 1960-something.  And I am thankful for them, 'cause there's only so many times I can read "Duckie Duck" without ad-libbing some inappropriate dialogue to preserve my sanity. 

We were reading a few days ago and stumbled across a tale of Mother Goat and her seven churen.  She leaves the house and gives the little ones specific instructions not to answer the door--there is a wolf lurking about.  Eventually, the wolf makes his way in to the house (because the kids let him in) and EATS all of her churen except one.  I am reading this to Riley and thinking, "What a horrible story!". Granted, he can't actually comprehend what's being read.  Thank God, 'cause he would probably have nightmares about Mother Goat CUTTING the wolf's belly open to retrieve her EATEN churen.  What the hell kind of children's book is this?  Sheesh.  What's the message?  Always listen to your mother lest you be eaten by a ravenous wolf?   Instill fear, above all else, in your children.  Now that's nice.  Has anyone else heard of this bullshit book? 

Apparently, this is a popular Grimms' Fairy Tale.  Seriously, a fairy tale?  I don't know about you, but I sort of think princesses and castles when I think about fairy tales.  Not scorned goats who are handy with some scissors (really, she used scissors).  Were they effin' high when they wrote it?  I never read this as a child, thank God.  I think I would have been irreparably scarred.

And then there's children's shows.  Yes, I am one of those mothers who will buy a few minutes of the welcome distraction of sing-songy voices and bright colors that is the kids' television network.  Sue me. 

My husband hates all of these shows.  There was one on just this morning wherein a character sulks because he is "out" of musical chairs.  Twice.  John says, "He sucks.  Who the hell loses at musical chairs?  Twice?".  I eventually join in by shouting at the television, "Put your game face on! Go hard or go home!" (I am sooo ready for some football).  John's overall problem is that these shows are all no-compete.  Everyone wins.  He thinks this is ludicrous.  Anyway, the gaggle of children in the show decide to play a different game.  One where there are no losers.  John continues, "Oh that's nice, what the hell kind of message is that to today's kids?".  There's more ranting about "liberal agendas" and  sarcastic banter such as, "Yay!  Everyone's a winner!" and other such nonsense. 

I will be glad when Fall brings cooler temperatures, football, and some of my favorite outdoor activities.  Maybe then I can to something to entertain my child besides read psycho books (I mean who edited these things, Hitchcock?) and dissect kids' shows.   

It can't get here soon enough . . . .

Good Times

What I am about to type is lame and really embarrassing.  As a little girl I vividly recall watching an episode of "Good Times" wherein J.J. and the gang were headed for financial ruin . . . . they needed money for something very badly.  The landlord was awarding money (just the amount they needed, of course) for the cleanest apartment in their building.  Inspectors came by with white gloves and all.  Not surprisingly, Florida won.  She had the cleanest apartment in the entire building. She saved the day.  Good times, indeed.

I remember watching that episode and thinking, "She got paid for keeping her apartment clean?  But, cleaning is fun".  Yes, my disorder started early in life.  Anyone who has seen me clean can tell you, I am a woman on a mission with laser-sharp focus.  It occurred to me a few months ago that I recall that episode every time I clean.  As if someone is going to stop by with white gloves and give me a ribbon and some cash.  I told you it was lame. 

Mix my clear recollection of '80's sitcoms with a loathing of germs and a touch (okay, maybe more than a touch) of OCD and thereyouhaveit:  an extremist housekeeper.  That's at least the surface of my issues.  There are deeper layers, but those are for me and a therapist to hash out. 

A couple of posts ago, I wrote about my hope that the cleaning service I hired would actually meet my fanatical housekeeping needs.  I had been getting their fliers in the mail for months; they were genius.  They said "Life is too short to clean your own home".  Damn right. 

Don sent his superhero-like team of two in this morning.  At least to me they were like superheroes.  He said they would be here "around 8:20".  At exactly 8:20, my doorbell rang.  They were friendly and uniformed and they immediately got to work. 

