Just Once

I know. I know.

It’s been a week since my last post. I think this is the most blog-negligent I’ve ever been. But if it makes anyone feel any better, my Critical Inner Voice (hereafter referred to as CIV) has been hounding me about it.

I understand that CIV is not an acronym that is easily readable – it doesn’t roll of the brain’s tongue, so to speak – but though I was somewhat inspired to name it “Pat”, that’s my mother’s name, and I wasn’t so sure she’d appreciate that particular moniker.

So that all my have a view of my self-critique:

CIV: So, it’s been a whole week since you’ve posted. You’ve been neglectful before, but this is pretty bad, lady.

Me: I know, but I’ve had a hellacious few weeks. I’m doing my best here.

CIV: (singing softly) I gave my best, but I guess my best wasn’t good enough…

Me: Stop that, you. You know I’ve been under lots of pressure. I was out of town most of last week and…

CIV: And you didn’t bother to tell anybody did you? No. You. Didn’t. You left them hanging with a message that your best friend had breast cancer, a picture of your kid, and – what else? Oh wait. Nothing else. You left them with that.

Me: Well, I was hoping they’d infer that everything was okay, since I did put the picture of Zane up. You know, the message of that picture was, Things are hard right now, but I’m remembering that life is good.

CIV: They were supposed to get that from one crummy picture?

Me: Well, yeah. And plus, I didn’t have an internet connection at the conference I was at so I couldn’t post anything or respond to comments.

CIV: That might wash better, Petunia, if you’d told anybody you were leaving.

Me: Please, let’s don’t be dramatic. I don’t have a huge fan blogging fan base. I haven’t alienated millions.

CIV: So now you’re insulting the three people who ready you? Very nice.

Me: Okay. Fine. You win. I am a craptastic, un-committed blogger. There. I’ve said it. But you might be interested to know that I got some clarity around a few things this at my workshop this weekend.

CIV: Oh-ho. Big talker now, aren’t we? Well, what did you get “clarity” about?

Me: Well, several things actually. But you’ll be most interested to learn that I’ve determined that I’ve listened to you for far too long, actually. You’re holding me back.

CIV: Uh huh. So, we’re banishing the inner critic again? I see. Well, excuse me if I don’t rush to say goodbye. I won’t be waiting by the phone or anything, but I’ll put you back in my calendar in a few weeks.

Me: Maybe. But I’ve decided that you’re a useless self-indulgence. I’ve got places I’m going, and it doesn’t help anyone if I pretend I don’t deserve to get there. In fact, you might keep me from getting there. And I won’t have it.

I’m grabbing things/opportunities/relationships/goodness with both hands now. And a happy heart that says I deserve all of them. Okay, maybe I’m not doing that now, but soon. I mean it.

So begins the breakup I’ve been attempting for most of my adult life.

A Great Reminder

Nothing's sweeter than a kid all groggy and soft in the morning...

I've Been Out-Tumored

My best friend has breast cancer - in both breasts. She’s 37 years old and has a little boy who is 20 months old. She has a 13 year old stepson, a new job, and no time for cancer. She’s facing surgery and radiation and the possibility of chemotherapy.

We found out yesterday, two days after the mammogram and biopsy. She doesn’t see the doctor until Monday, but we know that she’ll have surgery within the next two weeks.

And while I know it will hit me eventually, I find that my heart has simply not taken in this information at all.

And my mind, well, my mind is apparently completely unwilling to deal with the situation. Each time I begin to “go there”, I simply conjure up distracting images of our respective tumors vying for the title of Most Tumor-Ific.

For background:

• I have a liver tumor - Keith Richards.
• Zingerzapper has two breast tumors - Donna and Nick.
  
• These three lumps are (in my mind at least) battling for tumor supremacy.

The Battle*:

Keith Richards: Let us just be clear – I’m the oldest. You guys are simply the new kids on the block, and I am not impressed.

Nick: Not impressed? Not impressed?! Whatever, dude. There are two of us and only one of you.

Keith: Yes, but both of you together aren’t as large as me. I’m the size of 1 ½ golf balls, yo. You aren’t even close to that.

Nick: Well, yes, but you’re forgetting the small fact that we are cancer. You’re all benign and stuff.

