Changes

There is no clever anecdote for this day. To put it plainly, my life has completely changed. I don't want to say fallen apart because there is still a lot of it that kicks ass.

So, over all, I'm still awesome, Silas is still perfect, I still have the best friends in the world, I still have an amazing family, I still have a good job with really great bosses and co-workers, and my roly-poly ass has not missed a meal.

There's just this giant elephant in the room of the pending being a single mom losing the man I'm in love with thing to deal with. Once i've figured out how not to give a shit (and believe me, I will) all will be right with my world.

And no, Kenneth, I'm still not going to jump. Sorry to disappoint.

Re-write

Disney got it all wrong with Prince Charming and the Knight in shining armor.

You want to know who really comes in and saves the day? Your best friend. Most of time your best friend is either a straight female or a gay male. Or if you're a dude reading this post, you don't really care about Prince Charming, but you're decidedly NOT the ones saving we damsels-in-distress from our evil step-mothers (hateful bosses, ill-trained color specialists, you). YOU are saving your Bros from their bitchy wives/girlfriends.

That is the true dynamic of the male/female relationship. Men don't ride up on stallions and slay dragons for their princesses. They hop in their jeeps and pick up a six pack and a pizza and watch kung-fu with their ailing buddies.

Meanwhile, our bad-ass girlfriends plant a stiletto in the dragon's heart, careful not to break that bottle of wine, and have the princess out of that dragon's grasp and laughing uproariously within half an hour of arriving.

So, can we stop selling our little girls this crap about some knight in shining armor riding up to save the day so that HER girlfriends don't have to listen to how she doesn't understand why he doesn't "care about her feelings"?

Simply put: Your man just wants to drink beer and laugh at dumb stuff you don't find remotely entertaining, and your girlfriend will always agree with you and never call you "ridiculous" for any (ridiculous) thing you are upset about.

I propose a Disney re-write, or just a ban altogether.

Lazy Sunday

Si and I are laying on the couch. The dogs are tangled up in there somewhere too.

Nothing wrong with that. It's Sunday.

Except....half my house is in boxes and half is still in cabinets and drawers. My husband broke (okay, probably not broke but that's how he's acting) his back yesterday, and my mother-in-law is two weeks out from having had shoulder surgery.

We three are my moving crew. And as I already know there's no such thing as a packing fairy from my last move, I should be doing something other than laying on the couch.

I keep setting timelines for myself to get off the couch. "At 9:30, you'll get up and pack the kitchen."

At 9:30, what I actually did was start the marathon of watching all the crap I have DVR'd.

All of this has led me to draw the conclusion that I should never aspire to be a life coach or a motivational speaker.

Teaspoon of narcissism

A few text messages and a tricky solicitor named Debbie woke me up this morning.

The texts were to warn that Kenneth was back, and as I was trying to make my son laugh, I was mulling over, "Who the hell is Kenneth?"

That's when it occurred to me that real writers aren't getting attacked by their friends, family and fans. Just their critics. Random strangers who judge them with no actual relationship to color the judgement.

I have a critic. Therefore, I am a real writer.

Hello lemon, you have become lemonade.

Dear Kenneth

Clearly, we all have shitty days, and today was one of my days.

I really appreciate that people read my blog, but if reading my blog prompts you to encourage me to commit suicide, like dear, sweet Kenneth (who I don't know from Adam), do me a favor and don't read it.

It's okay to have bad days, and it's okay to hurt, and it's okay to get angry, and if you disagree, my blog is something you will never enjoy. So, don't waste your very precious time reading it, and don't waste my very precious time encouraging me to jump out a window and leave my 6 month old with one less parent.

I'm moody and bitchy and I enjoy airing my frustrations. It doesn't make me suicidal. It makes me female. I find that most insecure men are terrified by that.

Screw life not being fair

There is a blog in my "saved" folder titled "shiny and happy." You don't get to see that one because I didn't hit publish prior to the shiny and happy wearing off. Instead, you will be enduring plain, old, bitter Michelle.

I'm taking issue with unfairness today. Frankly, all the people who have ever responded to a lament of "It's not fair!" with "Life's not fair" can just stop reading now because I have no patience for your "get over it" attitude at the moment.

I've been "getting over" the same things for years. What that actually entails is taking up a vice (most vices kill you) and applying the vice as a band aid every time my "This isn't fair!" moment rears its ugly head because to address it will only get me beaten back with "life's not fair" which actually translates to "I don't really care."