I am ashamed to admit, they did things I probably would have overlooked had I been cleaning a house for the first time.  They folded the end of my toilet paper in to a triangle.  They left hand towels neatly folded and hung in the bathrooms.  Lord knows my teenager's room hasn't been this clean since I cleaned it a few months ago, which is something I normally refuse to do.  They even cleaned the little grate-thingy that sits in the bottom of the in-door ice dispenser on my fridge.  Oh, these two were good.  Very good.  They wiped, scrubbed, vacuumed and mopped their way out the front door with precise efficiency. 

As promised, Don stopped by to inspect and make sure I was happy.  Oh boy, was I happy . . . . I heard angels singing, the heavens opened up, mountains crumbled, trumpets blared, the seas roared . . . . okay, so maybenot.  But it did seem nothing short of divine.  I am convinced the sun was shining a little brighter on our house when they left.  Every room in my house was clean at the same time.  And I didn't have to work like a dog to get it that way. 

I was left a gift (they gave me a gift?  Seeing as how I could have kissed them both, I was taken aback by this), as well as a list of what got done today and what will be done next time.  Thaaaaat's right.  There will be a next time. 

DYN-O-MITE!

Empty Nest

Chucker brings enough energy in to this house to run a nuclear power plant.  This place just feels different when he's here.  There's always something abuzz:  him, phones, TVs, video games, something.  There's a different vibe; the verve is palpable. 

He left Sunday to go back to his dad's.  Soccer tryouts are this week and he has to be there.  I missed him terribly as soon as he left.  I tried to talk myself out of it:  with all that energy usually comes a mess.  Yeah, it didn't work.  What's a little mess in exchange for him and his liveliness?  He's just so fun and funny and goofy.  I can't help but be in a good mood around him.  Whatever he's got goin' on is contagious, fo' sho'.

Morgan is an over-committed teenager. She's never here. 

John left to go out of town Sunday as well.  Besides companionship, my husband contributes a great deal to the goins-ons in our household.  Especially of late when Riley's been so clingy and crabby.  He empties the dishwasher, does laundry, gets the baby up for his first feeding, and gives me time to "punch out" for a few minutes (so as not to lose my angelic composure =)).  Not to mention does some of the shopping, carts churen to and fro,  does yard work, etc.  Then there's that whole workin' full-time and providin' for all of us thing.  There's also the taking over so I can take a shower (and shave my legs!  Joy!) or run an errand . . . .

For instance, this morning I had to go to the eye doctor, because the eye* issue I had over the weekend was getting worse and worse and uglier and uglier and I have to do somethin' about it now before I lose my effin' mind.  Whew!  So, I drag my teething ultra-cranky baby to the eye doctor . . . and it's his nap time.  Yay!    This would have been a great time to have some effin' help . . . .

Things like that are usually why I dread him going out of town.  But on nights like tonight, I am reminded why I love this. 

There's just me, Skinky, and Sandy.  Aahhhh . . . .

I love my husband and my churen dearly, I do.   They are helpful and a joy to be around (most of the time).  But it's quite refreshing to have an empty, quiet house.  The only noise in here is the sound of my dog snoring beside me and Riley breathing over the baby monitor . . . . . in and out, in and out, in and out . . . . .

'Night y'all.   

*As a side note, I went to a doc-in-the-box because I was afraid of getting cellulitis of my eyelid. "I really don't think that's what this looks like, Mrs. Mundy". Great! I go see my eye doc today, you'll never guess what his diagnosis is . . . . . cellu-effin'-litis. I could go in to grave detail about how disgusting the crap oozing out of my eyelid is, but quite frankly, I'm sick of dealin' with it.  Mental note:  if it's bad enough to seek medical care on the weekend, it damn-well better be bad enough to go to the ER.  No more doc-in-the-box.  Ugh.

Random Eye-Thingy

If things like body fluids, pus, zits, and general nastiness bother you, I would not suggest reading this.

I awoke yesterday morning with a red, puffy, sore eye.  When I say sore, I mean it's painful to touch.  That's weird, I thought, but quickly got on with my day.

