Petits Morceaux de Moi, Part III

Fellow Blog Friend, Reya, wrote a post the other day that really resonated with me. If you haven't read her blog yet, you really need to get on over there. Not only are her blogs incredibly insightful but her pictures are fantabulous. You can find her at http://www.thegoldpuppy.blogspot.com/. The particular post I'm referring to is called, "What Not to Wear."

While I was reading this post, it really struck me that we do indeed take on different personas throughout our lives. At least, many of us do I think. It probably took me until I was about 35 to finally find the "costume" in which I was comfortable and happy. It also made me think about the choices we have in our lives. As adults, we have the power to choose which costumes or personas we will wear. We have the ability to shed those things which have led to discomfort or unhappiness and keep those that uplift us and bring us joy. We don't have to conform or fit into any costume forced onto us by others. We don't have to impress. We get to choose who we will be and what face we choose to present to the world as "Me." Quite a liberating thought, isn't it?!

Anyway, it made me think about a poem that I wrote while I was going through a terrible time in my life. The only thing not terrible about this time was that it was the beginning of the end of wearing a costume in which I was horribly uncomfortable.

She

She is your friend-
Sometimes failing you miserably, as friends sometimes do, but loving you always and watching out for you. Ready to help at the drop of a hat. You've only to ask.

She is your wife-
Occasionally nagging until you shut your ears to her, but longing with wifely desperation that you'll never shut your heart.

She is the mother of your children-
Cleaning and bathing and cooking and washing and kissing wounds that will go away with a little care, and crying over the wounds she knows will never heal.

She is your lover-
A maturing version of the girl you fell in lust with years ago. Still longing to be chased and wooed and to be kissed in that spot behind the ear that leaves her weak in the knees.

All these things she is-
But if you look closely, you will see there is more than meets the eye. There… beneath the surface…look.

Do you see her?
The wild at heart, half-naked, barefoot jungle girl who dances around fires in the moonlight? The girl who laughs and lives out loud? Who loves with reckless abandon and who gives her all, asking only that in return? The girl who is part water, part sand, half goddess, half child?

Do you see her?
Can you find her somewhere beneath the layers of "office casual" clothes? Of defrosting chicken? Of baths, bedtime stories, vacuuming, ironing, budgeting, fighting?

Look closely-
If you tilt your head just right, you can see her in the morning just before the sun comes up. She will be lying next to you, eyes closed, looking very much like your wife.

Listen carefully-
Put your ear against her lips and you just may hear the sound of ocean waves crashing against the sand, and of a girl laughing in a far off place.

Unmentionables and Other Things Not Worth Mentioning

Oh, hello there. How long have I been out? I must have slipped into some sort of sugar induced coma for awhile. Thanks for waking me.

Holy crap. Today was one of those days. Not anything out of the ordinary, but my internal stress level has shot up in the past few days and I have grown horns on the top of my head. Everything seems much more intense than it does normally. (Yes, you're correct. This means I'm bitchy.)

It started out fairly good. I woke up from my Flexeril induced sleep (I use the term"woke up" lightly here. It was more like rising from the dead.) feeling a little stiff, but overall, better than the past couple of days. After walking around the house for a bit I could tell that my shoulder was indeed feeling better. *sigh*

I decided to hit the mall to find a strapless bra because I'm not going to be able to wear a strap on my shoulder for awhile. Oh, and I also needed to find a green shirt so I can mingle among the Irish on Tuesday.

So, The Duchess and I headed out to get lunch and then hit the mall. When we're on a day out, she plops her headphones on and watches the d.v.d player in the back seat while I crank up the Sirius satellite and listen to Howard Stern. (Yes...I always make sure she has her headphones on before I tune in. Geesh.) Unbeknownst to me today, The Duchess had delved into her hidden stash of potato chips and had plowed through and entire bag by the time we hit the parking lot at Arby's. I must have had the radio up loud enough not to have heard the hamster-like crunching coming from the back seat.