The solution came to me today while I stared out my window (and didn't work because my work is one facet of my unfairness problem). I'm done participating in unfair situations. Once I have aired my frustration and requested change and been denied, I'm going to walk away. I am not going to keep burying the unfairness with my vices (the ones that are killing me) and hoping things will get better.

Things do not get better on their own, and they certainly do not get better when you accept answers like "life's not fair." Perhaps life isn't fair, but I'm no longer willing to live under anyone else's brand of unfair-to-you-but-it's-benefiting-me while I go quietly crazy.

Changes to come. Maybe you'll see that "Shiny and Happy" blog soon.

Dammit, Apple.

Apple has officially made my list. How can they call the contraption in my hand a phone when it will do everything but make and sustain a phone call?

It would almost be worth paying for a landline not to have to explain a dropped call to my very sweet grandmother once a week (or twice if it's a long conversation or I'm mobile on my mobile phone).

The apps were just awesome enough to keep Apple off my list until my friend, Brooke, also got an iPhone.

It has become nearly impossible for us to communicate, and, for this, Apple makes the list.

I was chomping at the bit to jump on the iPhone bandwagon (not camp-in-front-of-the-store [because I have a job] chomping, but can't-really-make-fun-of-the-guy-camping-in-front-of-the-store chomping).

Yes, I had heard about the dropped calls, but I do not enjoy talking on the phone anyway. So, win-win for me....until I got an iPhone and found out that I hate texting on it worse than I hate talking on the phone.

Blackberry getting Words With Friends is all I'm waiting on to un-convert.

Apple, you're on notice.

Advice for moms-to-be

I was told to write a blog with advice for moms-to-be. Here you go.

1. Enjoy the freedom of your child-free existance to the fullest. (if you already have children, you're already screwed, so move on.)

2. Request xanax immediately after delivery. You'll thank me later when you stumble across it after you've pulled out half your hair.

3. Get comfortable with the idea that you'll be wrong for the rest of your life.

4. Caffeine, Disney movies and your in-laws (even if you think you don't like them) are your friends.

5. Sleep-deprivation and a messy house are just your new existance. They will not sleep when you want them to, and they will destroy everything no matter how long it took you to clean it or how much it cost you. Make peace with that.

6. No matter how badly you want those shoes, you will always be able to think of something your child needs instead. This is the beginning of your journey to What Not to Wear.

7. There will be a day when you show up to work and realize there's spit up on your shoulder. Just buy a cardigan now and always have it handy.

8. Even if your child's father is a rocket scientist, you will find yourself wondering how you could've procreated with such a complete moron on at least one occasion. (like when he uses a bulb syringe to clean out your newborn's eye).

9. Your baby will excrete all manner of bodily fluids on you, himself, and your furniture. Stock up on shout and scotch guard.

10. No matter how frustrated, exhausted and exasperated you are, you wouldn't trade that little angel for all the money in the world, and he (or she) will always be the best thing you've ever done. So, don't be stingy with the kisses and hugs!

My name is Michelle, and I'm a Chocoholic

You know you're out of shape when you find yourself living some overweight comedian's set and actually get winded eating.

Last night, I was so hungry and ate so quickly that I ended the whole ordeal feeling like I had climbed several flights of stairs.

Somebody call Intervention. The Famous Amos cookies are officially a problem.

My prayer for our children

My best friend's son will be born in two days. My other very close friend is three months pregnant. I'm not going to share their stories with you because they are not mine to share. However, I can tell you that both stories confirm my favorite verse for me. Jeremiah 29:11.

My own history with having children led me to pray fervently throughout each day for the child I was carrying when I was pregnant with Silas (truth be told, I started praying when I even suspected I was pregnant). I continue to pray for my son now that he is here.

When I found out about the children-to-be of the two friends I mentioned above, I found myself reiterating the same prayer for their babies. I would pray feverishly for each mother, each father, each child.

As I sat down to write this, I realized that almost every person who reads my blog (and the vast majority of my friends) has a child or will have one soon. These children are my son's peers. The voices who will shape his generation, and I know you love these children with the same ferocious intensity that I carry for Silas.

So, I want to say this prayer for you and your little ones.

Lord, thank you for entrusting us with each child you have placed in our care.

Please give us the courage, the strength and the wisdom to raise our children to be their best selves and to accept them for who they are and who they become. Please show us how to be the parents our children need through each step in their journey and remind us that even when we don't know the answer, we know they need love.

Please protect them with every breath, every step, every stumble, every fall.

