joeyfullystated

Snow Day

Posted on March 25, 2013 by joey

I got to frolic in the snow today. Eight inches, they said. At some places in the yard, it had drifted higher than my knees. That means it was almost to Moo’s waist, and it stopped her in her tracks. She’d fall face first and I’d roll her over to pull her up. We loved every minute of it.
As Moo schlepped through the drifts, I asked her, “So, are you a Southern girl or a Northern Girl?”
“A Northern Girl!” she shouted.

My dog, born and raised in the South, takes no offense to the snow. I think she’s particularly adorable when she licks and bites the snow. I also think it’s darling when she digs for the moles I cannot see with my human eyes, nor hear with my human ears.

On Sassy’s sled, I slid down the hump of the back yard. I don’t know when I’d last gone sledding, but it had to have been in high school. It’s still fun — the whoosh of air, snow crinkling smoothly beneath me, til I collapse on the bottom in a heap of carefree slack. As I slid to the bottom, I let my head fall back into the snow, limp with satisfaction. It filled me with delicious childhood nostalgia, wherein for just those few seconds at the end, I could have been nine. My smile could not be suppressed. Time after time, I was taken back to my youth.

I tried to make a snow angel, but sadly, in the drift, it didn’t resemble an angel at all. I had formed a snow table between my thighs and two cantilevers above my shoulders. I was disappointed when I stood up, and I questioned, “Is this art?” It probably wasn’t, but I still relished it.

I shoveled some. I found I still take pleasure in shoveling, although not as much at the end of the drive where the rocky bits had been displaced by the plow. The Mister fancied using the snowblower — so much, he also did three neighbors’ houses and the sidewalks between.

The snow was good for snowballs, but it wasn’t dense and wet enough to build a snowman. This may be the last big snow until late Fall, and I remain eager to build a snowman with my girls. *sigh* I may have to endure a summer before the opportunity comes.

Family and friends tell me that I must’ve willed this snow storm into fruition. I may have. I certainly wanted it badly enough.

Posted in Personally | Tagged dog, happiness, home, kids, Moo, sledding, snow, snow angel, snow storm, snowman, The Mister | 4 Comments

The Palace of Rules

Posted on March 24, 2013 by joey

not my MIL *shakes head*

My Mother-in-Law has enormous brown eyes, with which she is infamous for giving the Bug Eyes. She is a loving, devoted, gentle, kind woman. If you have troubles, she will do her very best to help and she will always pray on it.
I have been the extra child at her house since I was a schoolgirl. I have called her Mom since sometime in the late 80’s. She’s like the mother I never had, because she actually stayed home, and she actually baked cookies, like the mothers in storybooks.

I used to stand in her pantry like I’d entered the gates of Heaven.

She puts lots of salt and butter and sugar in everything.

When my in-laws sold their beloved big blue house, they built a dream house twice as big. It’s like a dollhouse for my MIL. Every item has been carefully selected and placed.

Remember how I told you I know I’m not a neat freak? Yeah. Between The Mister’s mother and my own mother, that’s how I know I’m not a neat freak. The MIL, she has some OCD. OCD is a relative term, isn’t it?

I mean, I like that in her home, everything has a place. I like that the dishes are clean, the towels are clean, and there are soap dispensers at every sink.

I’m dramatically impatient with her dish soap. The dish soap is in a pretty oil bottle with a jigger on the top. I bleed faster than the jigger lets out soap. By the time I see any soap on the sponge, it’s begun to disappear. But I think I might prefer this to the previous soap problem: One mustn’t leave the dish soap bottle open, because it gushes out, but one mustn’t close the dish soap bottle entirely, lest it’s needed in a hurry, so one must keep the dish soap lid always half-open.
So yeah, this is an improvement. Sadly, I view doing dishes as an emergency, and not something I want to spend a lot of time doing, but it’s always good to practice one’s patience.

I’m also not crazy about the abundance of air fresheners. There was one in the guest bathroom that was on a motion sensor, which was a relief to discover, because for the first few days, I really thought it was out to get me. I’d shut the door, I’d sit down, and poof! In your face, “peach something.” *gags* It conflicts with the cloves and cinnamon in the hall, the i-dunno-what-more-cinnamon in the living room, and again, i-dunno-what-floral upstairs. It’s a cacophony of odor, and I’m not sure what smells so foul that we need all these cover-ups, but *achoos* I’m keepin an eye out for a decomposing body. Fortunately, she bought a new air freshener for the guest bathroom. It just bes. I thanked her.