Keith: She’s not cancer. She’s like Stage 0.

Donna: I am too cancer. Just because I haven’t broken through that stupid milk duct and invaded the surrounding breast tissue does not make me not cancerous. I’m cancerous, dammit. You better recognize.

Keith: Fine, fine. You’re cancer. But you’re a really small cancer. You’re like the Rhode Island of tumors. Whereas I, I am the Texas of tumors. No wait. I’m the Alaska of tumors. Which one is bigger? I always forget. It doesn’t matter. I am the Biggest State of Tumors.

Nick: But didn’t your doctor guarantee that not only are you not cancer, but you have no hope of becoming cancer? I thought so. Donna and I are small but mighty CANCEROUS tumors. Eat that, big guy.

Keith: I am big and cause ongoing pain and discomfort. And I’m totally pressing on her gall bladder. What are you two doing – a little hardening, a little discomfort? Geesh, you wouldn’t even know you were there.

Donna: I think someone is a bit of a One-Note Nelly with the whole “I’m so big” thing. That’s really all you got, Keith.

Carol: I have to agree, Keith. Your only comeback is, “Ooh, I’m gigantor. I cause the organs around me to quiver in fear.” You haven’t even been biopsied. Pfft!

Nick: Who the heck are you? You weren’t invited to this contest.

Keith: Oh her, she’s my friend Karen’s tumor. She’s most likely not cancerous either.

Carol: Well, there is a 20% that I’m cancerous. Plus, even though I’m most likely not malignant, I reside in the thyroid. Therefore, my biopsy was especially icky and painful.

Donna: I must remind you that both Nick and I have been biopsied, and we’re going to be removed by a lumpectomy. Nick might even get a masectomy.

Carol: So, what you’re saying is that your days are numbered….I’m sorry, am I smiling at that?

Keith: Don’t be so smug Carol. I’ve heard the same about you. You’re also scheduled to make an involuntary exit early next month.

Carol: Whaa…?

Keith: That’s right, peeps. All of you are making your exits this May, and I’ll still be around as the guardian against french-fries and good eating for Zany Mama.

Nick: But in the meantime, we’re still way more Tumor-ific than you are.

(Nick, Donna, and Carol all nod their heads vigorously in agreement. Keith gracefully gives in and goes back to badgering the liver he rode in on.)

So, yeah, it’s been a hard week. It’s also been hard to be in my group of friends recently. We are, apparently, infested with tumors in my social circle. My liver tumor is tame in comparison to what my friends are going through, and when not making up ludicrous imaginary conversations, I am aching for them.

So, please send your prayers, your warmth and healing energy, and, yes, cross your fingers.

*And yes I know this is a bit sick and twisted, but it’s marginally better than the OG Tumor Rap Battle that I had planned to pen. I cope with humor – or attempts at humor, as the case may be.

OT Round 6

…in which I grudgingly give some props to Zane’s occupational therapist.

So last week, I was so frustrated by Zane’s OT appointment (and so overwhelmed by work) that I couldn’t post about it. I was on the verge of giving OT Lady – for whom I must designate some type of name - the old heave-ho. But I didn’t.

And today, I actually need to give her some credit for a job well done.

The good time (for me) began prior to his appointment - in the waiting room. There were several other moms there, and they were actually pretty cool. And don’t let me skew you, I’m sure that almost every time we’re there, most of the mothers are wonderful and friendly, but I am almost always uninterested.

It’s not that I dislike people. I just like whatever I’m reading better.
(I’ve mentioned that I’m struggling a bit with this OT thing, right?)

Ahem…but today the other moms were so doggone friendly, that I couldn’t not talk to them. And while some of the things they said scared me, like “we’ve implemented a face-washing program” and “he will have his IEP re-evaluated next month”, I felt that there was definitely some instant camaraderie in the room, and I felt myself losing some of the tension that typically characterizes my time there.

They said that Zane was cute. Zane and I agreed. Me with a “thank you”. Zane with an “I is.” They talked about how they wished they had gotten their kids into OT as early as Zane. I shrugged and said we hoped it would be helpful. They handled their kids gracefully, and I didn’t see any judgment toward each other when various kid-acting-out behavior occurred.

