Are you pregnant? No? Oh, awkward.

I haven't written for a while, and I need a quick blogging fix! Today's subject: keeping your mouth shut and leaving certain topics alone. I know...me. With a FILTER? Impossible you say. Well, in my almost 30 years of life, I have actually developed one. It may not always be on, but I've gotten better.

There are the usual suspects of topics that are best left untouched, at least with those people that you are not close with, or those that are easily offended. Unless you are looking to stir up a debate, healthy or not. Know your "audience" before diving in.

Subject: Religion
Leave it alone. I'm all for equality and different religions, but I haven't always been. I went through my "pushy Bible thumper" phase (no offense to those that are religious. See, that might already be taboo!)and thought I must be right. I remember the day that helped me see that there's not a "right" religion. One day, I was reading the Bible, and realized my brother wasn't a believer/follower (at least not to my standards), and I was worried about his soul. I went to his room to plead with him that he read the Bible and that I was worried that we wouldn't see each other in Heaven. He listened with an attentive ear; he let me speak and rant. I left a copy of the Bible on his bed and gave him a tearful hug. He never once said anything until I was done. In a nutshell, it was this: Julie, there are many religions out there. If a Muslim is the best Muslin he can be, a Buddhist is the best Buddhist he can be, or a Jew is the best Jew she can be...will they not get into Heaven? They are following the rules of THEIR religion and beliefs. Just because they don't believe in what you do, does that make them wrong? I didn't want to admit it at the time, I mean....I wanted to be right! But, that really got me thinking. My general mantra of religion, and mine personally, taken from The Dalai Lama: My religion is very simple. My religion is kindness. I take this to heart on a daily basis. It's not hard to hold a door open for someone, or give them a dime for their coffee when they are 6 cents short.

Subject: Politics
While some are looking for a grand political debate, and a spoon to stir the pot with, in general, this can be a touchy subject. Personally, I'm not a political person. I vote, I try to understand the issues, and I choose the best candidate. But, I'm not that "into" it. I have friends that are hardcore politicians at heart. They love to shove beliefs down your throat. Bickering won't help, voting will. For instance, I have a friend that brought up a very valid political question and posted his ideas on Facebook. This started a riot. Name calling, nay saying, questioning of his character/morals/beliefs, and anger in general. He was expressing his beliefs. Which, is a right he has, and as Facebook glory goes, if you don't like it, don't read it. If you want to express your beliefs to counteract his, that's fine. You don't have to be mean about it. Once again, it's about having an open mind and letting people do what they will do. You can tell me about your political stance until you're blue in the face. I will listen, and I will respect it. I will NOT try to change your mind. That's not my job, it's yours.

Subject: Parenting
Touchy! Not everyone likes to hear they are failing as a parent, or that there are other ways of doing things, or even take advice for that matter. Oh, YOUR kid doesn't eat his peas? Wow, you're a crappy parent. MY kid eats all of his peas....AND cauliflower. Hey, that's great! Parenting award for you! You know, I just saw your kid eat 3 boogers while you've been here. I don't agree with all people's child rearing methods. You are raised by your parents, and you either adhere to their methods, go a completely different route, or perhaps combine them. Nothing is wrong with that. I remember I went to the store once with Lilli. She was less than a year and a half. It was fall time. I had to run to the store really quickly, so I just grabbed her in her button up long legged, short sleeved onsie and socks. It's Arizona. Fall means perhaps dropping to the low 70s/high 60s. By my standards, it was not cold. In the store, I had a lady approach me. She got really close...too close for my comfort. She says, "Wow, you should really put a coat and shoes on her. It's freezing out! I know, I teach a parenting class." To which, I graciously thanked her for her advice and told her, "it's Arizona, and it's really not cold out. She's not blue, is she? I'm quite sure she doesn't have hypothermia. Thanks for your concern, but we'll be fine. And good luck with those parenting classes!" I got a scowl for that one. Oh well, stick your nose in someone else's business. It was not as if I was hitting my child in public. Guess what? She lived! I'm quite certain she felt the need to insert herself in my business because she assumed I was probably 20 with a kid and had no idea what to do. I got you, you old hag! I should have recommended a good brand of fiber for her.

Subject: Weight
Oh dear LORD, leave it alone! People are self conscious as it is. They don't need you pointing out their "Oprah arms" or extra few pounds in their gut. You think I don't know? I do! If you have weight issues, I'm sure you are acutely aware of it. Unless you don't own a mirror or a scale, I'm sure you know. You don't tell someone that they need to start dieting if they don't want to be as fat as they were before. Leave those thoughts in your head! If people want to shove their face full of fried Twinkies and cheese burgers, let it be. If you think they have an issue, and you truly care and are close to them, maybe some sort of intervention is needed. Unless they are truly at risk of health issues or have lost so much weight, they look like a skeleton, try to keep your thoughts to yourself. I like to say: my weight will not be on my tombstone, and I'm certain that is not what I will be remembered for. If I died tomorrow, would the person delivering my eulogy say, "we are here to mourn the loss of Julie. 29 years old and 138 pounds"? Pretty sure that would be a NO. I now understand why my mother was so hurt when I was about 9 years old and she had a swimsuit on, and I asked if she was having another baby. Ouchie. Sorry, mommy! After years of wear and tear, age, and kids, the human body changes. It's nature. Unless you want a punch to the nose, never ask a woman if she is expecting, unless it's VERY obvious!!!

People can be very sensitive. I run my mouth and I'm certain I've offended multiple people in my day. Usually, it's not because I don't care, it's because my mouth runs faster than my brain. With age, I've become more aware of social no-nos. I laugh when Lilli does it, but youth really sees no sides; they just say what they see! I had a friend who's kid came up, patted my belly, and asked if I was going to have a baby. It hurt a little, but it made me laugh. He's 5. Maybe time to hit the treadmill? ;)

Diary of a perpetually single woman

DATING. The awkward, unnatural process of selecting one's lifetime mate. The trial and tribulations of success and rejection. The fear of being alone forever.

After my divorce, I went a bit wild. I was FREE! Meeting my EX at age 17, married by 19, divorced by 22. I made up for lost time doing things I should have been doing during my early college years. I was single, in a new state, thin, rocking tons of blonde highlights, working odd shifts at Starbucks, with an EX husband paying my car off and getting alimony. Not too shabby for a girl that was just jilted and torn up. I went crazy! I wasn't under his thumb any more. I went dancing with a girlfriend (thanks, Angie!) the day I got my divorce finalization in the mail. Not familiar with dressing sexy (wasn't allowed to), I innocently wore a white t-shirt, jean shorts, and tennis shoes. My hair was up in a curly ponytail. After dinner, on a whim, we hit up a club/bar. I'm surprised I got in. I wasn't dressed up, and I pretty much looked about 18. I got in, and I got DOWN! After a few drinks, I was dropping it like it was hot, dancing around poles, doing some gymnastics, and flirting my ass off. One guy actually asked Angie, "where did THIS girl come from?!" Clearly, not expecting me to be shaking like a salt shaker. Don't let the tennies fool you!

That unlocked something in me. I was out and about enjoying the nightlife. I danced, I sang karaoke, I flirted, and I put a few new notches in my lipstick case. (disclaimer: I'm sorry for that tidbit, family members). A few guys I met. I will not name names to protect the innocent...or guilty in this case.

Mr. C. Met him while enjoying dinner with some girlfriends. I saw him. My motto has always been: Julie sees, Julie wants, Julie gets. I was going to get him. To the disbelief of my friends, I walked right up to his table, where he was with 3 other guys. I asked a few random questions and walked away. After their meals were gone, guess who joined us? Yep. Got him! I gave him my number, and then off he went...to a strip club. This did not raise any flags for me. He called me at 1 am, drunk. I was hooked. He wanted to talk to me! And damn, he had pretty eyes! We hung out the next night at his house. In his 30s with 3 roommates. Still no red flags. Found out he had a baby on the way with his EX. STILL no red flags. He was so hot! And he liked me. Now that I'm thinking about it, I'm pretty sure we never went on any dates. We went to a strip club once, and a few clubs with his friends, but never an official date.

Mr. F. Met him while at a club celebrating a birthday or a going away something rather that my brother had invited me to. Getting pretty good at the whole "sexy" thing, I sported a low cut red top, a skirt that barely covered my ass cheeks, a tiny G-string, and heels. I was dancing and accidentally kicked his friend. We got to talking, and danced. I'm pretty sure there wasn't any body part he didn't touch while we were dancing. Had that happened now, I would have kicked him so hard he would be pulling his balls out of his throat. No red flags. This one was different. We went on a date. He introduced me to his friends and family. After about a year of dating, we moved in together. I managed to get a 25 year old mama's boy out of his parent's house! We stayed together for almost another year. Perhaps if he had paid more attention to me and helped out around the house, things would have worked out differently.

Single in a big house, I decided to take in a roommate. Mr. B. I think at the time, we were both lonely and were just looking to have someone to talk to. We didn't date...we were JUST roommates. He was a quirky little guy. An OCD, gangly, possibly gay (or bi) computer nerd with a drug and alcohol problem. We went out all the time. To the local dive bars, the clubs, etc. I met a few of his hot friends. That didn't last too long, and I swore after that, I would never have a roomie again! He still owes me money. If you're reading this, Mr. B...I would like my $300 back please.

Fast forward to Halloween of 2007. We see a hot, skinny, blonde/red haired girl, in a bikini. My friends and I decided to be the Swedish Drinking Team ala Beer Fest that year. I was sporting a light blue bikini, a white furry vest zipped up to display my cleavage, and white, furry, calf high boots. Pretty hot, right?! On the patio, we drank at the Irish Pub. Drinks were flowing. A portly pirate asked for a cigarette. I bummed one from my friend and gave it to him. He made a beeline for me, and after talking for a few minutes, he wanted to buy me a drink. That drink turned into 3, then 5, then 7. After talking and flirting, we decided: WE'RE GOING TO VEGAS TO GET MARRIED!!! Then it occurred to me: I can't get married in a bikini! That would be dumb! Ah, drunk logic. I drove us to my house (got lucky I didn't get caught driving. Pretty sure I was swerving all over the road). DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE, PLEASE!!! We made it safely. We came inside to my roommate and his current flavor of the week. WE'RE GETTING MARRIED!!! Um, what? Finally, in a moment of sobering realization, I told him that he should probably meet my parents first. We dated for a few months, he moved in, then BAM. Knocked up! I had a beautiful baby girl 2 days before Halloween of 2008. How's that for a quick run?

