Hostage negotiations.

After acquiring my license this summer, I was given the opportunity to interview for a full time job, and got it.  

I work in a professional environment. Always considered a gregarious person, my entire existence consisted of shock and awe tactics deployed at the most inopportune times. The quiet, low key setting of the office presented itself as a challenge. I would have great ideas for jokes, but I couldn't let them out, so the actual words would bang themselves against the inside of my skull, trying to escape. Then there's my filter, or lack thereof.  When it's on the fritz, I worry that I'm going to say the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person.  (It's been known to happen...I know you're all saying "What? You? Never!")

I was still training in my new position, and on this particular day, it seemed everything I touched turned into a soup sandwich. It was a mess. I couldn't focus. Everyone wondered where I was, and who this imposter was in my stead. 4:55 finally came along, and I slid into the bathroom for a quick trip before heading home. 

I went about my business, and then over to the sink to wash my hands. As I was standing in the mirror feeling sorry for myself, I heard the other stall door open. My co-worker, Sarah, took one look at the back of me, and said "GIRL!!!! PULL that dress down!" Apparently my panties were holding my dress hostage, and if she hadn't come along to handle negotiations, I might've had a real shake down. I thanked her, slightly embarrassed, and we laughed til we had tears running down our cheeks. 

My bad day was a mere memory at that point. It's amazing how the simplest thing can completely change your mood.  It was just what I'd needed. 


That, and the realization that there's more than one way to show my ass at work.

Nibble Nibble little mouse......

I'm 36.  I'm single (not legally yet, but close enough).  I'm intelligent, reasonably good looking, a decent cook, and a pretty good mother to my kids.  Why on EARTH is it that I'm constantly being asked out by married men and the barely shaving crowd?

I have to wonder what these married guys are attracted to?  Do I have that newly single smell?  What exactly does that smell like?  Ramen noodles, and beer? Freedom...it's the liberating scent of freedom! They like it, and they want some of it! Don't these guys realize I have so much baggage, I have to pay a surcharge just to walk THROUGH the airport?  Uh, not to mention...they're MARRIED?!

  

I tell these fellas to stay away.  I don't do well with married men. I've already had a relationship with one, and it hasn't ended well.  Now, we both have lawyers, and separate bank accounts.

And the young ones....this one I truly can't fathom.  Do they want me to cook them dinner, and do their laundry? Read them a bedtime story? Do I remind them of their mother? 

Do I smell like gingerbread?!!

I am actually flattered by all this, but the reality of my life at the moment is this... I am becoming an independent woman.  I will stand on my own two feet, for my own sake, and for the sake of my three monkeys.  I have a potentially fantastic career ahead of me, and a wonderful family to raise.  I don't need any unnecessary distractions.

I've come to realize how important it is to become your best YOU before you can ever share yourself with someone else. 

I'm not ready to share yet.

GOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It blows my mind how many times I've started something only to quit halfway through when presented with a challenge.  The only thing, until now, that I've ever followed through with is childbirth, and frankly, after a certain point, I didn't really have a say in the matter.


I am proud to report, that I completed a licensing course for my present line of work.
In the grand scheme of things, it really isn't that big a deal, but to me it's tremendous.


First, I paid the money for the course. Parting with money is not something I do easily.
I love being surrounded by dead presidents, and it hurts me deeply when they leave me.


Second,  I had to actually study the information.  Sitting down is something I do well.  Focussing is not. My friends joke that I'm worse than a crow.  Something shiny passes through my periphery, be it an object or an idea, and my thought train is completely derailed.  Luckily I was given five months to complete a course that should've only taken me three weeks.  I made certain to utilize that time to it's full potential.


I read over the information, did the online quizzes, three times, constantly dreading the pending exam.
I eventually threw caution to the wind and just took the test.  And I PASSED it.


The next day, I walked into my work, informed everyone of my recent accomplishment, and reiterated my interest in fulltime employment.  They all congratulated me,  and asked me if the coffee was ready yet.


Baby steps, I thought....but steps in the right direction.  I've made my first goal!  I have many more to achieve, and I will reach them, one play at a time. I've just gotta keep head held high and my eye on the ball!

My Dogs Are Barkin'!

I have a job.  In an office.  We are required to dress in business attire, which quite frequently, includes high heels.  Who on earth came up with the brilliant idea that women who are in charge of seriously important stuff should do it walking on their toes?   Probably a man.  They figured if they had to watch women surpass them professionally, they could soften the blow of their defeat by making it a prettier package.  They wanted to keep us on our toes, literally.   