Then the OT Lady came to get Zane. And Zane cried, of course. He grabbed a hold of my neck and called for me when they took him down the hall. I was not heartbroken, just irritated. I was prepared for this. After all, Zane typically has no trouble leaving me at all, but I knew he was going to fight it this week.

Because last week, without giving us any warning, OT Lady told us that she would be seeing Zane alone from now on - which is completely fine. I understand that kids may act differently around their parents that it might be easier to get him to “work” if he doesn’t have an attentive mama-audience.

What is not okay is that she didn’t give Zane – or me – any warning. And let’s be clear, Zane needed warning. Hence, I needed a “heads up” that he was going to be doing therapy solo so that I could help him prepare for it. Zane does just fine with change – when he knows about it before hand. It’s not like he needs a lot of prep, but we do make it a habit to tell him what to expect at new places and situations.

Therefore, last week I knew that the “shock” of going with OT Lady on his own had left him pretty compliant, but I knew that this week would be a struggle.

And I’m just saying, OT Lady has referred several times to how “rigid” Zane is – he likes to do things in a certain order, for example – so I’d have thought she might have mentioned to him that things were going to change the next time she saw him. It seems like common sense that if you have a kid who is challenged by transition and change that you give him ample warning of changes to occur. But I didn’t say too much about it last week. I just knew that this week would be harder.

(My kid likes a routine. There’s nothing wrong with that. I myself am quite into predictability and routine. I’m the woman who thinks that lather, rinse, repeat is clear, concise, and helpful.)

But I digress…when I went back to see what Zane had done – after he fell into my arms with relief- Zane showed me a train picture he had colored, a train track he had cut, and some pieces of track that he had glued together.

Right on, OT Lady. If anything will motivate my son to perform, it’s playing with trains in any form – coloring, gluing, or cutting. Well done.

It was also just very thrilling for me. Zane has always been very resistant to coloring at home, although he likes to watch SRH and I color. (He bosses us around and tells us where to put which color. It’s charming.) But we have noticed in the past two weeks that he has been playing with his markers much more.

He also was able to hold the scissors much better today than he was even last week, and he was very proud of himself for it. He glued some pieces of track together while I was talking to OT Lady, and it all just felt really nice.

I can actually see a difference in his fine motor skills in this short period of time – which is really great!

Then she gave me several tips for things we can work on at home which were practical and easy to implement. Oh geez, lady, be careful. I might actually be impressed with this whole OT process.

Just as I was warming up a bit to the process, you know acknowledging that this might be helpful for Zane; I had to tell her that Zane wouldn’t be attending their preschool this summer. Our insurance won’t pay for any group therapy.

So she says, “Well, that’s really too bad. I mean, he has such difficulty separating from you. It would be good practice for him to spend some time with other kids on his own. It might help him from being so dependent on you.”

Oh no she didn’t…

C'est Moi 2

Well, I’m back at it. Answering your questions and finding inspiration in your queries. This is it, though. After this I’m going back to blogging about things you could care less about.

Questions from Karen:

What is your absolute dream job?
Well, as much as I hate being serious on this blog, I will admit that my absolute dream job would involve facilitating dialogue between groups of people helping them to grow and support each other across differences. I’d write about it and travel extensively, making a more peaceful world.

See, nobody wanted to hear that.

What do you *hope* Zane does for a living when he grows up? (and none of this, "whatever he's truly happy doing." we all know that's crap to a certain degree.) I mean, what would make you pee your pants happy?
Hecks no, I don’t want Zane to be truly happy. Truly happy usually means something social work-y or teacher-y, and we both know that road leads to the poorhouse.

One of the things I think would be really cool (and might make me pee my pants with happiness) is if Zane were an Olympic-caliber athlete. I know, it’s crazy, but every time I watch the Olympics (which I do obsessively when it’s on), I think how cool it would be to see your kid up on a podium – or even just participating in such an event of excellence.

I don’t care what sport, though. It could be curling. As long as he’s happy. :)

Questions from Anonymous:

When are you building the mother(-in-law) suite?
Bite your tongue.

Questions from allrileyedup:

Why does SRH's work email reject me?
SRH’s work email is notoriously fickle and unloving.