Last night, I roused John from his peaceful sleep.  There was ooze coming out of my eye.  "Honey, I hate to bother you, but I need you to look at something".  He follows me in to the bathroom, looks at my eye and tells me I have a pimple in the corner of my eye.  Either very near the tear duct or in the corner of my eyelid.  "WHAT?!?  How the hell does someone get a pimple on their eye?".  I decide that whatever was in it has oozed out:  get rid of random eye-thingy.  Check.

WRONG!  I woke up this morning with it swollen shut.  You should have seen the ways I was contorting my face just to get my eye open enough for me to see.  It's just aggravated from me messing with it last night, I thought, it'll go away.  (Denial . . . . party of one?).  The way my eyelid is swollen and eye misshapen, I now look like some sort of Chinese frog . . . . on one side of my face. 

As the day wears on it gets worse.  John tries his best to pop a zit in the corner of my eye.  Yeah, notsomuch.  "You just need to mash it to get the gunk out of it", he says.  Um, not no, but HELL no.  At this point it's REALLY red and swollen tighter than Dick's hatband.  It hurts to blink.  Not only that, whatever is in there I am afraid will drain INTO MY EYE.  Nuh-uh.  I try my best to ignore it.  I go to Subway to pick up lunch.  I raise my sunglasses and the lady beside me notices my eye.  Obviously, 'cause her face scrunches up like she just smelled a rotten egg.  Then she covers her mouth with her hand and gasps.  Nice. I flashed her my "go-to-hell" smile and got out of there as fast as I could. 

My mother says, "You really need to go to the doctor".  Dammitall! 

Off I go to a doc-in-the-box hoping to find some relief.  They are packed.  "Ma'am, go ahead and sign in, but just to let you know, there's at least a two-hour wait".  Great.  She hands me some paperwork and tells me to have a seat.  I scan the waiting room:  there's coughers, hackers, I-don't-even-want-to-effin'-knowers, and body fluids seeping out of various other prisoners there.  Screw it, I'll risk going blind in one eye before I wait here all afternoon.  The nurse suggested I try some warm compresses. Compresses . . . . . . fantastic. 'Cause I hadn't thought of that.

Alas, I will probably be back there first thing in the morning.  Imma have to do something soon because Morgan and Chuck keep looking at it like they're expecting it to up and wave or talk to them.  And the expression both of them have on their face is one of utter disgust.  "Eeeeeew.  What is that?".  Nice.

I have included a nasty picture, so you can spend the rest of the night trying to forget you saw it.  Quite frankly, I really shouldn't have to deal with the trauma of this alone.  Yeah, you're welcome.

Long Day

Riley and I have had a rough couple days.  To spare you all of the boring Mommy details, he's teething and won't let me out of his sight.  This whole week has been harrowing at best.  He's such a sweetheart normally.  I can't seem to do anything to soothe or console him so I feel grossly inadequate.

My sack of sugar . . . although he weighs twice as much as a sack of sugar. 

I had to take a "time out" today.  My dear husband walked in from work, took one look at me and said, "There's a Starbucks gift card on my keychain.  Get it and get out".  I cried and prayed on the way to get my coffee and came home a little while later to a bathed but still-cranky baby. 

As my mother would say, "My nerves are SHOT!".  True dat.

When my nerves are to' up I work my anxieties out in one of two ways:  bake or clean.  We have a forty year old air conditioner and it's 100 degrees outside.  Seeing as how I was already sweating like a whore in church, cleaning was out.  Besides, I had to be in the kitchen anyway.  I had to make my mother a pie for a dinner party she's having tomorrow night.  Baking it shall be.  I was thumbing through some of my recipes and stumbled upon this gem . . . . . .

Banana Cake with Banana Frosting

It looks pretty gross, but it is oh-so-yummy.  There's nothing I love more than diving in to a new recipe for some much-needed diversion.  Thank goodness both of tonight's recipes called for something to be "mashed".  Boy, did they get mashed.

I hope tomorrow is better for both of us . . . . . my nerves nor my waistline can take much more of this.

I have issues . . . .

I was recently lamenting over my decision to let my hair grow out.  About eighteen months ago, I had a pixie haircut.  Cute, cool, and super-easy.  So I did what I normally do when mourning, posted something on Facebook about it, what else?  After reading my status, my husband comes sprinting back from the bedroom and makes me a deal:  if I continue to let my hair grow out, he'll hire someone to clean the house. 