The other day I was wearing a particularly uncomfortable pair of heels...I headed into  the break room at work and happened upon some of my female co-workers.  They saw me practically limping as I made my way to the water cooler, and Daisy asked "Girl, why do you wear those shoes if they hurt you so badly?" 


To which I responded, "How else am I gonna grab me a man?  I need to find me a wealthy man......no strike that.  I'm gonna be the rich successful one and have me a smokin' hot pool boy named Francesco." The ladies all started laughing.

As if on cue, one of the handsome younger guys we work with struts in the room, and starts digging in the ice machine....I looked at him, smirked and said...


"Hey, Chad..." He looked up at me questioningly."Do you speak Italian?"

Daisy and the rest of the girls nearly fell out of their chairs. 

Turd Wrestling!

It was precisely two weeks from the day that I had decided to bless my neighborhood with the fantastically bright and cheerful turquoise door.  I arrived home from work, shut off my car, walked to the mailbox, and with my mail and keys in hand, skipped happily to my home's welcoming entryway.  I opened the door, kicked off my shoes, threw the mail down on the counter, and cracked a cold Aquafina. Ah, it's great to be me, I thought.  Work was going great.  My kids were enjoying their summer in Maine.  Things were finally starting to look up.

I set my water down and started rifling through the mail....Bill...credit card offer..bill...bill....Credit Card offer....and hey, what's THIS?

It was a letter from my HOA!   Enclosed was the usual friendly reminder "Thou hast not mown thine grass, nor trimmed thine shrubbery."....but there was something more.  Also therein was another letter.  A letter informing me that I'd violated them and their covenants. I was to request permission of the ARCHITECTURAL CONTROL BOARD to paint my front door.  I sat in my cynical way and wondered how the ACB truly felt after me violating them so.  I pictured a bunch of folks sitting in a cold shower fully clothed just rocking back and forth, moaning....."She wants the turquoise, but we mustn't let her have it...no... she must. follow. rules. must. ask. permission....."

They wanted me to fill out a form, and write them a letter chronicling exactly how I planned to change the exterior of my house, which contractor I'd be employing and also include a sketch of the proposed changes.

I thought of writing the letter in German, to appeal to the imposing fascists....

I thought of asking my nine year old daughter to create a beautiful depiction of our home with the intended (post facto) paint color.

I even considered painting my garage door the same color.

I did none of the above.  Call me passive agressive, a pacifist, or a pansy...while those initial reactions were spooling about in my brain, I knew that just following the rules would be the easiest course of action.  I have kids to raise, and a career to build.  This wouldn't be a battle worth fighting.

As my mother always used to say "Never wrestle a turd, 'cause even if you win, you're still covered in it."


Thankfully, I've retired from all kinds of wrestling. 

Smothered, Covered, Chunked, and Trashy!

I've often heard Waffle House being referred to as a "white trash" establishment.  There are unbelievable horror stories about people's experiences there, including everything from false arrests to mandatory Hepatitis vaccinations.  All this aside, I find it one of the most fascinating places I've ever been.

Two mornings a week, I would go to the same Waffle House, sit at the counter, and listen to some of the waitresses' stories. They weren't the ones you would expect about post closing time debauchery. They were about the regulars - the little old lady who'd lost her husband years ago, or the older gentleman who'd fought in Vietnam and never married. The girls were always kind to every soul who walked in that door, and they knew everyone's stories. 

I witnessed one of the girls pull a couple bucks out of her own tips to help a homeless man pay for his breakfast. Another time, a group of military guys walked past the Vietnam vet and grabbed his check off the table. This was a wonderful example of the human condition.

One night after a friend's 80's dress up party, my friend Francis and I slid into Waffle House.  He was dressed normally, and I was dressed as one of the "Addicted to Love" girls from the Robert Palmer videos-HEAVY makeup, tight short black dress, black fishnets, and black stilettos.

We walked through the door, and were greeted with a cheery "Hey Y'all. Welcome to Waffle House!" In my true extroverted fashion, I put up my hand, and loudly proclaimed "I just want y'all to know I have just come from a 1980's party, and I swear I am NOT a hooker."  

Edna, who'd been working there 20 years popped her head up, took one look at me, and said "Darlin', this is Waffle House.  We don't judge!" She'd said it all. Come as you are, we'll take care of you!