Now that I'm a single mom, my dating standards have been raised. I'm done with the hot douchebags that look good without a shirt. Well, not totally. I get short and stocky. Think Shrek. Not having much free time to get out, I signed up for a dating site. Let me tell you, there are some creepy dudes out there! I have met a few, but somehow, I seem to attract stalkers. Saying "I'm taking my profile down, I found you!" and "I love you" after 2 weeks. MAJOR RED FLAGS! After calling it off, and trying to pursue me 4 months after the fact...you are officially a stalker. Taking subtle hints didn't work. I'm sure I had a few "drive-bys" after that. I hope he doesn't have a used tissue of mine, a lock of my hair, and an alter set up in my honor. My standards were not that demanding. He must have a job, a car, and shoes. Yes, it has come down to that. Something is wrong if I have to declare shoes as a requirement. FYI, Aqua Socks ARE NOT SHOES!!! Now, I have added additional desires: non-smoker, single (being "single" while still living with your soon to be EX wife is not acceptable), age appropriate (21 years old?! Oh, honey, how's your first beer taste? 55 year old band groupie? Hey, how cool WAS the invention of the TV?), not looking for a fling, must like children, have good hygiene, and realize my child comes before him. Getting a message that says, "Come and get me baby, my biscuit is already buttered" is NOT sexy. What the hell does that even mean anyways?

I'm getting to the point where I feel I will either be an Old Maid, or simply not look any longer. I'm also to the point where I almost feel like I might not really need a mate. After being single for so long, I am pretty set in my ways. I think for myself and do my own things. I pay my own bills. I still like to listen to Ace of Base. I enjoy peeing with the door open. I enjoy having sole control over the remote. I watch chick flicks and Lifetime. I don't care for sports. I don't think I can share my bed with anyone other than my kid. The "passenger" side is for temporary parking only! I don't sleep well with someone there, and if you snore, GOODBYE! Being alone and single has both benefits and set backs. Maybe I can find a guy that will let me cook for him, hang out, then get the hell out! I don't know what I want anymore. I don't have a "type" any longer. This thing called "dating" is so tiring! I might as well pick a random guy from a line-up and call it good.

They say once I stop looking, I'll find him. Maybe I will, maybe I won't. Love happens when it happens. There are thousands of cliches and quotes to make one feel ok about not having a partner. I think I'm ok with it. I am pretty awesome though, and I should have my PhD in flirting, so if you know of any single, non-weird, successful, cute, and funny men, feel free to send them my way.

Road Trippin'

Seeing my family (some for the first time in over a decade!)this past week brought up a lot of memories for me. First, it was so great to catch up and see what everyone has been up to. It's crazy that most of us have our own kiddos now!

In talking with my cousin, Camie, I was reminded of memories of the family beach house in Cannon Beach, OR (they filmed some of the Goonies there!)and summer trips. Pretty much every summer, we stuffed the family Jeep (complete with wood paneling)with my parents, me and my brother, and usually a dog. The luggage was strapped down to the roof. Think of the movie Vacation. Except, we never drove with a dead relative strapped to the roof or kill a dog that was accidentally hooked onto the bumper. The similarities to Vacation are coincidental. The brother and sister in the back, bitching at each other and annoying each other on purpose. "Mom! She's LOOKING at me!" "MOOOOM! He's in my space!" "Dad, he just gave me a wet willy!" The father with visions of the perfect vacation and rambling historical facts and blaring the oldies and attempting to sing, oblivious to any sort of ruckus that might have been occurring. The petite, blonde, ever patient mom sitting in front trying to be the mediator. The smells from the back seat. The smell of dog fart and dog barf. My dad also always had rose tinted glasses and when the sun started to set, he would pass them around so we could see the colors it was through his glasses. Now that I'm thinking about that, it probably wasn't the best idea to take off his RX glasses while driving with the setting sun in his face. Ah, who thought it would be a good idea to cram us all in this small, confined space for days at a time? Then putting us all in a 2 bed hotel room with 1 bathroom and 1 TV. Formula for arguing a lot.

Our most frequent road trip was to Portland, OR and Cannon Beach, OR. It was so exciting after asking for the 10,371 time "are we there yet?" when yes, you actually are. We'd pull up in front of the beach house and unload our stuff. The smell. The smell of salty air in a musky house that had been closed up for months. We would fight over who got which room. Get everything set up, unload the groceries, and then settle in. Old board games, puzzles, ancient bikes sitting in the garage, a dinky little TV, and endless possibilities for entertainment. We would wonder around in the lush forest behind the house, trying to avoid sink holes. We saw little raccoons who had made their home under the deck. We would ride bikes all over the town. Down to the beach, down to the little downtown, where we would hit up the toy store and market. I even set up a lemonade stand, where I made $29. This was significant since my mom lost her purse that night, and my money was the only money we had for gas and such until it was located. I had "beach house" friends. The ones you only see once a year. Think of the movie Beaches. There was a cool girl that lived with her grandparents. There was the white trash family in the duplex house down the street. The girls across the street that were from Washington. We always had a blast! I learned how to ride my first 2 wheel bike there. Memories.

One time, my cousin, Camie, my nana, and her new kitten Muffy took a solo trip to the house for a weekend. I was in charge of the menu. I had the menus planned and the grocery lists written up. It was a special girl's trip. We played Gin Rummy until the wee hours of the morning. The next day, Camie and I went to the beach to play. We made a mermaid in the sand, complete with algae to make scales on her tail, and seaweed for her hair. It was a work of art if I do say so! It took us like 2 hours to make. Then we decided to leave, and a little shit of a kid ran up to it and started to jump on it and ruin it! Oh, was I pissed. I noticed he had been digging a huge hole in the sand. I asked him if it was his hole. He said yes. So, I walked right on over and filled it back up! Revenge. I still remember his face of disbelief. You ruin my work of art, I'll do it back! Hahaha. We rode down to the general market, and stocked up on Archie comic books and smores stuff. We were obsessed with Archie. I think we bought them out. We got home, and boy, was Nana mad! We were gone way to long and she was worried. She grounded us. That made us mad. I think we made her cry. In retrospect, we were little brats! But, overall, it was a good weekend.

I went back there a few years ago, and Lilli got to see the 'ol beach house. It was nice to share it with her and show her the things I used to see/do when I was little. It's different going back as an adult. Perhaps I'll brave it one day when she's older...but road trips can have their moments! Maybe I'll invest in a car that has one of those fancy DVD players. How far cars have come. All we had was car bingo and Walkmans. I could only listen to so much Paula Abdul trying to block out my dad singing The Bear Went Over the Mountain. I will always remember those trips though. There's a little beach house in my heart. :)

The Tale of Baby Girl Squirrel

Growing up in the middle of Colorado, wildlife is a part of life. You get used to spotting critters, and hearing creatures of the night (nocturnal animals, not vampires) growl or howl outside of your window at 3 am, waking you up terrified and panicked, and perhaps a little wet! Also, having indoor/outdoor cats, you also get used to mice being crunched and murdered under your bed, a bat released into the room and flying around the ceiling fan, or a half eaten frog on the bathroom floor. Lovely, right? Nothing like stepping on a mouse liver in the middle of the night on the way to the bathroom. Sometimes, you are able to craft a “cage” out of a bucket and a tennis racket and rescue an innocent rodent from its pending doom.

I had a cat named Murphey. I got him when he was 6 weeks old. He was jet black with huge yellow eyes, soft rabbit like fur, and protruding fangs that could have warranted kitty orthodontics. He was my boy. He was a cute, cuddly furball during the day, allowing me to push him around in a stroller or dress him up in my Cabbage Patch outfits. Maybe I should say he “let” me do these things. At night, he turned into killer Murphey on the prowl. He hunted the woods and meadow behind our house at all hours of the night. Yet, somehow come dawn, he’d be curled around my head or laying on my feet. Such a loyal cat if ever there was. He was famous for his hunting skills.

One night, I heard it. The muffled “meow” that meant he brought his mama a little present. Oh NO! What now? I threw my sheet off and ran into the hallway to see what his nightly expedition had brought in. I didn’t have my glasses on. I saw a teeny, little peach, furless body. I threw Murphey into the bathroom and shut the door so I could further investigate. I got my glasses and squatted down to have a look. WHAT THE HELL IS IT?! I ran upstairs to get my mom. She took a look too. Whatever it was, it wasn’t dead. Our respect for nature and sense of animal rights kicked in. I got a shoebox and lined it with a towel. I let Murphey out. Obviously pissed I took his little midnight snack away, he ran outside, brought in another of whatever animal we couldn’t identify, and ATE it right in front of us. Little shit.

We took the box to the garage where I tried to warm whatever “it” was with a hair dryer. The heat made it stretch. Its little eyes were still closed and its heart was racing. The only visible damage was a little scratch on the side of its body. I poked holes in the top of the lid and left him in a warm, safe garage for the night.

In the morning, I took the box to the kitchen where we were able to get a better look. It survived the night. My mom called the vet and by our description, we were told it was most likely a squirrel. We were instructed to call a wildlife refuge in Woodland Park. They advised us to try to feed it water through a dropper and they would drive out later and take it. Off I went to school and off went baby squirrel to be rehabilitated and raised. I wish I could have found the nest that had most likely fallen to the ground or abandoned by the mama.

We were contacted by the refuge a few times to be informed of baby squirrel’s progress. It was a she. She was a red foxtail squirrel. Beautiful color and fluffy, bushy tail. Finally, after a few months of therapy, they deemed her suited for the real woods. They surveyed the area around the house to make sure it was a safe place for the squirrel to be released to roam and live. It was. They brought her back to us, along with a little boy squirrel that had been raised with her. He didn’t make it. But, baby girl squirrel flourished. She grew into an adult, and well, a bit of a hussy! All the boy squirrels chattered over her and she had litters of babies. She made her home in a bird house nestled high in a pine tree. She was not shy. She would sit on the railing of our deck, outside of the kitchen, and chatter at my mom and me to give her more food. If that bird feeder was empty, she sure let us know! She was our little wildlife pal.

I would like to think she’s still alive, but I would say this was at least 15 years ago. If her spirit and livelihood say anything, she’s still patrolling the woods outside of the house. I know her little babies have grown up and are making babies of their own, so she will always be around somehow. I just remembered this story the other night. I feel proud and like I contributed something to Mother Nature. That makes me happy. Moral: if you have the chance to save a wild critter, do it! Sometimes, they can’t help themselves.

