ROOOOOBOTS

Well crap.  I wrote this whole long post about how I have a hard time being myself when I meet people for the first time, and it was thoughtful and deep but also somewhat familiar sounding, and then I suddenly realized that I’d written almost a carbon copy of it back in 2008.

Dammit.

(Yes, I’m in the exact same space, social-confidence-wise (new word, go with it) that I was in three years ago.  Let’s hear it for being highly evolved!) (Or something!)

(Also - dammit is NOT A REAL SWEAR WORD Mom.  It’s comedy.  A comedy word.  It’s only a swear if you add the n.)

(Somewhat related: There is some song on the radio right now, and the chorus goes something like “Damn, Damn, damn, damn, damn tra-la-la” (not a direct quote) but I wasn’t really paying attention to the swears (on account of comedy) until I glanced in the back seat and saw my children’s eyeballs practically spinning out of their sockets.  They were SCANDALIZED. So I turned the station, silently snickering over their sheltered, sheltered brains.) (When they get to middle school they are going to be horrified.  I should probably try to ease the transition a bit by swearing more frequently.) (Pretty sure this is in the mormon mom handbook somewhere.)

(ALSO RELATED:  Last night, Megan: “Mom, what’s a maturation program?”  Oh, the joys of fifth grade.  We've already had The Talk - or rather, a series of them - so none of it will be news to her, but she was mortified over the thought of discussing it in school.  She was alternately giggling and hiding her hands behind her face.  I hope she will survive the trauma.)

(END TANGENTS)

What brought on my bout of totally repetitious thinking was this:  Last week I got together with some people who I know from the internet. It was nice.  It was!  (KALLI!  FIG!  ZINA!  MANY OTHERS!)

It was a nice night, BUT it wasn't the night I envisioned in my head.

WHAT I ENVISIONED:  Me, armed with new confidence regarding appearance (or rather, less encumbered with crippling embarrassment over same) (despite orange hair) suddenly able to overcome social butterflies and awkwardness, and subsequently relaxing and cozily bonding with friends old and new.

WHAT HAPPENED:   Me, somewhat more relaxed and yet still completely unable to be myself, but rather, playing the character I like to pretend to be whenever I meet people from the blogging world – a very sweet, nicety-nice person who – while very nice - does not actually exist in the real world.

(MY GOSH, I am so invested in having people think I’m nice and sweet when they first meet me.) (WHY.)

 (I mean, YES, I’m a nice person, (shut up I AM) (although nice people probably do not tell other nice people to shut up quite so frequently), but these are NOT the adjectives that the people who know me best would use to describe me, so - not exactly an accurate portrayal.)

(Adjectives they might use lean more toward the smart ass arena. I am not really a shrinking violet once you get to know me, true story.)

(And fine, there are worse things than coming across as nice, but nice people aren't necessarily very interesting.  Dedicating yourself to being the most bland, unobjectionable person in the room doesn't exactly endear you to people. )

I don’t think I should feel free to be my most obnoxious, unfiltered self upon first meeting someone, but people are drawn to authenticity, not milquetoast.  (If you are AUTHENTICALLY milquetoast, well then please, carry on.)   What is bad, I think, is when I am so focused on being agreeable that I am unable to share any real part of myself.

I realize that what would help is focusing less on me (IT’S NOT ALL ABOUT YOU SUE), and more on the people I’m speaking to, who actually are humans with feelings and their own neuroses, not, in fact, robots who exist solely to interact with me in ways that align with the script I’ve created in my head, thereby propping up my self confidence and sense of self.  (Someone should totally invent those.)

I REALIZE that focusing on the other person (asking questions!) (being genuinely interested!) (not interrupting!) (I’m a terrible interrupter) is the key to being a warm and engaging first time meet-and-greeter.

But I think people who are good at it must feel pretty comfortable with who they are, so instead of being focused on themselves, and upon how other people are reacting to them, they are able to fully focus on others and are able to project a warmth and interest in other people.  I think it is something you can’t fake.

Or maybe you CAN fake it, and they all deserve Emmy awards, and inside they are thinking, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEEEEASE STOP TALKING.

Can you learn to be gracious and warm?  I wonder…

Yes, once again this is an awful lot of circular and rather pointless navel gazing. (THUS THE NAME OF THE BLOG, HELLO, THIS IS A SURPRISE TO YOU?)

HAPPY TUESDAY.

PS:  I BOUGHT BOOTS.  I DID!  I talked about it in the comments of the last post.  (I also talked about it rather excessively on Facebook.  I even posted pictures of myself wearing said boots.  I’m feeling a little morning after shame about that.)  (Oh, Facebook oversharing regrets.  How you plague me.)

PPS:  I wrote this as part of Heather's Just Write dealio, meaning that you are supposed to free write about whatever you are thinking about without going back and editing.  (I think that last part is fairly obvious.) (Scary.) (More for you than for me.)

Your Clothes May Be, Beau Brummelly

Do you remember when I wrote this post? About wanting to buy boots but feeling confused and frightened?  Erm, FOUR years ago?

If you haven't, go read it. 

(It's o.k., I'll wait.) 

(Context is important.)

SO.

I think I am finally ready to take the plunge and buy my first pair of actual boots.

(WHAT.  I need time to germinate on things, people. I am a germinator.)

(Wait. Can you germinate on things?)

(Maybe OVER things?)

(ABOUT things?)

(Hmmmm.)

Right now my Winter Footwear Collection a la 2011 consists of:

• One pair of running type sneakers that I bought in a fit of extremely misguided couch to 5K enthusiasm
• One pair of ankle boots (which are fine for wearing under jeans, but am I right when I guess that you probably shouldn't wear them with a skirt?) (Because some Sundays I waver, wondering if that would be acceptable.) (But I'm thinking - NOT ACCEPTABLE.) (Right?)
• One pair of actual snow boots (which are fine for shoveling driveways and sledding down our side-yard AS PER ILLUSTRATION but I'm guessing NOT FINE for fashion?) (click to embiggen)
  
  
• One pair of grandma shoes (complete with fuzzy socks, which - I'm sorry, but Stacey and Carlton can kiss my lint covered left toe - I will never part with them) (I spent the penny)
  
  

You're all jealous of my shoes, I CAN FEEL IT.

I was griping on Facebook about the fact that I am now wearing a size 6 (BRAGGY) and yet still cannot stuff my ginormous calves into half of the boots at Payless (NOT BRAGGY) and Carina let me know that I SHOULD NEVER BUY BOOTS AT PAYLESS or I would BE SORRY, SO SO SORRY because they would fall apart as soon as I wore them out in public for the first time, causing people to point and laugh.

She then emailed me a selection of wide-calf boots (that term makes me feel bad about myself) (can't we call them boots for the differently calved or something?) that I could buy online, but I'm nervous about buying anything online, because if I buy them, and they look stupid, then I have to actually SEND THEM BACK, which I will never do (this is why Netflix is still hunting for me), and then I will end up with YET ANOTHER pair of stupid looking shoes.  So I need to buy something live and in person. 

Since that is the case, where do I buy them? (Shoe stores still frighten me, and shoe salespeople - definitely still the most terrifying people on earth.)

Other things I do not know:

• Are we wearing black and brown together these days, or does that ALSO cause people to point and laugh?  So like, if I have a black coat (I DO) can I wear my brown boots with it, or do I need to get black boots?  But then what do I do when I am wearing brown clothing? 
• Buckles or no buckles?  Do we care about buckles?  Is that a thing? 
• If I buy a pair of boots THIS year am I going to look totally dated four years from now when I get up the courage (and funds) to buy a second pair?
• HOW TALL?  I mean, what is the optimum height for these-are-my-only-boots boots?  Mid-calf? Knee-high?  Thigh-high? What will I get the most wear out of? 
• (I'm guessing not thigh high.  That would be sort of - well, not slutty, I'm a little old for slutty, but - sad and inappropriate for sure.)  
• If I get just under knee high boots can I wear them constantly or is it like with sweaters, where if you wear them more than once a week people will start judging you?
• How do I wear them?  See, I thought you tucked your jeans INTO your boots, but then - WHY DO WE HAVE BOOT CUT JEANS?
• When is it appropriate not to wear socks with shoes?  Not boot-related just a general question. 
• I'm so confused.
• DO NOT MOCK ME ON TWITTER CARINA, I WILL HEAR YOU.

SOMEWHAT RELATED, WHAT DO I DO ABOUT THIS?

