This is Nothing Important

My dear husband and I were talking about dream "visits" the other day.  If you have had them, you know the kind I mean.  If not, they are the kind of dreams that feel as if you have spent time with someone that you love that has passed on.  I feel lucky that I have them, even though they usually always make me cry upon waking.

Occasionally, I have "place visits" in my dreams and these make me cry, too; mostly because I am usually dreaming of some wonderful destination that I am longing to be in; Paris, the pyramids in Mexico, or my grandparents' old house that has long since been demolished and turned into two family homes.  If I could time travel, I would go back to the brick front steps of that house or to huge swing in the backyard just to have another conversation with them.  God, I miss them every day.

This morning, I had a visit of another sort.  I woke up suddenly to the sound of crashing from the living room.  Since I have cats and am used to being awoken thus, I just figured I would survey the damage when I was good and ready (it was not the Christmas tree as I had feared, only some heavy cookbooks).  I managed to fall back to sleep almost instantly and immediately fell into a luscious visit with a 6'4 WWE wrestler.  It was the kind of dream that made me feel like I needed a mental shower upon waking; or a long soak in a hot bath for real.  It was a very nice dream.  It was so nice, in fact, that it made me feel guilty enough that I needed to write up this post; as a kind of confession.

I know I can't control my subconscious.  My rich fantasy life is as deeply embedded in my DNA as graying, mousy brown hair, blue eyes and irrational guilt.  They are all parts of me that I am learning to embrace.

Whatever it means and however it makes me feel, it was nice to wake up with a smile on my face, for once, on an otherwise dreary Monday.  Now, if you don't mind, I am going back to bed.

What Ifs

They really aren't helpful, are they?

We all have them.  

Mine range from the superficial "what if I were taller/thinner/better looking?" to questions about my path in life "what if I had moved to NYC instead of Los Angeles?" to "how would my life be different (better/worse) if I had never had kids?"

Yes, I have thought about that last one.  I'm not saying I wish I hadn't had my kids, because that is totally untrue.  Sure, there are moments when I look around my tiny, cluttered house and wish I was living in a loft in Paris...alone.  Who doesn't have these kind of daydreams?  (Angelina Jolie)  I'm saying that maybe I could have been thinner, traveled the world, made some more money, etc, etc, if I hadn't.  And maybe not.  Maybe I would be just as poor, chunky, travel deprived as I am now.  Who really knows?

It's a trade-off.  Okay, for some, it isn't (Hello, Angelina!), but for most, having kids means your life will be somewhat messier and you will be somewhat poorer.  For most parents it is a welcome trade-off.  Our kids enrich our lives in big and small ways every day.  My kids make me laugh, make me proud and make me yell in frustration, sometimes in the span of two minutes.  It's crazy and chaotic and I am happy and feel privileged to have such great kids.

I thought about these "what ifs" when I read an article about a mom with the headline "Mom of son with Down syndrome, 47, wishes she had had an abortion"...or something along those lines.  I refuse to post the article here, but a little Googling on your part will bring you to the story I am referring to.

I read it because a few of my friends had posted it, incredulous that this hateful piece was out there, complete with pictures of the family.  I repeat, pictures.

I am having a hard time wrapping my brain around putting your kid (he's an adult, but still her child) out there with the words "I wish he were never born" or actually, even worse, "I wish I had known what you would be so I could have aborted you" alongside a brand new family portrait.  I am no psychiatrist, but I think there is something deeply, fundamentally wrong with this person.

My first reaction was "how dare she?!"  Seriously, how dare she put her kid's name and picture out there with those words?!?  How dare she pose with him like they were a family?!?!  What purpose does this have?  We should feel sorry for her?  We should pity her?  What does she get out of this?  I have to wonder.  Maybe ( I think, definitely) she has some serious mental disorder.  Maybe she was duped into telling her sensationalized story by some unscrupulous editor (the source it comes from is known for it's outrageous stories and is no friend to the disability community).

Maybe.

