I am becoming way too intimate with the public restrooms of the stores I visit, when my children are in tow.

DramaBoy has been potty trained for sometime now. We can generally get through any store without a trip to the bathroom. Monster, however, is learning and peeing in the toilet every day much to my joy. In fact, he learned so quickly that I actually take the major parental risk of leaving the house without a pull-up on him… but I do have extra shorts packed, just in case.

Today, we ventured out to run several errands and our first stop was the health food store. See, I have discovered (thanks to the Today show and some Internet research) that the sulfates in shampoos are nothing more than sudsing/lathering agents and actually dry out hair thus causing frizz. Since I already have a dry texture to my hair that responds incredibly poorly to humidity, this subject touched a rather large nerve in me. The trip to the health food store was to find a natural shampoo that did not contain sulfates.

You would think that after 4 years of child-rearing, literally and figuratively, I would know that this could not be a simple run to the health food store. But, dammit, nothing was going to stop my mission to find that perfect new shampoo which, by the way, better live up to all of my expectations or else I’m going to ram my foot up someone’s ass.

I pulled up in front of the store and proceeded with my usual mama speech prior to releasing my children from the seat belts. “You both better behave and listen to me when we are in this store. This is not a fun store, mama just needs one thing and then are leaving. Got it?”

A I heard a the expected and collaborative “Yes ma’am” and we were off to find my new shampoo.

We got into the store, I started surveying my prospects and Monster says, “I have to pee!”

Fear rushed over me because I didn’t see a bathroom anywhere in this tiny little store. Then, as if on cue, DramaBoy says, “I have to pee too!”

I run up to the front counter with both tiny bladders by my side and I ask what I thought was definitely a “no” question.

“Do you have a bathroom in here?”

“SURE! Right through that door back there and to the left!”

“OH THANK GOD!”

And off we sprinted to the back so they could relieve themselves.

DramaBoy and Monster step up to the toilet after I told them not to touch ANYTHING … read: DO NOT TOUCH THE LID OF THE TOILET OR PUT YOUR HANDS ANYWHERE NEAR THE TOILET! JUST PEE AND AIM WELL!

Monster and DramaBoy stood at the toilet and both attempted to pee, but apparently only one succeeded. Then it was time to wash hands and get the hell out of there before either of them touched anything. Easier said than done.

Back in the shampoo isle I’m still reading labels and narrowing down my choices. Then, I hear Monster mutter those words, “I have to pee again!”

“WHUH! Didn’t you just go?!” I retorted.

“I have to pee again!” He repeats as if I didn’t hear him the first time.

Back through the stock-room door we go and back into the bathroom. Monster takes his stance again and after a few seconds, much to my horror, I see pee flying straight up and over the side of the toilet splashing onto the floor, all over his feet and of course the seat. It was actually comical… think of that diaper commercial where the father is at a dinner party and takes his infant son into the bedroom to change him and pee shoots out all over the furniture and ceiling. Needless to say, I’m mortified.

Remember, we are in a health food store so they don’t have ANY paper towels in this bathroom. None. They have a non-working hand dryer though. I have no way to clean this mess up. Monster managed to finally pee the rest into the toilet but not before making a giant puddle on the floor and all over his feet.

Stoopid me thought that having boys would be WAY easier to deal with public bathrooms. Yeah….

Monster’s shorts, feet, flip-flops, toilet seat and floor are now drenched in pee. I contemplated on telling someone so they could clean it up, but I was way too embarrassed. So I ran out like a dog guilty of eating your entire Thanksgiving dinner. Real smooth.

I found my shampoo, paid for it and left quickly but just waiting for a clerk to run out of the store after me claiming that my son had completely defiled the bathroom and that I need to get in there and clean it up or they would dump wheat-grass shots over my head and roll me in tofu. I shook it off and took another risk and decided that Monster needed to be changed now, it couldn’t wait. Screw the wheat-grass and tofu threats! So in the parking lot right outside of the store I changed Monster’s shorts to the spare pair I had and put a damn pull-up on the kid because we still had places to go. The next time someone goes into that bathroom they are going to know exactly who did it. There was only a couple of other people in the store, without kids. I am pretty sure they don’t get many requests to use the bathroom. I wonder if I can be banned for this?