She’s a hoarder. Yes, it’s true. You will find no piles, and you will find no filth. You will find bins upon and bins of shiny clean pretties for Christmas and whatnot. There are bins everywhere. The bins are also clean. I can’t fathom the time it takes to clean all the fings. Virgos, hmph!
The whole house is pretty and organized and decorated like Home Interior met Southern Living. It’s a lovely home.
The pretties are overwhelming. I’m not a collector of pretties. I’ve no use for pretties. I’m a clean surface person. I’m a function over form person. Here, every surface has pretties.
If I spill coffee on my kitchen counter, I just grab a paper towel and wipe it up. If I spill coffee on her kitchen counter, I’ve got to catch it before it gets to the pretty drawer organizer, the pretty placemat, the pretty decorative pears… Needless to say, I try very hard to never spill anything anywhere, so I don’t have a panic attack and die on the floor of many pretty rugs.

In my house, you can throw a ball for the dog, and the worst that would happen is a spilled drink. Here, you can’t even put your arm out to throw the ball, or you’ll knock down a pretty glass sconce, a set of three pretty glass candy jars, or you know, plow into the mantle and kill a Thomas Kincaid.
I am a bull in her china cabinet. It’s pretty scary.
When we first arrived, I was all alone in the living room and heard the crash of glass from the front of the house. I winced and went to see what got broken. Nothing. *whews* But, my cat managed to kerplunk a pretty out of the front window. The pretty was a teetering iron-clad stand in which two glass votives sit. They were filled with coffee and each one held a faux votive candle. For the life of me, I couldn’t get it to stand back up in the window sill.
Wobbly pretty, ain’t nobody got time for that.

I had to wait for Drew to arrive. Drew has grace. I assume she acquired this grace while growing up in a china cabinet.
That decomposing body I’m on the lookout for probably belongs to someone who broke a tchotchke.

We sleep in the Doll Room. Yes, she has a Doll Room, don’t you? It’s a room full of antiques, and it’s very girly, so I like the aesthetic, but it’s loaded with light colors and lace and doilies and there is no place to set anything that is not a doll. Never mind the hundred sets of eyes that stare at you, because the room’s on the front of the house and the curtains are sheers, so you’d do better to be concerned about giving the neighbors a good show.

Anyway, there’s never a dull moment here in the pretty house of everything glass, everything fussy and everything good. We call it the Palace of Rules, but we’re damn glad to be here. Even if we get the Bug Eyes on the regular and I’m scared every time one of my children or my animals moves, it’s still a blessing — and the food is still killer!

Posted in Personally | Tagged air fresheners, anxiety, bug eyes, conspiracy theorist, diet, doll room, dollhouse, dolls, food, function over form, happiness, home, kids, mommies, neat freaks, neurotic, OCD, Palace of Rules | 6 Comments

Oh the Happy!

Posted on March 23, 2013 by joey

Pardon me, while I wrestle with my happiness. So sorry, beg pardon.

Let’s begin with the fact that I sleep well. Granted, my in-laws are older people, so while it’s 72 or so downstairs it’s 108 upstairs. I’m more of a 62-68 kinda gal. We have a fan going full blast. I do love the whir of a fan. I wake up every morning with re-curled hair and a puddle of sweat between my breasts, but I wake up rested.

I have a greater appetite here. I eat three times a day most days. My mother-in-law served us some peas the other night, and you have never heard two people happier about some freakin peas. We probably ate a pound of peas between us. They were so green and tender.

And do you know how red tomatoes are in the Midwest?
When we were in Georgia, I’d slice into a good tomato and say to The Mister, “Oh my God! Look at this tomato! It’s so red and pretty! We’re not letting the children eat this one!” That happened about once a year. Mostly the tomatoes were coral and mealy on the inside, no matter how red and ripe they seemed from the outside.

I honestly do not remember the last time I felt this good. Anxiety is low. Energy is high. Day after day! It might be on account of all the good sleep and food, but I think it’s a lot more to do with not hating everything about where I live.

I’ve got plenty of nit-picking complaints, but it’s hard to focus on them, because I’m positively charged.

When we got here, it was in the low 30’s. We’ve been between 14 degrees and 45 degrees in the last week. I can’t say I’ve missed the cold winter wind, but I do prefer it to constant glaring sunlight. When the wind’s not blowin, I’m perfectly comfortable, thank you very much. In fact, I’m downright giddy of cold at times.

People say the novelty will wear off. People say wait til it’s ten below, a foot of snow on the ground, and blowin a gale.

