I'mma a survivor

If you don't know all the crazy stuff that has happened to me in my life then you've probably also never done Jager shots with me until 3 a.m. Suffice it to say, I have a unique story (yes, I know you do too, but this isn't about you.)

People (mostly my friends Christen and Natalie) have been encouraging me to tell my tale for years. However, I am lazy, and I fear failure (reason I am a paralegal and not a lawyer), so I come up with every excuse in the book to not write a book.

Yesterday I spent an hour reading the blog of a real writer (www.jennsylvania.com you should read it too) and decided that it was time to either write the damn book or shut up talking about writing the book "someday." This morning, I prayed for a sign while I flat-ironed my hair. Something like this: "Dear God, if you really think me telling my story will help people, please give me (another) sign. Love, Michelle."

Driving to work, I checked Facebook (he who is without sin, let him cast the first stone. I know you've done it too, so shut it), and I saw the following post from someone who it never occurred to me would read my blog:

I love your blog, by the way! Stumbled across it yesterday; already have it in my RSS reader. :)

Now, I won't even pretend to know what an RSS reader is, but I know that God is saying (through Nick), enough already with the procrastinating....I gave you the story and the desire to write it, now do it.

So, this is my way of forcing myself to start. An announcement on the blog means the pressure is officially on.

P.S. I have no delusions of grandeur, and I'm not daydreaming of being a best seller, and I'm not saying it won't take me two years to write the book. I'm saying, my story will inspire people who need inspiration. It's just a fact.

Michelle for Mayor of Mommyville

Qualifications:

• My wardrobe choices are becoming: wear same three outfits over and over OR wear spit-up stained clothing.
• My backseat has two carseats and no room for anyone but pint-sized passengers.
• I have had occasion to look down into my (ridiculously expensive) purse and see teething toys.
• Three people have told me they love my "mom 'do" or "soccer mom hair-cut." (Um, 1. that is NOT a compliment, and 2. my then-single, childless friend had a similar haircut a year ago, thank you very much.)
• I can talk on the phone, fold laundry, and hold a bottle at the same time.
• It feels like Christmas every time I leave work to head home and see my little boy.
• The "camera roll" on my phone has 431 photos and 15 videos. I can count on one hand the ones that are non Silas-related.
• Phrases I have uttered in the last 24 hours: "Did he poop today?" and "Hold the baby while I get this spit up out of my bra."
  

More lessons courtesy of Silas

I have married two momma's boys and dated countless others. It has been ultra rare for me to get along with their mothers.

My current mother-in-law was no exception. I always felt like their mom's were competing with me, and I was damn determined to win that competition. I would say things like, "cut the cord already" and be really irritated when I felt their moms had overstepped.

Then came Silas, and it suddenly all made sense to me. I no longer have any desire to compete with my mother-in-law to be the number one woman in my husband's life.

I finally see with my own eyes that we have different roles.

Michael needed to go to the ER today. He called his mom because the roads were slick, and I sat at home with my baby while she sat at the hospital with hers. My husband knows that I love him, and I know that his mom felt better sitting by his side than sitting at home waiting for me to update her about him. Not only do I know that, I actually care.

Now I just have to hope my future daughter-in-law learns this same lesson asap so I don't I go "Michelle" on her. Maybe Silas will be gay and save me the trouble of reeping karma for my mother-in-law torture. Don't tell Michael I said that.

DELETE

Well, I've officially been censored. My husband (and my lawyer) made me delete a bunch of stuff I have written because some crazy person is internet stalking me to try to find things he/she can over-analyze, pick apart line-by-line and use against my family. It has left me feeling fairly un-motivated to write anything. My blog was supposed to be a place I could rant and rave and attempt humor at other peoples' expense.

So, this is being a grownup? I can't have a silly, little cathartic blog because other people may use it to hurt the ones I love? What the hell happened to first amendment? I guess I technically have the freedom to say whatever I want...as long as I don't say anything that someone else can misconstrue or purposely take out of context and use to turn my family's lives upside down.

Should make for some interesting reading for YOU in the near future. (yes, sarcasm)

A Simpler Time

The Daily Show did a segment recently trying to find the simpler time in America. They were making fun of people like Glenn Beck, Sean Hannity and Billy O'Reilly, but I cannot tell you how many times my parents and grandparents have lamented the state of the world and longed to return to a simpler time. I'm sure at some point you've heard a speech about how much the world sucks today and how great it was back in the day.

One of the reasons I love the Daily Show is that they use humor to point out what should often be glaringly obvious. The moral of this particular story is that America doesn't have anymore problems today than it ever has. It has different problems but more or less the same amount. The reason Glenn Beck (and my grandma) look back and see a simpler time is because when they look back, they see their childhood. The world was obviously rainbows and ponies and sunshine because someone else was paying the mortgage and buying the groceries and worrying about what was happening in the news while they were outside playing baseball.