Kids do say the darndest things

Ah, from the mouth of babes. Sweet, innocent, beautiful children. Until they open their yap and out flies a four letter word or something horribly embarrassing or inappropriate. You know the feeling. You often say a four letter word after said incident occurs. From where do they obtain such abilities to make people gasp or blush? Children are sponges. They soak every little detail up and mimic the people they are around on a regular basis. Remember that scene in "Meet the Fockers" when little Jack's first word comes out as "asshole"? That's fairly accurate. Then you kick yourself in the ass because you know where he heard it. Oops! Time to filter swear words.

Even younger children without a full vocabulary surprise people. My two year old, for example. She's very bright and smart, and she watches me like a hawk. It's not until she dropped the F-bomb that I realized I should try to watch my language around her. She did say it in context though, so that's good. It's easier said than done to develop a filter. Those words just pop out. I've been coming up with alternative swears. Like the other day when I tripped over a can of tuna juice I'd left on the floor for the cats, spraying the kitchen floor with the liquid. Almost about to swear, I screamed "William H. Macy!!!!" as I tried to not slip and slide. That just made her laugh. Or when I was cleaning and the vacuum cord pulled out of the outlet while I was in a back bedroom, I yelled "Flinging flapjacks!!" Where'd that come from? I still like to pull out the old classic "mother trucker!" I've noticed Lilli has taken to "what the heck?" or "oh man!" when something goes wrong. The swear words still fly out sometimes.

And what about those kids that suddenly decide to blurt something very personal out in public? Gone are the unnoticed anonymous toots at the store. You will certainly be called out when your little sweetpea announces: Mama tooted!!! Ewwwwww! OH GOD. Who heard that? You walk to a different aisle pretty quickly after that. In one case, I was at the store, looking for Au Jus mix for my French Dip sandwiches. I kept mumbling to myself in the spice aisle, "Hmmm where is the Au Jus? Au Jus...where is the Au Jus?" It was at that moment my darling blue eyed, blond haired, fair skinned child said in a very loud voice, "A JEW, A JEW!!!" within an earshot of a few passerby. Oh dear. Did my Aryan child just blurt out an anti semantic comment? Holy Crap! That one was not my doing, however; I can understand how she could pronounce it that way. Still nonetheless embarrassing. I made my own Au Jus. Children don't care about race until they are exposed to racism. I had a friend once, who as a child, was not exposed to many black people in the suburbs. While her father, a pastor, told her that the man was coming to visit them, he explained that he's the same as you and I, just a different color. Simple explanation, right? To which she promptly observed upon his arrival, and told him he looked like a Tootsie Roll. Glad she was young and innocent, and he had a good sense of humor!

I am also fascinated at the rate children obtain and remember things. Yet, they always seem to come back to bite you in the ass. My days are crammed with fighting with a 2 year old. Ridiculous to have an almost 30 year old fussing with a 2 year old, right? Not really. She knows how to push my buttons, and she's getting pretty damn good at it. In one of our most recent spats, she actually made me laugh because she was so mad at me. She had a baggie of pretzels to snack on while we ventured home from daycare. At a stoplight, I noticed she was about to intentionally dump the bag out all over my backseat. Scandalous! So, I took the baggie away. This resulted in a meltdown. The last 15 minutes of the car ride home went something like this (typing like a toddler speaks): Mama!! Mama!! MY pritsels. I VANT 'em. I VANT 'em. Give'em back. MINE. Bad boy! Bad boy! NO NO Mama! Go avay!!! Go avay!! Her extensive rant reminded me of Charlie Sheen. It made me laugh. She was so angry, she was crying and her little, sweet face was so red that her hair was glowing. Oh my!! Why she called me a "bad boy" is beyond me, but she got her point across. She finally calmed down when we got home. "I sasu, mama. I sasu. I wuv you." And it ended with a hug. Love.

Do you have any good/funny/embarrassing stories of things your child has done/said to make you blush? Share them!

Bad Boys...whatcha gonna do when they come for you?

Bad boys. Bad, bad boys. Not cops. A woman's fantasy and a man's nemesis. And usually, they don't come to women; women are lured to them like a moth to a flame. Do you ever wonder why? (And from this point on, they are MEN. Boys just sounds like you're a cougar and/or a pedophile).

Badass Billy is sitting at the bar. Tatted up wearing raggedy, leather motorcycle gear. He has a bandanna on his head and a toothpick in his mouth. He has unruly hair and a goatee. He's tapping a pack of Lucky's on the bar, and nursing a pint of Bud. It's also what he's not doing that gets the ladies attention. He's giving off the douchebag, asshole vibe. You strategically place yourself next to him at the bar and order your drink. The allure is uncertain, but strong. You order a fruity, girly drink. He looks at you and simply gives the universal head nod. You smile. You take a drink. Then, you tell him you like his tattoos. He gruffly tells you the meaning of each and where he got them. "See this one here? Ya, I got that when I was at a biker rally in Amarillo. It's a picture of Jenna Jameson on a Harley." You are shocked, and know you should walk away, but just can't. You inquire further. You ask what he does for a living. He grumbles and clears his throat. "Construction. I get to work outside and get fresh air all day. Sure beats life in prison." PRISON!? Now you HAVE to know. You ask him why he was in prison. He replies, "Eh, some jackass was trying to steal my Harley, so I broke his leg. No big thing. I only did 16 months." WHAT?! Yet, you still can't walk away. You are fascinated and addicted. Your head is saying NO, NO, NO, but your inner beast is saying HELL YEAH! Why? Because there is something sexy about a man that has a "past". You can't get enough. He is not the one taking the lead, you are. You ask for his number. He gives it to you, written on a bar napkin. You do realize YOU just did all of the work and laid the foundation for this, right? You hear your mother's voice in your head: Kid, this is NOT a smart choice. Yet, you don't care. He has tattoos. He's been in prison. He looks like Thor! Take me now!

Douchebag Jason is sitting on the couch in the VP section of a trendy nightclub. He's wearing skinny jeans, a button up, long sleeved white shirt, and shiny shoes that are probably from Kenneth Cole. His hair is spiky, with more gel than any human should ever use, with highlights. He's pretty. He smacks the ass of the waitress after she takes his drink order. You mutter "what the hell?! That asshole!" Then, you lock eyes across the room. He smiles ever so charmingly and gives you, yet again, the universal head nod. You weave through the crowded room to get a little closer. He decides now is a good time to stand up and move to the dance floor. He brushes by you and clearly goes for a feel. You want to slap him, yet you can't. He smells like expensive cologne, mint gum, and laundry detergent. He brushes by you again. This time, offering you a drink. Your head is saying, "hey, he's a man whore!" but your inner beast is saying, "if he's paying for the drink I'll take it. And wow, look at those eyes!" Yes, he's got you now. He pays for your drink of choice then insists you dance with him. Immediately, you see other women gasping. He's clearly worked his magic on them too. Yet, once again, you can't resist. What is the allure?

I've been sucked into these traps. I'd like to think of myself as intelligent, but somehow, my choice in men has been somewhat questionable. An abusive asshole, a clueless mama's boy, a portly pirate, and a stalker with questionable motives. It is true. Nice guys finish last. Now that I'm older and wiser, I do my very best to see through the attraction to bad guys. I'm slowly learning what a REAL man is. But, it is hard to resist the bad men. While I have enough common sense to avoid the man that does drugs, has stabbed a person, and has stolen a car, there is something about a man with a little hair on his chest (figuratively, not literally. I'm not really a body hair fan. I won't elaborate) and a history of being a badass. Now, if I could only get a nice guy with bad guy tendencies, but has self control and morals, I'll be set.

Asshole 101

Every one has their day. A day where they may be considered an asshole, for whatever reason. You cut off that guy in traffic on purpose (even though it is an asshole move, it's usually better received if you give a little wave afterwards), you take the last piece of candy in the bowl, you steal that parking spot you know that little old lady was waiting for, you pay with cash vs. a card (you've seen it happen, just like that Visa commercial. Things are going at a perfect pace, then some a-hole whips out CASH. I did it the other day. Oops!), you walk a little faster at the grocery store to get in line so you don't get stuck behind the soccer mom with 2 carts worth of food, or you just didn't feel like tipping 20% for mediocre service at Applebees. It happens. The difference between a true asshole, and an occasional one, is the pseudo asshole feels bad afterwards, and knows it was a dick thing for them to do. AKA guilt.

Then there are the true, perpetual assholes. The ones with their B.S. in Assholeanomics with a minor in hole of ass. I've heard of degrees: criminology, literature, law, some culture of an obscure country I've never heard of, art/religion of pole dancing (that one is pretty simple. Twist, twirl, climb, and jiggle. Not available online, however. Congrats, Doctor!), theology, or medicine. Maybe it's just me, but I am becoming convinced some people take Asshole 101. I don't even want to know what University offers that course. A course focused on defining and refining assholery/assholing.

Chances are, we've all been called an asshole at SOME point in our life. And we probably deserved it. But, if several people are in agreement and call you out on your assholishness on a regular basis, you're probably an asshole. You're most likely
one if you walk by a group of people, and suddenly, silence. You walk by. No, you are not dreaming...they are talking about you after you pass by. "Did you hear Charlie yelled at his dry cleaner because his pleats weren't pleated enough? That asshole."

I have always been taught: 1. if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all (oh, MY, if you think I'm bad, you should hear what I would say if I am not biting my tongue!), and 2. always give people the benefit of the doubt. I do my very best to uphold both concepts. Some days are easier than others. For the most part, the human species is fairly nice and considerate. They hold doors open for you, they let you sit down when you're 7 months pregnant and no other seats are available, they chase you down after you leave a store to tell you that you've dropped a dollar or have forgotten your case of water, they find your child's wallet in the middle of a busy road, and call the library and school from info found and spend a week trying to track down that kid/parents to give his wallet back (that was me. I got some money in my Karma bank for that. Just saying.), or they anonymously pay for your coffee in the drive-thru.

