Trippin'. Road Trippin'.

The wife and D and I left what feels like months ago on a road trip to Nashville. We finally made it here at 4:30 this morning and were passed out in bed shortly after 5:00. The shower I took was the best in a while. We're starting our day late but it was worth it to get six hours of sleep after about 6 hours of sleep in the last two days total. Below are some observations and lessons learned along the way. Yes, it's a list. You know how I like my lists.

1. There are a lot of cows in this country. And a shit ton of corn. 

2. If someone tells you that it will take two days to get from Oregon to Nashville, they are fucked in the head and you should ignore their uninformed suggestion. Or punch them in face. Or the nuts. Your choice. 

3. It is possible to get pulled over for Failure to Use a Turn Signal at 2:00 in the morning in the middle of Fucking Nowhere. Hopefully you will also get off with just a warning. 

4. There are bison at one single rest area in Wyoming. Blink and you will miss it. 

5. Nebraska is not an ugly state, but it takes 10 weeks to get through the fucker. 

6. The arch in St. Louis is gigantic and beautiful.

7. Bras are completely unnecessary on road trips. 

8. Girlfriends are the best to travel with. 

9. Idaho has a disturbing lack of highway signage. And apparently they need a wall around the city of Boise. 

10. The radio stations east of Utah are really into their oldies. And country. And religious talk.

11. If you stumble through the hotel after waking up and you need to go get your luggage so you can take a shower and you have dragon breath from not brushing your teeth for a day and a half and you look like ass, there will be a cute boy in the elevator. 

Best sites along the way:

1. The random dinosaur statue at the end of a row of corn. 

2. Sun setting in Wyoming. 

3. The giant bull statue somewhere. 

4. Gateway Arch in St. Louis. 

5. Any gas station when driving on fumes. 

6. Abandoned houses and barns. 

7. Puppies at rest stops.

8. Any bed anywhere after 2:00 in the morning. 

9. Texts with pictures of my dogs from petsitters. 

10. State signs. 

Dirty Old Men Are Dirty. And I Like It.

The wife and I were out doing Tour of Homes. Which, for us, means critiquing houses that we can't afford. "That orange floor is obscene." "Why would you want a closet with a window in the front of the house?" "These doors don't even close!"

Whilst out assessing homes in a professional manner, we kept running into the same cute, portly old man. Tottering along ahead of his wife. After a while he asked if we were following him. Why yes, of course. When you find your dream man you follow him.

After finding him at yet another house he commented again on how we were following him. This was the conversation.

Wife: We are! We thought we'd lost you, we said, 'Where did he go?' But here you are!
Him: That's what she said last night.
Us: ........ Um. ......

We told his wife that he is sassy and she said, "You have no idea."

No, I think we do have an idea. We would adopt him if we could find him again.

WTF Are You Eating Now???

Dogs are gross. As adorable as my Ruby Tuesday is, she might just be equally as gross. As in totally, completely, unbelievably disgusting.

She eats poop. We've talked about this. She eats the poop that she subsequently throws up. This also isn't news. You know what's new? This gross thing she did this morning.

Here comes Rembrandt into the bathroom while I'm getting ready for work. Now, I'm already not super happy with him because he has developed this carpet-licking fetish. Any time I find him alone in a room, he's licking the carpet. And when I yell at him he just looks at me blankly. "What, it's just carpet. Chill out already."

So he ambled into the bathroom and then started coughing and hacking. Probably coughing up carpet lint. I bet he'll start hacking up carpet balls if he keeps it up. And at first Ruby looks at him like she wants to know if he's alright. No. No, that's not what she cared about. She wanted to know if he was hacking up anything she could eat. She stuck her head in his mouth so she could catch it on its way up. "Oooh, whatcha got there? Dusty, phlegm-covered gook? Sounds tasty!"

Seriously. Dog. Wtf? You really want to eat what other dogs barf up now? Your own isn't fulfilling enough for you anymore? Does his spit make it taste better? Really, I want to know.

Guess what I did before leaving for work this morning? Yep. I kissed that little fuzzy mouth. I guess I'm not that deeply traumatized.

How to Thrive

I recently ended a year-and-a-half relationship. It's okay; it was necessary and a positive step. Even so, it's cause to reflect on my past relationships and what I've learned about why each happened and/or ended. There is one glaring variable in each and that is how much I have changed.

When I was first divorced, with a three-year-old daughter, I was afraid to be around other people. Specifically married people who had supposedly "gotten it right." I felt as if I just stood out, like there was a neon sign designating me as the failure in the room. I wanted so badly to have that again, to fit in with the "normal" parents. Now I find myself looking at these people and wondering if they're really happy, assuming most of the time they aren't. Marriage is hard.

I then went through a very difficult relationship that never gave me what I wanted. In trying to get what I wanted I bent, I twisted, I did everything I could think of to contort myself into what would make it work. Because I was Relationship Girl and I was damned if I wasn't going to make it work. I never got what I wanted and, instead, I lost myself in the process.

In the years after that relationship ended, I worked at finding myself again. Discovering what I liked. What I wanted from my life and who I wanted to be. I chose my friends carefully, surrounding myself with people who offered me the missing pieces of me. My security. My passions. My confidence. My humor. Self-sufficiency. Self-acceptance.

While discussing this most recent relationship with my hairdresser, I suddenly realized that I don't thrive in relationships. I thrive when I'm on my own. I've gained more out of my life in the times I've been "alone" than in any relationship I've ever been in. I thrive.

I shared this thought with a friend who expounded on it, saying that as women we focus on our partners, building them up until we, ourselves, are crushed. We fall behind in the shadows and expend all of our energy making sure the man in our life has what he needs to be secure. We lose track of what we need.

In each relationship of mine there has been an imbalance. Whether that imbalance was rooted in intelligence, a lack of mutual feelings, family backgrounds, or life stages, I feel like that is the core of why they didn't last. What I need is equality. Maybe equality will allow me the ability to thrive.

And, maybe, there is the possibility that I'm just not meant to be in a relationship. At this point in my life I value my independence over the many compromises that are required to be a successful partner. I've worked hard to be me and I'm not willing to just trade that away for the "security" offered in a relationship.