PEOPLE, this is my home! I lived here most of my life. Apart from the seven years I spent in the ninth ring of Hell, I’ve lived only here. When it’s ten below, a foot of snow on the ground, and blowin a gale, I won’t be charmed, but I’ll still like it better than Summer.

Tomorrow, we’re supposed to receive anywhere from 6-9 inches of snow. Yeehaw Y’all! Snow! Maybe it’ll be good heavy wet snow so we can play in it. My wee ones don’t remember snow, so I’m really hopeful.

They’re acclimating well.
At 35 degrees, Moo ran around outside with her cousin, for hours. Sassy isn’t too concerned about her coat, let alone her hat and mittens.
I’m so proud!

And can you imagine, not once since we’ve been here has anyone asked me what unit my husband’s in? Nope, not once. In case you didn’t know, it was Echo Company 3rd BSB (FSC 3/69.) Yeah. Quite a mouthful. Try writin that shit on EVERYTHING.

*holds on to happiness*

Posted in Personally | Tagged anxiety, Army, cold, diet, food, giddy, happiness, health, home, kids, Moo, nature, peas, Sassy, sleep, snow, sun, The Mister, tomatoes, weather, wind, winter | 4 Comments

Got North

Posted on March 19, 2013 by joey

I didn’t die, I just moved.

It’s a big blur, the last few weeks of my life.

“No, just one layer of pepperoni.”
“It’s a two-topping special and so double the pepperoni..”
“You can’t make the pizza with just one layer of pepperoni?!? You can’t sell me that?!? I hafta just pick it all off?”
*hands phone to The Mister* “Talk to this man, I can’t deal with this shit.”

Garage sale lady, why you show me your nipple? *tsks* That won’t get you a discount.

Throw us a barbecue? Yes, please, I would like to eat today.
Did I eat yesterday? Oh yes, the pizza.
Too many chocolate cakes gave baby a 1am tummy ache, of course.
Now the dog wants to go out to pee.
Who would call me at 1am?
“Sir, I do not know who you are, but I am not parked in the garage, and I will not move my car.”
“Jolene Michael, this is your father. I dialed the wrong number.”
Oh. Coincidence was uncanny.

Why are there no fast food chains with veggie stuffs? Must I eat meat just because I have no pots and pans and no plates or flatware? Must all the salads come with chicken and egg? What kinda genocide is this? I need some life force. I would pay $20 for a Caesar salad and a banana, for fuck’s sake!

Share a twin mattress with husband on the last night in the house. Want to tell him to roll over and get offa me, but there is no over. We were much younger (14 &17) and thinner (100lbs each) when we last shared a twin bed.
When morning comes, I just say “no” over and over again, but The Mister will not go away. He keeps saying 6am.

Starbucks manager, I order this drink allthedamntime, why can’t you make it right?

Walking to school, we ache. We wobble and lunge to the cafeteria. We do not know when we got so old. We see the lunch lady. We only thought we hurt while walking. Standing is worse. Lunch lady reach toward me, to take money from a woman behind me. I hand her my phone. I laugh. We are brain-dead. We are exhausted. We decided zombies don’t really lurch about lookin for brains, they probably just need sleep.

Can’t find anything.

Errands. Three days of errands all day and work all night. Couple in search of documents. Our life is very document-based. We need renewed driver’s licenses and military ID’s. Like True said, a military transition is much like a row of dominos. We think we will never be done. Finance, school records, shot records, vet records, dental records, pick up the truck, load the truck, insure the truck, move money, forward mail, check out of every building on post.

Why do we all need so much proof that we’re who we say we are? It makes me want to go build a shack in the woods. Except that getting satellite installed in the shack in the woods can be difficult, and I love me some dvr. We are spoiled and do not understand why we can’t find channels on our tv in lodging. We fall asleep watching the TV Guide Channel, about what films bombed.
Don’t forget to walk the dog, pat the cat and hug a child.
Don’t ask me what’s for dinner. I will cut you.

If you use bad toilet paper for a few days, your bottom will complain. You will dig out the good toilet paper and try to make nice with your bottom.

Look! The girls are climbing trees!

Why would anyone close the launderette at 10pm? Don’t they know I was busy all day?

“Name?”
[long pause]
I can’t remember my name. Gimme a minute.

I’m so tired. Have I been this tired before? Yes, I think after I had a baby I was this tired. No one made me move this much. And they brought me broth, tea and orange juice. Man, I want some broth and tea and orange juice…

Can’t find anything.