Anyway, now she wouldn't eat a healthy meal at Arby's (Hey, don't judge me) because she'd stuffed herself with potato chips. So, I hurriedly inhaled a sandwich and we made our way to the mall.

I HATE bra shopping. I hate it even more when I can't put on the damn bras by myself. Due to the nature of my wound, I can't contort myself into the pretzel-like position required to fasten and spin and hoist a bra into position.

That's where Maryanne comes in. Poor Maryanne. In a valiant effort to earn her commission, she put on a brave face and proceeded to push and pull and heave my bosoms into six bras until BINGO!

Maryanne most likely has grandchildren my age. She should be enjoying a carefree retirement. Instead, she spent her day groping me. I think we're dating now.

By the time Maryanne and I had come to know each other intimately, The Duchess was bored with a capital B. She was tired of rummaging through my purse and trying on every lip gloss I owned. I'd promised her that we could spend some time at the cutesy rubbery outdoor playground in the courtyard of the mall. So now of course, she was a duchess possessed. I told her that I wanted to try on a few shirts and then we would go to the playground. The Duchess had other ideas.

I'd made the mistake of not wearing my newly purchased bra out of the store. When I'd picked a few shirts to try on and locked myself into the dressing room, I realized that I would need my bra on in order to tell what the shirts really looked like. I began the ritualistic contortions of putting on the bra when my shoulder said, "Oh, HELL no, Girlfriend!" That was the beginning of the end of my shoulder cooperating with me in any way.

Being the brave shopper that I am, I continued to try the shirts on that I'd selected. Every time I'd finally manage to get one on, I'd ask the Duchess, "What do you think?" and she'd say, "I hate it." So cute coming from those shiny lip gloss coated lips! Not.

I left the store with a throbbing shoulder and a shattered sense of confidence. The Duchess was really giving it to me good. Next stop, cutesy rubbery playground.

After tuckering herself out and then hitting the Disney Store for the new Pinocchio doll, I thought The Duchess might be up for hanging with me while I tried on a couple more shirts. I thought wrong.

Two shirts later and a hundred snarky remarks by The Duchess, I was ready to go. I was in true pain now and not on speaking terms with my four year old. As soon as we hit the car, she informed me that she was now hungry. It was 4:00. Crap.

I hit the drive through at Chick-fil-A where as usual, while placing my order over the speaker, The Duchess yelled, "And tell them I need Polynesian sauce!" I retrieved her order, handed it to her, ensured that her earphones were on, and turned on the radio. Two minutes later I looked in the rear view mirror and she was out like a light.

By the time I got home it was almost 5:00. We usually eat between 5:30 & 6:00. I was exhausted, sore and lacked any motivation whatsoever to cook a meal for Grumpy and Snotty.

As it turned out, Grumpy and Snotty were more than happy to forage through the pantry and fridge to find their own dinner. By this time The Duchess was awake from her little nap and happily chowing down on her nutritious chicken dinner. (You're judging me again, aren't you?!)

Mr. Right called at 6:00 to let me know that he was just leaving the office. Well, crap. I was hungry. I looked in the fridge and was delighted to find the Jello Jigglers we'd made last night. Neon blue ones. (What fruit is neon blue?!) I downed one or two...okay...three. Realizing it would be shameful to have Jello Jigglers as a meal, I opened the pantry and decided upon the ever so healthy meal of Cap'n Crunch with Crunchberries. I poured myself a Jethro Bodine sized portion and made quick haste of emptying the bowl. I put my bowl in the dishwasher and headed to the living room to relax. On the way to the couch I passed by the bowl of Easter candy and swiped three packs of Smarties.

I think this is where I slipped into the coma.

Tomorrow I'm staying home and going bra less. I'm going to make real food for The Duchess and I'm going to try to eat a vegetable.

Then I think I'll call Maryanne and try to let her down easy.