I immediately replied "DEAL!", before I could help myself. 

In the back of my mind, I'm thinking I could never allow someone else to clean my house.  To say I am a picky housekeeper is an understatement.  For a period of time in my life I cleaned houses.  Even when I was working full-time and considered hiring someone to clean I always quickly dismissed it as a big waste of time:  my potential housekeeper's and mine.  Been there, done that.  There's no way I'd be satisfied.  We won't even go in to the whole nurse/germaphobe thing.  And then there's the fact that I am not currently employed and would feel really guilty about spending the money on having someone clean my house.  There's no way I could live with myself . . . . could I?  Surely my darling husband knows this about me . . . .

Nowwaitadamnminute.  Did he just make me a deal on something he knew he wouldn't have to follow through on?  He doesn't think I'll do this!  He honestly doesn't think I can.  Ha!  Well hide and watch, mister!  I'm calling that cleaning service ASAP, by God. 

So, I did it.  I called a cleaning service I have been eyeing for a while.  At this point I still wasn't sure I was going to pull the trigger.  Really I was doing it for the joy of watching John squirm.  I was gonna let him sweat this one out . . . . .

I tell Morgan that I will need her help with the baby briefly because there's someone coming over to give me an estimate on cleaning the house.  Dead silence.  She looks at me as if I have three heads and says, "Someone's coming over to give you an estimate on cleaning this house?".  I could almost hear her thinking, "Po' thang.  I feel sorry for whoever that is.".
   
Don came over yesterday to give me an estimate.  I must say, I was impressed.  Very impressed.  He came in, introduced himself and asked if I would give him a quick tour of the house.  Which I did.  He wanted to "take a look at some things".  Which he did.  He looked in my microwave . . . HE LOOKED IN MY MICROWAVE!  That gave me a warm and fuzzy feeling.  There was a glimmer of hope that maybe whoever he sent in would actually clean the microwave.   He looked in corners and thoroughly inspected shower doors and whatnot.  He then sat me down and went over everything that would be done on every visit; and the extra stuff that would get done on a rotating basis.  There it was.  One thing I cherish very deeply:  a plan ::insert "Hallelujah" chorus here::.  Blinds, baseboards, light fixtures, things that would be toothbrushed (that's right, TOOTHBRUSHED!) . . . . he left no stone unturned. 

And then, I inform him that I am a nurse, (apparently we're THE worst clients to have) and I formerly cleaned houses for a living.  He didn't bat an eye.  He didn't shake my hand and tell me to have a nice day (which has happened before), he didn't pitch me some cheesy sales line.  He jotted down some notes in his notebook and calmly said, "Try it my way for one month.  I assure you, you won't be disappointed".   He then told me that he goes behind every team he sends out and inspects their work.  And then he addressed all the issues and hesitations I had in calling anyone in the first place.  All without me saying a word.  And that's when I realized I was sort of crushin' on Don.  Not in a romantic way, but in a knight-in-shining-armor kinda way.  I think you could actually SEE hearts floating out of my eyes when I looked at him.  After all, he was speakin' my language.

Now, yes, I am overly-excited and they haven't even come in to clean yet.  But I am actually hopeful.  And yes, I am fully aware of how sad it is that I am this effin' psyched about it at all.  This is the most exciting thing that's happened to me in at least the last month . . . . . I can't believe I just typed that.  That is rather pitiful. 

Does new Tupperware count?  Honestly, if I had written a post about how ecstatic I am about my new Tupperware my husband would probably have me institutionalized.  (Even though it's the kind with the lids that snap on the bottom of the container when they're not in use.  So I don't have to cuss when I am knocked over by the mountain of plastic that comes spewing out when I open that damn cabinet.  I mean, how cool is that?  That's completely and totally normal, right?)

::Sigh::  I used to have a life, I swear.  Maybe with someone else helping out with the housework, I can work on that . . .   ;)

Pet-peeved

Passive-aggressive people drive me absolutely insane . . . 'cause it's insincerity at it's finest.  It's effin' lyin', is what it is .  . .