Wake up with a motherfucking UTI. SRSLY?
Spend the morning at the ER. Cipro. Sometimes people’s tendons fall apart when they take Cipro, the doctor tells me. Clearly he missed the part of my chart that read, “Ativan for Anxiety Disorder.”

Go up to the maternity ward. See new baby. Aww, beautiful baby. Love you, hafta go. Gotta drive lots.

Drive, drive, drive. Georgia is long.

“Atlanta, gimme some music, you’ve yet to fail me!”

Subway is outta tuna, fuck my life. *grabs a banana and some kettle chips*

Rain, at night, in the mountains. Barricades?
When I see barricades while I drive, my immediate reaction is panic. My first instinct is to take my hands off the steering wheel and use them to cover my eyes, like, “Okay, I’ll just die now.” I don’t, but I want to.

Chattanooga, pretty lights in the valley.

Nashville can’t be far. EXIT 97! EXIT 97! Time to stop.

Wake up to the smell of hickory burnin, sausages and morning dew. Life is better than the coffee at the Red Roof Inn. Must drive farther. Still magnolia trees.

Drop dog off for grooming. Dog will never be groomed, ever. We will hafta live in Tennessee forever. Does my dog look like she needs bows? Does she?

Oh noes! Bows!

Panda express. Rice is close to the life force, right?

Drive, drive, drive.

OMFG, is that a Starbucks? Om nom nom!

Big expanse of road looms ahead. Must pass The Mister. Must get the lead out. Vroom! God, that felt good!

Hills are my friend. The girls think the foothills are still the mountains. They enjoy the horses and cows. I do, too. I see you, green plants sewn in rows, telling me Spring nears. I feel like I’m home. I cry a little. A small cry of relief and joy. Sweet cry of happiness. I thought this day would never come.

I am excited to see the world through their eyes again. I look forward to blooming Bradford pear, Dogwood, and Redbud trees, tulips and daffodils.

I-65 meets I-465 and I’m home.

I drove more than 850 miles behind The Mister, with his box truck. I drove all that way with two children, two cats, a bladder infection, anxiety disorder, poor wiper blades, and a pretty shitty disposition. Yes, I am fucking fabulous, thank you for noticing.

Now, I’m at the home of my in-laws. You should expect much humor in coming posts.

Posted in Personally | Tagged anxiety, anxiety disorder, ativan, dog, food, foothills, happiness, home, joy, kids, mental-health, military, mountains, moving, nature, panic, The Mister | 3 Comments

The Joads meet Noah’s Ark meets Livin in a Van…

Posted on March 12, 2013 by joey

All packed up. House empty. Hotel FULL.

In addition to runnin around packin and cleanin like a freak for the last six days, I also had a moving sale for two of those days.
While all this was going on, I lived in chaos.

NOT MY HOUSE – How it felt to me..

I’m not a neat freak. I know this, because the actual neat freaks are neater than me. For instance, actual neat freaks worry a lot about water damage. I don’t wipe down my shower walls for fear of water spots, nor do I wipe out my sink. I don’t panic when water is spilled on my carpet. I don’t wrap paper towels around my cold beverages so that the condensation won’t drip. Hell, I rarely even use a coaster.

I don’t arrange things in alphabetical order. My canned food labels aren’t all turned to face me. I let pens and lip gloss mingle in the pockets of my purse. A picture of my refrigerator would never be used as an ad. The floor of my minivan always has sand and dead grass hangin around, and I’ll let you drink in it. I almost never pick crumbs up from the table. I can go to bed with dishes in my sink: I often leave them to soak! I can deal with spots on my bathroom mirror. I do not press my jeans, my underwear, or my sheets. See? not a neat freak.

What I am, is tidy. I like things clean, but tidy is very important to me. Outside of my own children, in my own house, I couldn’t care less if anyone else is tidy. Neat freaks tend to scowl and fret in others’ messy homes. I do not. I maybe hover over your icky toilet, but you’ll never know. If you don’t have a towel for me to dry my hands on, I will wipe them off on my pants and go on with my life. I will not dramatically approach you while waving my wet hands in a panic. I’m just not that fussy.

I need everything in its place. I have a hard time functioning when things are in disarray, because not finding things easily causes me stress.

During that moving sale, my house was empty of furniture and most of our belongings, and I was extremely uncomfortable in my own house. Drew asked me how I was doin, and I answered, “Not too good, virtually everything I own is on my bar. Nails, tacks, coffee filters, light bulbs, tape, papers, scissors, cups, binders, books, more papers, more tape, pocket knife, cookies, crackers, apples, more papers, more tape, paper towels, dog treats…” (I could go on for some time.) While I was outside, working my yard sale and getting sunburnt, I was fine. When I went inside to do anything, I got the panic. It was the spinny, shaky, can’t breathe kinda panic.