(I am asking about my electrified hairs, not my wrinkles, shut up.)  It's my gray hairs, dyed blonde (actually a strange shade of orange at the moment, SHUT UP AGAIN) and apparently intent upon making the jump over onto somebody else's head.  I can't tame them.  What do I do?  Is there - is there a magical potion I can use?  A serum?  I have some of that non-frizz serum and it does nothing except make me look like an oil slick. 

I also have - some type of putty that you are supposed to - I don't know - rub all over your hands and then run your hands through your hair and -  I - I don't know.  The instructions are so vague.  You're supposed to put a coin (WHAT COIN) sized amount in your hand, then rub it around a little (HOW MUCH), then "work it" into your hair (HOW), ensuring that you've placed almost undiscernable amounts of pasty type stuff in strategic places (WHAT PLACES).  As you can imagine, THIS IS NOT WORKING FOR ME.

ALSO NOT WORKING:  Spraying hair spray on my hands and trying to smooth them down.  This mostly angers them.

So I have a lot of questions, basically.

HELP ME WOMEN OF EARTH.

PS:  OH - if you are bored today, I updated my sidebar links to other people's posts. (I know, I shouldn't have.)

Deadly Sins

The other day I was reading an article someone linked to, an article about a bunch of big time bloggers and how much money they are making, and about all of the perks and trips they get, and about how hard it is to deal with the weird sort of fame that bloggers sometimes get.

I found myself thinking "This is a problem?" and "I wonder how neglected their children are" (mind you I was reading this at home, WHILE I was neglecting my OWN children in favor of Facebook (they were playing in the other room, but still, HYPOCRISY, thy name is Sue)).  And then I started wondering how they got their Big Break, because obviously it must have been luck and not talent or hard work that sent them plunging over the bloggy tipping point.

Basically I was trying to make myself feel better (about not being blog famous, when HELLO, NEWS FLASH, YOU REGULARLY WALK AWAY FROM YOUR BLOG FOR MONTHS AT A TIME you goon) and was indulging in a bunch of envious and ickily catty thoughts.

(My gosh, aren't you just dying to be my best friend right now?  I mean - I'm such a nice person!  What with the out of control and nonsensical envy of the people who live in my computer!) 

(But it's not just them.  I have plenty of envy to spread around.)

(Yes, its a post about envy.  It's sort of the opposite of a gratitude post. Why be grateful when you can choke on your own envy, that's what I always say!)

(HAPPY THANKSGIVING!)
 
I don't mean the harmless kind of "oooooh, I wish I had those pants" kind of envy.  I don't wish for people's clothing, or houses, or stuff. I don't wish for their talents or skills.  I wish for their good fortune.

• I envy the perceived easiness of their lives and the pleasant solidness of their marriages - even though I know nothing is ever really what it looks like on the surface.
• I envy women who can just - go to Target and buy a bunch of holiday decorations because they feel like it. 
• I envy people who go on cruises (and especially women who get SENT on cruises - you know, for work and/or blogging purposes) 
• I envy women who have throw pillows, because let's face it, if you have the money to buy throw pillows that pretty much means all of your basic needs have been met. 
• I envy stay at home moms, even though I wonder if I would be able to handle being at home full time.
• I envy women who have (what seem to me) only superficial stresses in their lives - like worrying about planning the fall PTA carnival. 
• Mostly I envy the wisdom they had to make smarter choices when they were younger.

I do this EVEN THOUGH I KNOW that not all is as it seems, that you never really know what is going on in someone else's life - what secret burdens they have.

I'm not drowning in it. It isn't constant.  I just think it would be nice if, when I hear about someone's good fortune in an area where I am not personally excelling, if my first response was not a jealous "harumph". That is what I would like. I like to think of myself as a nice person and nice people do not have this as a default emotion, am I right?

When I realize I'm doing it, I try to just - KNOCK IT OFF. But so much of it is unconsciously done.  Sometimes I start off feeling just a little wistful, then suddenly I'm feeling the kind of envy where I'm so resentful about someone else's good fortune that I wish somebody would take them down a peg. The kind of envy where I look at someone's perfect life on their blog and feel the urge to leave a snarky comment. (I don't do that. But sometimes I feel the urge.)

(I took most of those kinds of sunshiney lifestyle blogs out of my reader because they were making me crazy. What is the point of comparing yourself to false perfection? Or even real perfection? Nobody's life is a storybook all the time. It's guess it's bloggy escapism and some people enjoy that kind of thing. I've had to realize that I don't. Not at this point in my life anyway. I have no patience for it, and I'm happier when I don't subject myself to it. I feel less envious when I'm not regularly peeking into the lives of women who seem incredibly fortunate.)

And yes, I know what you are supposed to do to get over feeling envious - be more grateful, concentrate on the good in your life, help those who are less fortunate, etcetera etcetera ETCETERA. I know it.

But it's something I still struggle with. (I like that word, struggle, because it means I'm fighting against it.)  I'm happy for those of you who have already conquered it. Good for you. Please don't tell me all about how you are perfect in this regard or I will be forced, just on principle, to hunt you down and kill you.

(And my gosh, it is so easy to identify it in other people, isn't it? Talk to a few other women who are being catty and jealous for a while and you end up feeling like you need to go home and take a shower because the envy is so obvious and blatant. But I think it's harder when it is just you, inside your head, being a jerk to the other people inside of your head.) 

I probably shouldn't be confessing this. Nobody wants to be friends with someone who is petty and envious.  (Although, looking on the bright side, in real life I would never actually ADMIT that I was petty and/or envious.  In real life I would rather die than admit to feeling anything remotely like that.  In real life, around my friends - not necessarily my sisters, they know more of my true nature - I try not to ever indulge in comments about other people that convey anything other than sunshine and good will, because, HELLO, it is something I'm ASHAMED OF.)

But it's also true. 

(I feel like putting something really dramatic here like, AND IT STOPS RIGHT NOW, but who am I kidding.  It might stop. Sort of.  For a day or two. Maybe. Ish.)

(But you know, work in progress.)

I'm Glad He Didn't Suggest I Buy Fava Beans, That Would've Really Freaked Me Out

Yesterday I had the day off and I made the mistake of wearing a sweater so I was feeling rather cozy and earth-motherish and decided that a really great way to spend my morning would be to make chili.

From scratch.

(Half of you are thinking “oh, how nice - chili” and the other half of you are thinking "oh great is this a COOKING blog now?", and the other half of you (it's the new math) (just go with it) who have read my blog for more than ten minutes are thinking “Oh dear - this won’t end well”.)

(See: Exhibit A.)  (Or, oh geez, Exhibit B.)  (See also: recent Facebook status update:  "When your crockpot recipe for barbecue shredded chicken says that it should cook on low for 5 or 6 hours, do not mentally translate that in your head to "cook all day" and then put everything in the crock pot at 5:30 in the morning before you leave for work. Because by the end of the day, what you will have my friend? Is CHICKEN SLUDGE. And once again your family will be forced to eat the sludge while make encouraging faces, lest you give up the cooking battle entirely and force them to eat peanut butter forever.")

(Followed by my own exasperated follow-up comment: "I just - DO NOT UNDERSTAND why I can't follow directions. I'm a tech writer. I WRITE DIRECTIONS FOR A LIVING. IT SHOULD NOT BE THIS DIFFICULT.")

(AND YET IT IS.)

(Although I believe I come by my cooking quirks naturally, AHEM.)
 
Anyway, Josh and I ran to the store to buy a few things for the chili, namely: ground beef, chili powder, two onions, a green pepper, a clove of garlic, a can of tomato sauce, two cans of kidney beans, two cans of diced tomatoes, etc., etc., etc., and the whole time I'm muttering to myself that I should just go put all of that stuff back and BUY A CAN OF CHILI because WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE IT ALL COMES FROM A CAN.

Also, I'd left my list at home on the counter, so I was buying things based on the list of ingredients in my head and I wasn’t sure what kind of tomatoes to get. Or what kind of beans. Or what kind of spice type items (which explains how I ended up buying nutmeg) (nugmeg in chili - it's all the rage these days).

But I PRESSED ON, you guys.  FOR THE CHILDREN. (The ungrateful, ungrateful children.  When I set the bowl of chili in front of Jake at dinner time he immediately made a face and started to whine about it, and I told him that if he didn't quit it IMMEDIATELY he would be going to bed with no dinner, and the expression on his face indicated that wasn't much of a threat.)

Anyway, when we were done shopping we went to check out and nothing was open but the self-check and I HATE the self-check, I LOATHE it, I wish it dead.

