you too?

Somewhere on the internet there is a picture of me.
There’s a picture of Heather.

We are sitting in a window, backlit, quasi faceless. It’s a Saturday afternoon, sometime after noon, sometime prior to 2003, definitely before we were married, before we had kids, before we had any idea that someday, someday years later, one or both of us at varying times, would miss – randomly yet intensely – the other.


We are smiling, and I think we meant it. We didn’t stay long that day. We drank until we ate, because eating was, and still is I suspect, the kiss of death for Heather.

I know I slept at her house the night before, and likely we talked late, nonsensically/unrealistically about what we wished for.

She was in love with (meh... longing for) Jon C and I was rebounding in and/or out of a relationship with a man so impactless that to this day, I forget we dated save for the fact that he sweated copiously during unmemorable sex and his best friend was likely my soul mate.

It wasn’t much later that she met her husband, and years later, I met mine.

As I walked through my house tonight, upstairs from laundry, leaning to change the trash liner, promising myself to diet tomorrow, I wondered how it is that I can’t move forward. That I have no dreams, no plans, no promises to make or to keep to myself. That I exist without wanting anything, yet clearly I’m wanting for something. I contemplated what I would do if I could do anything.
And stumbled.
And stopped.
Nothing.
Not a single dream.

I heard in the background the strains to Hey, Soul Sista, somehow attached to a blog that somehow stumbled onto mine. The mommy anthem of 2010. I swiveled towards the refrigerator and shimmied. Meringue. Triple step swing. I opened the door thirsty and reached for the water. I need to drink more I thought and shimmied again. Finding rhythm. Finding the beat,. I moved forward, back. Rotated my shoulders. Swung my hands. It felt like dancing. I might have been dancing.

I glanced at the window to see that the shades were drawn, then at the doorway that my husband wasn’t in. I bumped again, la la la...hips don’t lie. I used to be cute. I used to dance. I wonder if I still do? Dance that is. I turned to the refrigerator and sought my reflection in the write-on calendar. And saw a large formless shadow.
Moving slowly and out of breath.

This is not my beautiful wife, this is not my beautiful house.
This can not be who I am meant to be.

The music changed.
It’s a Beautiful Day.
I remember hating the song.
I wonder if time changed that for me.
Pauses.
Listen.

Nope, hate the song.

But I remember the year it was popular.
And I remember having drinks that day.

And then I remembered who I was back then.
I trolled the website.
Found the musician.
Searched his archives.
And there it was.

I looked again.
I remember that day.
I was thinner.
Childless.

Lonely for where I'd be.
Hopeless.
Hopeful.

Would that I could flash forward and tell myself to lighten up.
Would that I could flash back and live it up.

Was I happier then?
No fucking way.
Although that’s not saying much when you're fat, your shoulder is inflamed, your rotated ankle still swoll, your dental bridge sore, and your head aching from dehydration and lack of sleep.
So tomorrow I’ll start at the gym again.

And tomorrow I will try to remember that life passes by.
Quickly.
So fucking quickly.
And it’s time to stop feeling sorry for myself.
And get crackin once again.
Bootstraps don't fail me now.

moving

I'm moving soon.
Not houses.
To wordpress.

Four years on blogger is enough.
I'm spreading the love.

dial "ohhhh" for operator subtitled Looks 3, Voice #

photo credit

Since the beginning of time, actually the beginning of answering machines...little know factoid here... my voice reaches a tone, vocally, that disconnected peoples phones.

I'm not sure if I sounded like the 3, the 5, the pound key but sooner or later, in the midst of leaving a message, and not just at the end either, I disconnected.

At first I thought people were interrupting then disconnecting up their machines on me. Answering then disconnecting. I talk a lot, maybe they were doing the nasty and all they could hear was my blathering, blithering on.

As time passed, and technology became more sophisticated, voicemail replaced answering machines and it happened less frequently. And for a time, I forgot about it. Sure my Dad continued to complain that I always abruptly stopped talking but I chalked it up, with ageism, to his being the last minicassette holding device luddite. Sure occasionally I'd call my husband at work and mid sentence would find myself frustrated at his old Audex voicemail system. But never once did I suspect that my nemesis, my message foiling near perfect pitch was back. With a vengeance.