I feel awful for her children.  She has another, older son who is missing from the latest family portrait; I would be very interested to hear what he has to say about all of this.  As for her younger son, I just feel so much sadness.  How awful to be the subject of so much loathing and misplaced anger and self-pity.  This woman has decided that her life would have been better without her younger son in it.  Meanwhile, she institutionalized him, so he really wasn't in it much, anyway, so I don't understand how he ruined her life.  She is blaming her crappy life on a child; a child that didn't ask for his issues, or choose his parents.  I have to believe that all any child really wants from their parents is to be loved and accepted.  Feeling like a disappointment is no way to go through life.

I feel sad for her, too, though it's a grudging feeling.  I really don't think she deserves my pity, but I do pity her.  I pity her crappy life.  I pity her inability to see the good and that it outweighs the bad.  I pity the small, sheltered space she must inhabit.  I pity the hatred she must feel for herself.

Yes, I am angry.  I am angry that she put this out there for expecting parents to see.  Will their fears be confirmed with this story?  I hope not.  I hope that they know that there are many, many more parents of kids with Down syndrome who feel pretty much the exact opposite of this one, myself included.

I am angry that people say she is a product of her generation.  That statement is a slap in the face to any parent that chose the hard road of keeping their kid home and fighting for inclusion in those earlier days.  She could have been a pioneer and she chose to be a coward.

Parenting is not for the timid.  At least, parenting well isn't.  

"Are You Here?" Movie Review ***Spoilers and Yelling...Lots of Yelling***

On a rainy day, like today, one of my favorite things to do is watch a movie. 
My kids are in school, I have nowhere to be in particular today, so it was just me and OnDemand.

I had come across the title "Are You Here?" a few times recently and I thought it sounded promising.  I mean, Zach Galifianakis and Amy Poehler?  What could be bad about this movie?!?!?

As it turns out, virtually everything.  

Now, I am no movie writing genius, but I would think when you cast a couple of 
the funniest people in Hollywood today you would have them be, oh, I don't 
know...funny?  No!  You say?  That is too obvious?  Instead, lets portray them
as a severely depressed, borderline sociopath (Galifianakis) and an uncaring, selfish bitch (Poehler) and Voila! You have this horrendous piece of crap that I ruined a perfectly good rainy day (and wasted $7.99.  Thanks, bloodsucking BigCable!) watching.

Wait, it's a DRAMEDY, therefore, it doesn't need to be funny or serious, apparently, just really, really, horrifyingly awful.

You know when you get to the end of a movie and you are like "No.  NONONONONO, there is NO WAY that that is the ending.  NO!!!  WHAT DID I JUST WATCH?!?!?!???  HOW IS THAT AN ENDING???!!!???  IS THIS REALLY HOW I JUST SPENT TWO HOURS OF MY LIFE?!?!?!? AAAHHHHH!!!!!!!!"

What does it all mean?  Only Amish people really get it?  Everything else is plastic horses?  WHATDIDIJUSTWATCH?

Here is the link if you don't believe me.  Just don't ever say I didn't try and spare you.

Zach and Amy, for the love of all that I hold dear, PLEASE, PLEASE don't ever make me hate you in a movie again.  Amen.

Pancakes

It's a long weekend.  I love it when Sunday doesn't mean the weekend is coming to an end, it's only the middle.  Soak it up!  Do! Stuff!  I know what I will do (I think to myself), I will make delicious, cool looking pancakes that my whole family will adore so much, they will beg me to make them all the time and they will become the stuff of family legend.  They will be crying over my coffin thinking about how freaking ridiculously awesome these pancakes were.

Here is the actual recipe

(Don't they look great?!?  Not sure about the gummy worms, though, weird.)

I mentally pat myself on the back for being such a great mom as I stroll the market looking for the correct ingredients.  They don't carry an apple corer?  Oh well, I think...no matter.  I will just core these lovely Granny Smith apples by hand.  It should only take, what...30 minutes? (the real answer is:  infinity)

Two hours later, I have given up trying to make apple rings.  After nearly losing two fingers and ruining four apples, I have settled for making a small batch of apple rings and then, I will use the rest of the batter for apple pancakes...just dicing up the leftover apple and adding it to the batter.  