Should I have directed the above question elsewhere?
I don’t think so. “Elsewhere” is notoriously dishonest and unreliable.

I too would like to know what you and SRH did on your first date?
That makes two of us. He’s not fessing up, though, and I honestly have no idea. At this point he could tell me anything, and I’d just be glad to have a “memory” that I’d believe it.

Since we're cosmic twins and all, can I end every comment on your blog from now on with "Cosmic Twin Powers Activate!" (If you don't understand this, I'm sure SRH has knowledge of where this phrase originated.)
I understood. I wasn’t a big fan of the show, but I am a child of the 70’s and some cultural phenomena are inescapable. And yes, please add this to any and all comments.

(As a complete aside, there is an organization here in town named The Justice League. Cracks my stuff up every time they come to a meeting and talk about their agency. I mean, really.)

Have you always lived in Ohio?
No, actually. I was born in northeastern Ohio, but we moved to Iowa when I was five. My mom’s family is from Iowa, and we lived there until I was 12. Then we moved back to Ohio for my mom’s job. But we moved to rural, southern Ohio.

So, although you might not guess it, most of my childhood was spent in the country. I would actually prefer to not to be a city dweller, but moving to the country is not in our immediate future plans.

What is your degree in?
My undergrad degree is in Individual/Family Studies with an emphasis on Family Life. That degree doesn’t allow one to do much – besides running a childcare center, which I wasn’t too keen on – so I knew from my junior year on that I would have to go to graduate school.

My graduate degree is in social work, allowing me to be a psychotherapist – a job that I did for a few years before I figured out that I didn’t really care much for people.

If you could have any job in the world and money was no object, what would you do?
Okay, in the interest of giving you a different answer than I gave Karen, my other dream job is one where my overly sensitive taste buds and sense of smell make me money.

I’d like to be a taster/sniffer – but only of really delightful products. Ice creams and perhaps ranch dressings (but not the low-fat kind)? See, I’d really need to specialize.

I’m not sure there’s much of a market for a very sensitive and yet incredibly picky sommelier of ice cream. If you hear of something, let me know.

Favorite movie?
After noodling on this for a good 10 minutes, I’m just going to admit that I don’t like movies all that much. I am usually incredibly bored by the end of most of them. In fact, a “good” movie to me is one where I don’t make poke-my-eye-out-with-a-fork gestures at some point during the film.

My friends have multiple stories about my dislike of movies. It’s a wonder they still take me to the theatre. (Let’s just put it this way, you’re not a true friend until I’ve walked out of a theater in the middle of a film we’re watching together.)

Most hated kids TV show?
Easily, it is Disney’s Little Einsteins. It’s nonsensical and insulting to the intelligence of children. It’s creepy and asinine, and little Quincy is a modern-day minstrel.

Other than that, it’s fine.

Ever heard this joke: What's halfway between Dayton and Marion? Engagement.
Nope…never heard of it. Very impressive use of Ohio city puns, however.

Happy Anniversary!
Back at you!

Questions from Anonymous:

What one thing currently makes your head want to pop off immediately (i.e., what really pisses you off)?
You mean besides my friends coming onto my blog and spilling my secrets? (see your last question) Not much.

Okay, that’s not true. Mixing meats in a sandwich pisses me off. Okay, now we’re back to my food issues. This is turning out poorly for everybody.

Did you ever steal a yoga mat from the studio you hope to work at some time in the future?
Nope, my stupid conscience was all, “Don’t steal. It’s wrong.” And I was like, “Pipe down, you.”

But it didn’t work. Hence, no stealing.

So, why does she stay?
Good one, you! Fine, that’s another thing that makes my head want to pop off. Got me on that one.

What inspired you to start this blog that I must start my day with daily?
I guest posted on SRH’s blog a few times and got very positive feedback (i.e. comments). So I said to myself, “Well if a bozo like SRH can do it, I can probably do a blog-thingy, too.” Then I conned some of my friends into reading, and a not very popular blog was born.

How have you managed to hold onto so many great friends over the course of your life when a) you're a cutter offer; and b) you are not the greatest at keeping contact (your words not mine)?
My friends are clearly gluttons for punishment. That’s all I can glean from their continued participation in my life.

Questions from Dustin:

Red or white wine: which do you like better?
I don’t really care for either. I’m just not a wine-o.