I think Urban Dictionary sums it up pretty well: Asshole (n): A totally and completely passive-aggressive JERK who believes the world SHOULD and MUST revolve around his own wants and needs and whims and who therefore has a sick stupid disregard for the universal law of "reaping what you sow" cuz he "thinks" it SURELY could not apply to or negatively impact him because he's too much The S_ _ t!!! (Note: I copied and pasted directly from the site. It took me a lot of effort to not correct grammar, punctuation, or the word "cuz", and I would just plain say the word "shit").

The point of this post? A reminder: don't be an asshole! At least not on a regular basis.

P.S. I am quite impressed with the way I could turn the word asshole into a verb,gerund, noun, and adjective.

Toxic

Not to say Britney Spears is my favorite, but, one of her songs, Toxic, seemed fitting.
You're toxic
I'm slipping under
With a taste of poison paradise
I'm addicted to you
Don't you know that you're toxic

While she is singing about a guy that puts her under his spell, I am talking about toxic people. I read a blog about toxic people, and it said "Realize that until you stop allowing a toxic person to hurt you and your life, they will continue to do so." This is the truth. We all know those people. We have them in our life. They are the negative naysayers that never seem to be quite content with life unless others are miserable. They feed from negative energy, and give negative energy off. They drain others of happiness. "Remember that toxic people are extremely negative, nasty, miserable, whiny, jealous, inconsiderate, selfish, criminally minded, mentally ill, judgemental, evil, etc. The toxic individual exudes the dark side of human nature all of the time." Yet, we deal with them. We "put up" with their abuse. Why? That's a good question. I have found I have just learned to deal and tolerate the abuse. Sweep it under a rug, so to speak. I made excuses for them. Like, oh, she's just having a bad day, or she's under stress.

I did not want to face the truth: she found ways to bring me down and antagonize me. She made ME feel like I'd done something wrong. She was a little black rain cloud that followed me around, waiting for any opportunity to storm on me. She stressed me out! What would she say? What would she do? She haunted my thoughts and I always feared for expressing myself, as I wasn't sure what sort of mood she might be in that day. She was like a cobra waiting to strike. Facebook is a wonderful way to connect with others and stay in touch, yet, it has been a strong driving force behind distructing relationships. I am guilty of calling others out "publically" on my page. But, it is MY page, my place to say whatever the hell I want, regardless of the nature of my "Status". If you don't like what I have to say....HEY, here's a novel idea: DON'T READ IT! Simple! Yet that simple task isn't always possible to everyone. They can't resist the chance to start the drama. They feed from it; they crave it. In their own way, they want attention just as badly, but simply deflect their attitudes onto others to avoid seeming like they want it.

I have also found these people are really hurting somehow. They have pain for whatever reason, but they do not want to face themselves, so they detach from their feelings and lash out at others. I know I can be negative. We all have our days. More often than not, the feeling passes and we are back on track the next day. Toxic people are on the "I pretend not to give a shit" train, and happily toot their own horns on the way to the City of Miserable 24/7. I've also noticed when they lash out, their venomous comments are really only a reflection of what they are feeling. She calls me fat. Why? Because she was jealous I was skinny, she was fat. She lost a bunch of weight, and suddenly resentment. And now I'm fat (given I could stand to lose a few of these last stubborn baby pounds!), because she's skinny. Does that make sense? Nope. In fact, she would go out of her way to make me feel fat by constantly commenting on how thin she was, and how she cut out meat and carbs, and actually researched my height/weight ratio after I told her my BMI was fine for my size. She didn't believe me. I am fat, of course. And I eat meat and carbs. Sigh, I am just an awful person, aren't I? Meanwhile, her anorexic diet consisted of energy drinks and refined sugars. Healthy.

After 6 years, I had finally had it! She felt the need to inform me that my "constant" posts on Facebook about me being tired, and a single mom, and complaining my child is an asshole (I don't think I ever posted THAT!) are pathetic and boring. Why did she feel the need to do that? It's my page, so how does that affect her? She couldn't resist. She HAD to comment. Why would one's so called best friend say such hurtful, offensive things ON PURPOSE? That was the straw that broke the camel's back. Timid, shy, and scared Julie went bye bye. Out came the strong, I don't need this shit Julie. Why did I deal with it? She had me under her thumb, and I let her do it. I finally let my inner bitch out and nipped it in the bud. I think she was ultimately shocked that I actually stood up for myself. With that, the mean reaction and stinging ensued. Name calling, hurtful comments, false observations. I didn't respond. Until after she blasted me, I pulled out all of the cards and hit her where it hurt. I got down and dirty. She should be proud, she taught me!

I questioned myself. Was this the right decision? Afterall, she'd been my best friend for 6 years and was there for me for some hard times I went through and some milestones in my life. I felt sick. I just pulled the plug on our "relationship." We were really close. But, 100% complete opposites. Every day since then, I've felt better and more certain of the choice I made. There is a grief period, that's normal. But I feel lighter every day now that I don't have to bear the weight of constantly wondering when she would strike again. Did I hurt her? Probably. Do I regret it? A little bit. With time, it will fade. Every person enters and exits your life for a reason. They serve a purpose at some point. So, thanks to her for helping me through my tough times. I need to open a new chapter in my life, and only I can do that.

I will leave you with words from the toxic person blog:
You have the power to walk away from a toxic person and not allow them into your life anymore. Freedom is a wonderful and liberating experience. Realize that toxic people can drain your health, energy, well being and sanity. It helps to move away from toxic people and move towards people who are positive and uplifting. Positive people are a blessing.

Thank you and hugs to my positive people!

Also, if you know a toxic person, this website might be helpful. It made me feel less guilty and more sane. http://www.bellaonline.com/articles/art39146.asp

The REAL Housewives of Scottsdale

I asked for an idea about what to write about, Rachelle replied. (Thanks, Shell!) So, I figured I'd try my hand at writing about the women. The women of Scottsdale, AZ. I don't mean just any women. I mean THE women. I live in Scottsdale, but I certainly am not in the same class as the true Scottsdale women; although, I do not know many natives of Scottsdale; they seem to be from other places for the most part.

If you know anything about Scottsdale, you know it is glamorized for its desert beauty, golf courses, resorts, money, amazing homes, shopping, fine dining, and beautiful people. It is also home to many a plastic surgery centers. I have several within a few miles radius of my house. It's also a place for snow birds to retire, and people from colder climates to relocate.

The women (and most men) are beautiful here! I'm not going to lie when I say even I can't resist sitting in the mall or a restaurant, gazing. Their tan skin, their perfect smiles, their immaculately perfect hair, their wardrobes straight from the pages of Dolce and Gabbana, and the never ending supply of Foobs (that would be fake boobs. My sister in law introduced that term to me at some point, and I thought it was hilarious) are quite captivating, if not hypnotizing.

Upon further inspection, I have noticed they are not all they are cracked up to be. In their attempt to achieve perfection, some details go unspoken. See that hot blond with the double D's and platinum blond hair, jetting around in a Porsche? Yeah, she's 48. The wrinkles around her eyes, though surgically lifted or Botox enhanced, tell her story. She's trying to be something that she's not; she is looking for attention and perhaps validation. Although, I know some of these women are all in it for one thing: money. Yep, that's what they want! Cue the song: The best things in life are free, but you can give them to the birds and bees,I want money. Granted, some of them are actually business savvy and have earned their own money, but most of the younger Scottsdale housewives have....sugar daddies!

A sugar daddy. What is it? It is a slang term for a rich man who offers money or gifts to a less rich younger person in return for companionship or sexual favor. I actually looked into getting one myself at one point; then I realized it was just a dirty old man that was as old as my father trying to get some. Gross. These relationships are obvious most of the time. The incident that stands out in my head is one time I was out to lunch in North Scottsdale with a friend. We were eating outside, and it was probably 75-80 degrees out. Perfect patio weather! While shoving my salad into my mouth, she arrived. Tall and thin. Platinum,long blond hair. Bright,big,red lips. Huge name brand sunglasses. Huge foobs. Sporting tight black jeans, itty bitty black shirt, and 4 inch stilettos. She also had a floor length fur coat on; I was not close enough to identify from which animal. Let me remind you, it was at least 75 out. Another accessory she was sporting, was the small, fragile, grey haired older gentleman. I would say he was at least in his 70s. She towered over him by inches. They sat down to eat. My view was almost blocked by her ridiculously large chest and puffy lips. He was being very sweet to her, pulling her chair out. She seemed completely uninterested. Poor little guy.

I've seen these ladies at the clubs/bars too. In their tight, short little mini-dresses, legs seemingly endless. I look at my outfit; yep, I'm fish bait, not shark cuisine. For the most part, these ladies are nice, you know, if you accidentally bump into them or comment on how cute their shoes are. Yet, some can be complete bitches and give you the "why are you even in the same vicinity as me? Do you shop at Ross?" look. Yes, yes I do; P.S. I paid half as much for the dress I am wearing that you paid full price for, fool! How I love a good bargain. Then there's the ones of lesser intelligence. The ones that stare at you for a few minutes after you say, "pardon me, I did not mean to encroach on your space. I'm sorry. This club is simply at its maximum capacity." . Dodged that bullet, didn't I?

Every city has their women. Be it classy and glamorous, or simple and trashy. Now, thanks to Desperate Housewives, the "real" housewives have emerged. A set of fake ta-ta's is the same as braless boobs in a wifebeater if you ask me. It all depends on your perspective.

Words of a Different Color

I love words! And I love that the English language has so many from which to choose, and so many varieties. I can say "confused" and look up 10 other synonyms for that word. I have been told I have quite the extensive vocabulary. I don't use it to be arrogant or belittling, but I really do like to speak and write with strong words. I believe speaking or writing in a manner that conveys one's intelligence and education is something to show off and take pride in. In this time of "text" lingo, it seems to be a fading art. Kids no longer write letters to their friends and family; they e-mail, text, or Skype with them. What happened to a good old-fashioned letter? Did you know they are starting to do away with teaching how to write cursive in school? Not that cursive is a mandatory and necessary skill, but I would rather read that than chicken scratch. I feel it is just a tradition that should continue.

The dictionary cannot seem to keep up with our ever evolving and expanding language. I about fell over the day the word "bootylicious" was added to the dictionary. Really? What happens when future generations start dissecting the root and origin of words? Can you trace "bootylicous" to a Latin root? Hmmm. Boot is something worn on the foot, so we'll assume bottom. And clearly "licious" is Latin for ... delicious? So delicious bottom?