Eventually, the moving sale ended, and I was forced to deal with the bar, the countertops, and the piles of clothes and luggage that took up my entire dining room. As I loaded each container, The Mister took them out. With each container that left, I got a little of my sanity back.

Now, I’m in a hotel with about three percent of our belongings. Another five percent is in the back of a sixteen-foot box truck, parked nearby. Additionally, I had to break out the big bag, because I’m toting around piles of crap that I will need, or might need in the next few days.

I need more than that..

I am a gypsy of sorts; traveling with my husband, two children, two cats, and a dog. It’s a bit like the Joads meet Noah’s Ark meets livin in a van, down by the river.

My actual van/ark..

Posted in Personally | Tagged anxiety, Drew, hotel, mental-health, moving, moving sale, neat freaks, packing, The Mister, travel, trips, van | 1 Comment

Charmed Life, One Can Hope

Posted on March 7, 2013 by joey

As we headed to the gate this evening, with our extra boxes and our sick children in tow, I turned to The Mister and said, “You know, I don’t know what we ever did to deserve the blow after blow of bad luck we had years ago, but I’d sure like to know what we’ve done to deserve so much synchronicity this last week. I feel so much gratitude. Blessings just keep abounding. I feel like Providence is holding my hand. It makes me feel so hopeful, like we’re on the right path.”
“Shh, don’t talk about it, you’ll jinx it.”

I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure the Universe, God, Providence — whatever you’d like to say, doesn’t jinx us for expressing gratitude. (I’m relatively certain that Karma is a bitch who not only keeps score, but also waits for the most inopportune time to knock you back into humility.)

When I called my mother-in-law to thank her for all her prayer requests, she chided me for using the words “charmed” and “Providence,” as well as warning me not to use the word “fate.” Meh. To me, all these names we have for all these experiences are as futile as our names for God.
I’m open to the concept of God not being a personal entity. I’m open to the idea that God, and all the words we use to express divinity, could actually be Science. I know that scares fundamentalist Christians like my mother-in-law, so I don’t say that sorta metaphysical stuff to her, because I don’t think she should waste more of her prayers on saving my eternal soul from damnation. I’m sure she’s praying I will find Jesus. I feel that if Jesus really spoke to her, He would tell her it’s not important that I find Him, only that I try to live with with kindness, compassion, and tolerance, which I do — not out of the fear of damnation, but because I prefer to enjoy my life here on Earth.

Anyway, as I said, I called to thank her for all her prayers. I do believe in the power of prayer, or raising energy, or wishful thinking or the power of faith, or whatever floats anyone’s boat.

I don’t spend much time praying for…stuff. I pray for other people as needed, but most of my prayers are in gratitude. I do not pray in a specific way, or at a certain time, but rather all day, every day, as I experience gratitude.

I realize that if most of my prayers are in gratitude, then I am already blessed. Many people in my life see me as more spoiled than blessed. They see all the happy that is my family life, they hear about all the wonderful, supportive things my husband or other people do for me, and they are aware that more than once, I have massively failed and yet, I continue to get the most out of life. My friends, that is not good luck. That is the requisite result of hope.

Attributes I lack? what spaces of me I wish I held? even what others think I lack? — all filled up with hope.
Hope makes me whole.
Hope is what I have.
Hope is the only thing holding me together sometimes.
Although I worry, fret, and pray, I never lose hope.
When times are hard and the light in the tunnel appears distant, all I do is hope that there’s a very good lesson in the darkness.

There always is: Keep looking for the light.

Posted in Random Musings | Tagged anxiety, Christians, darkness, divinity, faith, God, gratitude, hope, Jesus, light, mental-health, MIL, neurotic, prayer, Providence, The Mister, The Universe | 11 Comments

Moving Madness

Posted on March 6, 2013 by joey

My apologies, my life has been a little bit hectic lately. Okay, my life is always a little bit hectic, and recently it’s been wicked frantic and frenzied.

I’ve been waiting for about three months, just waiting, to be given a date we can leave this place of palm trees, loathsome fire ants, overbearing sun, and nearly permanent summer.
It’s difficult to plan a move when you know NOTHING.