Days of Whine & Roses

Medical professionals think the rest of us are idiots. Sure they've spent years studying and working ungodly hours as interns for laughably low pay and wearing ugly shoes, but c'mon! None of these things justify treating me as though I'm a simpleton. (Maybe having to wear ugly shoes does. That can really ruin your day.)

Almost every time I've had to have an I.V. the nurses look at my arm and say, "Oh, my! You have tiny little veins!" I respond, "Uh huh. Don't try to put it on top of my wrist. You'll never get it." Apparently this is the equivalent of throwing down the gauntlet and spitting in their eye. They immediately dive at my bony wrist with their evil silvery needles and proceed to jab at my veins. If you've never had someone try to put an I.V. into your wrist bone, you're really missing out.

Saturday morning when I was being prepped for surgery, I had to endure this scenario again. I ended up, at the nurse's request, helping her by holding medical paraphernalia in my good hand while she focused her full attention on torturing my veins. After failing to find the vein in my wrist and leaving me with a lovely puffed up bruise, she begrudgingly moved up my arm and stuck me on the inside of my elbow, making it impossible for me to bend my arm even slightly.

Mr. Right and my four year old, The Duchess, joined me in the room and were sitting by my bed waiting for me to go into surgery. As usual, once the nurses spotted The Duchess, they came over to ooh and ah over her and struck up a conversation. When they discovered that as soon as I went into the operating room, Mr. Right was going to take The Duchess to McDonald's for breakfast, Nurse Jabby leans down and whispers, "Make sure you wash her up really well when you leave here. This place is FULL of germs!" Wow. That didn't freak me out at all.

As they wheeled me into the operating room, I looked around and said, "Wow. This is the first time I've been awake in the actual operating room." That's the last thing I remember. Lights out. I have a special place in my heart reserved for anesthesiologists. They honestly deserve $1,500 bucks for a half hour of work. Really. Do you want to FEEL them cutting you open? I think not.

My next memory is of waking up in post-op shaking violently and feeling like a truck was parked on my collarbone. I had to stay there for a little while because apparently I was having difficulty breathing in a manner that was satisfactory. Surgery is like a really bad carnival ride.

I always hate having to take prescription pain medication. I don't know how addicts do it. Heavy duty drugs make me mean and hateful and I do funny things when I'm looped. Besides the fact that they help kill the actual physical pain, I can find no redeeming qualities in pain killers. I took them for two days and then opted out. I've been medicating with anti-inflammatories and ice packs. This has alleviated the problem of feeling like I'm chronically dazed and I no longer hold cups up to my face like I'm drinking when there is no cup in my hand. (That Nancy Reagan really knew what she was talking about. Just say, "NO!")

The scale says that since my surgery, I've gained five pounds. *&%$#@*! How can THAT be?! Actually, from Saturday morning...pre-surgery, to Sunday morning...I'd gained five pounds. Five pounds in one day?! This might make one think that as soon as I came home from surgery, I began inhaling boxes of Twinkies, but I assure you this is not the case. This is so frustrating!! Now I'm in pain, incapable of any real physical activity, and a freakin' fatty. This is so not fair.

On the bright side, the flowers above were sent to me by my mother-in-law and father-in-law on the day of my surgery. Nice, huh? A beautiful little basket of sunshine to help me remember that I'm thought about and that I have much to be thankful for.

So, despite all of the godawful unexplained weight gain, the icky soreness, and the general grumpiness, I know that I'm a lucky girl. A whiny, lucky girl.

Does This Cape Make Me Look Fat?

Tomorrow...oops...today...is the day I go under the knife once again to have all of the "hardware" removed from my collarbone.

It's 12:23 a.m. and I'm wide awake. Even though I stuffed my face with a hamburger and fries for dinner and followed it up with a vanilla cone dipped in anxiety from Dairy Queen, I've convinced myself I'm hungry just because I've been told I can't eat after midnight. My stomach knows it's not getting anything for the next thirteen hours or so and it is so not happy about it. (My stomach needs therapy. It has some real issues it needs to deal with.)