Text language is being added as well due to its popularity and frequent use. Heaven forbid The Pope doesn't know what LOL, IDK, or BRB means; he MAY like to know what OMG means though. I've seen it show up in student's papers as well. You is now "U", your is now "YER" or "UR", later is now "L8R." I know these are used out of convenience and space when IMing or typing a text, but how will those words look when one uses them on a job application or on a resume? I will vote for the kid that writes, "I would like to work for your company" versus the one that says, "I wud luv to wurk for yer company", but that's just me. Rest assured, my daughter will be the kid that gets the job over the latter. And if the Post Office is still in business when she learns how to write, she will be sending real letters via snail mail. I remember when I was young, I had a few pen pals and I wrote to my relatives. I absolutely LOVED getting mail back from them! It might take a week, but I looked forward to it. It was exciting to have a piece of mail with MY name on it. It made me feel so important and special. An e-mail just isn't the same.

Here are a few of my favorite words. And yes, I actually use them on a pretty regular basis. I love to spell them too; spelling was actually fun for me to learn and I'm pretty darn good at it most of the time. I get it from my mom. I call her the walking dictionary.

Vicariously: Felt or undergone as if one were taking part in the experience or feelings of another.

Capricious: Characterized by or subject to whim; impulsive and unpredictable.

Vernacular: The standard native language of a country or locality. (I used this one in a sentence when I lived in the panhandle of Florida. To which the man replied, "Vernacular? In't that a city in Rome?" I'm not even kidding! I don't speak Southern very well apparently.)

Impeccable: Having no flaws; perfect.

Decorum: dignified propriety of behavior, speech, dress, etc. Possessing politeness and good manners.

Proverbial: Of the nature of a proverb.

Gregarious: Seeking and enjoying the company of others; sociable.

Ostentatious: marked by or fond of conspicuous or vainglorious and sometimes pretentious display.

Needless to say, I did pretty well with words on my SATs. I'm a word nerd, and of that, I'm proud.

Keep writing alive! LOL. BRB. G2G. Luv u. Thx for reading.

The Write Way

Sometimes, I miss school. In the past few days, I have assisted a friend with a few school papers (college level, not elementary!). She had the body and subject matter, but asked me to tweak it and edit it..."polish the turd" so to speak. Although polishing turds doesn't really sound appealing to me, the writing part does. While I was reading her essays, with my editor's cap on and my imaginary red pen, I felt excited! I felt transformed as I changed words, added quotes/references, rearranged sentences, corrected grammar...I was in my zone. I felt productive, like I had accomplished something, and I helped a dear friend out. Sometimes you need a second set of eyeballs to look over your work. Then I realized, I was more excited to be editing, rather than writing my own essays from scratch. Perhaps it's easier to edit rather than do all the legwork and research myself.

I remember back in high school, every time a paper was due, I always seemed to have a few peers approach me and ask me to look over their paper. Even the mean girl, who shall remain nameless. But, Karma comes around, and in my senior yearbook, she wrote something to the effect of "thank you for always helping me out and being nice, even when I was mean to you." That alone was worth looking over her terrible essays.

Someday, I may consider going back to school, time and money pending. Until then, I have this blog. I may write a book, but about what remains a mystery. I am all over the place when I write. It might have to be just as random, informal, and blunt as this blog. Until then, perhaps I can be a writing consultant. Writing/Editing guru? Technical Engineer of Writing Compilation? Oh, that sounds fancy!

Writing is an outlet, and has always been my favorite kind of outlet. I write poetry (not as much as I used to), jot down ideas in the middle of the night, and sometimes journal. Journaling was my best friend during and right after my divorce. Now, I read those journals and they take me right back to where I was, but in a healthy way. At times, I would get so upset and worked up, I wouldn't remember everything that I said or what happened unless I wrote it down immediately. I suppose writing is a way to get my brain to quiet down. It can be like a game of ping pong in there sometimes. I am notorious for having an active mind that never slows down, worries all the time, and over thinks things.

I'll put a reference to Charlie Sheen here. Since his train wreck of a public mental breakdown is attracting the attention of millions, it's difficult to restrain. To modify one of his recent quotes, I'd like to say this: "Yes, I'm on a drug. It's called writing."

His real quote was this: "I am on a drug. It's called Charlie Sheen. It's not available. If you try it once, you will die. Your face will melt off and your children will weep over your exploded body."

Maybe he should be a writer! I can be his editor. Or maybe not...

The "smart" age

Here we are in the middle of the 21st Century. We have come a long way in advances in technology. In five minutes, you can check your e-mail, view your bank statement, order shoes from Amazon, see what Adam Sandler is Tweeting about, and look up the latest news. All at the touch of a button and a click of the mouse. Amazing.

Call me old-fashioned, but I am a bit scared, intimidated, and resistant to technology. Funny, as I work for an IT company. I usually stick with the technology I have until I am forced to upgrade. It's not like I don't have ANY electronic devices in my home, I just don't have the latest and greatest. I have a flat screen HDTV, a DVD player that can play Blu-Ray (I think), a stereo that can accommodate an iPod, a DVR (best gift ever! My dear brother decided it would make a great Xmas gift. Now that I have it, I couldn't agree more. How else am I supposed to pause Glee, record Modern Family, and rewind a show? Especially with a 2 year old!), a laptop, and a Blackberry. I have an iPod, courtesy of my technology savvy brother, and I don't even know how to load songs on it. He does it for me! I still purchase CDs and DVDs. I worked hard on my VHS collection, which had to be upgraded to a DVD collection, which will someday be forced to be a Blu-ray collection.

I guess I just don't like the rapidness of the times. Technology seems to open "Pandora's Box" for some. They expect instant results and have to have the most advanced, current, and latest in gadgets. Some can barely go to the bathroom without tweeting from their iPhone. There are even advances in technology where you can control the lights and power in your home from your phone or laptop. Crazy!

These advances also seem to cause a lack of human interaction. Most things are done via e-mail and the internet. What did they do back in the 1940s or 1960s? They ran their businesses accurately, but perhaps at a slower pace. How did they communicate? Over the phone, mail, or in person. They didn't hide behind their desks and email all day. There was a human connection. The same goes for a lot of industries. You can rent/watch a movie online, check your bank statement, buy stamps and transfer funds from an ATM, or buy an entire spring wardrobe without leaving your house. A lot of businesses suffer from these advances.

I'm not saying I want to go back to the dinosaur days, when the huge 1980s Apple computers first came out, and the graphics on Oregon Trail were considered advanced, but it would be nice to own an electronic device and know it won't be upgraded/outdated in 3 months. My laptop is 5 years old, my car is 9, my microwave is well over 15. They work, I use them! I can't afford to update my appliances that often. There's also the issue of the learning curve on how to use these new smart appliances. I am quite impatient and thrive on instant gratification, so forget reading a 48 page manual on how to work my cable box or new phone; I learn by DOING! There are too many things to remember on a new device. I am not really in need of the latest and greatest. I am content with the bare minimum with a few luxuries here and there. In my home, I really just use my cell phone and laptop to keep in touch with people, blog, and Facebook! The internet is a great thing. The world wide web. I remember when it "came out" into the world and became the norm. I also remember when I was little, my dad worked for a copier company, and I thought my family was advanced because we had a computer, a fax machine, a copying machine, and cordless phones! And, my dad had an actual phone with a cord in his car. We were so cool! And now I wonder, what would we do without mobile technology and the internet? We couldn't function. The internet can be scary as well. Every one's information can be found, accounts can be hacked, children can be lured by an anonymous predator. Who knows what comes after the internet. Microchips implanted at birth?

I'm certainly not against technology, but sometimes I wish it would slow down. Yet, there are advances in medical technology that are curing diseases and diagnosing illness much more accurately. But at times, that same technology can advance diseases as well. It's a catch 22.

I am thankful for light bulbs, phones, TVs, laptops, and the like. I just don't really see a need in a machine that lives my life for me. Have you ever read "A Brave New World" by Aldous Huxley? I highly recommend it.

And with that, I am going to enjoy shows on my semi-outdated TV, type on my ancient laptop, and set my alarm clock, not my phone, to wake up tomorrow.

Tales from the jury box

Now that the trial is over, I can talk about it. Admonition has been lifted. Good, I have so many things to say!

In the middle of January, I received it. It stared at me while I sorted through my mail. There IT was...a JURY SUMMONS. Well, shit. I just served on a jury 2.5 years before. Was my name seriously drawn again? I put a note on my white board and pinned the summons (summons...that word makes me shudder) to my cork board. And there it sat.

I didn't know if I would have to report until 4 PM the night prior. I sat at work, anxiously watching the clock approach 4. I dialed. Hoping I wouldn't get picked, I listened to the recording. The second group she listed was mine. 1502. Yep. Well, great. Looks like I was headed to downtown Phoenix in the morning.

Day 1: the selection
I hate driving downtown. It's perpetually under construction, there's a lot of traffic and one way streets. Google maps sent me in the wrong direction. I looked at the clock. Holy Hell, I'm going to be late. I drive around and try to find the parking garage. Dammit. I'm so late! I had to be there at 8:30 and it was already 9. So, I gave up and parked in a metered spot. $1.50 for 2 hours. I walked to the court house in my heels. Clickity clak, I hauled ass down the street. Great, long line at the security scanners. I walk through. Beep. Sorry, turn around, spread your legs, lift your pant legs. Ok, you're good to go. Run to the the jury room. I hand the lady my summons and tell her I parked in a metered spot and I didn't know where the parking garage was. She laughed...it happens a lot apparently. She gave me a map and told me where to go. I ran back to my car and relocate it. I wait for the shuttle to the court house. It pulls up. The little old man promptly introduces himself as Walt, and asks "what says you, beautiful?" To the court house! I'm so late! He takes me there and says goodbye in a Donald Duck voice. I like this guy.

And again, through security. Beep. Sorry, turn around, spread your legs, lift your pant legs. Ok, you're good to go. Run to the the jury room. Get my juror form and fill it out...and wait. And wait. Drink the NASTY hot tea they had. Finally, the bailiff arrives and starts calling out names. Then, I hear mine. Fuck. I honestly dropped the F-bomb out loud. #33. Awesome. Finally, we are directed to the elevators like cattle and were instructed to go to floor 11. It took 20 minutes alone to get on an elevator. Arrive on the floor. No seats available, so I sit on the cold, hard floor. Wait some more. Finally, the bailiff arrives and gives us instructions. We file into the court room. What a crowd. Fat, skinny, white, black, yellow, hairy, beautiful, ugly, smelly, young, old. The judge mentions the details of the case. Some people have issues and some won't/can't serve. The case is about a man that had sexually molested sisters when they were 14 years old (5 years apart). The charges are read, and they are graphic. The jurors answer questions and are weeded out. Lunch break! Time to go pay $9 for a crappy salad in the cafeteria. Go back to floor 11. Wait some more.