Maybe. I don't have the answers yet. I'm getting closer. What I know right now is that I have love in my life. I have a beautiful daughter who still needs me, even if for just a little while longer. I have love from friends who offer support, encouragement, and plenty of laughter. I have dogs who love me no matter what I'm going through and are happiest snuggling next to me. I have passions and interests and new adventures yet to be discovered.

These are the things that help me to thrive. I prefer thriving over wilting.

.

Bacon Is In Danger

I came across this little gem of a story today. You know what's super sexy in a man? When he looks like Ryan Gosling and he cares about animals. Oh, wait! The real Ryan Gosling cares about animals. Seriously? He is so hot right now I think he might spontaneously combust. Hot, hot, hot.

He loves his dog. He takes his dog everywhere. And he also likes pigs. He's a Wilbur-lover!! Uh-oh. Hold the fucking phone!! Pigs = bacon. By trying to protect pigs, he is bacon-blocking the rest of us!! If one tiny little spider can save one pig, just think of the thousands of slabs of bacon His Royal Sexiness can save!!

Well now, this is certainly a dilemma. Continuing to eat bacon might reduce any chance I ever have with Mr. Gosling. But bacon is delicious. But Ryan is hot. But bacon. But sexiness. Bacon. Beautiful man. Crap!

Okay, here's my solution. If Ryan Gosling sleeps with me I will give up bacon. People exchange sex for much less all the time, so I think it's a pretty fair trade. Sex for bacon. I mean, sex for the absence of bacon. (I think I can, I think I can!)

I will simply have my people get in touch with Ryan's people and he and I will save a few pieces of bacon. I mean pigs. We'll save pigs. Lots of Wilburs!

Take that, Charlotte.

Why Do I Bother?

Spend an hour straightening my hair. Get this response:
"Did you straighten your hair?"
"Yes."
"Oh."

Spend 30 minutes curling my hair. Get this response:
"Your hair looks good. It's not frizzy."
"Thanks?"

Pull wet-just-out-of-the-shower hair back into a big clip because I'm either too lazy, running late, or too hot to spend 20 minutes under a hair dryer. Get this response:
"OH MY GOSH!! YOUR HAIR LOOKS SO GOOD!!!! WILL YOU SHOW ME HOW TO DO THAT???!!!?"

Srsly.

Uncle Lynn and Looming Mortality

This weekend I found out that my Uncle Lynn passed away. He had a stroke a couple of weeks ago and apparently the second one this weekend took him from us. Too soon, as they say.

My mom has/had three brothers and two sisters. She is the oldest of the six. My Aunt Renea will always be my favorite aunt, but I noticed my cousins commenting that Uncle Lynn was their favorite uncle. Each uncle has been my favorite at some point. What I remember most about Uncle Lynn was his zest for life and his big laugh. Of course he ate too much and drank too much and smoked too much, but that was him. He had big appetites.

Because I grew up in California and the rest of the family was in Mississippi, I haven't ever been especially close to any of them or known any one any better than the others. I just know that I love them all. And any time I was there to visit, Uncle Lynn gave me the biggest bear hugs of anyone. It is instantly home to me, even though I didn't grow up there. He will be missed. Going back now won't be the same. There will always be a large hole that only Uncle Lynn could fill.

His death, while sorrowful in its own right, has a deeper meaning to me. My grandparents are gone. All of them. They have been for a few years now. When that happened, I felt the shift. I think as long as grandparents are around, a part of us can still be kids. And now another shift has occurred, rearranging my world further. The first of my parents' generation is gone. Those details I take for granted are starting to slip by. My own mortality is suddenly looming closer. The time I have with everyone is swiftly diminishing. I feel the losses to come.

Uncle Lynn is gone too soon. In his honor, please find the nearest person that you love and give them the bestest, biggest bear hug from the bottom of your heart.

I Didn't Even Break a Nail

The Wifey finally got her patio furniture this weekend. I say finally because one recent weekend we spent  two hours in Lowe's trying to decide on a set. The sales guys looked like they wanted to kick us out of the store after question #33. Do they deliver? Do they assemble? How much is this? How much is that? They kept encouraging her to go online for her purchase, probably just to get us out of what hair they had remaining.

This little event also happened after she purchased a set for an astronomical price that sent her into massive hysterics. It was so outrageous I couldn't even support it or justify it in any way so the order was canceled.

So, finally. The chosen set (at a reasonable price) was delivered Saturday. Being the magnanimous friend that I am, I offered to help her put it together. She told me it would be hard, I told her it would take 20 minutes. Both of us were right and both of us were wrong.

Three hours and two gallons of sweat later, we were relaxing comfortably in the assembled chairs, our feet propped on the assembled ottomans, my cocktail on the assembled fire pit/table. D even helped, assembling an ottoman all by her lonesome.

Of course we took the opportunity to teach her an important life lesson: to know the difference between needing a man and wanting a man. Would we have preferred to have a dude around to do the dirty work for us? Hell, yeah. I would rather have been inside enjoying the refreshing air conditioning instead of lying on the ground getting feasted on by ants and cutting myself either with scissors or screws. The point was that we got it done. We didn't need a handy dude. We are handy enough.

The BBQ that she got? It took three dudes just to load it into her car. Two of us girls to unload it and reassemble it after they messed it up.

After all that work, we decided we did need a delivery guy. Sometimes it's just necessary to have someone bring you food.

Being A Bad Ass

A few years ago I went through quite a transition, at the end of which I think I came out stronger and a better person. Certainly better than I had been for a long time. I decided that I wanted to mark said transition with a honkin' big tattoo. After researching possibilities, I decided on a peacock. Peacocks symbolize royalty and strength, but resemble their cousin the Phoenix in that they signify new life and new beginnings. Because I knew it was going to be expensive and I wanted the right person to do it, it took a while to finally make the plan to get it done.

This month I spent two sessions getting the absolutely most perfect tattoo I could have ever dreamed of. Only it's not a peacock because I insist on the right to change my mind. Instead I got a lion but my incredibly talented artist (Holly from Mum's if you're inspired after this story) incorporated a peacock design in my lion's mane. He's beautiful, he's gorgeous, I couldn't love him more. And two sessions? Yeah, he's kinda big.