Please quiet our fears and make us strong for them in their hours of need and bring us back to the sweet moments in our hours of frustration.

Lord, help us raise a generation of kind, caring, loving people who know You and seek Your guidance.

Amen.

Always remember that God chose you for your child(ren). He gave them to you as a showing of His love for you, and He is always there to help and encourage (and remind you to call your own momma) when you don't know the answer.

Didn't you get the memo on religion and politics?

Perhaps I do not see eye to eye with you in the areas of religion and politics. The thing is, I usually don't care.

As long as you actually know what it is you believe and why, I generally respect you even if I don't agree with you. I expect the same courtesy.

Fortunately, most of us have dubbed these topics taboo and have quietly agreed not to discuss them.

There's a select group of people I will openly discuss religion and politics with. It's safe because we're all on the same page and pat one another on the back for our brilliance.

Outside of that group, I basically keep my mouth shut so as not to wind up in a fist fight.

Unfortunately, not everyone got the memo (or chose to ignore it if they did). So, once in a while, I find myself being pelted with the religious and political beliefs of people who passionately believe the exact opposite of what I believe.

Most of the time, they assume I believe everything they do and speak to me as if they are spouting universal truths instead of political or religious opinions.

It happened to me yesterday. A man assumed I agreed with him and bombarded me with 20 minutes worth of rhetoric that I found truly heinous and offensive. He even said, "I'm full of good ideas like that." Wow lucky me that you chose to share.

I'm a lady (ahem), so I smiled politely and changed the subject instead of calling him names and kicking him in the shin (which is what I actually wanted to do).

Lesson: do not assume the world agrees with you. As a matter of fact, it's probably best to assume they disagree with you and handle yourself accordingly. Otherwise, you could catch me on a bad day and wind up with a broken shin.

There's a reason people say, "never discuss religion or politics." Broken bones are that reason.

Roadtrip with the Mini

This past weekend, Silas and I had our first mommy-son roadtrip. Let me recount our adventure:



We get a late start (because I suck and do everything at the last minute). Silas plays with his teething toys until we get to the freeway, when he promptly falls asleep.



I am completely paranoid about stopping with him because I watch too much Criminal Minds and First 48, and I'm always paranoid that someone is lurking behind something waiting to kill me or snatch my baby and put him in a basement. BUT when we cross the state line, I cannot hold in the 40 ounce Sprite for another moment. Plus, Silas is starting to SHRIEK, "change this diaper, woman." So, we stop at a rest area, and I do the fastest pee, diaper change, sanitize combo I have ever done. I have parked away from the other vehicles only to emerge and find a PANEL VAN (i.e. the transportation of choice for serial killers) parked right next to my car. I look around for other people and notice some bikers. (I trust bikers because they always protect damsels in distress in movies.) So, I make sure they are within shouting distance and get Silas buckled in as quickly as I know how while also looking over my shoulder and preparing to knee someone in the groin every three seconds.



Safely buckled in, and my co-pilot passes back out and leaves me to serenade myself with Mariah and Britney.

When we make it to Little Rock, I go in search of a Target I have been to 100,000 times. I get lost. In my home town. On roads I have driven since before I had a license. Whatever. iPhone, get me to Target so I can get this cranky baby out of this carseat.

We finally make it to Target, spend too much money, listen to Si scream himself to sleep, then request the iPhone get us safely to Conway. It does. Silas wakes back up and REALLY wants to play with Carson. Carson is 5 weeks old. Silas does not care. I decide to take him to another room and avoid fighting with him.

Bedtime comes and goes with only two middle of the night wakings.

Saturday morning, Silas is wide awake at 7:30. Good thing Lizzy and Carson are too. We lounge around until Alyson kicks it into high gear and people start showing up for the shower. I spend some time with Christen and try every trick that works for every other child to try to get Si to take a nap. NO! is his response to every attempt. So, we spend the majority of the actual shower in a back room hiding the screaming baby.

People filter out, and I play back and forth about whether I'm going home or staying until it get's too late to drive, and I stay. I have fun. One margarita gets me pretty woozy, and I pass out at eleven. Silas sleeps like a rock and only wakes up once.

Seven a.m. on Sunday, and my son is wide awake again. Pack the car, say goodbye to my dear friend, Christen, get in the car, make it to Maumelle....phone call..."You left Silas' walker." SOB!!!! Dear friend Christen graciously points me in the direction of a Starbucks and tells me she will meet me in Maumelle with the walker. I give up trying to find Starbucks and get McDonalds instead. Eat McGriddles and read Dr. Suess books to Silas.