Until today.
I didn't correlate the uptick of instances of being cut off with so many my friends migrating away from verizon. Different systems respond to different tones...

Once a month? Maybe my cheek hit the phone. You missed the last part of the message? Maybe I was driving through a bad cell area. Occasionally I'd tentatively mention the pitch thing, only to be scoffed at. For eyebrows to raise. But now, today, I remembered vividly the early advent of the answering machine. And that my perky, cheery, LOUD voice is a dead on impersonator for the 7 key. And that very likely Kristen is NOT going to be happy with all three of my messages. Each sounding more depressed then the last. My not knowing which buoyant tone terminated the call. Quite literally killing the messenger.

Ah, if only I could mimic pin codes, I'd be all set.

correction

i should clarify that recently i wrote a post about learning the hard way and I started with a story about a dance studio and followed it with examples of people being a nightmare. Just want to clarify here that the dance studio is not an example in keeping with the rest of the post. I was using it as a starting point. Simply that no one there asked me to help but I made assumptions and based on my assumptions I started conversations and that my conversations became complicated. And that the unhappy dawn for ME was that I am unable to properly judge any longer true need from convenience. The story was to illustrate that I need to learn the difference and to stop getting angry - and to stop offering.

The complicate MY life portion simply was that in response to my vmail / emails the owner thought I was offering out of ...not guilt but some sense of obligation vs affection. So I was already mired for lack of better word in a dance I created. I realized that I had already started off in a strange inequity with the owner. For brevity's sake, in the post, I laid the blame on her but in actuality, in the writing, I knew the blame was mine.

I write this now not because something happened but because it occurred to me only this morning that while I have no idea who reads this blog, I know for sure my sister does - and I believe she has shared it historically.  And given I haven't spoken to her recently, and I have no idea who amongst her people has this link, I want it to be public record that the mistakes were mine.More that i was starting a project again where I wasn't asked. My not being able to learn my own lesson. That I created a victem where there wasn't one. That I was engaging in the same patterns. That I was disappointed in myself.

So on the off off chance someone is reading this that knows of the parties discussed:

a) shame on YOU if you repeated it. this may be public domain but it's still an unadvertised blog. If I didn't invite you here - you know full well I don't know you - so whyever the fuck did you repeat something to hurt someone else?

and

b) if you are the party discussed. I apologize. I was typing quickly and only realized later that my stream of consciousness blog tied you in with some fucking shitty-ass lazy people. You are not the person I was discussing. I am.

money & happiness

Money can't buy happiness... but you can be more comfortable unhappy.
Money can't buy happiness... but neither can being broke.
Money can’t buy happiness, but it sure can buy lots of things that contribute mightily to happiness. credit  

We have money. I've said this before. Not uppercase "M" money, but working hard money. Were I still working, we'd have more money. LOTS more. And dual income families, guys my husband works with, people I used to know? They have a lot lot more money. But we have money. Enough that both of us could buy a brand new car, this year, with cash, outright. Not a BMW but a reliable little Hyundai, or perhaps a sweet Honda. Sweet meaning darling not saaaawwwwweeeeeeeet as in “holy hell, that is SWEET” Generally when the bills are due we don’t fret.

So there’s nothing to worry about…right?
Sad? Buy yourself a treat.
Unhappy? Go shopping. Get a pedicure. Get your hair done.
If only I had money I’d be happy.
I guess so.
I used to think that way too.
I’m not happy today.
I wasn’t yesterday.
I’d like to be tomorrow.
Buoyantly happy. Not content.
I want Happy.

Some people say it’s because I thrive on stress, others say I’m insecure, you might find me anxious, too much time, bored. You can analyze it however you want. If you care to that is, although I can’t imagine why you would.
Or perhaps you think I should be.
Happy that is. Because you would be.
As in “If we had money right now, everything would be fine.”
Maybe.
Maybe not.
You’d be less stressed. About money.
You’d meet obligations, have things, of course.
And maybe you’d be happy today.
But sooner or later life encroaches.

 This isn’t a happy time for me. I wish I could tell you it was.
We could argue that it’s my state of mind, that I’m holding myself back, that I’m ungrateful, that you’d handle it better.
Sure.
Let’s go there.
Maybe you could.
Maybe you are great.
Maybe you are all zen, all knowing, all content.
Maybe your answer is take that money and BUY happiness.
A trip
A new car
A bigger house.
"hire a sitter" "you need to get out" "go to the gym, you'll feel better"

maybe.

or in my case, maybe most definately not.
Because for me, I can't buy my way out of this.