I know you're all going to ask and, yes, it hurt. It hurt like a mofo. When I got my two smaller tattoos there was no pain. Maybe a mild annoyance, but no pain. I have been living for the last 12 years under the false assumption that I am special and immune to pain. I am not. I wish I were one of those people that could just transform her mind to another place to avoid the pain. Instead, I get consumed by it. I practiced labor breathing, I hummed to the music playing in the room, I tensed every muscle that exists in my body.

But here's the thing. It was totally worth it. 100%. Enduring the seven hours of excruciating pain was totally worth the art I now sport on my skin.

Now for the dumb part. I love it. I love its placement. But it's not in an easy spot to show off. Especially in a dress. Which is what I wore to my friend's baby shower this past weekend. And, because it's so new and I'm so newly in love with it, I can't stop talking about it. Which just makes people want to see it. Duh.

At the end of the shower my friend kind of insisted on seeing it so a group of us trotted off to the restaurant bathroom for the Big Reveal. Her baby daddy happened to be there. Of course he wanted in on the viewing. Oh well, it's not like it's the first time I've exposed myself to a near stranger.

The funny part is that this baby daddy is a 6'6" tall black dude. (he claims that he and my friend are having a blaxican which amuses me endlessly.) When I turned around and lifted my dress up, he exclaimed, "Ouch! No way! You are a bad ass." There were other murmurs of approval before I returned to some modicum of modesty.

So apparently, that's how I do baby showers. Putting my tattooed ass on exhibit in the women's restroom.

I am kind of a bad ass though. And I know it sounds cheesy, but my lion is a reminder of how far I've come and that I have the strength to keep going. He's colorful, he's creative, he has a quiet dignity and a kindness about him. These are all things I hope to be at some point.

Although public restrooms probably don't offer the highest sense of dignity. Huh.
Bygones.

It's Understandably Disturbing

This will be disgusting if you are squeamish. Or very, very private. Or, probably, male. Feel free to stop here. I'm not holding back on this one.

Are you sure you want to go on?

Okay, we're diving into the deep end on this one.

For years and years and years I was on The Pill. I liked being on The Pill. Short periods, no babies, minimal PMS. ("Minimal" being a relative term.) Last year, because I'm "old" and have high cholesterol and my gynecologist hates me, I was taken off of The Pill. She suggested an IUD. I considered suggesting she mind her own damn business and I wasn't paying her to take meds away from me.

Fast forward a year. I've gained 10 pounds, I have monster PMS, and every month I'm a walking crime scene. Not to mention the regular T-Rex vs. King Kong battles in my uterus. Ladies, some of you wish you didn't know what I'm talking about but you do. I whine to my doctor, hoping she'll put me back on my Beloved Pill. Nope. "You should really consider an IUD. Here is some information on Merena." Seriously? You should consider fucking off.

But the cramps got worse and I started to wonder if Aunt Flo shouldn't be renamed Aunt Niagara Falls. So a few months later I gave in. After calling my insurance company that I don't have to pay to have a foreign object inserted into my body. I also did my research on the internets. Pluses/minuses, pros/cons. Pro? I never want to give birth to another teenager again in my entire life so I'm okay with long-term birth control. Con? The foreign object in my body. Plus? It's possible I could stop having a period entirely. Minus? Foreign object in my body. Fine, let's do this. I made the appointment.

And now we come to the educational portion of this post. I am going to tell you what I learned that I shouldn't have and what I experienced that no "informative" online searches will tell you.

Do not look up videos online of IUD placement. Don't do this. You know, guys are lucky. Their junk is just out there all day long. "Oh look, there's my penis." "I'll stop and look at my penis while I'm getting dressed." "Time to pee. Why hello there, penis friend!" They're rather fond of waving those things around. I know that I have a vagina. We are intimately acquainted. I know when she's happy and when she's not. But I am not overly familiar with what she looks like, so I always feel a bit jarred when confronted with a full-on vagina. And, even though I've been told that mine is quite attractive, I always think it looks weird. This is what you will see in these videos. You will see soft, vulnerable flesh manipulated with a speculum while a small tube disappears inside. It's a bit unnerving. Just skip this part.

Also skip any videos that tell you about personal experiences. You don't need to know about That One Girl who had the worst placement experience ever and just insisted on sharing it with the internets. These women mean well, but they should just write that shit in their diaries and move on.

Do learn all that you can from reliable medical sources. All birth control is not created equally and neither are women's bodies. What works for me may not work for you and vice-versa. You want to make an educated, informed decision about your reproductive rights. Do talk to your friends. My friends assured me that the IUD is great and lovable and that it works for them.

Now, say you decide to go ahead. If you would like to know about the actual placement experience, let's continue. Because the freaky things that happen, you won't find in any so-called helpful research.

The advice I got from the nurse was to take ibuprofen an hour before my appointment. Done. The general advice I saw online was to have someone drive you home afterward. I didn't think that would be necessary, but I did have a back-up plan just in case.

The whole procedure is like a PAP Smear Supreme. Same stirrups, same speculum, same lying-down-staring-at-whatever-lame-object-is-hung-from-the-ceiling. In my case it was a dragonfly. I would like to suggest to the gynecological offices worldwide that you offer something comforting at these times. A puppy would be really excellent in helping to take our minds off of what is going on down there, but then everyone in the room would be distracted by the cuteness and bad things could happen. I really like those warm, freshly-warm-out-of-the-dryer blankets you get in hospitals. Even a teddy bear would be appreciated. Something.

Moving on.