Also, when you know you’re moving, but you know nothing else, you sound like a total flake.
“When are you moving?”
“I dunno.”
“Gonna buy a house or rent?”
“I dunno.”
“Where will you go when you move?”
“I dunno.”
“Are you gonna hire movers?”
“I dunno.”
“What will your husband do for work?”
“I dunno.”
“Will you work?”
“I dunno.”
“What do you know?”
“I’m moving.”
~Sounds absolutely ridiculous, doesn’t it?

That was me. For about three months. Just waitin around, soundin all “derrrr” to people.

And then suddenly alltheinformationcameatmeinonefellswoop.
Housing inspection in less than 24 hours, followed by moving company’s assessment, followed by packers, followed by movers, followed by clearing housing, followed by temporary lodging. Gotta sort out our belongings! Gotta get a room! Gotta rent a truck! Gotta, gotta, gotta, all in a few days, Go! Go! Go!
I know! It was just like that.
I went into a shock. The adrenaline scourged my brain. My heart beat madly. Heat surged through my skin making instant sweat. My head was swimming with too much information. I heard my own voice as an outsider, “Ohhhkaaaay.” Nothing was really okay, but nothing was really wrong. That’s how panic attacks feel. I believe I’m dying during panic attacks, even though I know no one has ever died of a panic attack. It lasted about a minute. I know, because I counted.

I am a planner. I like to make lists and cross things off lists. It gives me clear vision and a sense of accomplishment. Not being able to plan my way out of stress gives me vertigo, literally.
I tried to dial the phone, but my vision was impaired by the anxiety and brain couldn’t seem to tell the fingers which numbers to push. I stopped to breathe. Then I dialed successfully.
To my surprise, I was able to recite all of the information given to me during the freakout.

Now that we’re knee-deep in the process, Sassy has gotten strep and Moo has a dental abscess.
You know, because germs don’t care if you’re too busy.

The housing people were impressed with the condition and cleanliness of our house. They didn’t even look at most of it. I was chuffed about it, because I find that the house of everything white and light is challenging to keep clean. I have never worked so hard to keep a house clean in all my life! It was quite the burden, cleaning the white cabinets, doors, walls, trim and banister — in addition to cleaning the peach-colored, faux wooden, complete-with-grooves floors — quite the burden, lemme tell you. I feel like the floors are never clean enough. Housing Lady said they were the cleanest floors she’s ever seen, let alone after seven years. I might have too much of my mother in me, but from that, I gathered that other people around here must be livin in filth or somethin!

When the housing people left, The Mister and I shared one of those long hugs where you clutch one another tightly in a celebration of victory. What an incredible relief!

The estimate guy from the moving company came out after that. He had only good things to say as well. “Within the weight limit..neat..clean..organized.”

Today, the packers came and packed sixty-three boxes of our belongings. According to them, we had barely anything. We are a complete house with books, games, electronics, media, and decor, so I’m guessing other people just have a lot of junk?

So far, moving seems to be good for my self-esteem. *winks*
And it’s exhausting. Moving is a draining experience, even when it’s exciting.
Every night, I fall asleep fast. Even when I wake up in the middle of the night to panic about what I’ve forgotten, I fall right back to sleep.

So, that’s good, right?!?

Posted in Personally | Tagged anxiety, ets'ing, home, housing, kids, lists, mental-health, movers, moving, neurotic, packers, panic attack, planning, strep, stress, The Mister | 4 Comments

Shine On, You Crazy Diamond

Posted on February 28, 2013 by joey

Nominated for a blog award. Ooh! Ah! Very exciting stuff.
(For me — probably not for you.)

Matt Roberts over at Beefy’s House O’ Fun has given me this Shine On Award:

Isn’t it a pretty little picture?

I just love it.

So with this honor bestowed upon me, I nominate bloggers that might also like to have this pretty little picture:

Goddess, Living Out Loud

I’m expected to nominate fifteen people, and although I read well over fifty people, some are private, some are anti-award, some are inactive, and some wouldn’t know I’ve nominated them unless I went over and self-promoted on their site.

Should you accept your nomination, you should nominate fifteen people, or as many as you can.
And then answer the following questions, if applicable:

1. How did you choose names for your children?

We chose our children’s names based on book characters and family names. I don’t disclose the actual names of my children on this blog, but I can tell you they’re all excellent names, of course. *winks*
The Mister spent a great deal of time in the P’s of the baby book, but he got over it eventually. Thank Tacos for the letter R.

2. What are your moral guidelines or what is your religious faith?

You can find out my religious beliefs in a previous post 26 Random Things About Me. I value integrity, honesty, respect and positivity.