Not quite what I had in mind, but 120 minutes in, there is no way I am not making something on the griddle.

Oh crap.  The griddle is still on top of the fridge and needs to be cleaned.

After scrubbing the crap out of the non-stick (note:  foreshadowing) griddle, I finally start working on the batter.

I read the instructions on the side of the bag of gluten free pancake mix.  "How many eggs do I need?!?!? 5?!?!????!!!  What the hell, Pamela?!?!  Okay, I will use applesauce to make up the difference.  WHAT?!?!?!!!  How are we out of applesauce???!!???Okay, it's still fine, I will improvise.  Two eggs + Two tablespoons of Earth Balance + One cup of Almond Milk+ Whatever oil we have left = Five eggs, right?  Whatever."

The batter is finally prepared and the griddle is hot.  I place the apple rings on the griddle and begin to gently drizzle batter over them.

"What in the world?!?!?  There is no way to leave the middle circle open.  NO WAY.  Okay, that's fine.  They will be circles, not rings, but no less delicious or beautiful."

I am now sweating in my 100 degree kitchen and have gone partially deaf from the sound of the overhead exhaust fan as it labors fruitlessly to waft the smell of burnt batter away from the stove.

Brett comes in and asks if I can drive him to a friend's house.  I ask him very sweetly to wait until I am done making him THESE! DELICIOUS! PANCAKES! and turkey bacon and he backs slowly out of the room.  Smart child.

It as at about this moment that I try and turn the rings (now circles) over.  

If an appliance could laugh, this electric griddle would have.  Huge, loud, Teflon coated guffaws.  "Oh, you want to flip these pancakes?  These, right here?  No way in hell, lady.  Ha ha ha ha ha haaa."

Apple Ring Pancakes:  Nailed it!

I take a few belly breaths and count to five.  It is either that, or start dismantling the kitchen board by board.

I look over at the sad remains of the apple ring pancakes and decide to give in and just make pancakes with apple bits.  They are sure to be delicious, still, right?

I dollop the apple batter onto the comal (with about a half container of Earth Balance to ensure non-stickedness) and let go of the breath I have been holding in for the last two hours.

Danny comes in and takes one look at the griddle and almost starts laughing until he sees the flames shoot from my eyeballs.  Instead, he starts scraping the crap off of it, wondering out loud if the apples are still salvageable.

I start laughing...that maniacal laugh that you know is just one step below tears while wielding the spatula like a knife.

He backs away, nibbling on half burnt/half raw pancake batter and apple, swearing it is delicious.  This is an example of why we are still married.

In the end, I do manage to pull off some surprisingly good apple pancakes and turkey bacon, which only Brett and Danny wound up eating.  The other two rolled their eyes at me and reminded me why I never try and make breakfast in the first place.

Amy's Apple Pancakes

Prep Time:  Three hours

Crying Time:  Three hours (on and off)

Time Husband Spends Trying To Hold In Laughter:  Your entire marriage

Eating Time:  Three minutes

Cleaning Up Afterwards:  Ninety minutes

Yield:  12 Somewhat edible, very greasy pancakes

I USED to be Hot, Damnit!

My husband is really good looking.  He's got this very potent Apache Indian/Mexican/tiny bit European thing happening and apparently, he got all the best traits of each.

When we first got together, a million years and three children ago, we were fairly compatible on the looks scale.  Because we lived in L.A. at the time, neither one of us was up for any modeling jobs (see my explanation of L.A. hotness math right here), but we were doing okay, even though I felt kind of chunky at the time.

Just kids, ages 28 and 23.

***note*** 

Chunky is a relative term.  At this point, I would probably, willingly give up an appendage to be 1993 chunky.  My DH would not need to do this since he is the exact same weight he was in 1993.  So, so unfair.