Is it wrong to register for $60 steak knives (set of 8) when getting married?
Absolutely not! One’s job when registering for wedding gifts is to give people a range of gifts from the cheap and practical to the extravagantly impractical gifts. You’re not making people buy anything. You’re simply offering choices.

Plus, good steak knives are divine.

What you should feel badly about registering for is that Hansen cd with the Radiohead cover.

Should I believe KJ when she says that ice cream helps her do better in yoga class (thus necessitating that she get the last bite of Hagen Daaz)?

You know I'm a big fan of KJ, and she has my full support on this one. I think it might have something to do with Hagen Daaz actually improving the flow of prana through her sushumna nadi.

It's a yoga thing. You wouldn't understand.

Questions for Sue:

Ok - if you could have a super power, what would it be?
I’d have the ability to make SRH throw things away. Oh, I know it’s subtle, but it would truly change lives. It would change my life, anyway.

Have you ever known anyone to walk by a trash can with trash in their hand and still place said trash on the counter/floor/steps?

Geesh!

If you could live anywhere, where would it be?
Someplace temperate with mountains available.

I don’t have the exact location narrowed down (maybe pacific northwest?), but when I find it, I’m toasting this taco stand and heading there with my boys.

What is your very first memory and your approx age?
Have I mentioned that I have quite a bit of childhood trauma? You probably don’t really want to know my first memory.

However, my first happy memory is getting a Sit and Spin for Christmas when I was 2 ½. I had just had surgery on my bladder, so I put my little catheter bag on top and spun myself silly. (This memory still makes me smile.)

This rounds out the “ask me questions” section of my blog. It has been great fun – thanks for your assistance with it all.

Anytime you want questions from me, just ask!

C'est Moi

Am I lucky that my readers are such Nosy Nellies or what?! Thanks for the questions folks – I’m going to answer them in two batches, lest you get tired of reading my witty rejoinders.

Questions from Zulhai:

How and why did you become a yogi?
Well, my first answer, that I LOVE to be the only black person in a room, is not exactly accurate, so I’ll tell you the real story.

In a past life, I was a psychotherapist working exclusively with battered women. It was stressful and draining and traumatizing. (It was also inspiring, empowering, and fulfilling, but since that’s not the part of it that sent me to yoga, it’s not very relevant here.)

Anyway, I was stressed out and looking for a different form of exercise, and I kept hearing about ashtanga yoga, so I thought I’d give it a try. Not to be overly cheese-filled, but my first class was kind of like coming home. I have been doing yoga fairly regularly since, except when I wasn’t. (described here)

What are you reading for fun?
Because I believe in blog integrity, I will tell you even if it makes me feel a wee bit sheepish. I just finished a book called The Mountain’s Call. I’d like to report that I just read a book from the yearly 10 Best Books List or somesuch, but the truth is I want my fiction to be wholly not of this world. Therefore, I tend toward fantasy and historical fiction (not romance).

If you were to ever get a tattoo, what would it be?
I have two tattoos, but if I were to get another one (which I won’t because I feel like that would cross the line into tattoo-mania) I would most likely get some combination of Zane’s, SRH’s, and my initials.

What would your perfect garden look like?
Here’s something my mother did to me as a child: she made me really appreciate a beautiful yard full of flowers and trees. Here’s what she did not do: give me a love of gardening.

Therefore, my perfect garden would look like my mom out in my yard working to make it pretty.

Are you going to try and sell the house again?
No, no, a million times no. We are settled for the next few years at least.

Question from SRH:

Okay, Miss grumbling-about-my-not-mentioning-our-12th-anniversary. What did we do for our first actual date then? No fair asking me either.
You know that I have no idea what we actually did on our first date. I’m sure it involved food and sex. Am I right?

(Okay, the good girl in me right now is cringing that you all might believe that I slept with SRH on our first date. I didn’t. But it’s way better than the story I can’t remember.)

Questions from aeronwen:

How did you choose Zane's name?
I didn’t actually pick Zane’s name – SRH did. We had it narrowed down to two choices: Zane and Finn. I was so “over it” after my horrific labor experience that I made SRH choose.