Here’s a little thing. I am capable of happiness. Fantastic joy.
Great bounding leaps of affection and energy and happiness.

I just don’t get there much.
Do I need …Drugs? Therapy? Communing with god?
nah.

I’m not happy because shit’s in my way.

And I don’t mean metaphorically, as in “There’s so much shit to do I can’t be happy”, I mean literally. There is always shit in my way.
Hairclips, headbands, towels.  Scraps of paper, draws filled to bursting, clothes that don’t fit, mitten’s that don’t match, goldfish under the car seat and laundry piled atop tables.
Boxes of things stored for later, photos and Christmas cards.
Chargers.
Cell Phones, camera cords – now ipods and ipads, more and more shit.
Food bought not eaten, sippy cups waiting to be filled. Syringes and medicines and ear droppers and used tissues and birthday party favors and all.sorts.of.shit.
Shit.
Shit everywhere.
There are books written, like The Happiness Project that talk about simplifying, decluttering. I live that way. Lived that way. There are tidbits saying "Volunteer, give back" been there. I've DONE IT. And you know what, I'm STILL not happy. Because it's not about money, it's not about time, or sex, or body hair (really, hirsute much lately?) It's not about wanting MORE to make me happy.
it's about needing LESS.

I want shit out.

Prior to my marriage, prior to kids I lived in a 480 sq foot apartment for 8 years. No storage until, no cable, no fancy dishes, no second set of kosher plates. No nothing. Me and my paltry square footage. And I may not have been happy there either but I could manage the shit out of that life.

This life?
Pissing me off.
Rent this, buy this, download this, caretake this. Listen to this, read this, record this, absorb this. Do this, go here, take a picture of this, upload this, bake this, store this, reuse this. Keep track of this, care about this, love this. Email me if you love me, post on my page if you care, send thankyous if you are grateful, return my call. Find a new house - you have money. Buy a new car because you can. Decorate because you should. Don't be cheap. All your problems would be over if you had a bigger house.
To store things.
To hide things.

We need to buy a new house.
"Need to"
Because this one is too small.
If we were broke, we'd stay. And make it work.
But we have the resources.
Ergo we "must" move.

So contrary to everything, and I need to let go of the past, it's time to move.
To buy again.
To buy more.
To fill it with more.

Oh you are getting a new house, that will make you happy.

If you don't know me by now...you will never never know me, ohhh, ohh ooo oo.

everyone knows it's windy aka Gladys Kravitz

The wind was blowing so hard last night that it woke me.

We live in New England, at most we get snow. No flooding, no hurricanes, no crazy tropical storms. No real wind storms. So when we do, it's like snow in Georgia. It's noteworthy.

On my tiny little 18 house sidestreet, fully half boast a flag in front of their houses. Not set in the ground like a vfw post, but mounted to the porch. And for a bunch of people who can't be bothered to talk to one another, present company excluded, folks are remarkably cheery in terms of flying the flag. It's like 10 years ago, someone joined the flag of the month and all the other housewives joined in.

I hate to be the last holdout actually. Me likes me a leprechaun flag come March 17.

So this morning across the street, through the kitchen window, we saw the American flag down. Laying on the snow.

Doug mentioned it in passing.
I fretted.

"You can't just LEAVE it there" is what I said. "It's like...mean or something."
My husband said it was too early to tell the neighbor.
So me, obsessively, every 20 minutes looked at the clock.

"Seriously?" he said.
"Seriously"

So with a sigh he put his shoes on.

"It's like, it's like the last hallmark of respect" I said.
Out he went.
In he came.
"What did you do?" I asked.
"I rehung it" he gestured into the air, indicating the mounting gear on the side of a pole.

"Isn't it not supposed to ...?" I paused searching my feeble third grade memory banks "Aren't you not supposed to hang it after it's touched the ground?"

And he looked at me, coffee in hand, bemused.

"Yeh well, technically you're supposed to burn it but why don't you explain to the neighbors why we're out burning their flag at 8 am Saturday morning."

Good point.