Next time, I think I'll have my hash browns a little trashy.

I see a white door and I want it painted blue!

I had a very lonely day today.  I felt as though the world was coming to an end because I had no one to play with.  My kids were at Daddy's, and all my friends were busy with their own lives.  It was pretty dismal.

I watered my two plants, one of which is brown, and practically jumped out of the pot when I came at it with water for fear that I was attacking it with a foreign substance. I'm the Dr. Kevorkian of house plants. They know when they cross my threshold they're coming here to die.  

I alphabetized my LP's for which I have no record player.  

I played PAC-MAN. 

And right about the time I started eyeballing the two pints of Ben and Jerry's in my freezer, I decided it was time for an intervention.  I needed to go to my happy place.  Unfortunately, tickets to Switzerland are out of my present budget, so I opted for my second choice.  I needed to bring a little more color into my life.

First, I needed some great music, enter Ray Charles.  

Second, I needed a fantastic paint color.  TURQUOISE.  That's one of those colors that improves your mood no matter what.  Either you look at it and it makes you happy, or you look at it and get sick.  And we all know after you get sick, you always feel better.


So, with roller in hand, I reinvented my front door.  Before, it was a dreary blase' white representative of the status quo, now it's a tropical aqua that leads to my newer happier world.  


If you don't like the direction things are going, it's up to you to change them.  Who would've thought a can of paint could do more good than a six pack and a Xanax?

Making friends 101-Uterine accomplishments

  I have had to move seven times during my parenting years. Each time, I have to start over. People panic about making new friends.  They don't want to put themselves out there. They're afraid they won't be accepted.  Look at it this way, if we all feel that way, then it shouldn't be so hard to connect with people.  Just check out how easy this really is.

Find something in common and roll with it.  With fellow mothers it's especially easy.

SCENE-- A Playground.  

Mothers are sitting on benches. Children are playing.

You send your kids off to the swings, and plop yourself exhaustedly next to a mother sitting watching her kids. 

"Hi, I'm Olga."

"Suzy."

"Suzy, is it?  Nice blouse.  Those two yours? Yeah?  Cute. " 

"GIRLS! Quit spinning your brother so fast, do you have ANY IDEA how difficult USED lasagna stains are to remove?"

Look at Suzy, smile sheepishly. "Those three are mine. They're a handful." Pause for effect.  Check the mood....Now open with birth story.

"I'll tell you, I had the toughest time with my second one...." AND SHE'S HOOKED...

Suzy starts sharing every grueling detail about her horrific birthing experiences, and all the other abdominal crises she's survived. You nod, smile, and "Oh my" at just the right spots, and now you can add her to your Christmas list.   You're her new best friend.  End with
 "Would you and the kids like to come over for a playdate sometime?"
 Exchange numbers..."KIDS, GET IN THE CAR."...hug good bye....end scene.

Simple as that.  Everyone you meet has something in common with you.  We all want to connect with others, so go out, and share a little of yourself.  You never know when you'll meet your new best friend!

Got an issue? Here's a tissue!

You all know I got the job.  But I hit a couple bumps along the way.

FIRST INTERVIEW IN FIFTEEN YEARS!

I walk into the office in my fabulous power suit, my business hair, my new high heels, and ugh....pantyhose.  I introduced myself to "Vera", the receptionist. She asked me to take a seat and that Fernando would be here shortly to interview me.

I sat.  And sat. AND SAT.  I was about to explode with nervous energy, and my nylons were starting to itch.

I looked at the clock. Fernando was late, and just as I'd made this realization, "Penelope" showed up at the desk and informed me his plane was slightly delayed, would I like a cup of coffee while I waited?

"Yes, please." said I, for coffee makes everything better, even irritating undergarments.

She brought me my coffee, I thanked her, and she disappeared into the back recesses of the office.  Vera and I chatted a bit about family, life, and the weather.  Then I took a big swig of my coffee, and with the elegance of an epileptic rhinoceros, managed to spill it all the way down the front of my power suit.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?" I laughed nervously, "Vera, look what I've done!" and I grabbed a handful of tissues from the nearby box, and frantically started wiping away the coffee.

WHITE FLUFFY TISSUES!  BLACK SUIT!  I looked like I'd lost a snowball fight, and it just hadn't melted yet.

"VERA!" I said now legitimately worried,"What am I gonna do?"