This is like an extended PAP. There's some extra scraping. (In my case, this was probably clean-up because my doctor prefers to do this while you're on your period. Like in the middle of it. Something about the cervix being softer and making the procedure easier.) There's a numbing process and this is where is starts to get bizarre. "You may get a weird taste in your mouth and your mouth will go numb." Um, okay. What? And just as I was saying how very odd that sounded, there went my tongue. Numbness. It didn't stop there. There was some more scraping or pressure or whatever was going on. Some handoffs between doctor and nurse, some conversation between the two of them. And then, "You might feel like someone is squeezing your tonsils." This was during the actual insertion part. What? How on earth are my mouth and throat connected to my uterus? Oh no!! I can't swallow! My throat is paralyzed!! It won't move! What on earth is going on here?? I'm going to die!!!!! Oh, okay, wait, that's better. My throat is working again. That was some weird shit.

Remember how my vagina is allegedly attractive? Well, it turns out that my cervix and uterus are textbook. The whole thing went exactly as it was supposed to. Yay. Bragging rights. I have textbook reproductive organs. Right on.

I thought it was over, but there was one more step. The ultrasound. To make sure the tiny little piece of plastic went in just the right place. This entails the use of something that looks like an extra extra extra long dildo, complete with condom cover. At that point I just wanted to be done. I didn't want anymore intrusions into my at-this-point sensitive lady parts. I only looked at the picture on the screen to appease her and get it over with. Perfect placement. "You're good for five years. Have a nice day."

I was told that I would have cramping afterward, but by that point I'd already been cramping for days so it wasn't a big deal. I didn't need the ride home, but I did stop to get a milkshake on my way back to the office. Hey, I'd earned it. I left work an hour early and spent the evening on the couch, but it really wasn't worse than the worst cramps that I have. I had a little nausea so I decided against going to zumba. No need to act like a superhero. It's now been 24+ hours and I'm still cramping, but I'm also still having my period.

Overall, it wasn't all that bad. Few things are ever as bad as expected, but I thought you should know about those little surprises that nobody else mentioned. Throat-tightness and the inability to swallow might be a trigger for those with anxiety. I could have really freaked out over that, but it lasted less than 30 seconds.

However, if you want to milk it, it's completely fair to say that you don't want to cook or do dishes. Cramps are stupid and it's perfectly acceptable to spend an evening on the couch eating ice cream.

Mommy and Me: The Teenage Edition

You know those Mommy and Me groups where moms get together and drink coffee and compare diaper brands while their babies roll around on the floor? They set up play dates and share ideas about naps and support each other through teething and first-day-of-kindergarten jitters. Pinterest now has whole boards dedicated to cute food and lunch recipes, the best craft projects, and suggestions for mother-daughter dates. Magazine articles discuss the fine balance between career aspirations and juggling sports schedules and dance recitals.

These are all great. Because being a mom is a tough job and these outlets and groups provide support for moms during these important formative years. But you know what? There's a huge segment of the population left in the dark. These are the moms of teenagers, who probably need the support more than the moms complaining that every shirt they own has a spit-up stain on it.

Teething? Walk in the park. Colic? That was nearly unbearable, but it ended. Those first days of school, while tearful, are reasons to celebrate. They're bittersweet milestones that we live for. I had oodles of patience when my daughter was a baby. I was so completely smitten with her. I felt like she was my purpose in life. When she cried, it was merely a matter of discerning the reason and Fixing It for her. Cake. Seriously.

Teenagers are a completely different animal. There are jokes about how hard it is and how they're these alien beings. The older moms I know promise me that she'll come back. I recently read a really beautiful analogy, something about how children are in their own orbit and during the teenage years it's dark because they're on the other side of the moon and you just have to wait for their homecoming.

Only I don't want to wait. I want it all to be okay now. I want to know that I'm not the huge failure I feel that I am on a nearly daily basis. I want her back now. The dark is too dark.

D has depression. I have depression. D has anxiety. I have anxiety. What all of this means is that there is an extra layer of difficulty. She finds it harder to concentrate; she's easily overwhelmed. But she constantly self-sabotages and I can't get her to see that. I find it harder to deal with her. When she isn't home at the designated time and doesn't return texts, I stare out the window waiting for the cops to show up at my door and tell me she's gone. We yell about what's fair and what isn't fair. There are empty promises and chance after chance after chance.

She's smart but she won't try. Her grades reflect her apathy. She has one more year and I feel like I can't do it. If she's not sitting right in front of me, I can't trust her to do what needs to be done. Hell, I can't even trust then that she isn't sitting there staring at Facebook or Tumblr. And, heading into her senior year, I shouldn't have to hold her hand and be on her every minute.

This is where we need a new kind of Mommy and Me. Maybe the kind where we drink bottles of wine and pass around the Kleenex box and commiserate about what selfish little turds teenagers are. The kind where we can say the dark, ugly things we feel and not be judged for them.

I have never felt more alone in my life. It's an endless cycle of just feeling like shit. She's difficult, I'm tired. I know that high school ends and she can do what she's supposed to do so I encourage, I prod, I threaten, I plead, I cajole. I get tired. I want to give up. I want to walk away or run away. I want to leave her to fend for herself because it just isn't worth it. What kind of mother does that? I feel guilty, I hate myself, I hate my life, it all hardly seems worth it. Guilt, guilt, guilt. So I try again but it's more exhausting. She needs me. I'm responsible for her. I don't want to fail. I don't want her to fail. I don't care.

I also am always holding back. I want to tell her that she's sucking the goddamn life out of me. That she makes everything harder for me and can she just get it the fuck together and stop slowly killing me. But the words never leave my mouth because they are not words you say to a child with depression. They are not words that a mother says to her child. And yet I need her to know, but I know that she can't handle it yet. So. The vicious cycle repeats.

Yeah, this isn't a happy day. I'd like to sit here and tell you that I will rally. That another day is another chance. That I'm stronger than I think. The truth is though, that isn't how I feel. These are the things They don't tell you. There is no help menu, no magic troubleshooting wizard. It's just hard.

The dirty truth is that sometimes, some days are just harder than the rest.

Things I'm Not Ready For

D will be 17 next month. Which means I have one year left to "enjoy" her childhood. I'm not ready for the ups and downs and the roller coaster of emotions that this will bring. I can't wait for her to leave, I can't bear the thought of her leaving. I'm so proud of her growing up; I want her to go back to being little. It's the best and the worst and the happiest and the saddest and the weirdest of times.