No more looking o'er the ramparts of the window sill.

who lived in a shoe

There was a young couple (almost middle aged)
who lived in a shoe (box sized house)
who had the money (lowecase m)
but didn't know what to do.

They looked at houses
far and wide
and wanting to compromise
was points for their side.

They peaked into attics

and looked into sheds
but couldn't find a home
with enough beds  (rooms)

Dillengtly they checked
daily on line
was a home with a garage
THAT hard to find?

Indeed it was
and renters are coming
the stress of it all
leaves this wife a' bummin.

upon the seat of a bicycle built for two

my husband and I have this thing - every time we see a man on a bike we start yelling out guesses... "Up ahead, on your right" and before we get too close a look we have to call it.


"homeless guy..."
"veteran..."
"fitness enthusiast...
"environmentalist...'
"asian..."
"dui"

I mean, there's a reason grown men wear all that Lance Armstrong gear. Otherwise we all think you're a swill ass.

So it's ongoing, possibly not funny, but one of those things you do. Like calling Tuesdays "Laundry Day" even though it's been years since you had so few clothes that you did laundry once a week.

So me, yesterday, 9am. Driving my daughter to preschool. Suburban side street. Up ahead, man on a bike. No point playing but I speculate anyway.

Off in the distance...
plaid carhartt jacket, furry cap, earflaps, jeans.
I'm thinking "Workman"
and strapped to the front I see a toolbox. Or a crate. Something red. Snap-on?
I'm thinking roofer, maybe laid off, sidegig today.

Closer.
Closer.
And then he pedals by.

With a full-on red white & blue case of budweiser bungeed to the front of the bike.
And two on the back.

And not a twelve pack mind you. I'm talking a suitcase of cans - at least two, possibly a third at 9am, on a Wednesday, on a nothing road going god knows where.

Now THAT'S dedication.
Go big or go home, you mad fucking hatter. I'm guessing DUI.

learning the hard way

I only wish I could turn back the hands of time and give myself another 5 years, 10 years of knowing what I know now - and actually using the knowledge.

My sister works for a dance studio. A popular one that turns a modest profit, very modest in fact because there's no money in it but it's well run and leaves a legacy of love and love for dance in it's wake. Last year I put together a program guide for it's recital, partially out of affection for my sister who(m?) I didn't want taking it on herself, partially because I knew it would be expensive to outsource and partially because...well... it's something I know how to do with little effort. Takes time though, but not a ton of effort. I did it, they loved it, and I charged her a token $150. Not because I needed the money but because it's always a good practice not to work for free.

And given I built the template, I figured I'd offer this year. Again not for the money, but for the fact that it's an easy cut and paste. Although I have less time. No time. ZERO time.

People ask me why. Why do you do things for free, for other people. Is it the need to be loved? Admired? Liked? Glorified?

To which I always say no. Honestly.
And myriad years of therapy of soul searching or life experience have taught me this.
I truly believe that if you can, you do.
If you have, you give.
And that if you teach a man to fish., he'll be set for life.

Or so I thought.

Because after swapping emails with the studio owner, I further realized that she's complicated. And that she's going to complicate my life over it. And that it's not going to be a simple cut and paste, it's going to be work.
So I'm about to tell her that I think she needs to turn it over to someone else. With my blessings. And this is the beginning of a new, unhappy dawn for me.

The truth is: she doesn't need me to do it. It would make her life easier, I'd be cheaper...but she can get it done without me.
The fact is: I need to stop because I can no longer judge correctly.

Recently I paid the insurance ill for my crazy HIV shutin. It was$65? $70? She didn't ask - I offered and I paid it with nostrings. Because I see her struggling and I know that money is something I have. And although there were no strings what I am starting to realize is that there are strings, that I am placing - in jugement. Because last week she let me know that she picked up 3 cartons of cigarettes at the store because quitting was just too hard. 3 cartons. Equaling roughly the amount of an insurance payment.

See I thought when people asked for help that they too intended to work towards making their life better. I though we were paddling the canoe. 

But it appears they were looking for a break from paddling. Which is cool, for fucks sake I get that everyone needs a break, but honestly? I have twin fucking children and a three year old and a husband that gets home at 7. We are BUSTING our asses to stay current with our own obligations. I freely give time to anyone that needs it, because I hear you say "I'm desperate, I've tried everything, I'm scared, I need help" But when help arrives? The human condition throws up their collective hands and breathes a sigh of relief. AND STOPS WORKING.