Because:

1. It's way too time consuming
2. It's hard to simultaneously check yourself out and keep your two year old from fulfilling his One Great Desire in Life (to lick the grocery bag carousel), and
3. That stupid bagging thing is just so freaking suspicious. "Put the item in the bagging area." "Please put the item in the bagging area!" "PUT THE ITEM IN THE BAGGING AREA." I leave feeling all stressed out and disrespected and cynical about the world.

Anyway, I started checking myself out, and as I’m doing it Josh is retrieving things from the bagging area and putting them back in his little cart (self-check register: MA’AM, I’M NOT KIDDING, PUT DOWN THE MUSHROOMS AND BACK AWAY FROM THE REGISTER) so it's taking a while and I'm starting to escalate from born-in-Utah swear words to the actual kind. Fortunately the attendant sees me struggling and since she is not busy she comes over to help.

Meanwhile some guy with two non-produce type items in his cart comes up behind me and stands there.

Attendant: Sir, this is the self-check, you can go ahead and use this register over here.
Guy: I’ll wait.
Attendant: You don’t need to wait, you can use the self-check.
Guy: Nah, I’d rather have you do it.
Attendant: DEATH GLARE
Me: torn between thinking he’s a jerk and bonding with him based on our mutual hatred of self-check

The guy starts asking me if I’m making chili, and I tell him, yeah, I hope so, and I explain that I forgot my list and I’m not sure if I got the right stuff or not, but hopefully it would work out, jabber jabber mindless jabber.

The guy tells me that if it would help, he has a great recipe I could take a look at. 

OUT IN HIS CAR.

(Because, sure, that’s where everyone keeps their chili recipes – IN THEIR VEHICLES.)

Do I want to come take a look at it by any chance? Hmmmmmm?

I don't know why my fairly large and healthy fear of serial killers hadn't kicked in yet - maybe because he was wearing a Hogle Zoo sweatshirt and everyone knows that serial killers don't wear sweatshirts (too obvious) (they stick to flannel and/or business attire).

I was thinking that he was – I don’t know – awkwardly trying to be friendly or something so I just shook my head and tried to insert my money into the stupid bill collector thing (which is not something you should attempt when you are frazzled).

The guy kept going though, saying stuff like, “well, o.k., but it’s a really great recipe,” and “are you sure you don’t want to check to see if you have the right tomatoes” and "I won the chili cook-off last year" and “it’s really no trouble - it’s just right out there in my car”. (Probably the same car where he keeps his collection of knives and ice picks and dessicated eyeballs.)

I ended up looking him in the eye and saying, "No thank you!" fairly aggressively and loudly, (at which point he held both hands up in the air like, "hey, I was just trying to be helpful") (but you guys, he totally wanted to kill me and feed me to his rabbits, I could tell), and since I'd called attention to his creepiness, he had no choice but to abandon his plan to secretively get me out to his car, hack me into bits, and make me the newest secret ingredient in his award winning "chili". 

Anyway, we got out of the store, made it safely to the car, and sped home, where I said a little prayer of thanks, got ready to cook, and dammit all if I didn’t have the wrong kind of tomatoes.

Maybe In Lieu Of Opportunities They Will Take Bacon (I Would)

Going back and looking over my blog over the last two years, I’ve noticed that I mostly wrote when I was totally overwhelmed with my life and needed an outlet.   When I couldn’t talk about what was going on in my life with anyone who was actually IN my life, I still felt o.k. about coming here and talking about it. (Well, some of it.)  (I don’t know why I can’t talk about this stuff with people in my actual life, other than my sisters. I think I’m afraid of coming across like a big whiner.) (Obviously, I have no compunctions about coming across to YOU this way.) (You're welcome.)

It was a blessing to have you guys out there -  able to step in with advice or just a good smack of reality and/or perspective when I needed it.  But then - RUDE - I never came back and gave you an update.  I thought maybe now (since I seem to be feeling less funny and more overly sincere and earnest) would be a good time to remedy that. 

So for starters, let’s revisit this one about the whole housing mess. 

And this one about Megan’s friend issues, while we’re at it.  

The house.  Yes, we finally lost our house to foreclosure, after losing our business, our savings, our cars, our self-esteem, and all of our money. (It was a fun couple of years, what can I say.)   It was hard.  It was heartbreaking.  And let’s face it, it was embarrassing.

(my old house) (sniff sniff)

For a while we thought they were going to let us do a short sale, and we had three solid, signed offers.  WHILE the short sale division of the bank was reviewing the offers, another division of the bank foreclosed on us.  Apparently there was some miscommunication at the bank, but their feeling was “what’s done is done.”  Our realtor had to call and give us the news.  We had three weeks to get out.  

We panicked and rented a house in Woods Cross (sweet, sweet land of refineries and gravel pits).  We were looking for something in a decent neighborhood with a short commute and the rental market was tight – especially for something in our time frame.  We walked through the house and signed the lease the same day, because it was the best thing we’d seen all week.  Rent in haste, repent at leisure.

I wasn’t in love with the area.  It was so weird.  It was a nice neighborhood, but located in an industrial area off of Redwood Road and Legacy Parkway.  There were mosquitoes EVERYWHERE.  EVERYWHERE.  MY GOSH YOU GUYS. THE MOSQUITOES.  There were three freeways in close proximity, at least six oil refineries, and as a result the distinct smell of gasoline and exhaust was everywhere. The kids were happy though (apparently clueless that their lungs were rapidly filling with CANCER).  So that was good?  I guess?

A few months later the folks we were renting from ended up losing THEIR shirts and asked (begged, pleaded) if they could break the lease and move back into their home.  It was really, really hard to make a decision (NOT), but we agreed to move right after Christmas.

We found a house to rent up on the Bountiful bench (north of Salt Lake), and we moved in January. Actually, my HUSBAND moved us ( along with my mom, my in-laws, and a lot of really kind church folks) while I was lying in the hospital in a near coma.  So that was fun for him. 

It has been an adjustment to be renters instead of homeowners.   It’s not so much the reality of renting (not having the freedom to rip up nasty carpet or paint things normal colors, etc.).  It’s more that we aren’t sure if we will ever again be able to provide our kids with the stability that comes with home ownership.  The whole - growing up in one spot deal. It will be years before we will be in a position to buy again.   That makes me nervous.  I don’t like the idea of uprooting them over and over again.

The house we are living in is old and not very well made, and I despair over the carpets (WHITE!) (or rather – GRAY!) but it is big enough for our crew, and it is located in a beautiful neighborhood.  It has a huge deck and I love sitting out there ogling the mountains.  (I have almost inappropriate levels of love for the Utah mountains, can you tell?) (No, REALLY, I do) I love the 13 minute drive to work. I love that I can run to my kids’ school on my lunch hour. I love that I can sled down the mountain in my SUV on an icy day.  Wheeeeee! 

 

The neighborhood is pretty sedate, but the people are friendly and we love our neighbors.  My kids have good friends.  That leads me back to Megan.

(that's her) (in case you are new)

You guys, she has just blossomed here.  She has three (THREE!) Very Best Friends – and I am so grateful that they are all sweet, fun, drama-free little girls, who are all still very much little girls, despite reaching the advanced age of ten.  She has a new social and emotional confidence and it has been so healing to see that growth in her.  

I think her confidence can be partly attributed to getting older, is partly because of the friend issue, and partly because we are living in a less stressful environment.  Highland was amazing (if you’ve read for any length of time at all you know how much we loved our neighborhood), but there was a lot of pressure for kids to be outstanding at something.  Megan IS outstanding at many things -  she is academically gifted, she is a pretty good pianist, she is an amazing reader and a great writer (she just won the Reflections contest at her school for literature) – and more importantly she is just such a sweet, kind, GOOD kid.  

But she isn’t a nationally ranked gymnast.  We haven't been able to give her opportunities like that. 

Luckily, there isn’t much pressure for kids to BE nationally ranked gymnasts around here.  Most parents seem satisfied to raise good, well behaved kids who get their homework done.  I think something about this environment has helped to reinforce to Megan that she is, in fact, pretty special and amazing.  It probably helps that she is no longer feels compelled to compare herself to girls who have been given every advantage in the world.  So she is doing great.  She is doing really, really well.

(And here is the part where I go off on a related whiny tangent.)

(Prepare yourselves.) 

OK.  