Twenty years later

Okay, well, he's doing a kind of squinty thing in this, more recent picture, but otherwise, he looks basically the same.

He's still got the same jawline and adorable dimples and clear skin and...he's just still super handsome.

I, on the other hand, am not feeling quite so adorable.  Twice in the last two weeks, I have seen young women check my husband out, look at me, then back at him.  I know what they are thinking.  They are doing the math and according to their version of hotness math, we don't add up. I've seen plenty of younger girls check my husband out over the years, but it's only recently that I have noticed this phenomenon.  

It makes me happy that he still turns heads.  

It makes me wish that I still did.

It makes me feel pretty terrible about myself.

It's typical in these instances that I want to pull out an old picture of myself and scream "I USED TO BE HOT!!!" at the offenders.

Actual abs

But, I don't and they wouldn't care, anyway.  They would just shake their young, pH balanced hair in pity at the crazy, chunky, middle aged mom and her obviously vision impaired mate.

They don't get us.

They don't realize what we have have been through or what drew us together or what still keeps us going.  They don't wonder what makes him ageless (is it his genes or is he a vampire?), they just see that he looks good.

His tiny facial crinkles add character.  

My wrinkles add years.

His bald head looks intentional.

My short hair looks like I gave up.

It is disconcerting when these looks occur after I have actually given thought to my appearance.  It hurts my feelings to have chosen an outfit specifically because it made me feel pretty good, only to have someone look me over and wonder what I was thinking.

And it probably shouldn't matter to me.  After all, I HAVE the hot guy and unless I am terribly mistaken, he isn't going anywhere.  Those young things barely register to him and if he even notices, it's for a second.  He has never made me feel less than beautiful and young and desirable.  

It's not these young girls that are the problem.  It's the fact that I care at all.

The treadmill is calling my name.

The Water Heater as Life and Christmas Miracles

On Christmas Eve Eve, our water heater went out.  The kids and I were eating lunch, when all of a sudden, there was a hissing, teakettle-like whistling coming from it.  It took me a few minutes to realize what it was and when I did, I called my dear husband, held the phone up to the thing and said "the water heater is doing that".  He talked me through shutting off the water supply to it and the hissing stopped.  I was momentarily relieved in the silence, but almost immediately starting sweating.  

"How much is a new water heater?"  

Since DH would be home within a couple of hours, we hung up with the plan that he would deal with it then.  Of course, we had no hot water now, but it was no big deal at the moment.  I had already showered. The kids had no school, so they could be a little stinky for the time being.  

But, seriously... "How much is a new water heater?".

That was the song playing in my head for the next few hours.

When DH came home, he confirmed that the darn thing was indeed, shot and after taking a fast shower in what was left of the waning tepid water, he started making calls.  The good news is that my DH works for a heating and air conditioning company and they install water heaters.  They would come out first thing in the morning and by noon, we'd have hot water, without the tea kettle sound.  The bad news is that we'd still have to pay for it, somehow and for today, I'd have to do dishes with ice cold water.  The fact that it was literally 1 degree outside made this prospect really unappealing.

I sucked it up, telling myself that this was a First World problem and I was lucky that I had a roof over my head and indoor plumbing...even if my hands were numb through the dish washing gloves.  Lucky, damnit!  Suck it up!

The service guy that came the next morning was very nice.  While waiting for a helper to come so they could carry the old one out together, he decided to take a look at the furnace, which was rattling near the hot water heater.  

He asked if it always made that sound, and to my memory, it had for a while.  DH had replaced parts and cleaned it and done all kind of tinkering with it, but it still rattled.  It was really annoying when we tried to watch TV, or have a conversation or pretty much anything when it started up; but we were used to it; annoyed by it, but used to it.

Since he had some time, he asked if I wanted him to check it out.  I figured, "what the hell?", since we already couldn't really afford a new water heater, we might as well add the furnace servicing on top of it, because what's another couple hundred bucks?  Anyway...