However, the process of narrowing the list down to two choices was really difficult. At times I wondered how SRH and I had ever successfully lived together when he was so, so stupid.

What's your favorite quote?
I have many. Right now I’m partial to, The dream is real, my friends. The failure to realize it is the only unreality. Toni Cade Bambara

What's the coolest thing you own and why is it cool?
Although this will surprise no one, this is the point where I official cop to being “not cool”. I can’t think of anything cool that I own. My new kitchenaid ice cream scoop? Nah, no one will appreciate the beauty of its ergonomic utility. The four dollar necklace that I got from Santa this year? No, it’s not especially en vogue. It’s too delicate and cheap. My growing collection of greatest hits cds? (Cyndi Lauper, the Commodores, Counting Crows, LL Cool J) Nope, those just show that I have advanced to a certain age.

Using no more than 10 nouns, describe yourself.
Nouns are hard! But here it goes: mother, partner, mulatto (ha ha! what a horrific term, but it’s technically accurate), woman, feminist, blogger, yogi, learner, friend, bad ass.

Questions from Thea:

How can you not like graham crackers?
I believe that I have covered this quite thoroughly, but it bears repeating. Graham crackers are the work of the devil.

If you won the lottery, how would you spend the money?
I’d move to the Pacific Northwest and buy a reasonable house. SRH would get a new car and probably a new computer.

We’d travel. A lot.

I’d write every day, and pay someone to publish me. I’d also make an endowment to support core work at local domestic violence programs and innovative initiatives for ending woman abuse.

My mom would have no bills and a salary, and Zane would go to the best OT in the city. I might also invest in one of those mondo-big Rainbow Play systems. He’s a good kid. He likes to climb.

Also, we’d all have really cool shoes.

Giving specific locales, what is your dream vacation?
The problem is that I haven’t traveled that extensively, so specific locales are hard for me. But I really like the mountains and hiking, and I dream of going on a Country Walkers vacation.

How many licks does it take you to get to the center of a tootsie roll pop?
It’s like you’re killing me with the food stuffs, Thea. I HATE tootsie rolls. Therefore, I have never gotten to the center of one. I have found that the tootsie roll nastiness actually permeates the entire pop, so I have rarely gotten past 2 licks. Bleck!

Question from Lsig:

Aside from your totally awesome friends, what do you miss most about your college life?
The hookers and blow? No, that wasn’t me?

Okay, I really miss going out dancing. I never do that anymore. I’m always going to bed early and not drinking. Dancing was one of the best parts of college. (As an aside, one of the most popular dance songs of our college years was playing in my dentist’s office the other day. Remember this?)

Okay, that seems like enough for now. That was totally fun to do. More to come, so I hope you guys enjoyed it, too!

A Simple Request

We interrupt this regularly (irregularly, occasionally, or randomly) scheduled blog posting to bring you a brief request from an overworked, uninspired blogger.

The Back Story
Aside from deli men hitting on me and my love for SRH (which apparently is unrequited, since he didn’t even bother to mention our anniversary on his blog), I don’t have much energy to post right now.

For starters, I have been crazy busy at work for the past few weeks. I know, go figure. It’s either feast or famine, and right now I’m feasting. Or famine-ing, if we are referencing my amount of free time. But we probably aren’t, so feast it is.

I have three nights scheduled out of the house this week. And, unfortunately, they’re not out drinking and carousing. They are all work-related. Stupid work.

I still have Keith Richards wreaking havoc in my liver and gall bladder. To be fair, it is getting better. I think it’s because I’m not plying him with booze and women, but I’m not entirely sure.

We’re giving Zane at least two rescue breathing treatments a day - which is not stellar, but it’s not awful, either.

I am this close to naming Zane’s OT as my official Nemesis, but I keep feeling badly because she’s so young and eager to please.

Anyway, all of this has left me with precious little time for figuring out what to blog about, let alone actually writing a post.

That’s where your assistance is needed, dear readers.

The Request
To steal a page from SRH, who regularly gets people to provide blog fodder for him, I’m requesting that you ask me questions. Make queries. Interrogate me.

What do you want to know about me? Ask me whatever you want, and I’ll answer in my next post. (or in the comments, if it’s a simple question.)

