Every Day I'm Hustlin'

Let me just put this out there as plainly as I can: I'm broke. Not, I-can't-afford-to-eat-out-but-all-my-bills-are-paid broke, but choosing-between-the-light-bill-and-eating-at-all broke. So far, I've managed to toe the line between poor and homeless just well enough to keep my lights on and feed Silas and myself. Yay me (okay, and yay my mom and one very kind friend because they totally have something to do with it, but I do get up and go to work every day, so yay me too).

However, yesterday, when I was going over all my bills (tomorrow is payday and I had to devise a strategy for how to trick the bank into paying for everything I need), it occurred to me that I'm dangerously close of falling off this tight rope, and there is not a net below to catch me. (Of course I don't have a savings account, and it would already be empty if I did. And of course I cried, that's what I do).

All "whoa is me" this morning, I unburdened myself on a co-worker. He immediately and without hesitation suggested I work my hustle. He is not the first male friend I've had suggest this solution. Why is it that men assume that everyone on earth has a hustle?

My plan prior to talking to aforementioned co-worker was to get a second job, but a hustle sounds like something I could do without having to spend even more time away from my son. So, I'd like to get a hustle instead. My only hustle-able skill (unless you know something I don't - legal and not degrading - then clue me in) is writing. So, I think I'm going to make an ad, set up a pay pal account and see if I can hustle up the light bill.

First hustle:
(If you - or your momma/sister/cousin/bff - need something written and want to give me a few bucks to take a crack at it for you, send me an email: chelle6802@yahoo.com.)

My Costume Debacle

Friends of mine are planning a Halloween costume party. As much as I'd like to go to one of the jillion costume places and pick something up, I do not have the gall to be a slutty anything (please see above for what costume manufacturers managed to do to Sponge Bob, Minnie Mouse and Strawberry Shortcake).

Therefore, I'm having to summon my creativity (what little I have) to make my own costume for this party.

Silas is going to be Peter Pan (maybe now he will never grow up). So, in running with that theme, I was going to be Tinkerbell. That is until I found out my friend's daughter, who is two, is going to be Tinkerbell. Frankly, I don't need the competition.

So, it was back to the drawing board...where I drew up a pretty fantastic idea. It requires a partner and very likely a glue gun. That is all I will tell you.

I hope the suspense is killing you. You only have to wait 33 more days to see a picture. Wish me luck in making it happen.

Happy (Belated) Birthday, Mr. Silas

Sweet baby (er, toddler) Silas turned one last Saturday. There was cake and balloons and presents and people who don't necessarily like one another all shoved into one (three-if you count the garage) room(s).

Frankly, I was surprised that this party went off without a hitch because things like that never happen in my life. There was not one, tiny detail that I could nitpick into something to complain over. (The helium tank I bought at Wal-Mart was completely empty, but my aunt had one left over from my baby shower, so still nothing).

Everyone played nice and got along, the cake was amazing, Silas and all his little buddies had a good time. It was one of the most perfect days I've had in a long time.

The drive over to my aunt's house was tearful because I spent it remembering where I was at that exact time a year before. Driving to the hospital, getting prepped for surgery, being taken to the OR, hearing my son for the first time, seeing my son for the first time.

Never could I have imagined the overwhelming joy and gratitude that little boy would bring to me. When I look back over the last year, all the bad things that have happened settle into the shadows of all the bright, shining, amazing moments Silas has created in my world.

Happy (belated) Birthday to the most perfect child to have ever graced me with his presence!

Toddler-ville

Imagine my surprise when I opened my email on Silas' birthday and discovered I am officially the mother of a toddler. When I was pregnant, I signed up for 183 email lists from mommy-to-be websites, and they just kept on updating me on Si's progress after his arrival.

Anyway, apparently, when baby starts walking and/or turns one, he is *officially* a toddler. Had no clue.

However, the word toddler seems to mesh really well with Si's new independent, "me, me, me" approach to life. It now makes sense that he refuses to be "fed" (he must do it himself so that he can maximize the mess) and that he now throws full-on tantrums when he doesn't have exactly what it is he wants in his tiny, sticky hands at any given moment (throwing the head back, stomping, wailing at the top of his lungs....no matter where we are) and that he beats me senseless with books because he wants me to read them but has not quite mastered the words "read" or "please" (thought he gave me a black eye one night) ( he does have a pretty decent vocab for a one-year-old, including "money, money, money!").

This means I'm officially putting my hat in the ring for the mayor of Toddler-ville. Can't wait for all the madness to ensue!