Wow. And that's fair to me.... how?

I had a friend confide in me recently that she was concerned about money troubles. She wants to sell some things, edit out somethings, consolidate some bills. She's not far off track and can and will turn it around. So we talked we strategized. We solved for x by deciding on y. Or Y Not. As in Why don't we do this, this, and that. I offered to help. I'll write ads, I'll post with her etc. All she needs to do is gather and inventory her things by such and such date and time.

Which she didn't.
Because she was busy.

So my point is this, if YOU are too busy to do it, why am I staying up past midnight to meet an obligation to you? I am offering up my time - which retails for about $35 an hour, or $90 if I was a contractor for my old company. Maybe $60 given the economy. I have expertise, passion know how and I'm effective.
But I'm not LOOKING for work.

If you are down, in the gutter, on the ground, saying you need a hand up - shit, I'm not going to walk by you.

But let me say this:

Don't tell me you are broke, and then text me from your iphone.
Don't tell me you need my help getting organized, then let me see you crafting.
Don't tell me you have no time to pick up a bag at my house, but you have time to post on facebook.
Don't tell me you have nowhere else to go, to turn to, no way to get it done, no hope for yourself, your project, your lot in life - but you have time to sleep.

Because I don't.

So don't ask for help - or take my help - and fuck MY family in the process, so you can watch your reality shows.
Just don't.
Because I'm on to you
And you're pissing me off.

.

jolly jumper

here's the thing about having a child that takes an oral steroid for 4 months...
they don't sleep.
Hardly ever.

so at 12, at 2, at 3;30 then at 5, you are up. Then up at 6. Then 7. Life's a constant mission to harness the energy and deal with the irritability.

Your husband sleeps in one room with one baby on the bed. One baby that has something wrong, tongue or GI, undiagnosed because he is still gaining, but something that makes him unable to eat food at 6 months. So you feed him by bottle every two hours. Every day. Almost since birth. Regardless of the clock. That son sleeps with Daddy.

The other child, Sumo, Chubby, The Big One, Tubby, sleeps with you. loosely. the sleeping part. so you find yourself up. All night. For 6 months. Plus the several before when you were so pregnant with twins that sleep was impossible. I would wager that I have been up - sporadically -  virtually round the clock since last April.

It effects my speech, my decision process, my metabolism. It effects every choice, every reaction.
Forget tired.
Forget the fact  that I have aged so much, so so much in these last months.
Forget all that.
What's impossible is functioning while awake.

Yet today was the same.
Up ungodly early, make lunch for Girl, dress all three for preschool dropoff (by 9 thank you), cross town for craigslist stroller purchase, home to deice driveway, feed boys, out to shovel again, dress boys in afternoon clothes (morning vomit and pee buildup on prior outfits) ALL to bowling alley for Girl to have some physical activity, home then for more feedings. Nothing cleaned, nothing sorted, all alive. Phone calls today to tenants - who are renting our house come July 1, to Early Intervention to reschedule because their visit conflicts with the boys surgery date, to 3 sets of parents to arrange childcare/visits and update medical status, phone call to crazy HIV positive godmother to help arrange Section 8 certification paperwork. Snacks, dinner, bottles and dishes. I never left the 13x13 comfort of the kitchen save for my car.

I know this is parenting. I get it. I get that everyone has things they do.
But I always thought I'd have babies and that's it. Id work at it. I didn't think that having them, 6 months in, would consume everything else in it's path.

Managing.
Existing.
Not wishing time away, but wishing for the hemangioma to shrink so we can get baby off the steroids, for the system to mature, for the baby to stop throwing up, for the tongue to grow, for baby to eat...wishing for the next few weeks to pass so their tiny surgeries pass and another milestone can be reached. Wishing for snow to melt (slowly dear god slowly please because the water, much like Richard Gere in Officer and a Gentlemen, has no place left to go) so I can walk outside. Wishing for a lot of things but wishing more then anything for her children to sleep. Because with sleep, anything is possible.