3. What do you do in your free time?

I’m not sure what qualifies as free time, because all my time is a matter of choice. What I am not doing makes it hard to enjoy what I am doing. I try to cut myself some slack, but I can drive myself crazy with what I should be doing. I enjoy reading, writing, puttering around online, gardening, quilting, cooking, long walks, yoga, my dvr, napping, my pets, — oh and napping with my pets! talking to my friends, and of course, most of all, time with my family.

4. What song, television show, film speaks to you, and why?

Songs are too hard to choose, but I’d say Tori Amos is my most relevant artist. She weaves notes and lyrics in the most pleasing and irreverent way. I love her. You are unable to fathom my love for her unless you’ve seen her play two pianos at once.

My favorite television show is probably going to be Friends for the rest of my life, unless they make a show that is better than Friends. I’m quite fond of Newsweek though: the dialogue is brilliant, its messages of truth and integrity stand out, and I’m quite partial to tall, blonde men, let alone news anchors.

Films are also too hard to narrow to one, but I can watch Midnight in Paris every day and not be sick of it.

5. What is your favorite animal and why?

I love giraffes. I envy their height, because I’m short. They’re kinda yellow. I love yellow. But they’re also like me, because they seem a bit clumsy and they scare easily. Why isn’t this tiny pet giraffe available yet?

Also, they eat mimosa leaves, and I love mimosas! I strive to have mimosa day on January 1st, Mother’s Day and the Sunday after back to school. *hiccups* Alright, it’s not the same thing, but it’s close enough!

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged blog award, cooking, dvr, family time, friends, gardening, giraffes, long walks, midnight in paris, mimosas, napping, newsweek, pets, quilting, reading, tori amos, writing, yoga | 4 Comments

Nice Girls vs. Bitches: Have You Scared a Man Lately?

Posted on February 27, 2013 by joey

People who don’t know me think I’m nice. You may think you’ve stumbled onto a Nice Lady Blog, but you have not. It amuses me that people think I am nice. I have some nice friends, and they’d be the first to tell you how not nice I am. My oldest and dearest friend has prepared people to meet me by saying, “She seems really bitchy, but she’s not.” I don’t know why. I’m a good person, I am, but I’m definitely not nice. I’m self-admittedly a bitch, as if denying my bitchiness would make me less bitchy. I’m not a fabulous bitch, I’m not an evil bitch, but I am a bitch nonetheless.

This “nice” thing always makes me giggle, especially with The Mister. The Mister, he has an imposing, intimidating presence. He has a loud, booming voice and eyes like laser beams. People who work with The Mister have come to assume I am some sweet thing, nearly a saint, for dealing with this man. He is truly bombastic, arrogant and assertive: he’s not pretending. But inside, he’s a much softer, more diplomatic person than I am.

It’s how I look that deceives people. I seem approachable. My face doesn’t seem to go with the attitude. My voice doesn’t seem to go with the words coming out of my mouth. I cannot help this. In a different life, I maybe would look like trouble and sound like Stockard Channing. In this life, I look and sound younger, more innocent, and sweeter than I actually am.

Now, I’ve just told you I’m a bitch, and you’re still here, so I presume you’ve got a fondness for bitches, and may even be one yourself. That’s helpful, because I’d hate for you to go on reading me, only to have your heart broken later. I really don’t take any pleasure in shocking people with the news that I’m a bitch, when I’ve already told them I am one.

My mother raised me to be a nice girl, but my daddy taught me not to take anybody’s shit.
That means when the maintenance man comes to my house to replace blinds, but has no blinds, I will ask him why that is. When the realtor emails me after a month of silence asking if he’s dropped the ball, I will reply with seven extremely well-written paragraphs about what I’ve dealt with since he might have dropped the ball. When my child’s teacher doesn’t behave professionally, I go to the principal and report it. Because that’s what bitches do when they experience fucked-up shit. I do not giggle and toss my hair and let it go. That’s not rude, that’s assertive. And we all know assertive behavior in women is classified as bitchy.

I scare grown men. The older they are, the more I scare them, because they’re ill-equipped in dealing with a woman who speaks her mind. You know the phrase, “It’s not what you said, it’s how you said it?” That’s me. *sighs* I have no tolerance for weak men.
I scared off all the weak ones.

The qualities most people revere in me are my mother’s. She gave me my manners and my ability to bite my tongue as needed for social situations. My mother is an expert in the field of subtlety, diplomacy, grace, and poise. These are the remnants of Southern breeding. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on the occasion, those fine lady-like qualities are missing from me; replaced instead with moxie, defensive posturing, a caustic tongue, and, of course, the fine art of sarcasm.