The herd had been thinned by about 20 people. More questions. More answers. Afternoon break. Wait, and wait some more. Finally, around 4, we get called in again. Good thing I told my boss I'd be out all day. They have chosen their 14 people. They start calling numbers. Listening, listening....trying not to hack. At this time, I had an awful barking cough. And there it was. NUMBER 33?? You're juror #9. Why do they keep picking me! The jury had been selected. The odd thing was that it was a sexual abuse case, and the jury was 13 women, 1 man. The defendant was black, yet the jury was primarily white. I'm still not sure why they chose who they did. Both sides get a say. Ok, off for Friday and the weekend. I report on Monday. Valentine's day...how appropriate.

Day 2: the trial begins
It was sort of nice to sleep in a bit. I didn't have to be to court until 10:45. Sweet! I took my leisurely time getting myself and the kid ready. We even watched some cartoons together! Then, I take her to her dad's place. Time to jump into traffic and get lost in downtown Phoenix. I found the parking garage, got on the shuttle with a few jury members I remembered, and headed to court.

Ah, yes, security time. Walk through. Beep! Raise your arms, spread your legs, lift up your pant legs. Ok, you're good. WAIT! Is this your lunch bag? Yes, why? Is that Tupperware glass? Yes? Oh, no glass allowed. You need to run to the cafeteria and get a plastic container and then give us the glass. Seriously?? So, I run to the cafeteria and ask for a plastic container. He takes his time. I steal 3 packs of butter. That's right! I did make banana bread for the jury, so I think I'm entitled to 3 packs of butter. I get the container, transfer my salad, and run back to security. Same deal. Beep! Ok, you're good. I hop on the elevator with some interesting people up to the 11th floor. 13 our of 14 are there...we call the bailiff to let us into the juror room. We file into what is our home for the next few days.

Finally, the trial begins. The girls (victims) are the first to take the stand. They are beautiful. They start to testify. Homeless for most of their lives. Their oldest sister finally moved out on her own, pregnant, and met the defendant. They both break down and say he sexually molested them at age 14. They cry. I almost cried, but I am supposed to be unbiased. I listen. I put my head down. I let them cry. I can only imagine what's going on in their heads and hearts. It's hard to keep a straight face. But a juror is supposed to be emotionless. We go to lunch. I get offered a job on a sticky note. That was pretty funny, and very legitimate. We go back to finish the testimonies. Day two is over.

Day 3: the plot thickens
I get to sleep in again. Ahh, nice. I am liking this. I drop the kid off at daycare and get on my way. I'm a pro now! I don't get lost or anything. Park my car, get on the shuttle with Walt, head to the court house. I don't set the metal detector off, and I didn't bring my lunch this time. The guy behind me is trying to smuggle in 2 mini bottles of Jack Daniels. Really? Wow! Up to floor 11. We're all there, we go into our room. They are on time today. We are led into our box. Today, we hear the police officers and detectives, and a "blind" expert witness. It's a lot of information to take in. We break for lunch. A few of us go to a new sandwich shop. We order and enjoy the beautiful weather outside. We watch and listen to the protesters. A pigeon scares the ever loving crap out of me. Gotta love downtown! Time to go back. We continue to listen to testimonies. I'm drained and the lights are sucking the life out of me. The judge and deputy almost nod off. We finally get through the state's side. The day is over. I go pick up the kiddo and hug her endlessly.

Day 4: hearing the defendant's story
He's been sitting in the court room this entire time. Nicely dressed, nodding his head "no" through all of the testimonies. He's glad he gets to tell his "story" now. He takes the stand. His lawyer asks him questions, and he answers. I know it was a horrible case, but when he said "titties" on the stand...I almost laughed out loud. Who says that in a court room? He keeps answering questions, giving way too much detail. His lawyer is mad at him. He's digging himself deeper. He gets angry. He gets emotional. "They kill people that hurt children in prison, I'm scared for my life." But, he maintains his story. He only touched their breasts. He did not get them high. He did not "rape" them. They are lying. He only touched their breasts. We break for lunch. I try to lighten the mood. The prosecutor is cross-eyed. How can I not comment about that? I really didn't know who he was looking at. And he certainly gave new meaning to "cross-examination." Ha! I have them rolling. Sometimes, you have to laugh. We go back for the conclusion.

We listen to the closing arguments. Both sides really make valid points. The prosecutor doesn't get the girls' names right. I cringe. It seems he's just trying to get his payday. The defense argues and pokes a few holes in the prosecutor's statement. We are sent back to our room to wait. We are finally called back in. Time to pick the alternate jurors. There are 14 of us; they only need 12. I start to get flushed, and I gather my things. I already knew. They pick numbers out of a hat. Jurors 6 and 9. Yep, that's me. Juror #9. Somehow, I was relieved and disappointed at the same time. I put all of that time in and listened to this case. I took time from my job. I paid for over-priced food. I was invested. But, by the random hand of fate, I was excused. I didn't get to share my opinions. What a crap shoot. But, at the same time, I was relieved to not be responsible for this man's fate. What if I made the wrong choice?

The bailiff said she would call to let me know the verdict. I couldn't wait. I looked up his case details online. Curiosity kills! The verdict was posted. He had been found guilty of sexual misconduct/abuse with a minor. The only charges he was not convicted of were giving drugs to a minor, and kidnapping. I do agree with that. He was sentenced for 14/17 charges against him. I have to admit I felt a little bad, as he does have children of his own...but then again, who says this couldn't happen to his own children? I do not know how much time he was sentenced to yet.

I am very honored to live in a country that actually has a justice system. It may not always be as accurate as we'd like, but for the most part, people get punished for their crimes. I feel better that there's one less creep off the street. I know this trial will forever divide his family. It is very difficult to remain unbiased during a case. I'm human. I cry. I feel sympathy. I feel anger. Even though I wasn't a part of his final sentencing, I know my fellow jurors did the right thing. Being on a jury truly is a bonding experience. You are tasked with deciding some one's future. That's a heavy burden. What if you make the wrong decision?

Now that it is over, I am glad to have been a part of it. I have served my civil duty. Twice! I hope I'm not summoned again!

Elevator Etiquette

We've all been there. Crammed in an elevator with 13 other totally random strangers. And I'm not talking about the cushy elevator in Nordstrom taking you up a floor. I mean a public building (like a court house, for example)where the mix of people, noises, and smells all blend together. The lobby with the bank of elevators is crammed full. You have lawyers, police officers, sketchy folks, and the lot. Then, DING! An elevator arrives. You get shoved in like you are in a cattle shoot, and squashed into the back of the elevator. You ask someone to push your floor number and the door closes. Then, you are stuck with these "elevator people" for 30 seconds to a few minutes. Awkward. Silent. Yet, there must be a standard elevator manual, because as different as people are, there always seems to be the same offenders.

There is always the little old lady that has sprayed ENTIRELY too much perfume, or the little old guy that was much too liberal with his Brut aftershave.

There is always someone that has a stench of BO, either faint or like they poured a bottle of Cumin all over themselves that morning.

There is the person with NO sense of personal space, standing entirely too close for comfort.

There is that one person that has some infectious cough or is sneezing their germs into a tight space.

There is that lady practically travelling with her entire set of luggage. Purse, laptop case, shoulder bag, lunch bag, and a blanket.

There is that person that can't seem to figure out the buttons in the elevator, or what floor he needs to be on, or how to work the "close door" button.

The person that needs to get off first is always crammed in the back.

There is that person that hums. Always humming. All the time.

There is that person that can't stand the silence and cracks a joke or makes a witty observation. Yes, that person is usually me!

You pile in, stand facing forward with such a serious look on your face. Your trip beings. Up 11 floors, down 4. Silence. Throat clear. Cough. Oh coughing! He's going to infect the entire group!! What's that smell? Did someone fart? Oh dear, this woman must have halitosis! I can't see straight with her dragon breath stinging my nostrils. I smell spearmint gum. Maybe someone should offer her a piece! Who just stepped on my foot? Hey, guy with no sense of personal space...BACK UP. Your elbow is touching mine. Ok, floor 6...tall dude in the back with too much hair gel has to get out now. Rearrange. Only 5 floors left! Is that guy REALLY on his cell phone right now? No, I don't really care about last night's excursion, thank you. Still going....silence, cough, sniffle, sigh. Then me, cracking a joke of the awkwardness of it all. DING! Floor 11. Oh Thank GOD! I'm out!! See you later, elevator people!

Cuz ya gotta be strong...

Are you strong enough?
Life takes a lot of strength to get through. And I don’t mean physical. Sure, you can run marathons, pump some iron, do yoga, eat 100 hot dogs in 10 minutes (gross, but I suppose that does take some sort of strength…and stomach stretching), and do your best physically.

What I’m talking about is inner strength; strength of your heart (not the actual bloody muscle), your soul, and your mind. Each day presents a new challenge. Be it something silly like not getting a jar open, being stuck in traffic and almost getting rear-ended, or receiving a phone call that one of your loved ones has passed. You can’t really prepare, you just have to react and deal with the challenge. Jar won’t open? You hit the lid with a knife, try hot water, swear at it, wrap a towel around it, then after 3 minutes, POP! Victory is yours! Those pickles taste that much better, don’t they? You get over it pretty quickly.

The receipt of heart-breaking or scary news hits you like a blast of freezing water. You may go into shock, you may either cry or scream, or perhaps, you internalize it and try to make sense of it. I have been in a few situations in my life that have gotten this type of reaction from me: passing of a grandmother, my divorce, the hospitalization of my nana, illness of my child, but the one that stands out the most in my mind is when both of my parents almost died from carbon monoxide poisoning.