I wish the metal in my shoulder would have made me bionic. How cool would that have been?! I so wanted to be the Bionic Woman when I was a kid. Who knew that as an adult, I would be faced with the sucky reality that stainless steel plates and screws don't give you super powers, they hurt like hell!

I've tried to think about what super power I'd like to posses. (See how intellectual I am?) I don't think I'd like to be able to hear things like the Bionic Woman did. I'm already uber paranoid and think people are talking about me. If I actually had to hear what they were saying about me, OH MY GOSH. My part-time vodka hobby would become full-time sedation.

Maybe super vision? No....not that. I already have this horrific ability to catch people in my line of vision at the very instant they choose to do something absolutely disgusting. I will be minding my own business, rocking out to Journey in the car, casually look out my window and BAM!! The yahoo in the bigass redneckmobile next to me, yaks a giant wad of tobacco and brown saliva out of his window. *gagggggggg* This makes not only NOT want super vision, it makes me want to jab my eyes out.

Is knowing which way North, South, East and West is, a super power? Now that's one I could really use. Sometimes I fantasize about being one of those people who possess the super ability to actually know where they are at any given time. *sigh* Unless you tell me, "right" or "left", I have no idea which way to turn. I can find my way only if given directions like, "When you come to the red barn with a goat out front, take a left..." I rely heavily upon a snazzy GPS system. Unfortunately, it has no idea where I am because a few months ago, this entire town didn't exist. I have a pet name for my GPS. I call it Piece of Crap. At least when I'm within a ten mile radius of my non-existent house.

It's probably way too much pressure to have a super power anyway. Who needs that? I suppose I'll settle for being super sarcastic, super neurotic and super obsessive. My four year old tells me that I'm, "Super Duper Uper." That works for me.

Wish me luck.

"I'm Sorry You Feel That Way" and Other Things My Mother Said That Sent Me Into Therapy

Maybe I'm just a sensitive soul, but I seriously think that when you're fourteen and your mother tells you that when you walk it looks like "two goats trying to fight their way out of a gunnysack," you have a bit of a reason to take it rather personally.

Another fantastic line my mother used to throw out was, "I'm sorry you feel that way." I didn't realize until much later in life that this was not an apology. This was actually the ultimate non-apology. Saying, "I'm sorry you feel that way" is a way of fulfilling the obligatory apology due someone when you've made them feel bad, without accepting any of the responsibility for your part in it. Damn, she was good.

As insecure teenage girls often do, I would put an outfit on before school and ask my mother, "What do you think? Does this look good?" She would, without fail, give one of two responses. Number one: "Do you like it? Because if you like it, that's all that counts." In psycho language, this translates as, "I hate it, but if you want to leave the house looking like that, then go for it."

Number two: "It looks nice, but you need a scarf. Or, maybe a brooch." I'm not exactly sure what this translates to. All I've ever been able to figure out is that she wanted to see something tied securely around my neck and wanted me to get my ass kicked at school for wearing something called a brooch.

These were the more subtle jabs in her repertoire. One of my favorites...and by favorites I mean one that still affects me to this day and which I've spent an obscene amount of time in therapy discussing, is this one:

Me (In my newly purchased miniskirt and top): "Do you think this looks good? Do you think I look okay in it?" (spinning around for her to see)
Mother (thoughtfully selecting her words): "Well...one thing's for sure. You wouldn't blow over in a stiff wind."

*Sigh*

Cake anyone?

Weekend Update (In No Particular Order)

(Okay...in absolutely no order at all. Don't believe me when I reference "today" because it probably wasn't today at all, it was probably yesterday. Or, today.)

*Every Friday night we try to do something for "Family Night." This almost always involves going out to eat because quite frankly, coming up with something to eat every night of the week, then making it, then cleaning up after it, gets really old pretty damn quick. So, off we went to the Outback Steakhouse. It's the best cheap steak money can buy.