She handed me a lint roller and I then proceeded to roll the lint of my thigh, roll the lint of my hip, and last but not least I was trying to remove the white fuzz from the top of my suit jacket.  While I'm desperately attempting to clean the snow off the mountain top, I look up.  A man in a shirt and tie is standing behind the desk.  I froze, smiled insanely, and dropped my arm to my side abruptly.  "uh, HELLO."

"The good news is," he says "I'm not Fernando."  No, he was Cornelius P. Franklin, president of the company. Good Lord.  I ran over quickly and introduced myself to Mr. Franklin.  He told me Fernando would be there in just a few minutes.  I thanked him, and sat down again.  Vera almost couldn't breathe she was laughing so hard at me now.  Well, that's one way to get out the nervous energy, I thought as I joined in.  Just as I was wiping a tear off my cheek from laughing, I heard "Olga? I'm Fernando, follow me please."

Oh brother, I thought.  Here it goes.  Then I just chuckled, and briefly told Fernando what had happened. He smiled.  The interview had already gotten off to a positive start. He was smiling.

____________

We're all human, and we all make mistakes, even silly ones.  People take themselves far too seriously.  We can't change the past, so why not laugh at it! We must find humor in ourselves. It's the best place to start.  Just think, the more mistakes you make, the funnier you'll be!

Suit Yourself!

After being an at home mom for 12 years, I had been presented a pink slip.  Thank you for your 12 years of service, shake hands, the door's right here, mind the step.   I could still be a mom, just without the "Stay at Home" part.   I decided instead of lying about the house in a steaming pile of "WHY ME?" I would do what had to be done.   Self pity gets nothing accomplished.  I had to get a job.


Resume'-ing our regularly scheduled program...


How does one chronicle 12 years of parenting using bullets and power phrases?


EXECUTIVE MANAGEMENT EXPERIENCE--"Share with your sister, or you're going to your room."
TIME AND TASK MANAGEMENT SKILLS--"Is your homework done? It's due tomorrow."
SPREADSHEET EXPERIENCE-- I can't count how many beds I've made.
DEADLINE ORIENTED-- "Kids! The bus is here, RUN!"


I submitted my resume' to a couple different places, and miraculously got a job interview!  


Does this suit make my wallet look fat?


Now that I had the prospect on the horizon, whatever shall I wear?  All I had in my clothing repertoire was t-shirts, shorts, and flip flops.  The last suit I'd worn was circa 1981 and it had fuzzy feet and duckies on it.   It was time to go shopping, which you will learn, is one of my least favorite pastimes.  


I went to the mall (shudder) with a friend of mine and we tore through there looking for a suit. After trying on about ten different suits, I finally found one that fit, and we were out the door.  


I had survived the mall and now I could at least LOOK like I knew what I was doing.


Interview with Destiny


I went in there with my postage stamp resume, my shiny new suit, a firm handshake, and a smile.  "Fernando" (names are changed to protect the innocent.) asked the questions, and I answered them with confidence.  Even if you give the wrong answer, if you do it confidently, it says something about your character.  You're not afraid to stand for something.  There's a lot to be said for that.  I had no idea if I was saying the right things, but I pretended like I knew what I was talking about.  Fake it til you make it. 


I got the job.  


I bet with enough confidence, I probably could've gotten the job in my ducky suit.

Who put that circus mirror in my bathroom!?

I'm 36 years old.  And I look it.

Some days, I feel like Picasso and Reuben went on a bender together, and my body was the result. I have never been thin by any means.  Don't misunderstand me, some of my best friends are skinny.  My bones freeze dried and ground up into a powder weigh more than most of them.  It's just difficult looking at yourself and realizing that if it weren't for the kevlar reinforcements, certain body parts wouldn't maintain proper alignment.  I mean, is this what the grenade looks like AFTER you pull the pin?

That reflection is not the one that I like to see when I look in the mirror.  I stand there criticizing this woman that snuck into my house...and then a song comes on the radio and she starts dancing.  So do I....We're tearin' up the tiles, I'm laughing at my likeness.   The song ends and I look at her again, smiling now.  I've already forgotten my previous grievances. This chick in the mirror is actually pretty cool.  She can stay.  In fact, I rather like having her around.  

Everything in life really is about perspective.  It's not what you see, it's how you see it.  

Maybe next time she'll see to bringing me some cotton candy.

Therapy-oke!

I don't smoke.

I don't drink.

I don't do drugs.

I.     DO.      KARAOKE.

I'll sing ANYTHING.  Janis. Tina. Patsy. Harry Belafonte. James Brown. Elvis. Barney. 