Come on, lay them on me. I am a woman of many mysteries, but I’m offering to give you my secrets (well, not those secrets), if only you are brave enough to ask.

What do you want to know?

Twelve Years and Counting

Today SRH and I have been together 12 years. We celebrate it as an “anniversary”, primarily because I like to go out to dinner, but also because it seems – in some ways – almost as important as the day we were married.

Twelve years ago this evening as I made my way to my 819^th collegiate party, I had the following thought, What am I doing here? I have a really nice, cute, smart guy who likes me, and I’m not allowing it to happen. What am I - a freak?

Ah, sweet self-talk. Thank you for making sure that I didn’t blow a chance with a really wonderful guy.

But enough with the niceties – here’s what happened.

I had recently gotten out of a craptastic relationship and had decided that I wasn’t going to date anyone for at least a year. You make bad dating decisions, I told myself. You never even want to be in a relationship, and then you date these needy guys who make you feel bad for not wanting to be with them. So, you hang out with them – against your better judgment; and then two years later, you finally figure out a way to break up. Much drama ensues.

So I decided that I just wanted to be on my own for a while. I had been in a relationship for almost five years straight, I was 20 years old, and I just wanted to be by myself.

I wanted to kiss a bunch of boys and flirt outrageously – and go home alone. I wanted to casually date more than one person at a time (something my fiercely loyal self had never done) and plan a future without a significant other. I wanted to keep company with a virtual Benetton ad of hunks, spend outrageous amounts of time with my girlfriends, and not look back.

Enter SRH. He has always foiled my best laid plans.

Twelve years ago, I went to a party and decided to do something that was good for me even though the timing wasn’t perfect.

Two days later, I knew it would be serious.

Two months later, he mentioned marriage.

Two years later, we promised to be together for the rest of our lives in front of 150 people.

(We also promised to “love your body as it ages” – and thank heavens for that particular vow! We could both be in a whole heap of trouble if we hadn’t included that one. I’m just saying. Marriage and child rearing aren’t quick tickets to a hot body - no matter what the deli guy thinks.)

Anyway, best decision of my life, happy anniversary SRH, blah, blah, blah…

When You Got It, You Got It

The strangest thing happened to me today. I was doing my regular Monday morning things: taking Zane to his OT appointment, getting very irritated about said OT appointment, trekking to the battery store to find a replacement part for Zane’s nebulizer, and making a trip to the grocery store.

A fine morning, really. Not delightful. Not heinous. (Well, the OT was a bit heinous, but I’m working hard to move through this.)

Anyway, it was at the grocery store that the strange thing happened. I got hit on. Like honest to goodness, a man took a fancy to me.

It was so strange that I didn’t really recognize what was happening until it was over. One minute I was wrangling my preschooler; the next, I was walking away from a fairly handsome young fellow feeling slightly embarrassed.

And I don’t tell you this lightly. In fact, I almost didn’t post about this at all. After all, it seems kind of arrogant to while away your time with stories of my desirability. But it’s only arrogant if you don’t realize that it happens to me so rarely that I didn’t even know it was happening until it was almost over.

It happened at the deli counter, which makes sense as my would-be paramour was the deli guy.

And now I will give you an entirely fictional account of what occurred. (Because the real account – of how he smiled goofily at me a few times and then brushed my hand as he handed me my ham – just isn’t all that interesting.)

Deli Bob: Hey, Little Lady. Can I help you?

Me: What? Um, yeah. I’d like a half pound of your London Broil, please. Zane, get your finger out of your nose!

Deli Bob: I’d like to broil some of your London. I’ll get that right for you.

Me: Broil some of my London? I’m not sure that sentence even makes sense. Can I also get another half pound of your turkey ham?

Deli Bob: Nobody likes turkey ham. You’re just coming up with reasons to talk to me. Don’t fight it. By the way, how would you like that sliced?

Me: Thin, but not shaved. And I do like turkey ham. It’s all the flavor of ham, but it’s healthier.

Deli Bob: (brushes my hand as he hands me my deli meat) Is that good? You know it is.

Me: Uh…yeah. Thanks.

So, there it is. My amorous adventure of the day. I've learned a valuable lesson, though: Never go to the grocery store in anything but yoga pants. No one ever hits on the lady in yoga pants.