Even though I KNOW they are amazing kids (So smart! Such great voices!  Such great readers! So clever!) and I KNOW I should just be grateful for what we have (I KNOW IT, DON’T TELL ME) (EVERYONE ELSE IS SHAMING ME WTH THEIR GRATITUDE LISTS) - part of me, in spite of the last paragraph, (and in spite of Kacy’s post) (which I AGREE with) just wishes I could give my kids those same opportunities. 

Like, WHAT IF SHE IS MEANT TO BE A NATIONALLY RANKED GYMNAST AND THE ONLY REASON SHE IS NOT IS BECAUSE OF OUR STUPID FINANCES?  What if that is her DESTINY and I am THWARTING DESTINY??!!  Do you know what I mean? 

It’s not necessarily that I want them to be accomplished, it’s more that I don’t want to deny them opportunities to develop their God-given talents.  To explore their interests.  TO BE ALL THAT THEY CAN BE.

For example: 

• Megan is so musically gifted and if she had a better teacher she would grow so much - but we just can’t afford it. 
• Emma loves to ice skate and I often wish that we could afford the kinds of things some of these (slightly psychotic) ice skating moms can afford.  She also has a beautiful voice, and I can see the day coming when she will plead for voice lessons.
• Jacob is – well honestly, I’m not really sure where his talents lie yet.  (He’s 7.  His main interest right now is nagging at me for another 15 minutes on the Wii, which – NO.)  (But then - I have a friend whose 7 year old is practically a pro-golfer!  And what am I doing with my kid?  READING TO HIM?  WHAT A WASTE OF TIME!  I MEAN, MY GOSH.)

I realize this is a first world problem.

It is just hard not to wish more for them and hard not to feel guilty about what we can provide for them.

Of course, what we can provide will change, eventually.  My husband is back in grad school at night, and I am so proud of him for that.  I have a great job now (I really do, it is FANTASTIC.) (I am obviously feeling a lot better about it now than I did back then.).  And eventually I’d like to go back to school to pursue software engineering.  Hopefully, our situation will be different someday.

For now, I love them the best I can.  I do the best I can for them.  Homework is a big deal here.  Education is a big deal. I teach them piano myself (but it is a scattershot affair).  I did manage to instill a rabid love of reading in all of them, and for that I will go ahead and pat myself on the back.  I try to teach them to be kind, to be honest (LEARN FROM MY MISTAKES, CHILDREN), to be loving.  And we teach them to love the great outdoors, because the great outdoors are FREEEEEE.

(look at them traipsing through the great outdoors) (TRAIPSING, I SAY)

I know that compared to 95% of the world’s children they are incredibly lucky.  They have a mom and dad who love them.  They are safe.  They are warm.  They are fed.  They are cared for.  They get to go to school.  I know this.

I am working to be at peace with all of that, but I guess I am not really quite there yet.  I want so much for them.  I want to give them the world, to give them every opportunity in the world.   

And you know what?  

I WILL.  

RIGHT AFTER I GO ROB A BANK THIS AFTERNOON, because let's face it, this "hoping for better days" crap is highly ineffective.  

THE END.

(Good heavens, was that a long enough post?)

(See, this is why I don't update you.  TOO MANY WORDS.  IN MY BRAIN.)

Hawwwoweeeeeen!!!!

(That's how Josh says it anyway.)

(Please excuse all of the weird spacing stuff going on in this post.  Yes, I realize I have been blogging for a million years, but apparently I am still stumped by picture floatation.)

I will admit that I have some Halloween scrooge tendencies.  I am not a crafty mom, not a mom who hand sews her costumes or carves awesome pumpkins or dresses up or bakes Halloween cupcakes - but I still kind of love Halloween.  The kids love it so much.  And how can you hate something that makes them so ridiculously happy?

My friend next door (who has not moved yet) (BLESS YOU CRAPPY HOUSING MARKET) invited us to go out trick or treating with her family and a few other families, and so we did.  Turns out they don't get many trick-or-treaters in this neck of the woods.  I think our little group made up about 50% of the under 12 population in the area that night.

The homeowners were ecstatic every time they opened the door to our gaggle of children, because -ACTUAL children!  They showered the kids with king size candy bars, full size bags of MNMs, bags of microwave popcorn, Krispy Kreme doughnuts...  

"Take as much as you want" was the common refrain.  (And oh good lord, they did.  We are drowning in candy over here.) 

It was Josh's first Halloween as a sentient being and he thought it was AMAZING.

It took him a while to get what was going on, but once he got it, WELL. 

I TELL YOU WHAT.

He marched up to each door, stuck out his bag and shrieked "CANEEE!" as soon as the door opened.  While the grandmotherly types at most of the doors were busy oohing and ahhhing over the adorable two-year-oldness of it all, he was busy cleaning out their candy bowls. I think his record for the night was five full-size candy bars at one stop. 

Josh and I averaged one house for every four houses the older kids hit up, because we would walk a couple of steps then come to a screeching halt for:   

"MOM.  WOOK!  PUNKIN!" 

(walk four steps)

"MOM!  KITTY.  DAT KITTY!  MOM!  WOOK!  KITTY"

(walk three steps, stop, rummage in bag for candy)

Etcetera, etcetera, ETCETERA.

It was very adorable, but it also took a reaaaaaaally long time to get around the block.

(He's TWO now, can you believe it?  TWO.  I am not quite sure how that happened.)

I mean, two years ago he was THIS:

(I will never get over the awesomeness of this picture.)

And a year ago he was THIS:

And now suddenly, OOF.  Practically ready to leave the nest.

Two year olds are great and all (they really are - it is one of my most favorite ages) but I am not sure that I am entirely satisfied with this trade-off.

After making our way S-L-O-W-L-Y around the block I dropped him off, and the older kids and I went back out for more trick or treating.

SPEAKING OF THE OLDER KIDS...

LOOK AT THEM.  LOOK AT THE OLDNESS!  Can you believe it?

I mean, FIVE MINUTES AGO they were THIS:

(Hold on.  Excuse me while I go have an identity crisis for a few minutes.)  (I think I will also go read this old post and weep over my own foolishness because HEY SUE THEY WERE STILL LITTLE.)

(Shut up, they are not still little NOW. NOW they are OLD. Old and gray and ready to buy condos.)

The kids kept asking me what I was going to be, and I kept telling them that I was going to be the same thing I am every year - a mom, in a coat.  And possibly gloves.  (But no scarf.  I mean, let's not get crazy.)

They didn't like this answer, kept telling me that I should try to be a FUN mom (um, OW), so I finally gave in 15 minutes before we were supposed to leave, threw on a pair of puppy ears and drew dots all over my face, as seen here, in this completely unflattering photo.   I am not really a costume person, so I felt like an idiot. But you can see that they were delighted.  They kept patting me on the back and making proud and supportive comments as though I was a two year old who'd just mastered potty training.

All in all, a pretty awesome night. I let them gorge on candy yesterday, and then when they all looked sufficiently green I told them I was confiscating the rest of the candy.  They were too weak to protest. 

-------

In other news, I hate the new Google Reader.  I can no longer share posts with my friends, and I can no longer read posts my friends have shared. Killing this part of Google Reader was Google's lame attempt to try to get everyone to use Google+, but I won't do it. I can't handle another social network.  You can read more about it here, in Dalene's post.

HOW WILL I FIND NEW BLOGS? 

HOW WILL I KNOW WHO TO BLOGSTALK? 

I put up links in my sidebar to a few blog posts I thought were funny/thoughtful/awesome in the last few weeks, and I'll update it - well, let's be honest - probably whenever I get around to it.  And YOU - you should totally do the same thing, so that I have stuff to read.  (Yes, once again this is all about me.) 

Agghck. 

CURSE YOU GOOGLE READER.

PS: The comments on the last post were amazing.  If you were interested in the topic and haven't read the comments yet, you should.  The women who commented had some great things to say.  I love you guys.

PPS:  This is the view off of our front deck. The picture doesn't begin to do it justice.  I love the mountains in every season, but the Utah mountains in autumn are really something special.

Be Your Own Kind Of Average

And now for something less… frantic.  

Can we talk?  Because I feel like talking.  Back and forth in the comments even.

I’m 110 pounds thinner than I was in January.  

I realize that sounds like a lot.  I think it sounds like more than it actually feels like.  

I always thought, if I could just lose 50 pounds, if I could just lose 60 pounds, if I could just lose 90 pounds – well then I would be ecstatic about how I looked. I would feel beautiful.  I would be a rock star.  Men would fall at my feet (not sure that would be a good thing, since I've been MARRIED FOR 15 YEARS, but still).  