Somewhere along the way I lost my ability to sugarcoat, pussyfoot, or dance around things. Beat around the bush, whatever. Bullshit is what I call it, but feel free to use whatever term you deem necessary. 

A family member and I were having a conversation about how different we are.  No ill-will, no malice intended, just a simple, matter-of-fact dialogue about the fact that I am "direct" and "blunt" and she is not.  That's not how she was raised.  Period.  It's like asking her to teach a nuclear physics class with an elementary arithmetic education.  It's just not gonna happen.  Her upbringing ingrained in her that being direct was rude.  Which left me with this question:  Since when did "dishonest" become synonymous with "polite"? When did it become okay to lie to someone in the name of etiquette or manners? 

Yes, I understand that there are such things as "class" and "tact" and I have done some work to take part of the brutal out of my honesty. My husband would probably argue that civility is not in my vocabulary. If something needs to be said, I just say it. There. It's on the table.  I love you enough to tell you the truth, how is that rude?

The people who have helped me the most in my life were those who loved me enough to tell me the truth---no matter what.  It wasn't always what they were saying but the way they were saying it that caught my attention.  I can assure you none of them were holding my hands, empathetically gazing in to my eyes and telling me how much they loved me.  Nuh-uh.  They just effin' said what needed to be said.  If it hurt my feelings?  They were the first to hand me a box of tissue and move on . . . . maybe I needed to have my feelings hurt.  I respect and admire those people.  My appreciation for them and their candor grows as I get older.

"Say what you mean and mean what you say":  we both know what's going on, what needs to be done, if anything, and where we stand.  Again, how is this rude?  In my experience, being direct cuts through all the "fluff" to get to the real deal; however trivial or monumental, so whatever needs to be done gets dealt with and it's finished.  Movin' on. 

I find it interesting that the very people who complain about my "ability" are the first ones to call when they want some difficulty addressed.  And they're usually the ones who break up in laughter after hearing someone else called out on their stuff.  Probably because they're thinking exactly what I'm saying, but unlike their two-faced, holier-than-though selves, I have the balls to say it.  Who's bein' rude now?  Bitches. 

I don't know when my proclivity for bullshit left me, exactly, but I am grateful it did--sometimes. At other times I think my life would be a lot easier if I could spew out whatever it is that I think you want to hear and everything could be all honey and roses and tip-toeing through the tulips and all that other crap.

Yeah, it's gone.  Long gone.

Beba*

I remember fondly the day my daughter was born.  It was the first time I ever experienced love at first sight.  She was perfect . . . . in every way.

She slept through the night at two weeks of age.  She had the sweetest disposition I have ever known.  She was just so . . . . easy.  I was shocked at how naturally I bonded with her, how I instinctively knew exactly what to do and what she needed (I was seventeen).  She did everything early:  crawled, walked, talked.  She was reading before she started kindergarten.  It was apparent very early on that the world was her oyster.  She could do anything she put her mind to . . . . and do it well.  With an ease and grace that made me proud, oh so proud . . . and envious.

She matured quickly.  She has always been wise beyond her years.  A leader.  A non-conformist.  Wicked smart, funny, intuitive, with a grounded down-to-earth approach to everything she does.  I have seen her intimidate grown men . . . . more than once.  Yes, it's fun to watch, it's also challenging as hell to rear such a creature. 

Aware of this, I have always been very intentional and purposeful in my dealings with her.  She was raised to be independent:  she could do her own laundry and cook a simple meal at ten years of age.  She could stay at home alone at an age that most would consider neglectful.  She was just always so responsible.  We have always had an honest and candid relationship.  I knew the first time she kissed a boy, when she started her period, when she was offered illicit substances, etc..  She knows my past, my mistakes, my regrets, and my accomplishments.  We talk about everything. 