As we were all sitting and chit chatting, our waiter walked up with our tray of drinks and as he passed behind me, dumped said tray of drinks straight down my back. I maintained remarkable calm as iced tea, Diet Coke and and a small army of ice cubes slid down my back and then down my pants. There's nothing quite like sitting with a wet t-shirt in a pool of beverages while ice cubes melt in your thong underwear. Typically when I'm in a wet t-shirt, I'm in some kind of contest with the possibility of at least winning a prize.

I spent the rest of the evening in wet pants. The manager was kind enough (scared enough?) to give me a dry t-shirt to wear. I noticed as I walked across the restaurant that all of the bus boys were wearing the same t-shirt. For a brief moment, I seriously considered clearing some plates and collecting the tip money. I spent a lot the evening reassuring our waiter that I was fine and that I was not upset. He tried to make it up to me by giving me a dessert, "on the house." Quite frankly, this was a much better experience than getting cracked in the back of the head with a three foot long pepper grinder at a restaurant a few years ago. Ow.

I don't get people who flip out when things like this happen to them. What's the point? I mean, the guy didn't walk up to me and purposely throw the drinks at me and call me Fatty or anything. If that would have been the case, I would have walked away with more than a free t-shirt and brownie. I would have made him pay for my booze!

*An old friend from high school...we'll call him M, contacted me through Facebook. Or, I contacted him. I can't remember. Anyhoo, the other day he told me that he'd read my blog from first post to last and that it was like crack. "Once I started, I couldn't stop and when I finished, I had a wicked headache." *sniffle* Isn't that touching?! So, I went to respond to a message from him on Facebook yesterday and BAM! He wasn't there. What the hell?! Wherever you are, M...thanks for reading my blog. And...I miss your wise ass e-mails.

*Today Mr. Right and I dragged (and I mean this almost literally. Snotty and Grumpy were none too happy about going) to Phoenix to a champagne brunch at the United Cerebral Palsy Foundation of Central Arizona. This was kind of a swanky little affair put on by UCP for the purpose of thanking those who have helped raise money for their center. Mr. Right is majorly involved in fundraising for them through his company and we wanted the kids to see what it is that he spends some of his time doing and what we as a family will be contributing to regularly. They were bored to tears. Ungrateful little dwarfs. I however, not only got to see where our money has been going (and I'm glad it's going there), but also had two lovely mimosas and got possibly the most stupid looking sunburn you've ever seen in your life.

After the champagne brunch, I slept all the way home which was an hour long drive. I walked through our door, somehow managed to get up the stairs, and sprawled out on the bed. I slept for three hours. I guess that muscle relaxer I took last night for my bum shoulder hadn't quite worn off yet. Between it and the champagne, lights out. I can't even remember the last time I took a nap in the middle of the day though! I should really do that more often! (Yeah...right.)

*Mr. Right played in a softball tournament for his office on Friday. My little Alex and I went to cheer him on. These were Alex's cheers: "Go Daddy, go Daddy, go Daddy, go!!" and "You're the best daddy EVER!!" About thirty minutes into the game, our little cheerleader was giving Daddy Advil for the muscle he'd just pulled in his leg. Daddy is not in very good shape. Daddy is now hobbling around like an old man and Mommy is going to tease him relentlessly to pay him back for constantly telling her how old and crippled she is.

*I've had dreams about my cockatiel, Darwin, for the past two nights now. I have no idea what's up with that. I think he's causing me to be really insecure. I baby this bird like...well...a baby. He has a freakin' palace of a cage with every little toy and dish imaginable. I love him and kiss him and hold him and I cater to him like he's a king. I change his water inside and outside of the cage three times a day or so and make sure he always has fresh food and Cheerios. He should LOVE me! But, as soon as Darwin hears Mr. Right's voice or sees him, he goes nuts. He runs to the side of his perch and sticks his head feathers straight up and waits for Mr. Right to come into sight. Then when he sees Mr. Right, he looks like he has the jitters and he paces nervously until Mr. Right acknowledges him. He will also only whistle in return to Mr. Right. He will carry on an entire conversation in Birdish with Mr. Right and looks at me like I'm a complete moron when I try to whistle to him. I try really hard not to take it personally, but I think it's really getting to me. Another small creature in my house who completely ignores me. Yeah, like I need that.