Here is the thing about losing a ton of weight.  Yes, you feel better.  Yes, you feel prettier.  But you are still you.  It doesn’t change your bone structure or your snaggly teeth.  You don’t reclaim your twenties.  If anything, you have more wrinkles because the fat is not plumping out your face.   You look like you, but somewhat thinner.  

For some reason that was a surprise.  

When I hit a normal BMI, I kept waiting for something drastic to happen. Like suddenly someone was going to jump out of a closet armed with a magic lipliner pencil and I'd suddenly be glamorous.

Didn't happen.  Obviously.

I still look like a mom.   My body still displays the after-effects of four c-sections.  Yes, I’m a size 6 in dresses and a size 8 in jeans , and that’s a major improvement, but naked, I look like a pudgy sharpei – lots and lots of loose skin.  (Yes, I’m sure you’re happy to have that visual, you’re welcome.)  And I still need to lose about 20 pounds.

I say that, but honestly I’m not really sure how much I have left to lose, because I have NO CONCEPT of what I look like.  I walk down the street and wonder, “Am I bigger than that lady?  Smaller?  Thinner?  Thicker?”  I have no idea.  I look down at my legs and they still look pretty fat to me. When someone takes my picture I pore over it, trying to figure out what size I am and what I really look like. I feel like I look different in every mirror, in every picture. When I have my picture taken next to my size zero sister the resulting pictures make me look enormous, which throws me off for days.

I do not feel beautiful.  At most I feel average looking.  

I’m not fishing for compliments here.  I don’t need you to tell me that you think I look nice, or that I’m crazy, or – anything like that.  The problem is that I don’t believe it myself, and no amount of other people saying so is going to fix that.  I don’t even know if it needs to be fixed.  Why do I feel this is a problem even?   

What is my big issue here, that I don’t look like Gwyneth Paltrow?  

Am I still so shallow that I feel like in order to have value I need to be exceptionally attractive?  What, exactly, is so wrong with being average looking?

That is, in fact, how I feel.  Average looking.  For the most part, I like it.  When I think about it, I like feeling average.  Average means that people don’t have much to say about your appearance, pro or con, and that feels good to me.  I don’t worry about whether or not people are thinking “my gosh, she’s fat” when I walk into the room.  They might be thinking that my hair is an odd shade of blonde (unfortunate incident with a box of hair dye, don't ask) or that I have a weird nose, or that I have no fashion sense (I don’t) but they aren’t thinking that I’m obese.  That feels comforting to me.

 (What I really ought to be worrying about, at my cubicle at 6 in the morning, is what is going on with my hair.  That is not static electricity, that is just what my gray/dyed blonde hairs feel like doing, regardless of what I put on them.  THEY WILL NOT BE TAMED.)

I think we are just geared to want to feel beautiful.  Even the campaigns that talk about being your own kind of beautiful, they’re still using that word.  And we can't ALL be beautiful or else the word would have no meaning. But we act like that’s a flaw.  Or at least in my brain, some part of ME thinks that’s a flaw. 

Oh, this is not a Real Problem, I know it.  (Believe me, I have plenty of those.)  It’s just on my mind.

Most days I try not to think about it at all.  I still avoid mirrors.  I used to avoid them because they made me feel bad about myself.  Now I avoid them because they are confusing, and because then I end up giving brain space to thoughts like those I’ve shared here.

So losing massive amounts of weight = not necessarily life changing.  But some stuff HAS changed. Like this:

• I can buy clothes without worrying too much about if they’re going to make me look fat, and by that I mean, display my fat rolls in various unflattering ways. 
• I can buy clothes from any store I want. I could conceivably go shopping with my friends without feeling dumb that I can't fit into the clothes at that store.  (Not that I have.  I’ve mostly been buying my clothes from thrift stores until I’m sure that I’m at my final size.)
• Sales clerks are much nicer to me.  So much so that I often feel offended on behalf of my former self.  RUDE.
• People (men AND women) talk to me in elevators, in line, etc.,which freaks me out every time.  I’m used to being invisible.  People don’t always like to look at fat people.  Sometimes they look away, in the same way that they look away from people with a disability.  (No, I’m not comparing the two, I’m just saying that people are shallow.) I am finding that I do not always like feeling visible.  I do not always like being seen. 
• Men are nicer to me in general.  They not only open doors (they always did) but they smile, make eye contact and occasionally start up conversations.   I can’t attribute this to increased self confidence, because I don’t really have increased self confidence.  I don’t think this is because I’m irresistibly hot and they’re trying to pick me up.  I think I just look more pleasant now, more approachable.  Something like that.
• I got a promotion and a raise at work.  Even though I’m doing the exact same work.  Literally, they just gave me the promotion and raise and said, “just keep doing what you’re doing.”  Suddenly I was more valuable to the team.   Should I attribute that to my weight loss or to the fact that I’m a great tech writer?  I can’t entirely write off the weight loss angle - especially after two different software developers said something to the effect of “it’s nice to have a cute girl on the team.”  (I will just let you digest the various ways in which that sentence is simultaneously disturbing and flattering.)
• I do like the way that, when I meet someone new, I am not automatically trying to make up for my size.  Unless you have been fat with poor self esteem you will not understand this, but when I was fatter I always felt as though, when I met someone new (a potential friend, a new co-worker, etc.), that I had to prove that I was worth knowing, despite being fat.  Because they could immediately see two of my biggest character flaws (gluttony and laziness with a side of eating disorder thrown in for good measure) written all over my body. Hi, nice to meet you, here are my flaws, let’s be friends.  I felt like I had to make up for it.  (And let me tell you, if there is a better way to ensure that you will not act natural and normal, I don’t know what it is.)  Other people, when you meet them, there is nothing written on them that necessarily tells a story, like “I’m an alcoholic” or “I will stab you in the back any day of the week.”  Now I don’t feel like I have that automatic deficit going on, so I don’t feel as insecure when meeting people.  Take me or leave me.  Like me or don’t.  But you’re going to do it based on something other than my size. 
• I am healthier.  We did quite a bit of hiking and stuff this summer and it was so much easier to keep up. I do feel a lot better. I can be physically active with my family without feeling exhausted.
• Food is not such a focus anymore.  I’m having to actually deal with my emotions instead of eating them.  If you’d asked me before if I was an emotional eater, I would’ve said no, that I just really liked food.  But now that I can’t eat a lot of the things I ate before I’ve realized how much I relied on food as a crutch.  I get mad more often, because I’m not just swallowing back my feelings.  This is not my husband’s favorite part of the whole deal, to be sure.

All of these things probably point more to self esteem issues than anything else, I realize this.  But they are what they are.

What do you think?  Can anyone relate, at all?  Any advice? Any thoughts?

(My gosh, I’m SO SERIOUS TODAY, I can hardly stand myself.) 

There's A Hole In The Bucket List (Dear Liza, Dear Liza)

(How do you read that and not think of Sesame Street?) (If that Sesame Street skit didn't immediately come into your head you are dead to me.) (Or else too young to get it.) (Or possibly too old to get it.) (Or perhaps you preferred The Electric Company in which case we have greater problems to deal with here.)

This is me, welcoming myself back to the blog world again.  Welcome, self!

I need to write a real post (maybe tomorrow, I have deadlines tomorrow so I will probably feel in the mood to blog), but for today I'm just gonna dive in here and post my bucket list, because a certain blog (don't go there) is giving away a bunch of (REALLY BORING - YOU DON'T WANT THEM - DO NOT VISIT THE BLOG) vacations.  You just have to post your own bucket list to enter.  But don't do it.  Because I want to win.  (I DESERVE IT.  YOU DO NOT.  YOU NEED NO VACATION. I NEED ALL THE VACATIONS.)

(By the way - things are better. Thank you for all of the good hearted, thoughtful, kind advice on the last post. I took it to heart, yes I did. Possibly I cried quite a bit when I read your kind words.) (Also, there are certain times in the month when I should not be allowed near a keyboard, but that is a post for another day. ONWARD.)