The fact that she is so smart and does not "demand" anything has proven to be a challenge in her adolescence.  Half the time I am stuck deciding whether to shake her or kiss her.  Sadly, I don't instinctively know what she needs any more.  I just know what I want for her, and luckily, it aligns with what she wants for herself.  This young lady has the world at her feet and fails to recognize that what she has goin' on is nothing short of effin' magic.  She has so many opportunities and so much potential.  It thrills me and makes me want to strangle her at the same time.  I often wonder if she sees what I see:  that she is brilliant, gorgeous, talented, driven, and can literally be any thing she wants to be.  She has accomplished more this school year than most people do in their high school careers.  And she makes it seem effortless.

I do know this:  when she crosses the threshold of this house, she will have been raised.  She knows right from wrong.  She knows that bad decisions come with bad consequences and vice versa.  She knows that she can soar or plummet, it's her choice.  And she knows that she will always have a place to call home--no matter what. 

And I hope she knows and feels this:  that she always has been and always will be my first true love.



*When Morgan was little she called her dolls "bebas" because she couldn't say "babies".  I, in turn, started calling her "Beba" and it stuck.  She will forever be known as "Beba" in my family.

If the flip-flop fits . . . .

Let me preface this little tale with two things: 

1.  I HATE the effin' Wal-Mart.  I shop there out of absolute necessity.  I hate getting there, parking, and I hate navigating my way through that place. 
2.  Those "People of Wal-Mart" emails have been a guilty pleasure of mine for some time.  I'm always astounded at things like mullets and displays of three-hundred pound women flashing their thongs.

This happened about a month ago . . . .

I am ashamed to report that I am now one of the "People of Wal-Mart".

See, what had happened was, I blew out my flip-flop while crossing the parking lot, and my retarded ass tried to continue walking in the busted flop--with traffic STOPPED for me to cross in both directions. I looked like someone with a severe handicap.

After concluding that the now-broken flip-flop just wasn't gonna work, I took it off and proceeded to shop with one foot bare.  I sure as hell wasn't going all the way back home to get another pair of shoes.  Nuh-uh.  I was there, I had my game face on.  Let's DO this. 

You should have seen people whispering and staring (I'm pretty effin' sure I saw someone out of the corner of my eye snap a picture of my dilemma with a cell phone.  I am also pretty effin' sure he had a mullet and missing teeth. Great.) all while I am pretending this is an INTENDED wardrobe malfunction.  As if I am bestowing a high-fashion trend to the people of the Winston-Salem Wal-Mart.
Oh, and did I mention I am wearing my Cleveland Browns t-shirt?  'Cause that never draws attention . . . . riiiight.

As the cashier is ringing up my new $3 flops, I say "don't worry about bagging those . . . I need them now".  Do you know what it feels like to get a "bless your heart" look from a Wal-Mart cashier?

I need to start this day over . . . . go to bed and get up again. I need a shower first, though. Blech.

That's okay, you can laugh at my expense, just don't hate when my picture is included in the next viral e-mail. Bitches.

Comic Relief

This is a logistical nightmare and gets a lil' complicated . . . . . bear with me.

It started innocently enough . . . .

John and I were invited to a cookout for my brother and his new wife in Raleigh.  My husband travels a lot and had accumulated enough hotel rewards points to have a night out of town . . . for free.  Morgan and Chuck were at their dad's . . . could it be?  A night to ourselves?  Out of town?  Little did I know this "escape" would have me contemplating bodily harm . . . which brings me to another point:  there are countless websites, pamphlets, hotlines, etc. discouraging parents from shaking their babies.  Their teenagers?  Yeah, notsomuch.  Haven't found ONE!!

Those of you who know me and my family well, know that Chuck lives with his dad in Rocky Mount, NC. If I get to see him once a month during the school year, I consider myself fortunate. I relish the times when he is out of school and gets to stay with us for an extended period of time.

My sister calls and says she has offered for Morgan to follow her from Rocky Mount to Raleigh and back for the cookout; she and their dad live about 20 miles apart.  Morgan and Chuck will get to be there too?  How cool is that?!  I call their dad and offer for Chuck to come to Winston after all this is said and done.  I doubted this would fly, simply because he has been with us for a month already this summer.  I get a promising response:  "I'll talk to Chuck and see what he wants to do".  Suh-weet!!  So, I go in to this weekend thinking John and I will get a night away at a hotel in Raleigh (scandalous), Chuck and Morgan will come to the cookout, meet us back in Raleigh the next morning (a 45 minute drive), and we will go home as a happy little family on Sunday morning.  Riiiiight. 