Our most recent development is dating. She has a boyfriend. A steady. They're going out. They're hooked up. Whatever the current lingo is, there is a boy who is significant in her life. He's the cat's meow. It on a stick. Her main squeeze. You get the idea.

What I'm most proud of her for in this little tale of puppy love is that she clearly set her boundaries in the beginning. There is a history between the two of them and she told him right off, "I'm messed up. I have problems. Decide right now if you want to stick around, because I can't have my heart broken." This is how you do it. Bow down.

At first it was sort of adorable. Their names rhyme. He brings her chocolate. He cute-asked her to prom (which is another whole teenage cultural trend that has gotten out of control, but is beside the point right now). And then it started to get serious. And I have started to freak out.

She loves to tell me things. Lots of things. Sometimes too many things. She told me the exact moment that she knew she loves him. And she was so deliriously happy about it. "We were riding back and this song came on and it was the first song we slow-danced to and I just looked at him and he looked at me and right then I just knew I knew how I felt I knew that I love him." Yes, read that without taking a breath because that's how she said it.

My heart broke a little. Because I am happy for her, but I can't completely share in her excitement. She's not my girlfriend, she's my baby girl. And this specific moment of happiness won't last. It's pure and new and so sweet and I know of all the heartache that's to come. I don't want her heart broken. I don't want her hurt. I want her to ride this little cloud of bliss into the sunset.

Over Mother's Day weekend she shared lots of stories and feelings with me. A big topic of conversation was the fact that the Three Little Words were said the week before (per my advice, she made him say them first. I repeat, bow down.). The cynic in me wanted to vomit while the mom in me wanted to cry. I don't think either was the reaction she had hoped for.

While we were having lunch she said, "You can ask me anything you want. If there's anything you want to know, I'll tell you." This was in relation to the boy because he is all she wants to talk about. But I don't want to know. I don't want to ask. I don't want certain images in my head. I don't need to know, it's none of my business, and for Pete's sake!! I'm your mother and we don't talk like girlfriends!!!! If you tell me how you feel when he kisses you I will have to pour acid in my ears!!!!!!!!!!

So I asked her if she's ever smoked a cigarette. Or been drunk outside the house. Or inhaled. These are safe topics. These are questions I'm somewhat prepared to hear the answers to. These are things that I can freak out about and she will understand and her feelings won't be hurt. I don't have to be fake-supportive or lie about how sweet it is. These are very clearly bad things and we both understand this.

I don't want to be the cynic. I don't want to crush her little spirit. But, damn it, boys are icky and she needs to put a lid on this until she's 30. Or until I die. I reserve the right to change my mind about either limit at any time.

The Circle of Life

Lots going on lately. Beginnings, endings, starting, finishing. I hardly know which way is up anymore.

I finished school last week. I officially (or soon will, once it arrives in the mail) hold a master's degree. An M.B.A. It took nearly two years and seemed like it would last forever. I turned in my last assignment on Thursday and then just sat there. Huh. That's it? I think I expected balloons and streamers to fall from the ceiling. Nope. It was rather anti-climatic. No big fanfare. No claps on the back. No cheering audience.

Even now I think I'm supposed to be working on a paper. I felt guilty sleeping in this morning. I'm so used to having deadlines looming over my head. I can sleep in now. I have my weekends back. And yet, somehow, it seems wrong.

Maybe because I did it by myself. No classmates. No group discussions. Just me. Sitting at my kitchen table.  Early mornings. Late nights. Weekend afternoons. Whatever it took. Just me. Often a cup of coffee. Usually some music. It became a routine, something to always think about. My crazy mind thinks that maybe I should just keep going. I always wanted a PhD, right? No. Not really. Right?

D went to her junior prom last night. I think I'm still processing that. That and the almost $300 I spent between the dress, the shoes, the handbag, flowers, and the fake eyelashes she had to have. I went to take pictures of her with her date. Her boyfriend. Boyfriend. KY and I went to dinner afterward. He asked, "How does it feel that your little girl is growing up?" Damn it. I was okay until then. Then, in that moment, I wanted to run and get her and hug her and bring her home and watch cartoons with her. I didn't want to her to grow up. To be with a boy. To move on, in any way.

KY's insightful observation? "You can't wait for her to leave. You're so tired of having her around and want her to move on and then you cry and can't stand the thought of her leaving and want her to stay forever. I can't keep up with it all." Really? Imagine how it feels to be inside my body.

Because I do want her to go. Parenting is exhausting. But I don't think I will ever be done either. I don't want her to be in love. She tells me how she feels about her boyfriend and I don't want to know. I want, more than anything, for her to be happy. But does it have to be him? Does it have to be that way? I don't get to choose her happiness and part of me is relieved. But another part of me thinks that is just crap. It's confusing to say the least.

Next year she will graduate. Which means a couple of things. She will start her new life. And so will I. I don't have to stay here anymore. Her leaving means I get to leave too. I get to Start Over.

This summer we are road-tripping. Checking out schools for her and a new location for me. It both thrills me and terrifies me. I like the familiar. Change generally freaks me out. Even when I choose the change, it's a challenge. And this is a big change. I have my sights set on a spot on the map far, far from this current X. It's a big leap.

Yep. Lots going on right now. Plans, adjustments, goals are all changing. I don't know yet how I will land. Or where. But I think it's time. It's time to shake it up a little bit. Time to reach a little higher and a little farther. It's time for a new adventure. It's time to grow up.

Maybe.

Degrees of Separation. Or the Best Celebrity Sighting Ever. Ever!!

I once had a brush with celebrity.

Actually, growing up in Southern California, I probably had several. I was supposedly spotted by a talent scout somewhere in Sun Land, but my mother turned them down. Her first incarnation as puppet master.

I saw Tom Bosley at the pool at the Disneyland hotel when I was 12 or so. Later I caught a glimpse (and a blurry photo) of George Takei, also at Disneyland. I talked to Gedde Watanabe (from Sixteen Candles) in line for the Revolution at Magic Mountain.

I went to Universal Studios enough to have the tour memorized. Clock from Back to the Future? Check. Fake shark from Jaws? Check. Not scary, by the way. Earthquake? Old hat, everyday occurrence.