HERE IS MY BUCKET LIST:

1. Let's get the obvious blogger-stabby one out of the way first: Write a book.
2. Own a home again, a forever home (that the bank doesn't take away and then give back and then take away again) because hey, we
3. Achieve financial stability
4. Get really really good at math. I never really tried. I just assumed it was too hard and never did my homework and never listened in class and never even attempted to understand anything. And now I sit in engineering meetings and completely understand what is going on and realize that I'm just as smart as the engineers. The difference between them and me is that I was extremely lazy in high school.
5. (Er...   AND in college) Finish my degree.  I say finish but really I mean START because none of my credits are worth transferring.  Actually, my grades for the classes I had in the morning were pretty good, but my grades for the classes that conflicted with Days of Our Lives - well, forget it. 
6. Become a Flex UI designer. (It's a programming thing.)
7. Be 120 pounds.  No particular reason.  I just want to say that I did it ONCE IN MY LIFE.
8. Have a grand piano.  I would play the crap out of that thing. 
9. Be able to afford any kind of lessons my kids are interested in.  They are such exceptional, talented kids (they really are - if only you knew) and it kills me to know that if they had more financially savvy parents they would have more opportunities to develop those talents.  We do what we can, but it's not as much as they deserve. 
10. Be in a community theatre musical.  Or something else that involves showing off and applause.  So that maybe I can finally exorcise my remaining wanna-be-Rachel-Berry tendencies and just QUIT IT.
11. Be on the Amazing Race.  (No, I didn't steal this from Kalli, she clearly stole it from me, since it has been in my brain for the last ten years) (At least.) (WAIT.  TWO BLOGGERS, teaming up, for a race around the world.  HOLY MACKEREL, I THINK WE'RE ON TO SOMETHING.  Kalli, call me.)
12. Go to Jamaica.  Or somewhere beachy and exotic.  Or just somewhere outside of the US.  Other than Tijuana, I've never been out of the US.  Whenever I read that a friend is going on vacation somewhere out of the country I feel bitter.  (And then I feel small for feeling bitter.)  (And then I feel bitter again.)
13. Be able to afford family season passes to a ski resort and ski school for the kids.  I just know they would all love it and be little skiing rock stars. I CAN FEEL IT.
14. Have a camper/trailer and the time to travel around the country with the kids. 
15. Learn to sew.  I put this last because it is the one I am actually the least optimistic about.  I can never remember how to thread the bobbin and I don't understand all of the ironing and the fabric matching upping and all of the crap you have to do with patterns.  It mystifies me.  I just want to sew some freaking window coverings, you know?  Like a nice roman shade.  Why does it have to be so complicated? You'd think there would be a reliable glue stick for that kind of stuff by now.  Or a robot. 

The End. 

Although - oh dear.

For all of my idealism and NPR listening, it would appear that I don't actually want to save the world, or accomplish anything major, I mostly want to loll around on beaches, show off, and own stuff.  DIE CAPITALIST PIG, DIE.

Oh, hey - totally unrelated: What do you do when you receive a friend request from someone on Facebook who you just find rather annoying? You don't hate the person, but they just bug you? Or when you read their blog/twitter/FB updates it makes you feel jealous and/or stabby? But you don't want to be openly hostile by refusing the friend request? Do you accept it? Ignore it? I ASK YOU.

Remember - don't enter.  DON'T. ENTER. THE. CONTEST.

------

This is my entry in the Just Ask Bucket List Getaway Giveaway. Just Ask offers a breast and ovarian cancer screening and is encouraging people to share 15 things that I want to enjoy in my lifetime as a reminder to be aware of my health. Want to enter? Head over to TodaysMama.com to get the details.

EXCEPT DON'T.

I'm Apparently My Father's Daughter

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that being-able-to-get-over-it is a virtue.

I even said it myself, here:  “Whenever I think about hanging on to an old hurt, hanging on to bitterness, hanging on to anger, I think of my dad. I think of what it cost him to hold onto his anger, of what he exchanged in order to have the privilege of holding those injustices close to his heart. And I let it go. It's easy to let things go, when you really know what it costs.”

Shut up, self.

(Sometimes I read the things I wrote back before our finances collapsed and I really have to struggle with the urge not to travel back in time and slap myself silly.)

Because of course I’ve turned myself into a gigantic liar.

I’m finding it harder and harder to let things go. 

The last couple of years have been full of traumas – losing a business, losing our house, losing cars, losing our financial stability, losing our neighborhood – and other more personal traumas that I can’t write about here.  

I need to get over it. 

I thought I WAS over some of it.

But it turns out that I’m holding on to some of it really tightly.  I know this because every time something new happens, I go back to the bones of the same old disasters and gnaw on them until my teeth hurt. 

Bad idea generally, because then when life has it’s inevitable ups and downs, instead of being able to view them as part of the normal flow of life - as just temporary setbacks - I view them as ONE MORE THING. One more crappy thing that happened. As though my life were a see-saw with everything bad that’s ever happened to me piled up on one side, and absolutely NOTHING piled up on the other – as though all of the good things (like my wonderful kids, the great job I have, and, oh, I don’t know, BEING ALIVE RIGHT NOW) have no weight at all.

Glass not only half-full, but leaking, chipped on the side, and coated with dishwasher residue.

I lack perspective, is what I’m saying. 

Last night we were invited over for a barbecue with the family that lives next door.   This family has been a God-send since we’ve moved here.  They have wonderful kids the same age as Josh, Jake and Emma.   The mom is smart and friendly and relaxed and MY AGE (a rarity in this neighborhood full of much older families with much older kids) and lately we’ve ended up outside talking and laughing with each other while our kids run around together.  

This family has been a real bright spot for me in a sort of dark and depressing time.

Last night they told us they are putting their house up for sale and moving to California.

I think I literally made a noise like “oof”. 

Suckerpunch.

It felt like ONE MORE THING.

I cried driving in to work this morning.  Not just because they’re leaving, but because of all of the one-more-things that are starting to feel so overwhelming.

I’m afraid that I’m losing my ability to get over things.  I'm not sure how to fix that. 

How do I get perspective? 

Suggestions?

(But if you tell me to start writing a gratitude journal I will punch you in the face.)

(Only because I already know I should do something like that, but the thought of actually doing it fills me with rage.)

(Probably because of THE DEVIL.)

PS: Every time someone asks us if we’re renting or planning to buy the house we’re living in, it feels like a test.  If I answer that we’re renting, it feels like we’re dismissed from consideration for actual friendship.  If I answer that we’re planning to buy (in the year 2020, but they don’t know that) then it feels like they immediately warm up.  I cannot decide if this is my imagination or not.  Anyone else experience this?  I’m starting to get a complex.

PPS:  In an effort to make more progress in paying off the gigantic pile of medical bills we have, I’m teaching piano two nights a week.  I’m currently full on Thursdays, but I still have a few openings on Wednesdays.  If you live in Bountiful and are interested in piano lessons for your kids, shoot me an email at susanmarchant at gmail dot com. 

For The Record, I'm Totally Sick Of Sugar Free Popsicles

I have no idea how to do this anymore.

I think at some point I'm supposed to break out into a semi-hysterical splutter of capital letters but other than that it's all a little hazy.

I just wrote out the whole story of how I spent a month in the hospital and ALMOST DIED (DRAMATIC!), (gosh, it really didn't take long for that capital letter thing to kick back in, did it) but the post I wrote was just incredibly long and boring and mopey, so I will give you the Cliff Notes version instead.

In December I had gastric bypass because I'd gotten incredibly fat and it was covered by my insurance and, well, yes, it's a little risky, but what surgery isn't, and come ON it's not like anything bad will ever happen to me because I'm ME, whereas those other people who die from surgery are NOT ME, and ALSO -  ALSO, if anything goes badly, I will just FIGHT it, like a FIGHTER, like a CHAMP, like a VERY HARD WORKER, not like all of those other people who get sick and die. Clearly they have no death fighting work ethic whatsoever. Slackers.

I will emerge VICTORIOUS.  

And HOT. 

Bad news though.

It went BADLY.

(It turns out it's hard to be a fighter when you're unconscious.)

Badly as in I had an obstruction.  Badly as in I had internal infections.  Badly as in I had four subsequent surgeries, had my heart restarted three times, scared my friends and family to death, and spent 24 days in ICU.  I was in the hospital for a total of 32 days.

32 DAYS. 

While I was there I went completely out of my head insane on pain medication.  I repeatedly complained to the nurses about the people having a party in my room.  I insisted there was a hospital bed in the room that was decorated like a huge blue baby bassinet and would they please get it out of there because it was creeping me out?  I forgot how to use the phone, tried dialing my husband approximately 70 times, then threw it across the room in frustration.  I got mad at my husband for various infractions including holding my hand WAY too hard and having a confusing phone number.  I sobbed to a doctor that it turned out that my husband and I were getting a divorce! Because he hadn't been there to see me in weeks! Even though he was there every day! 