This refers back to my using Rock and Roll to cope.  

With Karaoke, though, I'm kicking it up to the next level.  I AM THE ROCK AND ROLL.  It's great, especially when I'm up there singing Janis Joplin.  I get to yell and scream at a room full of people, with a great track to back me up, and when I'm done, they applaud me!  What a way to get out my frustrations!  Anyone can do it! You don't even have to sing well.  In FACT, the people having the most fun are the ones who can't sing their way out of a paper bag, and just don't care.  They're right!  Who cares what other people think?  Are you having fun?  Do you FEEL GOOD? (HA!) Well, then pick up that mic, pick out a song, and sing your heart out. I'll be in the audience applauding your courage! 

Put that in your pipe and smoke it!

Man School....I shall conquer you! I may not win every battle, but I WILL WIN THIS WAR.


A few days ago, I was mowing my lawn, like you do.  Easy, right?  My eleven year old can mow the lawn without a problem, but apparently I'm not smarter than a fifth grader.  In my infinite wisdom, I removed all the landscaping stones from my garden's perimeter, and decided I was going to mow over the front part of my garden, as it was ninety nine percent weeds.  It needed to be cleaned up.  The first run through really neatened things right up, and as I was mentally patting myself on the back, I took a second sweep through.


The mower started bucking, and thrashing, and spewing large chunks of white plastic all over my garden.  I backed it off to see what I'd hit.


There, in front of me stood the remains of my sewer pipe.  I guess it's there so you can access it in case of a problem.....well, I'm certainly glad I can access it now, cause I have a really big problem.


Fortunately it only ground up the cover to it, and not the actual pipe, but the hole was still exposed, so it meant a trip to Home Depot.  I speak a few languages, quite well in some instances, but one language I have yet to learn is Repairian.  So with hands, feet, and some funny noises, I explained to the nice man in the orange apron what had happened, and he directed me to the correct aisle.  I bought a screw cap thingie, and headed home to successfully conquer Man School Lesson number 2.


Hopefully, that's the last pipe I'll smoke in a very long time.

Oh Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz?

Fabian, the little guy who inspired the title, loved his grandmother's car.  We would come home from a walk, and as soon as we turned the corner, he'd see her Mercedes Benz in the driveway.  That boy would come within an inch of breaking out of his stroller, out of pure elation just to get to Grosi's car.  Don't get me wrong, who wouldn't be excited to see a Benz in their driveway?  But this was different. It was almost a religious experience.  This little man couldn't walk, talk, feed himself, or even play in the conventional way, but he would nearly platz at the sight of her vehicle.


When I get stressed out with my own children, my present situation, or even work, I think back to Fabian and his simple joie de vivre-his joy of life.   We are all fighting our own battles, our own challenges, just know this.  We are not alone.  Sometimes it feels that way, but all you have to do is look around you, and realize how blessed you are to BE ALIVE! Life is good.  People are good.  And, you are loved by more people than you realize....they may not tell you, or even show you, but to them, you are their Mercedes Benz.

Exorcising the demon!

I need an old priest and a young priest....

It's amazing the amount of clutter you accumulate in 12 years of marriage.  Now mind you, we moved seven times in that twelve year span, so we've done some periodic purging, but there is still work to be done.

I have never been much of a housekeeper.  Those of you who know me, are probably laughing hysterically at that slight understatement.  My strengths have always been loving, cooking, and entertaining.  If you couldn't hug it, eat it, or laugh at it, I wasn't interested.

But, the times they are a changin'.  He moved out, and so now my space is truly just that--MY space.   As much as being alone can really drag you down, knowing that you run the show, and have no one to answer to but yourself, is the most peaceful, and liberating feeling in the world.  

And since,  I'm now driving this bus, I want you all to yell

"Short Bus Driver.....


CLEAN! THAT! HOUSE!"

Sects, drugs, and rock and roll!

It's not easy going through a divorce, especially with children.  You feel isolated, depressed, a failure as a person, as a parent.... and you need somewhere or something to help get you through it all....You know that on the other side is the bright light of freedom and independence...but you have to wade through the darkness to get to the light.  It's a very real part of it all.  Were it not for the darkness the light wouldn't be as bright and wonderful!


So, rather than throw myself into a Lindt induced diabetic coma, I have decided to visit three coping options.