Walker delivered!!!

Back on the road. iPhone, please get me to Michael's aunt's house. Arrive to a house with no house numbers and decide after unloading my (very heavy) son and his bag, If this is not Aunt Nancy, let's hope these people are nice and up for a little visit.

Turns out to be Aunt Nancy. So, we visit until it's time to move on to our next stop. Silas is already getting cranky.

Call my dad. No answer. Go to my grandmothers. Have a nice visit and get a bunch of books from my childhood (bonus!). Call my dad. No answer. Done waiting.

Back on the road headed home. Silas passes out for a couple of hours and then wakes up and promptly poops. It's raining, but I wouldn't want to sit in a poopy diaper either. So, I locate a gas station and change him. Once we're buckled back in, the rain picks up substantially. I call Michael to let him know where we are and glance over at Silas. He's making his pooping face again. Seriously????

There is NO WAY I'm stopping at another gas station and dragging him back through the rain, but Silas is screaming his head off. I decide to pull off the freeway and find a place to change him on the side of the road. I travel past several driveways until I see one that looks like it leads to an abandoned house. Pull in, unbuckle Silas, begin the changing process (in his carseat, thank you very much!) when I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. The tractor I had barely noticed when I pulled in is moving. Damnit! In the cab is a very bewildered looking woman talking into a cell phone. Crap! She is probably calling the cops! So, I finish as quickly as I can and don't even button Si's onesie back up.

We high tail it out of there.

We're making great time until:


The freeway shuts down about 35 miles from my house (I know that because I did a google map search on my location just to further infuriate myself). That's when Silas decides enough is enough:



(Notice the exposed diaper from the diaper-changing fiasco?) I didn't cry, but I imagine I looked like a snarling pit bull.

We do eventually make it home, both tired and cranky. Michael is excited to see Silas, and Silas is excited to see the dog. Michael is annoyed, and I am amused. Silas tells his tale to Penny while I curl up on the couch and drift off to sleep.

As promised...

I knew it wouldn't take me long to find something to bitch about.

Male species:

We will never, ever understand your obsession with video games/golf/sportscenter (enter your annoying obsession here).

The same way you tune out and hear "blah, blah, blah" when we start talking about purses or shoes or our mothers? Yeah, we do that when you start talking about MLB the Show or what an amazing round of golf you played. AND YES we will pout and (on one particularly over-the-top occasion) hide the controller to your PS3 (golf clubs, whatever) if the ratio of time spent on your annoying obsession to time spent doing whatever it is we want to do starts tipping in your direction. So, expect it, embrace it, plan accordingly.

You have been warned....and you don't want me to have to address this again. Ask the skinny bitches.

Bucket List

Phone call around 1:30 yesterday afternoon confirmed that I have a little more time to work on my bucket list (i.e. no cancer):

1. Go on a trip to a place I cannot reach via Kia Spectra or Carnival Cruise Lines

2. See my son graduate, get married, have a child of his own

3. Graduate law school, Pass bar exam, Practice law

4. Own a home

5. Get something published

6. Learn a second language

7. Meet someone I have admired from a distance

8. Celebrate my fifty year wedding anniversary

10. See all the touristy landmarks I have never seen (that means every touristy landmark period)

11. Take a vacation with my best friends

12. Learn to play piano

13. Take more literature classes

14. Surf

15. Live on a beach

16. Throw a really great party

17. Own my own business

18. See the Cowboys win the super bowl

19. Watch my son achieve something he has worked hard for

20. Drive a standard without sweating bullets

Obviously I was scared for no reason, but I want to achieve my goals more than ever now. Better late than never.

P.S. I promise to cut out the emotional crap and return to bitchy commentary and humorous child-rearing anecdotes.

Yeah, maybe I am scared

Let me start by saying I still don't know anything.

Perhaps my last post came off as flippant or me making light of the situation, or perhaps you saw it for the masked fear it really was.

If I give the thing the gravity it may deserve, the fear wins, and I spend my days and nights worrying about something that may never be. So, yes, I'm going to joke about jinxing myself via the annoying duck insurance, and I'm going to keep on waking up and telling myself I don't have cancer until someone shows me a pathology report proving otherwise.

I do my best to tell the tales of my life in a way that I hope brings a smile to your face, but I'm human and scary stuff happens. So, sit tight while I pretend not to be scared to death and humor me until I get that phone call that gives me permission to drink to my good health.