By the end of my stay I was weak, and paranoid, and anxious. 

• I wanted to go home but also I was afraid to go home, sure I would die without constant monitoring. 
• I was fine but also I was NOT fine and how could they even think of releasing me I am practically dead. 
• I was ready to go home but also I was NOT ready to go home because I was pretty sure that was exactly what the infection wanted.
• I wanted to see my kids but also I DIDN'T want to see my kids because hospitals are scary and besides, my kids are better off without me because I'm a horrible, weak, shallow excuse for a mother and also the baby doesn't remember me. (He didn't.)

I was a mess. 

It took a while to recover once I got out. I was still on IV meds, was very weak and threw up constantly.  I'm grateful to my husband and my mother-in-law and my mom for taking care of the kids - of everything - while I was in the hospital.  My mom stayed with us for a month after I got home, picking up the baby when I couldn't, doing the laundry, massaging the fluids out of my legs. My husband gave me IV meds every night and morning, sat with me when I was too scared to go to sleep without a heart monitor, and handled everything I couldn't. 

While I was in the ICU we moved again (long story - basically the people we were renting from decided they wanted to move back home) and we received so much help with that move.  People in our old neighborhood (the neighborhood I'd been such a snot about) helped us pack up the rest of our stuff, brought in dinners, helped us move out, and even cleaned the house after we moved out. People in our new neighborhood helped us move in, brought us meals, carpooled my kids to school, made sure the kids felt welcome - I can't even tell you how grateful I am.

I'm grateful for my friends and family and for their love and well wishes and visits and cards and emails.  I'm grateful that my kids came through the whole thing without too much emotional trauma. I'm grateful to be alive. 

Would I do it again?  No way.

I realize it's easy for me to say that now that I've gone from a tight 20 to a 12.  I've lost almost 80 pounds and have about 40 to go before I get to goal.  I can't pretend it was all negative.  At this point, I have mixed feelings about it, because a) I DIDN'T ACTUALLY DIE, and b) I feel so much better about myself now.  I realize that I should feel good about myself whether I'm a size 22 or a size 6, but I didn't. I had a lot of self-hatred going on that centered around my appearance.

When you get right down to it, I risked my life - and very nearly left my kids motherless - for VANITY.  I wasn't unhealthy. I had no health problems whatsoever. I had no diabetes. I had low blood pressure, healthy cholesterol, perfect lab work. I was just fat. And tired of dieting and getting nowhere. I wanted a quick fix.  Anyone who has had it will tell you that's not what gastric bypass is. 

And the medical bills.  THE MEDICAL BILLS.  Holy. Crap.  Did you know that the co-pay for 32 days / 5 surgeries is a ho-ho-WHOLE lot more than the co-pay for 2 days / 1 surgery?  Because IT IS.  And my IVs were apparently flowing with approximately twenty-five-thousand-hundred-billion units of liquid-frickin-GOLD.

I'm still working out how I feel about the whole thing. 

Can you tell?

Well then.

OBLIGATORY BEFORE/NOW PICTURES:

Before (terrible picture, which reflects how terrible I felt):


Now (in an outfit that I wear constantly now, not because it's attractive but because it's about the only thing left that fits) (I refuse to buy more clothes when I know they'll fit for approximately ten minutes) (I have exactly one Sunday dress that still fits - it's a wrap dress and it's baggy, but it stays on, which I view as a POSITIVE.  I intend to wrap the crap out of that sucker for as long as I can.):

Ugh.  This post feels incredibly rusty, but it is late and I have to leave for work at 5:30 in the morning so I will just hit publish anyway.

PS: I think I'm going to try this blogging thing again for a bit.  I have a lot of ISSUES that I need to work through and I'm thinking I could write about them here (although I should probably consider using a therapist instead of a blog and a shift key, am I right?).

Sarcasm: THE LANGUAGE OF THE DEVIL

That has nothing to do with anything. My visiting teacher said that to me the other day and I've been repeating it ever since, mostly in a highly sarcastic tone.

Apparently I‘ve moved out of sadness and into a really pleasant bitter-against-anyone-who-appears-to-be-remotely-happy stage.

(Of course, I’m not OUTWARDLY bitter, I just smile benignly and hold my feelings back, letting all of that nice toasty rage warm me from the inside. Kind of the same as when you’re really happy, but with more potential for stroke.)

I’m working on an extra freelance project right now, so as to earn a few extra dollars. I’m working late at night on that project and then getting up early to go to my regular full-time job. This means that right now I’m ALSO bitterly jealous of people (including, AHEM, my husband) who are consistently getting 8 hours of sleep at night.

If this is true for you, NEVER, NEVER tell me, because then I will be forced to resent you just on principle (the principle being: I’m tired), and if you ever stay over at our house, you will have to listen to me slamming bathroom drawers shut at 5:30 in the morning, in a series of purely coincidental I-swear-I’m-really-trying-to-be-quiet-so-you-can-sleep-but-OOPSIE-I-guess-I-just-did-it-again type accidents.

(These accidents are somewhat related to the 2AM oh-shoot-is-that-the-button-that-turns-on-my-alarm accident that I sometimes have when I come to bed and see my sweetly snoring spouse.)

(I’m really very accident prone.)

We were going to use the funds from the project to pay off back taxes, but they were diverted instead into our Fun With Cars emergency fund, so the net effect is that we still owe Uncle Sam just as much as we did before, but HEY, on the plus side, we now own a red ’93 mustang convertible that is completely paid for.

On the day that it became clear that we would need to use the money from this project (THAT IS KILLING ME SLOWLY NOT TO BE OVERLY DRAMATIC ABOUT IT OR ANYTHING) to buy another car - WELL. I just knelt down right there and said a little thankful prayer unto heaven, is what I did. My husband had to restrain me from doing a little dance of joy, right there in the driveway.

(If you’re not getting the sarcasm here, then please, COME CLOSER, LET ME SHOW YOU IT.)

My husband swears that the car is no fun at all to drive, since it’s old, and old, and also, Very Very Old, but come on. A red mustang convertible. This cannot be as embarrassing as he makes it out to be, am I right?

Somewhat unrelated: My husband and I are thinking about getting our real estate licenses. Just for an on-the-side type of thing. That probably sounds crazy, considering the market. But I love the industry and know it inside and out. I was an RE agent in Las Vegas for a couple of years, and was an escrow and title manager for five years, so I completely and thoroughly know the drill. And I have to believe that driving people around to look at houses (one of my favorite past-times EVER) would be a much more fun occasional side job than sitting on my couch creating technical illustrations and documenting software codecs.

So listen – next spring? If you’re looking for a bitter, jealous, slightly irrationally exhausted real estate agent? With a totally hot ancient convertible?

You know where to find me.

(You can hardly wait until I get this thing going, can you? I can tell. Man. My phone is going to be ringing off the freaking HOOK.)

PS: I feel compelled to say this: Eventually, when you keep on having financial issues, upon issues, upon issues, at some point, even allowing for a bad economy, and a failed business, and unemployment, and clients who don't pay you, and unexpected medical bills, and bad luck, and God (apparently) hating your guts - even allowing for that, at some point you have to look around and accept that some of your financial wounds are self-inflicted, because you have been JUST A LITTLE BIT of a (sorry Mom) dumbass. It's true. There has certainly been an element of that here.

But we're working on it. We have good jobs. We are roughly subscribing to the whole Dave Ramsey thing (minus the fanatasicm and mystical overtones). We are making very, very, very slow progress, most of which feels as circular as the situation described above, wherein I earn extra money to pay for something and it is instantly used up for something unexpected, like an exploding car, or tires, or a rash of medical bills for a year old surgery that your insurance has decided not to pay for, or, you know, damage caused by frogs falling from the sky. Like that.

But we'll get there.

Or else I'll have a stroke.

One or the other.

The end.

Why I Haven't Posted

Truth?

Life is not sunny and fantastic right now. It's kind of hard, actually.

Unfortunately there's nothing fantastically dramatic to report, nothing that will bring the flocks of dying-baby-blog voyeurs rushing over to watch the bloggy train wreck. Nobody has cancer, nobody is in rehab, nobody has a rare disease requiring expensive treatments, nobody is getting divorced. It's just life.