And then I moved to Oregon. Where limos were not an everyday occurrence. Kevin Costner filmed at Smith Rock but I didn't see that movie. Jennifer Love Hewitt "worked out" at the Athletic Club of Bend. With Mario Lopez. Actually, she just stretched in front of him. She was in my way. While I was earnestly working out to look good on my honeymoon. Yes, this was a lifetime ago.

And then I went to Victoria. Butchart Gardens, to be exact. My ex-boyfriend was totally crushing on a guy that he claimed was on Stargate. Stargate? Wtf, right? Who cares? He followed him around like a little puppy dog. Drooling. I was embarrassed. I tried to verify the sighting casually. Tall? Yes. Dreads? Yes. But he was with an older woman. His mom? Oh, yes. It was Mother's Day weekend. Poor guy, he just wants to be alone with his mom. He turned away every time he caught me looking at him. Annoyed. Irritated. I understood. I pulled the ex-boyfriend away.

Flash forward a few years. I'm watching Game of Thrones. Like the Nerd Girl I am. Except a lot of people I know watch it too so it's acceptable. And then Khal Drogo appears. In all of his ferociousness and base sexiness. That growl. That intensity. I was gone. Gone. And then....

The long hair. Check. That shy look. Check. Oh, dear lord. It's him. I fucking saw Khal Drogo in Victoria, Canada. On Mother's Day. With his mommy. Looking at fucking flowers.

Yeah, he's sexy on Game of Thrones. Khaleesi knows her shit. He's the moon. He is It on a Stick.

And I saw him. With his mommy.

If I had only known. I would have ogled him so hard.
Seriously. So. Hard.

An Open Letter to the Airline Industry

I didn't think it was appropriate last week, in light of the tragedies our country was experiencing, to complain about my recent air travel. But now the bad guys have been taken out, victim assistance is underway, and the recovery process has begun.

God bless Boston.
God bless Texas.

So now, and I am confident that thousands of you (or the three or four who actually read my blog), will agree with this sentiment to the airline industry.

Y'all need to get your shit together.

I am including y'all, even though my recent experiences were with Alaska and United, because I think very few of y'all have a clue what you're doing or what we want from you or even give one iota of a shit.

Do you remember when flying used to be fun? When you got actual meals and the flight attendants were friendly and handed out pillows and blankets and cared about your comfort? When flying was half the fun of a vacation? It seems like so long ago, doesn't it?

Now, I understand that the events of 9/11 fucked up air travel. A mockery was made of air travel safety. Huge financial losses were incurred by the airlines and we're paying the penalty. I get that. It sucks, but I think most of us have resigned ourselves to these facts. What I can't and won't resign myself to is the complete lack of customer service that now exists. The fact that we have been stripped of our dignity as living souls and are now just pushed around, lined up, and re-sorted, prodded along like moronic cattle.

I flew to California with the wife, JP, nearly two weeks ago. Most of the spring break crowd seemed to have abated; the reason for the full flights had more to do with the reduced number of flights rather than the actual number of persons traveling.

What first irritated us was the fact that the price of the plane ticket did not include seat assignments. This was extra. Since when do you not get a seat with a plane ticket? We found ourselves rows apart on the flights into California. How does this even come into being? Obviously, if someone buys two tickets, they expect those two seats to be together, right? Unless they prefer the closeness of strangers to their friends. How do families fly with small children? Are they expected to pay extra so that their three-year-old isn't seated 20 rows away?

It's a stupid policy.

Now let's look at the actual people we encountered. Because we were seated so far apart, we thought we'd take a stab at asking someone at the gate if we could change seats. There were two women at the counter, apparently bitching about their jobs or customers they had dealt with or where they wanted to get their nails done. It doesn't matter. What does matter is that we stood there politely and when one of the women deigned to pay us any mind, throwing her hand out impatiently for JP's boarding pass, she only let JP get through half of her question before curtly replying, "It's full. Full flight. No." Mind you we still had about half an hour to board, we were the only two people at the counter so we weren't taking up precious time that needed to be spent boarding an actual plane. There was no "I'm sorry" or any other shred of attempt at human decency or communication. "Peasants. Don't even think of talking to me."

On the return flight, it got worse. Different airline, same ungodly hour of the day. The kiosks at Orange County don't allow baggage check-in like the kiosks in Redmond. As happy as we were to figure out how to print out boarding passes by ourselves at 5:30 a.m., we were equally discouraged by the fact that this wasn't enough. And we were so nicely informed by the shrew harpy handling baggage check-in.

Shrew Harpy began by barking at people in our line. "This line is for people who have paid for their baggage. ONLY those people." Oh. Hmm.... Because we tried that at the kiosk. "No. No. You can't do it there." (Read in the tone of "How absolutely stupid and simple-minded are you?!?") Oh. Hmmm...

So JP uses her phone to access the site online and pay for the bags. Done. Check. Get back in line to wait to use the second kiosk at the counter. Where there is mass confusion because Shrew Harpy is barking at everyone up there. One man tried to ask a question, "Uh, I don't know what number..." She shrieked back at him, "YOU NEED A CREDIT CARD NUMBER!!!" I don't think that was even what he was asking.

When it was our turn, she snatched my boarding pass out of my hand, asking if we had paid. We answered yes, we had just done it online. Her response? "Well! I will find out in just a minute if you paid or not." Like we lied about it and she was going to catch us in that lie. When our confirmation numbers went through, she grabbed our bags, threw them onto the scale and then turned back to scream in my face, thrusting her finger behind me. "You go that way!! Don't stand here now. Go, go, GO!!!!"

We ended up discussing this psychotic individual with the couple behind us in the security line. Even the TSA agent who overheard us was appalled. A TSA agent. A TSA agent thought we had been treated badly.

I know the travel industry is more stressful than it used to be. I know flight attendants and ticket agents deal with some real assholes. But I am fairly docile at 5:30 in the morning. After having the stomach flu  for the 24 hours prior, I just wanted a nice, quiet place to sit. I just wanted to get home. I wasn't asking to be yelled at. Asking questions of unclear procedures does not make one an asshole.