The ability to know one’s place in this world, and to carry one’s self has been a lifelong lesson from my mother to me. I look a certain way. I walk a certain way. I talk a certain way. Just.Like.My.Mother. To anyone who is not like me, I seem to be this certain thing. I am nothing like the thing I seem to be. Once you get to know me, I still walk and talk and look a certain way, but by then you’ve lost your presumptions. And lemme tell you, they were always YOUR presumptions. *nods*

I’m not a fake bitch, I have a Fake Bitch. She’s highly-developed, since I began practicing around age twelve. The Fake Bitch is very useful when I go to parent teacher conferences, churches, or interact with any number of people I cannot stand, but need to make nice with for social reasons. Fake bitch spends a lot of time nodding and smiling. When people are nosy, the Fake Bitch always asks, “Why do you ask?” The Fake Bitch avoids conflict.
I wish more people employed their Fake Bitch, or any manners at all per se. It’s not necessary to enter a conflict with people who are so trivial and temporary. The results inevitably lead only to discomfort and drama. One should, bitch or not, seek to be kind and compassionate with everyone they meet ~~until they’ve been given a good reason not to be~~.

My Fake Bitch is the nice girl my mother needed to raise, and I’m glad to have these tools at my disposal. I use nice girl techniques with people I don’t like or trust. It’s exhausting. It gives me anxiety, all that pretending.

OMG, How much longer must I keep up this charade?

I much prefer bein all loud and blunt. I’m not unkind, I’m really not, but if you ask me for a truth, I will tell it to you. Now and again people appreciate this “shooting from the hip” thing about me. They find it entertaining but only so long as it’s not applied to them.

If I like you, if I value your friendship or your company, I will show you who I am. If you stick around after that, I will show you trust to the point of divulging relevant information. If I grow to love you, I will show you my vulnerabilities.

Nice girls don’t have vulnerabilities. Instead, they have mystery. They’re alluring and captivating. They will never tell you how they fucked someone up or over. They choose coy and quiet. They keep real secrets only unto themselves. They have great self-discipline.

I don’t have any of that. I can only pretend that.
With any luck, I’m raising my daughters to have good manners and take no shit. Sissy’s almost reached adulthood, and she already scares away the weak. One down, two to go…

Posted in Personally | Tagged anxiety, being social, bitch, daddy, Fake Bitch, mother, nice girls, Sissy, The Mister | 7 Comments

I Never Know What’s Goin On

Posted on February 25, 2013 by joey

Sure sign that you’re of a certain age? When you’re watching the Academy Awards and you have no idea who the host is. For awhile, I thought it was Peter Brady with an amazing amount of cosmetic surgery. Fortunately, social media made it clear to me that the host’s name was Seth McFarlane, so I Googled him, and found out I still dunno who he is. He is associated with programs I don’t watch, because the rock I live under is that big.

Not Peter Brady

I experienced these moments all night. My children were in bed, and I was left to rely upon the kindness of Google to cure my oblivion regarding celebrities. No earthly idea who most of them were. I can tell you if they were well-dressed or well-spoken, but what they did to get a ticket to the Oscars? Not so muches. Regardless, I still understood the humor in the Tweets, and had a good laugh over how the Twilight girl never uses a hairbrush, as well as how Heidi Klum of Project Runway would not approve of Heidi Klum’s outfit. I so enjoyed every comment about how the men’s tuxedos were ill-fitting. My own personal commentary includes the phrases bird-legged parade, triangle men, and male Polly Pockets.
But hey! They’re all famous and many of them are notably talented, so maybe I’m just too out of the loop to appreciate skinny tux pants.

I find this happens to me more and more. I can’t buy music without asking my kids who the artist is. I see magazine covers in the check-out line, but I don’t know who’s dating who or who’s pregnant with whose baby. Sometimes I don’t even know who the person on the cover is. After so many years in the check-out line, I’ve come to realize most of the covers are made up of young women who begin as America’s Sweethearts, end up devastated by scandalous tabloid fodder before they hit twenty-five, only to return again at thirty with a renewed sense of self and wisdom far beyond their years. I’ve lived long enough to know that course applies to every great woman I’ve ever known…

I suppose my mind is filled with more important issues, or at least what I would like to think are more important issues, but at times I also fear I am losing touch with the world, facing the decline of my youth. I just really don’t know, and to a great extent, don’t care about what’s goin on in CelebrityLand.