Sects


I grew up in a fairly unconventional family.  The only time we went to church was when someone died, got married, or when our parents just needed a break.  They would send us off to Sunday School, and eventually we'd find our way back home.  They taught many (though not all) of the biblical basics without actually preaching, but unfortunately we weren't brought up in any particular faith.  A mistake on their part, I feel.  I find it difficult to believe in something I was never taught.


I'm a very spiritual person, and have a feeling I'll be revisiting this one, but for now, I think I'll move on to the next option....


Drugs


Disclaimer: Chocolate is not in this category, nor is coffee....for without them, I would truly become one with the rubberized room.


Nowadays everyone seems to be on something, some sort of antidepressant to help them deal with daily life.  Apparently, it's not ok to be sad anymore.  It's not only ok, it's necessary.  I was told by a therapist once that there are actual stress relieving hormones in tears.  I can see it now..


"Feeling down?  Depressed?  Well, all you need is a good cry......each month we'll send you movies such as "Steel Magnolias" "Old Yeller" and a real favorite with the ladies "Titanic"....you'll cry away your depression in no time.  Act now and we'll include these triple ply super absorbent tissues."


I was also one of these people.  Tried Zoloft for a while.  Although it seemed to help initially, after a while I felt like I was floating in a cloud of indifference. Sure, the things that were depressing me didn't matter, but neither did anything else.  So, I quit.  Option three....


Rock and Roll


My life has always had a soundtrack.  And no matter what it was, I was dancing to it.  Don't ever worry about what people think of you, the saying really is true.  Dance like no one's watching.  Nothing feels better than dancing your heart out.  Slow, fast, hula, the robot, or the cha cha slide....it's good for your soul.  I have never walked off the dance floor, and thought "Golly, I wish I could find an oven to stick my head in."  I always feel exhilarated, and free.......so I'm gonna crank up the tunes, and give it my all.  And I HOPE people are watching, cause happiness is contagious.....

Shirt and shoes required, yes....but what about the pants?

After the husband formerly known as mine moved out, I then enrolled myself in Man-School which required me to do everything manly about the house......change tires, filters, oil.....cut grass, whack weeds......burp, fart, pee standing up.  I must admit I had the most success with that last group.  I used to be able to do all these things, but as soon as the ring was slipped upon my finger, I forgot everything I'd ever learned about being completely independent.


Fast forward to two weeks ago.  I decide to trim up the lawn....mainly due to the threatening letter I'd received from our HOA.  It said something to the effect of "If your grass isn't properly edged, we're going to repossess your house." That's a lot of red tape and paperwork, wouldn't it just be easier for them to edge my lawn?


So, decked out in my tshirt, shorts, and yard sneakers, I hit the garage, waded through the mountains of random engines, bicycles, tools and wires....to eventually find the weed eater.  I hadn't touched a weed whacker since I was 14----22 years ago!  After about fifteen minutes of every combination of prime, half choke, full choke, and run possible, and nearly ripping my arm from the socket, I got it started.


Well, this is easy as pie, thought I.  Just like riding a bike. Guys do this and drink beer at the same time!!!  So, confidently I hit the throttle imagining the perfectly edged lawn--- the sharp, clean lines around my walkway.....and I lowered it to the grass.....REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNN..
.....it took off on its own, flying through my yard, with me barely hanging on.  I managed to let go of the throttle eventually.....after turning my lawn into a motocross track, and blowing more shrapnel into my legs than I could pick out in a single sitting.  It looked like a crime scene....


After about twenty minutes, a mild amount of blood loss, and a moderate amount of cursing, I did complete my mission....though not quite as easily as I'd hoped.  BUT, I did it.  That's something I can check off my Man-School list.....just next time.....I'm wearing pants.

REBIRTH! Without all that gooey mess!

My little buddy. 1995

Coming out of the closet? The closet of DOOM!

Thank you.  Thank you for our children.  They are wonderful.  Thank you for 12 years of some of the most unbelievable people, places, and things I wouldn't have experienced without you.  And finally, thank you for leaving me.  Without your departure, I wouldn't have found out how fabulous I really am.

This journey started a little over 12 years ago.  I was a nanny in New York,  and he a young sailor stationed in Maine.  We met by the more modern means of internet connections, and nine months later were married.  12 years, 3 kids,  and 4 duty stations later, we come to this, the end of the marital road....this blog will showcase my trials and tribulations, both real and imagined, as I move over this rather large bump into my new life, and my new self.


Please join me on this journey, and get a babysitter.
This may not be a kid friendly ride.