So, airlines. Get your shit together. Take a course on customer service or fire all of your staff and start over or fire your executives and replace them with people that might actually care a little bit about how your businesses are represented. I don't care what you do or how you do it. What you're doing right now is bullshit. Fix it.

Gathering Strength

I wasn't going to say anything about what happened in Boston on Monday because I didn't think I had anything to add. Certainly nothing I could say more eloquently than what has already been said. But reading, yet again, another story about how selfless people have been in helping the injured sparked a thought that I do want to share.

Which is that whatever it is that these horrible people are trying to do when they commit crimes like this, I think it's having the opposite effect.

Yes, the point of Monday's attack was seemingly to hurt as many people as possible in as many ways possible. The timing and the type of bombs used support this idea. And they did. Lives were lost. Lives were changed irrevocably and forever. Mission accomplished.

But something else is happening as well. People are growing stronger. We are seeing past the evil and the atrocities inflicted to see what humanity really is about. It is about kindness and selflessness. It is about those running towards the explosions to see how they can help. It's about offering a blanket or a cup of coffee or holding a hand.

Determination and resolve are forming. My friend J says he has always wanted to run in the Boston Marathon, it's always been a dream and a goal. But now he defiantly wants to go. Defiantly. In the face of. Because of. Because he is not going to let someone take that dream from him.

Here's another thing. Any time a tragedy happens in Boston, or Newtown, or Columbine, or wherever, I learn a little more about my country. I learn about the spirit of the people in these places. These American people. There is no division between political party or county line, north and south or east and west. I feel more connected to my country each time we are damaged because I see who we really are. How strong and capable and kind and generous. This is when patriotism means something to me.

So, to anyone, anywhere who wishes us harm: this is a war you won't win. You are not tearing us apart. You are bringing us together. You are creating love that replaces your hate. We are capable of far more and far better than you because of the love we have for each other. This love has a greater effect than you ever will.

How to Kill Yourself in Three Days

Day 1- Walk the butte with two small dogs who will make you walk faster than you want to. Breathe.

Day 2 - Go to Zumba. Feel stupid and see your mom every time you look in the mirror but convince yourself that you are burning enough calories to make you look hotter than your mom ever dreamed of. Ignore the fact that your legs are already pissed off at you. Tell them you're all in this together, they can't be the only good thing about your body, it isn't fair to your abs. Who are the real enemy here.

Day 3 - Go cross-country skiing for the first time ever. Shuffle along as the last person in your group and struggle to hold back the tears that are either stemming from a severe case of PMS, feeling-forced-to-do-something-you-never-wanted-to-do-induced depression, or the fact that every muscle below your waist is trying to kill you. Including the bottoms of your feet. You have muscle there? Fall down, pulling your shin and foot into an unnatural position. Give up after two hours and walk the rest of the way. Feed your body a Bloody Mary and BBQ hamburger while promising it that if it will just start losing weight on its own, you will never do that to it again.

World's Worst Boss

I once had the World's Worst Boss. I'm not even kidding. It's not hyperbole. I mean, maybe Imelda Marcos was worse, but at least she had a shoe collection I could respect. This guy? No way in hell. He still has a business in town, so if you ask me personally, I will tell you not to go there, but I think he's a big enough asshole to want to sue me because of something I say in my piddly little blog so I won't say his name here.

I started working for He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named when my daughter was very young. I had been trying to make use of my college degree, but it wasn't panning out and the job I was trying to get away from required that I work overnight. I spent a lot of time crying because I couldn't put my daughter to bed. I finally decided that I needed a job with daylight hours, Monday-through-Friday. Whatever that job turned out to be.

The interview process with HWSNBN should have tipped me off, but, as a single mom, I was pretty desperate. It started with a math test, which isn't completely out of the ordinary. However, the interview with the private investigator is. And this was before I even talked to HWSNBN. The PI asked me a ton of bizarre questions. Did I ever own a business in California? Did I ever go by this name? That name? He concluded by saying they were both pretty sure I would omit something and they were right. Um, excuse me? You come up with all of this "information" about me that has zero to do with me and think I'm leaving something out? Huh. Well, then.

When I started, there was a man and woman also working there. They often closed the door to his office to have long talks which made me feel completely left out. The explanation at the time was that some things had happened lately that they were embarrassed by. Several months later they told me the truth - they hated HWSNBN and didn't want to scare me off. Thanks for the warning, guys.

During those months and in the almost-four years afterward, I came to  understand their hatred. I developed my own. I very quickly learned to be afraid of him. I soon started stress-eating, gaining 15 pounds during the time I worked there. I started drinking copious amounts of alcohol after work. I cried in the shower every day before work and had chronic stomachaches just thinking about what I would have to deal with that day.

When I told/tell people how awful he was (is?), they wouldn't believe me. And you might not either. So here is just a short list of what I lived with during The Dark Years:

1. He once told a male co-worker to tell our female co-worker to tell me that I needed to wear a padded bra because I was a distraction during meetings. Since he didn't tell me directly, he didn't consider it harassment.

2. If we weren't in meetings by 8:00, we got locked outside. That never happened to me.

3. He kept a record of our phone calls and named them things like "mystery caller" and kept notes about how long those phone calls were. For me, this was usually my best friend who I would call in tears saying how much I wanted to quit.

4. He yelled. A lot. He screamed until his face was blood-red and the veins in his head popped out. He once asked me what planet I was from and I really believe, had I not been on the other side of the desk from him, he would have hit me. He flung his arm at me several times.

5. He made us wear pantyhose. Not the worst thing in the world, but close. It really is just a symptom of how much of a control freak he was.

6. He kept a separate computer system from what the franchise offered/required and we were basically threatened with our lives if we let anyone know.

7. He did a lot of sneaky things that were wrong, but slippery enough to get by with them. And yet he talked a lot about integrity and honesty.