My son woke up at 5:30 this morning. I assumed he was hungry and made him a bottle. Well, I was wrong. What he really wanted was to "discuss" his newest fascination with me. He had a foot in each hand tugging at his socks, rolling from side to side, babbling and cooing and grinning at me as if to say, "Can you believe how freaking cool my feet are?" His happiest moments are spent "talking" to his feet, "talking" to Michael and me about his feet or trying to get his feet in his mouth. His life is just that simple. He hasn't a care in the world that mommy is chugging caffeine to stay awake at her desk so that she can keep the job that buys his formula. America is at war and in a recession, but this is his simpler time.

Let's all save our children the "life was so much better in my day" speech and realize that the world has always had problems, and the only time it was ever simple was when your parents hid those problems from you.

My inner child

So, I had an exchange today that reminded me that somewhere inside me there still lurks a fifth grader on a playground where fighting words are being exchanged. It was not my most mature adult moment.

In my defense, i must say that this whole exchange occured while I was watching the Cowboys get humiliated. That was the icing on the cake of a weekend filled with my teething son's fussing and watching my step-daughter yell, "I don't love you. I love my mom" at my husband.

Anyway, i got on Facebook (aka the devil's playground) and made a comment on a friend's good-natured jeer at the Cowboys. When I went back later expecting to see my friend reply with something hateful (but in a funny way), I instead found one of his friends wishing stomach cancer on Tony Romo.

The mature, adult thing to do would be take the high road and ignore him. However, it was such a sucker punch that I lost all ability to contain myself. So, I called the guy names and dropped an "f" bomb and wished karma upon him.

After all hope was lost for the Cowboys to come back, and I was crying (I cry about everything), I got back on there (why? why? why?) hoping I had put the guy in his place. Wrong. His response was to wish stomach cancer on me. My inner fifth grader continued and said some more immature stuff (which resulted in the guy deleting all his comments).

After calming down, I was pretty embarrassed by my behavior. With that said, the guy is lucky I don't know where to find him because when I looked down at my son and saw him in his little Romo jersey and thought about some asshole wishing cancer on someone's son (Romo) and someone's mother (me), my inner drunk frat boy welled up and wanted to break a barstool over his head.

Really, Skinny Bitches?

Skinny Bitches,

It has come to my attention that the first time I warned* you to stop talking to me about how "fat" you are, you did not listen. Perhaps the warning I gave you about my ability to reach the emergency stop button on your treadmill was too subtle. So, I'll do this all again in hopes that this time you will listen, and my sleep-deprived brain will never again have to filter out the words "I need to go on a diet" from a person who tips the scales at a buck 'o five.

Shame on you for wasting my precious time (again). I have been a skinny bitch before. So, I have been on the other side of this. However, I didn't have someone older, wiser and fatter to point out the grotesque nature of my behavior. I tried to give you the benefit of learning from my mistakes. Unfortunately, you chose to ignore my first warning. So, now I'm going to talk crazy to you.

The problem you have, Skinny Bitches, is with your self-esteem. As I (delicately) pointed out before, you know you aren't fat. Yet, you still feel the need to draw attention to how thin you are by pretending to think you're fat in front of your bigger friends. Do you not see how sick it is to force people who really may be struggling with their weight to constantly "reassure" you that you aren't fat (when you wear a size 2, for God sake)?

Double shame on you if your body bounced back after having a baby and you bitch about being fat in front of any woman who is still pregnant or who has not lost the pregnancy weight. We (collectively as a nation of hormonal, emotional, exhausted women) already hate you for having the unnatural ability to go instantly back to your (super thin) pre-pregnant self. Do not further insult us with all this "I need to lose weight" bullshit. Unnecessary salt in the wound.

My advice to you is this: get counseling and stop taking your body issues out on the rest of the female population. Last warning.

*PREVIOUS WARNING:

Skinny bitches,

Stop talking to me about how fat you are. If you peek at the number in your itty bitty shorts and it is a single digit number, shut the fuck up talking to me about being fat. You would not own shorts if you were fat. I am fat. I don't own shorts.

Speaking of shorts, skinny bitches, when I am in a fitting room trying desperately to get a pair of jeans zipped (in a double digit size, let me add), I don't need to hear you ask your anorexic twin if those size 0 shorts make you look fat. Zero isn't even a number. How can not a number make anyone look fat? You know you don't look fat. Want to know how I know that? You're trying on shorts or a mini skirt or a tube top or some other nonsense no woman who really thinks she's fat would even pick up much less put on.

Lastly, skinny bitches, stop occupying the treadmill next to mine at the gym. I take great pains in selecting my treadmill so as not to be compared to your skinny ass for 40 minutes while I sweat like a hog. Then you want to fuck it up by jumping on the empty treadmill next to me, and most of the time your anorexic twin jumps on the one on the other side. How do I look sweating my ass off walking at 3.5 mph while the two of you are running at 7 mph, flipping your blonde hair and giggling into your cell phones? I can reach the emergency stop buttons on your treadmills. That's something to think about.