I was in the kitchen when he called me over to listen to the furnace.  I thought it was funny, since normally I could hear the stupid thing from the kitchen anyway.  He assured me that it was running and I couldn't believe it!

In all the tinkering DH had done, he hadn't realized that there were two little gaskets that had dry rotted.  Once they were replaced, the thing quieted down to a dull hum.

I could have kissed that service guy.

After it was all said and done, DH came home, also professed his love for the service guy, but also for his boss who said (When DH asked for the bill) "Merry Christmas!".  It was on the house.  It helps that my DH is the most ridiculously fantastic employee in the world.  Maybe it's the fact that he was in the Marines, or maybe it's just that he is a perfectionist by nature (I think it's the latter).  He's just an awesome guy to have on your team, whatever that team may be.  I am lucky; hot water, or cold, rich, poor (mostly kinda poor) to have that guy.

Christmas came and went.  In my busy-ness, I didn't give much thought to the now quiet furnace or the miracle of "on the house" hot water.  I was grateful, thankful, but beyond that, focused on dinner and presents and missing family and friends and trying to find five minutes to be alone with DH.

(that's a blog post for another day:  Intimacy in a Small House).

This morning I woke up, heard that quiet furnace and started to wonder about what other annoying things I was used to.  I mean, surely if I can listen to a god-awful, rattly furnace day in and day out and think " Well, yeah, that's just the way things are", there must be other things that I am used to that need to be changed.

I'm used to being heavier than I should be.
I'm used to being out of work.
I'm used to these drafty old windows and this cold, icky climate.

I'm wondering what kind of service guy I need to call to fix this; but I am pretty sure she already lives in my head.

It's time for some changes and a new year is the perfect time to make a plan.  2014:  The year of the un-rattling.  

Happy New Year!

Hypothetical

I have written ad nauseum about losing a good friend (ex-boyfriend) of mine.  I probably wrote five or six (or more) different posts on different blogs about it over the years, and much, much more than that in various diaries and such.

Here is an excerpt from one of my favorite posts:

My favorite song to listen to when I am depressed is "Smoke" by Ben Folds Five.  You can feel the despair in the way he bangs the piano keys and in the catch of his voice.  

But, the lyrics...therein lies the magic.
"Here's a secret...no one will ever know the reasons for the tears"

That line says it all.

It's hard to lose someone that you love, but I have found that it's the sadness that no one understands that is the hardest to deal with.  

For example:  if your cat/dog/significant other dies, everyone knows why you are sad.  If your high school boyfriend that you hadn't seen in three years dies, people are sympathetic, but only to a point.  When it's been a year and you are still talking about it, people wonder what's wrong with you.  When it's been almost twenty, they just think you are crazy.

"They were broken up!" they say to themselves.  They think they know the whole story.  But they don't.

This year marked twenty two years since he passed.  It also marked the fact that he has now spent more time dead than he ever did alive.  

I've spent many hours contemplating his death.  Even so many years later, I still find myself reaching for him telepathically.  I know that this will sound weird, but of all those that I have loved and lost, he has kept in touch the best.  It's complicated; just like it was when he was here.

I imagine that it's hard for my husband to understand this relationship.  I say I imagine because we haven't talked about it much.  Mostly, I am afraid to bring it up, for fear of sounding like a crazy person.  Of course, I am much more prone to jealousy than he is, so maybe I am just that:  crazy.  

The dead have a way of only showing their good side, though.  I forget how angry he made me and remember how much he made me laugh.  I forget that his skin was not always flawless; in the beyond, he glows with color and health.  Dying before your twenty first birthday helps, too.  I mean, it's pretty much downhill for your looks somewhere around twenty eight, so he had the privilege(?) of dying before he started balding or developing a beer belly.

I'm not saying any of this is logical.  What I am saying is that it's a tough act to follow.  