8. He fired a girl because she was fat.

9. He sent a memo to all of us calling a corporate person a bitch. It might have been the auditor. Wonder why. Huh.

10. He regularly harassed me about my clothing. I do not dress promiscuously, especially in an office setting. However, if there was a certain (abstract) amount of cleavage he wasn't comfortable with, he lectured and threatened to send me home, all the while making me feel cheap and worthless. A younger, cuter girl in the office could wear the same exact thing as me, or show more, and yet not a word was said to her.

11. He made it nearly impossible for us to quit. We were required to sign a non-compete statement in the tri-county area. He paid for us to get licensed but if we left before a certain period of time, we were required to pay him back. I finally decided the non-compete was a load of crap and started interviewing elsewhere. His reputation preceded him. People were afraid of him. I couldn't get a job in that field.

12. Did I mention the yelling? On a daily basis? None of us did anything that ever called for that. Did we make mistakes? Sure. But we were professionals and should have been treated as such. He was a tyrant. I literally didn't know from one day to the next if he was going to come into my office, slam the door, and commence screaming, or if by some miracle I would avoid it. And yes, customers could hear him.

I worked with someone who had worked for another franchise owner for something like eight years. She practically ran his business, knew what she was doing, and had proven herself as responsible and capable. HWSNBN treated her like she was a moron. Needless to say, his employee turnover rate was high. Customers commented on it.

Customers also commented on how much they disliked him. Several refused to deal with him or talk to him and would only talk to one of us. Several left because they didn't want to do business with him. And then he blamed us.

He is not an attractive man. A couple of times he had a billboard near the highway with his picture on it. His face, jumbo-sized. People called to complain. Some were nice, saying that it was merely "jarring" and could we please take it down? Others had a more violent reaction to it, saying that he looked like a child molester and they shouldn't be subjected to such ugliness on their daily drives. I wanted to tell them that I had to look at that face all day every day and it wasn't any better up-close.

Nobody that I worked with left under happy circumstances. They left because they couldn't take it anymore. Including me. I came home one evening, the night before Christmas Eve, knowing that I would be on vacation for the next week. And yet I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't shake the anxiety. I couldn't enjoy the holiday with my daughter. I no longer recognized myself. I sat down at my computer and emailed him, asking him to consider my vacation my week's notice that I was leaving. He accepted immediately.

I had no job to go to. I had never left a job without first securing another one. I had bills. I had a daughter to take care of. Rent. And yet I felt the greatest sense of relief. Just knowing I would never be yelled at by him again made it all worth it.

Oh, you know, I just realized that pimps are probably worse bosses than he is. But since it's illegal, you can expect that. You shouldn't expect that from another adult in a professional setting.

And P.S. Mr. HWSNBN: You're not the best deal in town. You may think you are, and you may lower your employee's self-esteem enough to think they don't deserve better, but you're wrong. I got a job making double what you paid me. They're nice to me. I've never been yelled at. I'm not pitted against fellow employees or asked to spy on them. I can wear whatever I want (within reason, but I'm a reasonable person), come and go as I please, and I take Christmas break off every year. Did I mention I get paid double?

Pope Jorge Sounds Better. If You Ask Me....

Here in the office we are up-to-date on current events. I  mean real news, not like who got a proposal on The Bachelor. Because we're smarty pants like that. And because I'm the only one that watches The Bachelor.

Today's big news happens to be about the election of the new pope. Some of us are Catholic, some are not. Although, based on the conversation below, I am now questioning those who claim to be Catholic. It's like they're wolves in sheep's clothing. Or agnostics in pope's robes.

Me: Why do they change their names?
WS: Because they can choose their own.
Me: But why? What's the point? What's the meaning behind it?
WS: They just do it.

Because I doubt that the name change has anything to do with a Nike slogan, I googled it. Turns out that God changed the names of people that he sent on special missions and, since the popes are on special missions, they now change their names.

Me: How did you not know that?
WS: It's tradition. Didn't I say that?
Me: No, you didn't. You call yourself Catholic. Hey, it says that God changed Jesus' name. What name was he born with?
WS: Uh......
Me: Seriously, what kind of Catholic are you?

Maybe the couples on The Bachelor would stay together if the bachelors changed their names after the show.

On the Road Again

I love road trips. And that doesn't make me unusual, because lots of people love road trips. What's not to love? Scenery flying by, music cranked up, junk food littering the floor of the car. There's also the sore butts, the dazed feeling when walking into a still location after being in a moving vehicle for hours, and the crankiness that comes from being trapped in a car with people you're supposed to love. But I digress. As usual.

I have fond memories of road tripping as a little girl with my parents. We'd drive from California to Texas and Mississippi to visit the grandparents. Dad worked for Brougham, an RV manufacturer, so we'd borrow a motor home and ride in comfort. My stepbrother and I would lounge on the bunk beds in back playing road games, reading books, watching the miles go by, napping. One time my mom volunteered to deliver one for a customer so we made a girls' trip of it with my sister, who was probably four or five at the time, singing Willie Nelson's "On the Road Again" over and over.

Every trip we made we had to stop at Stuckey's. We loved Stuckey's!! The A-lined, blue roof covered a restaurant and lot of other goodies. I know they were famous for their pecan rolls, but I don't remember loving them as a kid. I do remember the gift shop with the rows of toys. I even had a paper-doll-type replica of a Stuckey's once, complete with blue roof.

This summer D, KY and I are trekking across the country to Nashville so D can check out the schools there. I've already found the Stuckey's that falls along our route, insisting that we will be stopping there. Whether or not we need gas, food, or a bathroom, this is an Absolute Must.

As excited as I am, I'm trying not to play it up too much. Both D and KY are from different generations (because, good lord, I'm old!) and probably won't appreciate the kitschyness that is Stuckey's. It's not a part of their childhood like it was mine. To D, cool toys are iPods and hand-held video games. To me, they were paper Stuckey's buildings and travel-sized board games and tiny Hello Kitty pencils. I am prepared for the eye-rolls.

I'm also prepared that the nostalgia won't live up to the current reality. I've been reading up on it and Stuckey's has undergone a few changes over the years, including ownership. It's also not the 70's anymore and I'm not eight and unjaded.

Still, I am totally looking forward to seeing those road signs and counting down the miles until that blue roof pops up on the horizon. I'll even try a pecan roll this time.