*Today in his hunt for lunch, Mr. Right opened the refrigerator, pulled out a dish and thrust it in front of my face. "Do you think this is still good?" I looked at him and said, "I dunno. Does it smell good?" He replied, "I don't know if it smells good! Just tell me yes or no!" This is a pretty common exchange in my house. Everyone who lives here is under the impression that I possess a 7th sense that they do not. They think that I can immediately ascertain whether or not leftover macaroni and cheese has expired just by looking at it. I think I'm going to get one of those magic 8 balls from the toy store and roll it in secret every time I'm asked if food has expired. I'll just let the 8 ball answer for me. "Honey...does this chicken look like it will kill me?" I'll roll the magic 8 ball and say mysteriously..."Signs point to yes..."

It's That Time Again

Yes, Dear Friends, it's time for another crappy poem. But first, I'd like to tell you a funny little story. One of those stories that's funny in the sense that it is completely humiliating to me.

Mr. Right's Aunt H was to our house for a visit one time. We were discussing writing as Aunt H is quite an established writer and has been published. I told her that I dabbled in poetry and she asked if she could read some of what I'd written. "Well!" I told her, "I just happen to have all of my poems bound in this nifty notebook!" As Aunt H sat in the corner (not literally) and read my illustrious body of work, the rest of us in the room chatted away. About fifteen minutes later, Aunt H quietly closed the notebook and folded her hands on top of it. She caught my eye and looked at me in all seriousness and said, "You should write greeting cards."

Now, I don't know how you would have interpreted that, but I almost spewed Diet Dr. Pepper out of my nose. Fifteen years of pouring all of my artistic angst into my poetry and Aunt H reduces it to, "You should write greeting cards."

I thought for one brief moment about telling her that I was in fact a published author as well. I thought better of it quite quickly as I didn't think she'd be much impressed by the fact that one of my poems had been published in a local Oklahoma paper called, The Red Dirt Review. ( I mean, how redneck is that?) The other was published in an ever so classy staple bound half-book called, Voices From The Valley, which was another local publication. (I did, however, receive a royalty check for $7.00 from that one. Does this mean I've lost my amateur status?!)

Anyway, Aunt H ended all hope for me of ever being anything but a hack. The following crappy poem is one of about five that I wrote, egotistically thinking what marvelous children's books they'd make. (Maybe I should write greeting cards for children...)

To the moon and back on a witch’s broom,
Is what I’d rather be doing instead of cleaning my room!

Mom sent me in here to clean up the mess,
But there are so many things I could be doing instead.

I could make some tea to serve to my bear,
And bake a cake and comb my doll’s hair.

I could be a ballerina and dance ‘round the floor,
And bow to the crowd as they let out a roar!

I’d rather do anything but clean my room-
Like play the drum in a band...boom, boom, boom!

Or join the circus and ride an elephant’s back-
And swing from a trapeze and hear the crowd clap!

If I weren’t in here having to clean this place,
I could be swinging from stars and twirling through space.

I could be on safari feeding giraffes-
Swinging with monkeys and making hyenas laugh.

I’d rather be splashing in the puddles outside,
Or going head first down a fifty- foot slide!

Oh the things I could do, I could sing, I could dance-
Sail the ocean so blue and stomp grapes in France!

I could be a fairy princess in a shiny pink dress...
Hey! I hear Mom coming! I’d better get busy,
My room is a MESS!

So, I'm sure you want to go get drunk now. I know I sure do.