The guy I was with when it happened understood this and was, in turn, totally jealous of a corpse and actually angered by my grief.  Those were fun conversations.  Seriously?  I need to explain why I am crying?  Or worse, hide the fact that I am sad?  Geez.  

I'm pretty sure that was the beginning of the end for us, even though we stayed together for another eighteen months.  I was lost in wishing I had done things differently; regretting that I hadn't called my friend after what would be our last fight.  Too much grief and too many unresolved and un-resolvable feelings messed me up.  

I can barely remember the girl I was when I met my husband in 1992.  I was still grieving KD and I had just lost my maternal grandfather, whom I adored.  I was lost.  I remember arming myself with sarcasm and hiding my vulnerability behind a thin wall of bravado.  "You are dating someone else?  Who cares?!?"  (ha).  I'm not sure how quickly he realized that I was mostly bluster.  I'm really not sure what there was of substance for him to be attracted to, but there must have been something. I think in my sadness I had become something of a ghost, myself.  Maybe he was a bit lost,too.  Maybe we rescued each other.  

In any case, this year marks twenty years that my husband and I have been together.  Twenty years!  In that time, both of our lives have been touched by plenty of grief.  We've lost five grandparents and three parents.  We've worried and struggled and have become a family of five along the way.  

Somehow, midst all the pain, we've managed to become more, rather than less.  The sorrow has colored us in, rather than diminishing us.  We've become stronger as a couple and grateful for what is, rather than wishing for what isn't.  It hasn't been an easy lesson, but I am grateful for it.  

I am glad that I have learned that there is more to life than "counting my abs and lovers", something I used to say about my hypothetical single life.

As for my long gone friend, I will always miss him.  I just will.  There is not much I can do about that.  But as I have grown in wisdom, I have learned to feel lucky for what was and what still is.  Life is a gift.  It may be poorly wrapped at times.  It may be smaller than what we were hoping for, but if we hold it up to the light, we will see its beauty and it will be a joy to behold.

Boxes: Labled and Otherwise

A TED talk I watched today (Here's the link) really got me thinking about the boxes we put ourselves and others in and how we label those boxes.  

We label things out of necessity, otherwise everything we owned would be put into a giant junk drawer/closet/garage, never to be found again.  So, labels serve a purpose...for things.

Labels are good for people if, and only if, the person you are labeling identifies with the label and you may use it only if they feel positively about it.  For example, you could label me fat, but unless you want to make me cry, please don't.  Label me funny and you will be right...and if I cry it will be because I am a total sap, not because you've hurt my feelings.  

Positivity in labeling is VERY tricky in the world of disabilities.  That is a post (or seven) for another day.  All I will say here is PLEASE follow the lead of the individuals with disabilities and their advocates; always.  Words matter.  

I found it interesting when Ash spoke about how angry it made her to be asked whether she was a boy or a girl.  I wondered why she chose to dress in a way that made it ambiguous if it was such an issue.  I mean why?  If you want people to know you are a woman you should have long hair and wear pink and not camouflage, right?

I'm kidding, ...sort of.  The problem, of course, is the boxes that we put people into.  The ??? box does not work for us.  We need to name it.  We need to know.  Does a gay man go in the pink box or the blue box?  What about a woman?  What if she is straight but HATES the color pink? What if she had cancer and her hair has not grown back?  What if she is happily married, but HATES long, sweaty hair?  What if she is a lesbian but (horrors!) looks straight?  What if they are trans-gendered?!?!? Boom. Heads explode.  

And to answer my own question about how Ash dressed:  Maybe she was comfortable that way.  Maybe she wanted a fight (I can relate to that).  Or maybe, it was a little of both.  Or, maybe she just didn't feel that she had to put herself in the "girl" box.  She is a girl/woman, she is gay, she dresses in jeans and button downs and her hair is short.  Geez, that's a long label.  It doesn't fit and that bothers us.  In turn, it bothers(ed) Ash (she seems cool with it now) that it bothers others.  

This is getting to be like a movie that involves time travel.  I'm going to leave the "chicken or the egg" conundrum for another day as well.