What you've missed in my absence

The amount of time that lapsed since my last blog made me start putting it off out of embarrassment. Decided to just plunge back in. So, here's what you've missed:

• One of my many bosses turned me into his/her bitch.
• Silas learned to walk.
• I'm still fat and still lazy.
• Traffic in Dallas is still a nightmare.
• I made a trip to Little Rock and had a terrible time.
• Silas turned one, and he had an awesome party - this may actually get a post of its own.
• I got deathly ill and rallied admirably.

You're all caught up! Things at work have slowed, and I'll do my best to get back to blogging faithfully...if anyone is still checking in...

My Ink

When I was 19, my girlfriends and I made a trip to Memphis, and I spent three hours getting my first tattoo. Prior to getting ink'd, I'd been told I would be addicted after the first one.

As it happened, my body was allergic to red ink, and my first tattoo was a red hibiscus flower...Two words for you, my friends, anaphylactic shock. So, while my first tattoo caused me to break out in hives and pass out constantly, it did not cause me to want another one ever again. (Currently, it is twice its original size and run through with stretch marks...so, you don't get to see the actual tattoo, but it looked pretty much like the image below.)



Four years later, I decided to turn my life upside down, quit law school, move to California and abandon my best friends. My price for exit was apparently another tattoo. I had zero desire to get another one, fought it valiantly and finally relented out of guilt. So, I sat down, let someone stab me repeatedly with a needle and prayed I would not wind up in the hospital.

The tattoo was an anchor to "keep us grounded." It was small and all black, and I didn't break out in a single hive...and the addiction was born.

The next road on my tattoo journey came when Michael and I decided to get matching tattoos. It turned out to be his way of proposing...I have loved and hated this tattoo every day since I got it. It has often reminded me of my commitment to him when I'd rather have forgotten, and it has brought a smile to my face more than once.


Shortly after my arrival in Dallas, my cousin demanded that she be the next person with whom I got a matching tattoo. I was pregnant with my daughter when I got it, but I did not know it. My cousin later added two hummingbirds to represent Anabel and Kayde after their deaths.

The last tattoo I got means the most. It is a replica of the my daughter's footprint and her name. I was at a loss for how to hold onto her after her death. So, I made her a part of me. Michael did the same. The picture below is of his tattoo. I have the same one in the same spot.


Whatever your thoughts or opinions on tattoos, whatever your experience is with them, I find them fascinating, celebratory, healing, comforting, moving and a part of what makes me me.

I just thought I'd share my tattoo stories with you. Each time I look at them, I remember where I was in my life, and I almost always smile.

Mr. Silas will be represented somewhere soon.

Game Night

Game night was born the same night the photo above was taken. It was New Years Eve, my friends and I had been "celebrating" for quite some time, and we played Pictionary, guys against girls, for many, many hours. The girls won because we did not cheat, and cheaters never win. That night was the last night that game night did not end in a near brawl.

I'm not sure if your game nights always get ugly, but ours do. Last night was no exception. There are six of us, and no matter what game we play, how much we do or do not drink, what time it is, whose house we're at, or how set-in-stone we try to make the rules at the onset of the game, there is inevitably an accusation of cheating, which then begins the war. After the first accusation, there is one about every other turn of the game. Teeth are gritted, insults are hurled, voices are raised. It never matters what team wins because the other team swears they cheated, and we're all unable to hang out together for at least a month.

Unrelated side note: I can barely focus on writing this because all I can think about is the chicken biscuit I talked myself out of getting for breakfast. Is that the opposite of buyer's remorse? Didn't buyer's remorse or something?

Last night, my son was added to the mix of the drama of game night (all of our children were there, but mine was the one working my nerves). Of course, he was dumping cokes all over coffee tables and climbing and squirming and not wanting to be held or put down and basically just exhibiting generally obnoxious behavior. All at my expense and none at his father's, might I add. While all of this was going on, each team had somehow managed to garner one win. It had already been an ugly battle and the finger pointing had begun long before we made it to the tie-breaker round. I was tired and cranky and very much over game night.

The last straw for me was when all three of the still-awake children were sitting in the laps of the girls' team. We were playing Family Feud, (which requires writing....which is hard to do with children crawling all over you...which you'd think a member of the boys' team would have noticed...I digress) and even after we had gone over the same rule on at least six separate occasions, a member of the boys' team began the argument anew.

I'll not insult you by telling you that I'm not competitive and that I don't care about winning and that I'm super patient. That would all be lies, and we all know that. So, what did I do? I shut down game night. Michael and I had brought the game. So, I stood up, told Michael we were leaving, put my son in his car seat, packed up everything we had brought over and proclaimed, "I'll be in the car." Then stormed out amid everyone else, including poor Michael, trying to make brownie sundaes and avoid Michelle-zilla.

Looks like my games will be collecting dust for another year before we venture into this well-charted territory once again in hopes that we will one day have a game night without near bloodshed.