March 17, 2006 (St. Patrick’s Day), 8 am.
I had just arrived at work, and was booting up my computer like any normal day. My cell phone rings. I see it’s my dad. I almost didn’t answer, because I was at work. But my gut answered for me. He never calls this early; he knows I’m at work, so I answered. The first words out of his mouth: “Julie, it’s your father. Your mother and I have been poisoned, we’re going to die.” Um, WHAT? Did he just say that? So I said “What are you talking about? What’s going on?” He continues to tell me that they were poisoned and the firemen were there, breaking windows, and that something was wrong and they had a CO2 leak. He was not making sense, stuttering and slurring as if he were drunk. He kept talking about the cats, and how the firemen found them, and they were on gas masks. (This is a hilarious image to think about NOW. In fact, my friends and I get a good laugh about it when we have a bad day…don’t worry, the cats are ok, they have gas masks. They make gas masks for cats? Yes, yes they do.) I basically had to “verbally bitch slap” him over the phone to get him to tell me something. Where’s mom?? He told me she had fallen and broken her ankle and was in the back of an ambulance to the hospital. Coincidentally, the same hospital I was born at. I said I would call him back. At this point, I was shaking so hard, gasping for breath over my cries and yelling. I felt sick. I had my head in my hand. I had attracted several co-workers outside of my cube. I called both brothers, no answer. I finally called my sister-in-law and asked her to call my dad to see if she could make any sense of what he was saying. She got just about the same reply I did. I was on another mission: to find my mom. A co-worker found the phone number for me, and I tried to compose myself as I dialed. Memorial Hospital ER? Yes, I am looking for my mom. I think she just got there in the ambulance….and before I could finish, the lady said she was right there. She put her on the phone. My mom was high as a kite. “Mom, are you ok??” “HI baby girl!! I’m ok. I’m sitting here in a toasty blankie. I love you. Bye!” Ok, well, at least I knew she was alive. After several hugs, and more crying and shaking, there was nothing I could do from Arizona, so I just had to calm down. Easier said than done.

That was the worst call I have ever received. Imagine losing one parent, but both at the same time, when they are so young and I am unprepared to live without them. I still can’t wrap my mind around that thought. After years of litigation, court dissertations, interviews, medical tests, and grief, my parents finally settled in court. They are both fairly healthy, even though the CO2 created some health problems, and sped up others, they are alive and kicking in Mexico. I guess Heaven wasn’t ready for them yet.

That said, going back to inner strength, I have found I have a lot of it, more than I give myself credit for. I may not show it on the outside, but somehow, I always get through things and end up on top. And sometimes I don’t even see it, people point it out. That’s the way I work: I freak out, overreact, internalize, let go, and then finally, accept. I never thought I’d get over my divorce, I did. I didn’t think I’d be able to be a single mom living on my own, I’m doing it. I have an incredible line of strong women in my family; I had to get my strength from somewhere. And just because I’m sensitive and emotional, doesn’t mean I am not a “tough” person. I can kick some serious ass when I have to.

"Strength does not come from physical capacity.
It comes from an indomitable will."
-Mahatma Gandhi

What is a mother's heart made of?

Blood, muscle, and tissue? Nope! Guess again.

A mother's heart. It is a tremendous thing. It is very strong. It supplies blood to the rest of her body, and to any babies she might have. Supporting a human life...is...nothing short of amazing.

But, a mother's "heart" is a very indescribable thing. It holds so much love for her children, it's almost unbelievable.

Children: they fuss, they fight, they make you happy, they make you sad, they make you mad. But if your child is hurting in any way, you feel it too.

Have you ever had a normal day, doing your own thing, and BAM...something just doesn't feel right? You panic, call whomever is with your child, if not yourself, and inquire. What is going on? Sometimes, a mother's intuition is right on, sometimes, it predicts the future. But, when YOU know something isn't right...it probably isn't. Your heart becomes your gut. You feel it in your very being.

I have felt this feeling many times in my 2+ years of being a mother. Call me an amateur, having only 1 child and being a mom for only 2 years, but even so...once you become a mother, you have the instinct. You do.

The worst pain a mother can experience is when something is wrong with her child, and nothing can be done. She feels inadequate, unsuccessful, scared, and questions who SHE is. I have found it is always the mother's burden to take on the weight of the world. Pain is felt very deeply and very personally. You would give up your beating heart so your child will feel no pain. Mothers are like a firewall to their children. You want to protect them from viruses, hurt, pain, bad people, the "real" world, and anything in between.

"The moment a child is born, the mother is also born. She never existed before. The woman existed, but the mother, never. A mother is something absolutely new." ~Rajneesh

"She never quite leaves her children at home, even when she doesn't take them along." ~Margaret Culkin Bannin

D-I-V-O-R-C-E....

It's so unfortunate that word has become so commonplace in our society. Unfortunately for me, I am part of that statistic. But, I would like to say I got a divorce for the "right" reasons. I tried to fix the marriage, but it was broken, and I couldn't try any longer. I didn't use it as a cop out, I used it to get myself back and get rid of a very toxic person (and by "get rid of", I don't mean I sent people out to "take care of him"...but, I won't lie, I considered it!). I wasn't about to lose myself and jeopardize my life for another person.

July 23, 2004: That date will always stand out. Aside from the fact it's my dad's birthday,that's the day we called it quits. We had another yelling match about something I did (always an issue...it was NEVER his fault), and when I got home, we had the "talk." I immediately felt dizzy and nauseated. Could this be happening? I can change, really I can. I went completely numb, drew a bath, and called my parents. Then I called my brother. They said I needed to GET OUT of there. If only it were that easy. I had to have foot surgery and I needed his medical coverage. Imagine living with your soon to be "ex" husband like a roommate for over month. That was sheer torture.

August 19, 2004: My birthday. I spent it alone, with my foot in a cast, in bed with my cat. Crying. Of course, he had the nerve to tell me I looked great and my butt looked awesome in my jeans. By this time, I had lost about 10 pounds from lack of appetite, and I didn't have much weight to spare at the time. Divorce was the best diet ever though!

August 31, 2004: One of the hardest days in my life. This was the day my dad was flying in to drive me across the country, from Florida to Arizona. My entire life was packed up in a Penske truck. Before I left, I asked him if he ever loved me for me, or who he thought he could turn me into. He said he wasn't sure. OUCH. Ouch. With tears in my eyes, I hugged him and said goodbye, and knew it would be the last time I would ever see him.

August 31-Sept. 4, 2004: The journey to my new life and road to recovery began. It was an interesting experience being stuck in a truck cab with my father. Crap! No where to run! It was awesome when he fed my cat Tango beef jerky and she threw up on my lap. And even more awesome when Tango took a huge crap in her litterbox while we were in the middle of nowhere. Phew! It was quite the bonding experience though. We cried a lot.

Sept. 4, 2004: I pulled up in front of my brother's house in Scottsdale, AZ, tired, defeated, and emotional. I will never forget the hug he gave me. I just wanted to fold up into a little ball and have him hold me.

I stayed with him and his wife for a few days before getting settled into Apt. 265 in my new digs. My first place alone! Very intimidating. On the first night in the apartment, the power went off. Great! I started to cry. How did I get to this point? I was still in daily contact with my EX, and that probably wasn't the best thing to do. I couldn't move on; he was all I knew for 4 years.

Sept. 8, 2004: The arrival of the divorce finalization. I was flabbergasted and shocked. The divorce was complete. Done. Irreconcilable differences. At least I had my last name back. And you know, what a nice guy! He gave me alimony and paid off my car. What a hero!! How about you give me back the 4 years I wasted on you, you incredible bastard!! Needless to say, I had a few drinks that night.

My EX. Oh, my EX. How to describe him. A selfish, jealous, controlling, mentally abusive, impossible to please, mean, miserable excuse for a human being. Oh, and here's a fun fact: he was remarried within 8 months of our divorce. Hmmm....curious, huh? I dare not speak his name. I call him Satan. He had a baby, too. That stung a little, I'm not going to lie. And now, he's expecting another one. How do I know?? I'm excellent at Face-stalking on Facebook. ;) I hope his little demon seeds are ok. Alright, that's mean. They had no choice in the matter.

In retrospect, my divorce was the hardest thing I've ever been through, but also probably the best learning experience I've had. What did I learn? I've learned I am my own person, and no one can change me, or should for that matter. I'm independent and feisty. It was my feisty-ness, stubbornness, and the "spark" I have and will always have that couldn't be changed; he didn't like that. I will not compromise myself ever again. I'm worth more than any wedding ring. It has also shed light on the men I date (wait, date? I'm a single mom. What's that again?), and allows me to notice red flags when they pop up. I know I'm a handful, but I'm not sorry for that. It also made me put up some walls and barriers, and I'm learning how to let those down. I must protect my heart, but I can't keep everyone away.

I have been divorced for coming on 7 years in September. Amazing! I will just call it my "starter" marriage. Trial and error. Haha.

And, a joyous shout-out to the family and friends that helped me get through this very dark period in my life. I wouldn't have made it without you. I love and cherish you. Now, which one of you will "take care" of my EX? Just kidding. Kind of.

"Sometimes divorce is better than marriage." ~ Sumner Redstone

Funny business

This blog is going to be in an interview format. Who's interviewing me? Hmm...I don't know. A person my head made up (let's not get into that...that's a whole other post!) and we'll call her Jan. Jan is from the major comedy club I will be performing in someday when I make it big. Jan wants to know...

Jan: Julie, what's it like to be so funny?

Me: Hilarious.

Jan: No, seriously.

Me: It's like a constant comedy act in my head, but I don't really plan it. It just happens. Like breathing.

Jan: Do you think you learned how to be funny?

Me: No. I think I was born funny. You can learn to be funny, but being born funny is different. Sure, you can "learn" how to be funny, but it's not the same if your head and heart aren't into it, and your genes.

Jan: Why is your humor so successful?

Me: It's about 3 things: timing, delivery, and swearing. Oh, and not having a verbal filter helps...so 4 things. Things just fly out of my mouth...sometimes I shock myself! But, my rule of thumb is if I make at least 1 person uncomfortable or blush each day, I'm a success. I've learned that if you're not uncomfortable, you're not growing. It's the shock factor.

Jan: Do people get your sense of humor?

Me: For the most part. Sometimes, I think my humor is lost on some people, but they clearly don't have a good sense of humor. Humor is a daily part of life. Those people that are dry as toast and "frosty" tend to just stare at me blankly. Another success for me: getting the toasties to smile. I will crack you; you just wait. I find that sarcasm and wittiness make my humor what it is.

Jan: ~blankly staring~

Me: Just you wait. I will crack you.

Jan: Do people find you offensive?