The "talking to Chuck to see what he wants to do" never happened.  The excuse:  "Well, I mentioned it to Morgan and she didn't seem too thrilled with the idea, so I never mentioned it to Chuck."  I'm sorry, 'scuse me?  Oh, naw.  Hell naw.  Naw she di'unt. 

Um, Morgan is seventeen years old and doesn't get to make that decision.  She doesn't want her brother to come visit?  Tough shit!! 

That's it.  That's all it took and I was spun in to a realm of pissed off I haven't been in quite a while.  To spare you the long and grueling details, after a HEATED exchange with Morgan and her dad, we end up getting my teenagers a room directly across the hall from us, so they can spend the night and follow us back to Winston the next morning.  Because "logistical nightmare" seems to be Morgan's specialty.  Like I said, it's a long story.

We arrive at the hotel from the cookout.  I change my hot tired baby in to his PJ's and get him settled for the evening.  I walk out in to the hall to relay something to the other two, and that's when it happens:  I start laughing hysterically.  Chuck has donned a complimentary shower cap and has this indescribable grin on his face.  Goofy.  Funny.  Completely lovable. 

And that's when I know that we're okay.  We're all gonna be okay.  John and I will get over our disappointment, Morgan will live to see her next birthday, life goes on . . . .

Un-feminine

I am and always have been anything but girlie.  As a little girl, I can remember holding my own with the boys in my neighborhood playing basketball.  Or kickball, dodge ball, or any other "ball" we entertained ourselves with.  This tendency has not left me.  Not ever.

I love to cook (especially bake), love to clean, and I love laundry.  That's about where the classic female customs end for me.  Come to think of it, that may be less "female" and more "disorder".  Yes, I have boobs and all the other anatomical makings of a girl.  But as a rule, things that are inherently female get on my damn nerves.

I hate shopping.  ALL shopping.  Pantyhose should be outlawed.  Actually, I'm not a huge fan of underwear in general.  My mother had to MAKE me wear make-up as a teen.  That's probably my number one hated female thing:  make-up.  I hate applying it, I hate wearing it, and I especially hate that I look better with it on.  As a friend of mine says:  "Every barn looks better with a little paint".

Mani/pedi?  It's nice every once and a while, pedicures are quite relaxing, but it is far from a necessity for me.  Jewelry?  No, thanks--take me to dinner.  Flowers?  I love pretty things, but to me it's a waste of money.  Soap operas??  Puh-lease.  Reality TV??  I am raising two teenagers, that's enough drama for me, thankyouverymuch. 

Not only do female things get on my nerves, I can relate to and enjoy "boy" things a whole lot more.  I have always had more male friends than girl friends. ALWAYS.  I understand the rules of professional sports.  Football season is my FAVORITE time of the year.  ESPN is a favorite on my TV menu.  My husband spends more time in the bathroom than I do when we go out.  I don't get over-emotional--about ANYTHING.  I don't attach emotion to "things" and "stuff".  If it doesn't serve a purpose, and a useful one, I don't own it.  It just doesn't make sense to me to hoard things in the name of nostalgia.  I've been called "unsentimental", "heartless", and "cold".  I could give many more examples as the list is numerous. And I'm okay with it.  At least I thought I was until this exchange with John last night:

John:  Your new haircut looks good, honey.
Me:  Um, thanks.
John:  You don't like it?
Me:  It was more for utility than fashion.

HUH??  Do you know a female who would make such a statement?  I sure as hell don't!

So I am having to come to some level of acceptance (again) that I'm a man on the inside.  Or at least that's what I've been told.  My best friend in my hometown is black and she used to tell me I was black on the inside.  Congratulations, honey!!  You've married a black man.

Oh well, here's to hoping I enter some sort of time warp and wake up Saturday to some college football. 

Ha!  If only . . .