This talk also made me pause and think about how my occasionally (okay, often) militant approach to issues might have backfired.  It is something I have been thinking about; trying to figure out a way to get my REALLY IMPORTANT POINT across without resorting to shouting, or my absolute favorite: sarcasm.

It's really, really hard.  

I don't think I realized I was doing it, or rather, realized how it sounded until I encountered some other shouty people with whom I mostly agreed.  The substance of what they were saying had merit, but the delivery system was flawed, to say the least.  

NOONELISTENSWHENYOUSHOUTATTHEM!!!

Wait, what?  No one listens when you shout at them.

They might hear you for a few seconds before it becomes BLARRRGH!  and they tune you out; maybe forever.  

So, you need to pick your battles, your forum and recognize that you are not the only one fighting.

Lastly, this talk got me thinking about my own labels.  It's funny, because when I think of labels for myself, none really come up, other than ME.  Finally, I am me, after years of trying to figure myself out.

I have short hair, which I love.  I am a mom.  I am a terrible dresser.  I have blue eyes that I think are nice. I am married to the best guy I have ever known.   I identify as being straight, but I love K.D. Lang and think Salma Hayek is hot.  What does that mean?  I means I have ears and eyes; not much more.

It's not that I don't think labels can be useful.  They can.  They can help navigate grocery aisles, or libraries, or help you find a file.  I'm just not so sure how great they are when used to identify an actual, living breathing human and not some caricature.  Labels don't tell the whole story, just a little, tiny piece of it and only the piece that your mind can perceive.  No matter how many labels you put on me, you'll never never know ME, unless you put them away.

De-cluttering My Soul

I've been thinking about what it means to be me.  I'm wondering if I met me, what my first impression would be.  Fat?  Chip on her shoulder?  Nice teeth?  Well spoken, but salty?  Funny?  I wonder if hypothetical me would get past fat and chip on her shoulder to see the truth.  The truth is, that I have a hard exterior made up of guilt, sadness, fear, anger and confusion covered in a thin veneer of sarcasm.  With a little pressure, that shell yields to a gooey center of love, hope and dreams.  I'm basically a Cadbury Cream Egg.  No wonder my husband likes me.  I need that shell to protect what is really worth protecting.  You can have my anger and my sarcasm, but my dreams?  Not without a fight.  

The truth is, that up until just a few days ago, fat was all I was seeing. You'd think since having my last baby 13 years ago, I would be used to being fat, but I'm not.  There's fat and there's FAT.  Right now, I am at FAT and I'd like to get down to fat before spring comes and I can start training for some kind of crazy physical feat; like a triathlon or another marathon (read my condensed marathon story here ).

More about those plans later.

So, up until a few days ago, I was hyper-focused on what was going on with my exterior, to the point that it was exhausting.  I still had obligations to family, friends and the various committees I am involved with, but doing even the most basic thing felt monumentally hard.  I blame it on being heavier than ever before and being just a tiny bit depressed about it.  You know that things are not going well when brushing your teeth seems like a real chore; like something you need to cross off a list.  Forget the actual lists I have.  That shit is on the back burner.  

Now, the list has only one item:  Be the person I was meant to be.

That's it.  Of course, there are sub-headers and lines a through z.  There's a lot that goes into being that person.  But, the way to get there is simple:  Do the things that move me towards a goal and don't do things that move me away.  For example:  I want to complete a big, physically demanding goal by the end of next year.  In order for me to do that, I have to be physically and emotionally ready.  It will take many weeks, many smaller goals and many setbacks to achieve it, so I need to give it a good long time to be accomplished.   

I am not very patient and that has been a big part of what has kept me FAT.  It took too long to see results and I got mad and punished myself by gaining more weight.  It's a long and complicated journey, this one with food.  Everything I think about myself plays into how I treat my temple (it's a god damned temple, you hear me?!?  It just needs some slight retrofitting and remodeling and it will be a thing of beauty for years to come).  