Instead I stand at a crowded kitchen counter.
Listening to the sound of springs and rattles.
And Tiny Teddy bouncing in his jumper at 3:30 am.
Because I need to tire that son of a gun out.


bounce m'fcker bounce

soup

wtf I do all day...

There's nothing fancy about either of these - in fact they are practically the same soup - but so so simple. They are good "throw them on the stove" soups served with tomato & mozerella salad & crusty bread..

Football Season Sausage Soup
1.5 lbs hot ground sausage
1.5 lbs of sweet ground sausage

(or weight hot/sweet to taste)1 lg can of crushed tomatoes
1 large white onion diced
2 cloves of garlic minced
1 lg green pepper diced
32oz of beef broth
1.5 cups of red wine (may add more if wanted)
1.5 tsp of italian seasonings (oragano, parsley, basil mix)
pinch or salt and pepper

dash hot pepper flakes
One box of Dilatini Pasta

Brown sausage and break it into small pieces with a fork while browning.
Saute onion, pepper and garlic in a large pot with EVOO
Add all remaining ingredients including sausage to the pot.
Simmer 2 hrs
Cook pasta separately and add to each bowl when serving.  - Mel

Football Season Chicken Soup 

1.  You will need 1 or 2 chicken breasts, cooked.  I usually just salt and pepper it..and baked it in the oven while I prepare the soup.  you could even just use a store bought rottissuire chicken for the meat...however you get the chicken...you just need it cooked and shredded once the soup is prepared.
 2.  The soup- In a large heavy sauce pan on medium heat
-cover bottom of pan with olive oil and add 2 minced fresh garlic cloves...saute for a minute or two
-add 1 or 2 medium yellow onion, 1 summer squash (yellow), 1 zuccini, and 1 cup of fresh green beans.  Saute for 2 minutes. All veggies should be chopped to bite size pieces.  Add a pinch of salt and pepper to veggies. ***Deb's note: I added CannelliniCannellini beans and omitted 1 squash
-Add a LARGE can of Beef broth...or 3 small cans ...whatever you have is fine!
-Add one large can Hunts Tomatoe Sauce (28oz)
-Add italian Seasonings i.e. sweet basil, oregano, etc..salt pepper to taste
-Add 2 tbls of Sugar.
-Add 2 tbls Parmesan Cheese
- Let soup Simmer for a min. of 1 hour..the longer it simmers the better. Add the chicken shredded anytime after the first hour. 
 Lastly, prepare bowtie pasta...I do not recommend adding your pasta directly to the pot, it absorbs most of the broth.  I usually add the pasta to individual servings.  THat way I can save the leftovers.
for tomorrow!!! PS.  You can use whatever pasta you like...but I recommend a sturdy pasta that can handle sitting in all the liquid.  The kids love the mini or reg bowties!  ALSO....Add more of the cheese to taste!!! Enjoy! Sha-
 

Crafty

actual email written to friends today...
 

So Ellie and I have been rocking the handmade, homemade birthday gifts this year. Starting with Ciara, every child is getting a tshirt in a bold color with a reverseout of their names and various appliques. It's very "Old Navy" and UBER cute. Involves painstakingly picking out letters, peeling and sticking, a true labor of love. I dont mind ruining the surprise for all of you when I say your kid IS getting one of these tshirts this year. Sorry! So Ellie's is cute, Ciara's is A-Mazing and i have Andrew's, Owens, Tommy's and Emily's in que. All prepurchased and ready to go.

 

So tonight we sit down and do Andrews and Tommy's. Red shirt? CHECK. Curlique type letters? Check check. Bottle of bleach? Yup. Full wash basin, yepper. Peel stick...PEEL stick, make dinner, babies cry, peel stick. and viola! They are ready to roll. Off I go to the basement, rubber gloves, utility sink, SPRAY bleach.  And squirt. Squit, mist, spray... And peel again, careful not to drip bleach. Rinse after 1 minute, wait, wash alone, wait and gently pull OUT of the washbasin.

 

Imagine my surprise.

When the COOLEST rockin Red Shirt Ever was revealed in all it's glory.

 

Because as any fool knows, when you bleach a red shirt.....

Megan, April, ...I'm sorry.

And I know it's not pc but...

your kids getting the GAYEST pink shirt ever.

 

Looking forward to seeing it at the playground.

Love, Ellie's Mom.