Me: Probably. I've learned you can't please all the people all the time, so if I offend you...sorry, and don't think twice about it. It's all about reading people. For example, at work one day, I called a co-worker "Pyle driver." She does not get offended easily, but honestly...what was I supposed to do when she has the last name of Pyles? She had no words, blushed, and walked away. Meanwhile, the rest of the people that heard it just looked at me with their jaws dropped, immediately followed by a hysterical roar of laughter. Yes, probably not office appropriate, but like I said, I have no filter.

Jan: Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

Me: As a washed up hooker on the side of the road in Compton. Ha. No just kidding. I hope you know that was a joke. My goal is to someday perform on stage. Whether it be an amateur show at a comedy club that seats 30 people, or a big club in LA. If I can be funny and pay the bills, I am a happy girl. I would love to "roast" somebody! Figuratively, not literally. I'm not into cannibalism.

Jan: Where does your inspiration come from?

Me: Life. People. Every day situations. I find people fascinating and enjoy people watching...you know, in a non-creeper/stalker sort of a way. Even the most mundane thing can prompt a joke. It's amazing what people do when they think no one is watching. I've also learned children can be very inspiring. They just do what they feel and say what they think. Honesty is the key.

Jan: Did you make anyone blush or become uncomfortable today?

Me: I sure did. It turns out the word "twatwaffle" is pretty funny.

Jan: Yes. Yes, it is.

Me: SUCCESS! Thank you for taking the time to interview me. This concludes our interview. Watch for my name in lights!

Jan: But...I....

Me: No, we're done now!

Jan: Touche.

~Jan is an idiot~

I understand why...

When you're young, you don't really question much, you just accept it. You think the way your parents did things was just the way things were done, and weren't at all strange. Then you get older, and you see, yes, maybe they did some weird things. Then you have a kid of your own, and you think, they were nuts, but now I understand!

For instance, I now understand why:
~ My mom counted down the minutes to bedtime.
~ My dad didn't want to be bombarded the second he walked in the door from a 12 hour day.
~ Little white lies (i.e. Did you know Boise is the flashlight capital of the world?!) are necessary to keep children at bay.
~ Being able to pee by yourself is a luxury.
~ Why sometimes, you just want to SIT in the dark.
~ A simple threat (I'm going to send you to China if you don't behave)actually sounds reasonable when nothing else will work.
~ The "shock factor" of splashing a cup of cold water on some one's face will bring them back to reality really quick!
~ If your kid is crying and throwing a tantrum, and you do it right back, they become suddenly dumbfounded and knock it off once they realize how you are acting.
~ Sometimes, you just need a drink.
~ You just have to laugh when you find a Cheerio stuck to your butt.
~ You must have a bedtime routine, no matter how crazy. Ours was the "train" down the stairs and the stops were our bedrooms. It was always a fight over who got to be the caboose!
~ You are excited for any amount of time to yourself, even if it is just sitting in your car outside.
~ Deep breath breaks are totally necessary.
~ Leaving your kid in the cart in the middle of the aisle and walking away during a fit seems like an appropriate action to take at the time.
~ Giving a kid a duster and a rag is not only fun for them, it's useful to you!
~ If you don't feel like doing an asinine chore, you pass it off to the kid and make it sound like SO MUCH fun and that you're actually jealous they are doing it instead of you.
~ You really do look forward to laundry day, and especially clean sheets.
~ There is always a need for a "plastic" drawer in the kitchen.
~ Toys with small or multiple parts are the bane of your existence.
~ Going out to dinner (no matter where) is such a nice treat because YOU don't have to clean up (although, coincidentally, you feel guilty for the mess your child has left behind).

I know there are so many more, but for now, I will end the list here.

Think about what nuts your parents were (and still are most likely) and think about how you are turning into them. SCARY thought, right?

You can't go home again

Miranda Lambert -- The House That Built Me. Listen to it.

This song has a lot of significance for me. It's more than a country song to me, it's words with meaning that touch me very deeply. It's about a woman that goes to her childhood home to reconnect, and relive her memories. Those that know me, know that I don't let things go easily, and I don't really care for change. I was raised in the same house until I moved out to go to college at 17. That's a lot of memories to sort through!

Even more significant, is that my parents have finally put the old homestead on the market. Needless to say, I didn't take that news well. It felt like a dagger had been shoved into my heart. That's MY house! I don't want some other family living there, eating in my kitchen, playing in my room, or running around in my forest. Bastards! That was my initial reaction. I was so upset and angry about their choice. I want this house to be ours forever. It's OURS! Everyone knows the Shannon family resides in the huge house on top of the steep hill, on top of another steep hill. It's ours!

After my initial reaction, I started thinking. I tried to understand their reasons. While the house was such a huge part in their lives, they have to move onto the next phase of their lives (AKA Mexico and retirement!) and they certainly aren't as young as they used to be. The Shannon Manor requires a LOT of upkeep, inside and out. It's a constant project. And when it snows, it SNOWS! I remember getting a snow day, and my brother and I would be SO happy...then pops shows up with shovels. Dammit. So ok, it's hard to keep up with. I understand that. And while our house was deemed a great party house, and the holiday decor was exquisite, it was also very expensive.

I'm starting to realize more and more that a house is a house. It's the people inside it that make it a home. I am fortunate enough the house has been around long enough for me to take my own daughter to visit! She slept in my old room, played with some of my old toys, played in my fort, ran around my woods. That's what it's all about. Making memories! The house doesn't have memories of us, but we sure have memories of it. I will always have the memories, the smells, the noises, the good times and bad in that house. Good old 19415 Old Fort Lane (or for those that knew my dad...renamed it Old Fart Lane.). I have pictures of it. It will always be MY house and no one can sell my memories of it, or the images I have in my heart and mind. And while it's still very hard for me to let go, I realize more and more, as I raise my own child, that our house needs a new family in it to make their own memories. It's a great house! It was an epic house to play hide and seek in, to make forts in, slide down the stairs on a sleeping bag in, and just LIVE. And let's not forget the breathtaking views of the Rocky Mountains...especially Pike's Peak. I was fortunate enough to see that view everyday. To witness nature's majesty from my own deck is pretty amazing.

You can go home, but you can't go home again. You can visit, but it will never be the same home you grew up in. Things change, people change, life changes...

I will always love the house that built me.

The day of a working single mom

As I'm writing this, I am laughing. I honestly just sat down, or at least for any amount of significant time. I'm used to it. That's the sad part. I know all of my single moms can relate. Just thinking about my day exhausts me, but I just do it because I have no option.

Here is a typical weekday for me:
Wake up with a smile and pop out of bed! It's time for the day to start, sleepyhead! NOPE! Not remotely close! It's more like alarm goes off and my hand reaches out and slams the snooze button. Shit. Is it really 6:30 already? I swear I JUST went to bed. Roll over, and try to sleep for a whole 9 minutes, but not really because I know the damn thing will be going off again, so really, I'm just laying there awake with my eyes closed. Damn thing goes off again. Another slap to the snooze button. I'm surrounded by 3 cats and it's still dark out. Grumble, grumble, swear words, turn off the alarm, turn on the light. Loud sigh. Glasses on, stumble to the bathroom. Morning pee, splash face with water, put contacts in, brush teeth. Listen to baby monitor to see if "she" is awake yet. Nope. Good. Moving on to wardrobe. Stand in closet for 3-5 minutes in a daze, looking at all of my clothes over and over. Swear words. Pull whatever outfit isn't atrocious and won't make me look too fat out. Put on underwear. Pull clothes on. Moving onto beauty ritual. Depending if I have my hair straight or not...dunk head under tub faucet, or touch up curls with straightening iron. Sit on counter. Apply facial lotion, deodorant, and start to apply makeup. STOP. Listen to baby monitor to see if "she" is up. Nope. Good! Onward with an uninterrupted routine. Applying makeup. Apply necessary hair condiments. Almost done! Start operation jewelry. Put in matching earrings (always), and sometimes a necklace, bracelet, or rings. STOP. What was that? Listen to the monitor again. Oh no---it's waking up!

Onward to the meal routine. Now, this can happen at any point during my morning ritual, but I'm assuming she's slept through all that. Sometimes I have her breakfast ready before I am done, sometimes, she's up and demanding it. Haul ass to the kitchen. Grab sippy cup, vitamins, cereal bar, and half of a banana. Try to feed the damn fish and cats before she's up. Go into her room, where I'm usually greeted with a chipper "mornin' mommy!!!!" Adorable, yes. A little too much first thing in the morning, sometimes. Get her out of bed, send her to the potty. Put on her "undies" and then her clothes for the day. Socks and shoes. If I forget anything, she will certainly let me know. Feed her breakfast. Pack my lunch. I rarely eat breakfast this early, so I will either grab something to go, or just have some juice. Get her daycare bag ready. Make sure we have everything and head out the door and load into the car.

Drive to daycare. Kisses goodbye, and off to work! Flip off and swear at other drivers as I get over 4 lanes of traffic in less than a mile to get onto my exit. Blare the tunes and zone out for a bit. Suddenly, I'm at work. Go in, sit down, work. 8 hours later, pack it up, go to daycare, round up the kid. Then either go straight home, or try and run errands, usually the grocery store. Get home between 5:30-6:00 pm.

Start the dinner/bedtime routine. Get dinner started, dishes unloaded, a load of laundry in the washer, clean the cat boxes, pick up toys, and do whatever random chore that might need to be done. If I don't get it done before dinner, it's usually after the kiddo goes down. Feed the kid dinner, get the bath ready, bathe her, get her ready for bed and in her jammies. Phew! My dinner is either still in the oven, or not even ready yet. Now we play or watch TV. I haven't seen her all day, and I don't see her much between getting home and bedtime, but I'm exhausted by this point. Finally, 8:00 rolls around! Yippee! The end is in sight. But, someone else has other plans. 8:05, 8:09, 8:17...finally, ok, say goodnight to the kitties, and go to sleep!

Mommy time! This is when my personal chef and masseuse come over. HA! Nope time to eat, sit down, watch TV, make my lunch, do whatever didn't get done before baby bedtime, then make sure the house is semi-clean. Shit. How the hell is it 10:00 already? Time to shower and get ready for bed. Can't sleep, toss and turn, can't shut my brain off. And then....it starts all over again!

Does that make you tired? I'm tired even reliving it. And of course, this is a typical day. There's always those days where even 5 minutes of my routine is messed up, and my whole day is off.

Cheers to all the single moms out there. I feel your pain!