This journey is not about being hot again.  That ship has sailed.  And you know what?  I think that for the first time ever, I don't care.  I was talking to my sister the other day about this.  I said something to the effect of being invisible; that I have gotten to the point where I could grocery shop wearing a clown wig and no one would notice because I am a chunky, middle aged mom. 

Somehow, I've gotten to the point where no one outside my circle of family and friends really sees me.  Sometimes, I wonder if they even see me; me how I really am.  I think my husband usually sees the girl who met him at the end of the aisle eighteen years ago.  I can't keep up with that girl in a race today, but I sure am more thoughtful and more compassionate than she was.  I wonder what my kids see.  Do they judge my weight?  It makes me think of my maternal grandmother, whom I loved so much, and who passed away this summer.  She was heavy most of the years I knew her and I loved her.  My grandfather loved her.  They were happy and laughed and had fun, even though she was bothered by the weight and was always trying some kind of weird diet.  I hope that at some point she stopped measuring her worth in pounds and more in love; that which she gave and that which she received.  I wonder what she would tell me now about wasting time on things that don't ultimately matter.

Speaking of my grandmother:  I am also realizing that I have not fully processed the losses of this past summer.  I lost three significant family members, including both of my grandmothers and Oliver; a boy I never met in person, but learned to love just the same.  I've tried to channel my feelings into advocacy and writing and doing things that make my existence on this planet mean something, but at some point, I just need to sit with my grief.  I've been catching myself from falling into that vast, unwelcome valley, but maybe it is time to explore it a little.  We all have to walk through this valley time and time again as we age.  It should be like going home, but instead, it feels like an endless mire of tears and silence.  It's murky and dark and I am afraid.

I don't need to fill that valley with food, or approval, or laughs.  I only need to sit there and see that I can survive on my own.  All I need is a hanky and a hug when I emerge.

And to the people (they seem to be coming out of the woodwork) who want me to find Jesus/go into business with them/join their cult I want to say thank you for making me see that I am the only one who can fix me.  I think I am on the right track and I will burn your business card keep you in mind, but I need to step away right now.  I have enough crazy up in here, thanks.

So, the to do list:  Be the person I was meant to be 

     a) lose the weight

          1) make a list of achievable goals to meet the ultimate one

     b) sit with my grief

     c) start today

Holy Wolverine on a Motorcycle: I Love Hugh Jackman!

Today was the perfect, rainy day for a movie, so I took my younger two boys and a friend to see "The Wolverine".

I'm not gonna lie.  I LOVE the fact that I can go and watch Hugh Jackman in his sideburns and his white t-shirt and his claws on the big screen and not feel like a huge perv because it's an action/superhero movie and my boys, like most boys, love that crap.  Love it.

But for me?  It's porn.  Totally legal, awesome, PG-13 rated, all American porn.

If you asked me about the story, my answers would range from "What?" to "I don't care."

I think it took place in Japan, mostly.

Don't get me wrong.  I think Hugh Jackman is super hot in a tux singing show tunes and dancing, too.

 

Or, sweaty and riding a horse in the Outback.

Or, toothless and pulling a ship with a fat chain around his neck, while still freaking singing his lungs out.

Hot, hot, HOTTT!

But, the sideburned, leather jacket and jeans wearing, ass kicking, angry, claw having Wolverine is my favorite.

 

Hell, I don't even care if the gay rumors are true.  He can be RichardfreakingSimmons gay for all I care, as long as he keeps playing Wolverine.  

It's not like I'd actually have a shot in any case.  Or, that I would even consider committing adultery with anyone...even if Hugh Jackman did beg me to jump on the back of his motorcycle.  (You know that, right, Honey?!?)



Okay, let's not exaggerate...I'd totally jump on.  But, it would be a one time thing, I swear.  

And then, the next time he wins an Oscar/Grammy/Tony/GoldenGlobe he'd look straight into the camera and say "this one's for you" and mean me.

Going to sleep with a smile on my face, now.  :D