It's not the kind of hard I can spill all over my blog (though sometimes I'm tempted). It's the kind of hard where you just have to wake up every morning and put one foot in front of the other and get on with it. It's turned me into more Marilla than Anne - the very picture of grim endurance, focused practicality, and reluctant laughter. I'm not weepy or emotional - I go through my days rather like Captain Von Trapp (pre-Maria, sans whistle). And of course there's the part where I eat myself into oblivion whenever I start to feel anything approaching an emotion. (This, I am quite sure, is called "having your mental health.")

(SIDE NOTE: Did you know there is apparently a COPAY for gastric bypass surgery? And that it is almost THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS? Did you know this? Because I DID NOT KNOW THIS. And now I have added this to the list of reasons why I should probably just go ahead and throw myself over the side of a large cliff.)

(Or at least a very high curb.)

(I'm not actually suicidal, just attention seeking.)

Blogging about it puts me into a kind of gross, self-pitying, melodramatic place (this post being EXHIBIT A). I handle things much better when I don't dwell, when I wake up and put everything into it's appropriately compartmentalized place (again with the mental health), slap on a little dose of perspective and get on with my life.

Because the truth is that my life right now is just the kind of hard that everyone goes through sometimes.

It's NOT the kind of hard that gets you a book deal.

(UNFORTUNATELY.)

So there's that.

We are living in Woods Cross now, beautiful land of train tracks and enraged mosquitoes. Every morning I step outside (at 5:30AM, when I leave for work, so that I can be home by 2:30 to be with my littles), see the sun starting to peep over the gravel pit in the distance, take a deep whiff of refinery fuel and think, "Man. What a craphole."

(Well. I DO. I HATE IT here. I'm a locational snob, apparently. I don't know what we were thinking when we signed the lease. We were sort of in a panic at the time.)

Bright side: The kids are happy. The house is nice. The neighborhood is nice. The neighbors are nice. There's a pool. We've done some fun family stuff this summer - no vacations, but weekend jaunts to area lakes and parks. Josh is walking and almost ONE. Jake just started kindergarten. The girls love their new school and friends.

But I H-A-T-E it here. I hate working not from home (I know, cry me a river, you have a JOB, and a flexible schedule, and whatever, shut up, I know, I KNOW), and I hate paying so much for a sitter, and I hate living away from our beloved neighborhood, and I hate the fact that our finances are still an ever loving mess, and I hate all of this stress, and I hate my friendly new neighbors for not being my friendly old neighbors, and NO I don't want to join their book club, and my husband makes this weird noise with his nose when he is breathing - - and - and do you SEE NOW WHY I SHOULDN'T BE BLOGGING?

(You see? How obnoxious? With the blogging and the self-pity?)

So all that was just my way of saying, I'm sorry for not blogging and unfortunately, I can't promise a return to any kind of regular blogging schedule.

(Although COME ON, it's ME, who are we kidding. I'll be back.)

(Attention seeking is like a DISEASE, it is.)

(I'm closing comments again. Not because I don't appreciate your love and support and friendship, NOT because I doubt that you'd have good advice for me, but because sometimes you just need to keep your own counsel. I have enough voices in my head already.)

Insufferable

It galls me how much time is wasted in an office.

People stand around and talk about video games or television. They surf the internet and play hallway hackey-sack. They wander to the break-room for a soda, they stop and watch world cup soccer in the conference room. They stop by my cubicle and shoot the breeze and I smile and chat while thinking I could be with my kids right now, I could work from home and get all of this stuff done in four hours, GOOD GRIEF, THE AMOUNT OF TIME THAT IS WASTED IN AN OFFICE IS CRIMINAL. (Which is not to say that it isn’t a terrific job, because it is, and I am lucky to have it, and to have a great salary and a pleasant boss and interesting work, and you know what, let’s forget I said anything about work in the first place because the only thing that would be worse than working full-time would be NOT working full-time, PLEASE DON’T FIRE ME FOR THE LOVE)

The baby refuses to look at me when I finally get home. He wants his dad, which is ridiculous, because his dad has been gone just as long as I have, we CARPOOLED and yet I’m the one he’s holding a grudge against. He believes I’m a fair-weather friend, and it takes me the whole weekend to win back his good will and preference. I hold him for an hour after he falls asleep at night, wishing this could count as quality time, because now, suddenly, I’m one of those moms who is forced to care about quality time.

The children are excited I’m home, they aren’t holding the full-time job against me yet, but I can tell it’s wearing on them, from the way they cling and fuss and argue with each other. It’s been mostly fine because Grandma has been here for the last week and she lets them watch TV and play video games and eat too much junk, but she leaves on Wednesday and then they’ll be with a babysitter, and we’ll see if they are so willing to forgive me then.

Well meaning people ask where we are moving to, and I tell them "I don’t know,” and I make a joke about being spontaneous, something dumb about throwing a dart on the map, and then change the subject before I start to get morose and teary-eyed - because most people really don’t want to deal with your sadness - you can be sad, but not THAT sad, not sad in a way that's going to make everyone uncomfortable. When my powers of WASPy repression fail me, I try to at least make it more palatable for everyone around me, by being a version of sad that includes Not Feeling All That Sorry For Myself, or Looking on the Bright Side, or Having A Stiff Upper Lip, or Being O.K. With It Because I’ve Learned A Good Lesson About Fiscal Responsibility.

I am not really very good at this kind of acting though. I don’t have much experience pretending not to be depressed. The only time I was ever really depressed was as a teenager, and back then I flaunted it, I wore it proudly, I snarled and snapped and dared people to mess with me. People would say what is WRONG with you, and I took it as a compliment, an external validation of my self-diagnosed issues.

And honestly, I don’t think I have Clinical Depression or anything like that - I’m just sad because things kind of suck right now. I’m guessing that once things suck a little less, once we’re in some other mode than Stuck, (or once I eat this tray of brownies right here) well – THEN I’ll probably feel better. (And in probably related news, I am vastly fat right now, the fattest I’ve ever been in my life. Let’s hear it for my new insurance, which covers gastric bypass surgery, and I’m TOTALLY DOING IT, SHUT UP, I AM.)

I hide out in my house, avoid church, avoid friends who will ask how we’re doing, what’s going on, what's with the house? The truth is that I don’t care about the house, about how it’s gone and we have to move. Sure, I will miss my neighborhood, and the school and the park with the stream, and the way it takes an hour to walk around the block, because there is always a friend to stop and talk to for a few minutes. But I’m o.k. with it. I can handle it. It’s just a house, I tell my friends flippantly, and I mean it.

What I am not so o.k. with is the fact that I am out of the house for ten hours a day. I’m not o.k. with my nine month old being with a sitter more than he’s with me. My friends who work tell me I will get used to it, that it won’t bother me so much after a while, but I’m not sure that I WANT it not to hurt. I’m not sure I want to get to the point where I’m totally o.k. with leaving my kids for almost 50 hours per week.

It’s not as though I’m new to working. I’ve always worked full-time, ever since I was eighteen years old, but from the moment I got pregnant with Megan I worked from HOME - four or five hours during the day and three or four at night – and I could stop to take them to school, read them a story, fix them a snack. They had a sitter, but I was here, they could run in and out to see me, and when I was done working, I walked out of my room and into the family room, The End. But now there is This Freaking Economy to deal with, and apparently the tech writing gigs, they are not just falling out of the sky, and I have had to Make Certain Accommodations. It boggles my mind now to think about how I complained about it sometimes, about how hard it was to juggle work and the kids.

At night after they’re in bed, I know I should be packing, but I can’t make myself do it. I don’t know where we’re going, and what good is a departure without an arrival? Instead I climb into bed hours early, hiding under the covers, alternately sniffling and napping and picturing my children in the future, turned melodramatically goth and pale and sarcastic, full of hatred for their constantly absent mom.

(I am closing comments, but I will go ahead and list a few that I would fully expect to get: 1) I’m Sorry, 2) Come On Sue, It Could Be Worse, 3) Maybe You Should See A Counselor, 4) Just Be Grateful You Have a Job, 5) Hey, At Least Nobody Has Cancer (Yet), 6) I Lost My Job Too, But Now I’m Making Great Money Working From Home Selling XOSLIEFJL, 7) Here, Let Me Give You A Little Thing I Like To Call Perspective, 8) GAH, Stop Feeling So Sorry For Yourself, You Are Insufferable 9) I Hate To Say It But Working Moms Deserve To Feel Bad, And If Only You Would Sacrifice You Could Be At Home Like Me, 10) Defensive and Cuttingly Angry Comment From Working Mother, 11) Flame War, 12) €£¥∞β≠€¥€)