Whoever said having kids potty trained was easier is a gynormous tool.

Remember, how on Saturday I said that I was desperate for inspiration and lost without something to write about? You don’t? You mean, you didn’t read this over the weekend? You played with your family in the summer sun instead? Pffft, I’m appalled.

Hennyway, I said it. For realz.

This morning hubs sent me an email containing a link to this post. Then there is this follow-up to that original post. Pioneer Woman is a widely read woman who receives an excess of 500 comments on her posts. She was even on t.v for an interview about her blog awhile ago. I watched that interview and loved it. She seems like a special person and has an amazing life story to tell. Not to mention she is a fabulous cook and photographer. Hubs reads her often and has cooked several of her featured dishes which turned out spectacular. She is not lacking in the blessings department, that’s for sure. She is a woman to envy… if envy weren’t a deadly sin and all.

I must admit, I learn of her through hubs. I don’t read her blog because she is that huge. Everyone else and their brother are reading her already. Maybe it’s a self-centered thing. I don’t feel special reading or commenting on blogs as big as hers because 500 people have already said something, so how will my words stand out? I think it is also because I envy her and people like her, like Dooce. These are women that are well known in the blog world. These are women who have interesting lives and write so well. They have talent and a large readership, so I’m jealous. It’s selfish and lame that I don’t read blogs like that but I enjoy reading the smaller blogs of people. I enjoy commenting (when I actually do comment) and saying something that they might see. It isn’t that I want them to find me and comment on my blog, I just enjoy reading reality and being heard. So, if I comment on someone’s smaller blog there is a better chance of being heard, just in case I actually have something poignant to add. I’m not proud of being jealous, but it’s the truth so I won’t hide behind it.

This is all besides my point, of course.

I found some inspiration in the words Pioneer woman wrote. So, since I’m lacking in the topic department I’m doing what any read-blooded, empty-headed blogger would do… steal her idea. Life, then and now.

10 years ago I was 22. I was working for America West Airlines. I was single, dating someone special and struggling with money. I had the benefit of free flights anywhere AWA flew and didn’t take advantage of it as much as I wish I would have.

10 years ago I envisioned my future but never set any goals. I just figured I would be where ever I was supposed to be. I didn’t make plans. I lived in the now. I tried to get through each day. Goals were never really my thing. Ambition was never something I exuded. I simply pictured a life that I thought would make me happy and somehow figured it would happen someday.

Lazy, unmotivated, slacker. Right? That’s what you are all thinking, isn’t it? Yes, that is me. Then AND now. I can’t explain why I am this way nor will I defend or chastise it. It just is what it is. Sure, I had dreams and still have dreams. Ever since I can remember I have dreamed of living in a large New York high rise condo or a brownstone or even a nice apartment above a Chinese restaurant. Just as long as it was in the heart of the city I would be content. I dreamed of walking the busy streets to catch my train or a cab wearing sexy heels and a pencil skirt with my long hair flowing in the wind. Yeah, pretty much a shampoo commercial. I was never one to discern reality from fantasy very well. Anyway, I would emerge from my train or cab and walk a into a large skyscraper and get in the elevator and rise up to my office on the 20th floor. It didn’t matter if I was an architect, advertising mogul or a finance wizard, just as long as I had a nice office with windows… and I was hot. Really really hot.

I never did one single thing in my life to make this dream a reality. Not one. It was just a dream. I didn’t go to college. I didn’t remain single. I didn’t work hard. Nothing.

Depending on where I was in my life, I had another dream. This dream was made up of mountains and pine trees and a large home with a giant front porch. I was married, with kids and we had dogs running around. I would write for a living or not work at all while my husband would commute or work from home. We had serenity and bountiful love for one another and our family. We always had money but weren’t filthy rich. I was still hot, of course, but more in an L.L Bean kind of way instead of the alternative dream of Cosmo-hot.

Once again, I never did a single thing to make this dream a reality. Not one.

These dreams just danced in my head from day to day and would change with my mood. They weren’t realistic, they were idealistic.

I did have another dream, though, far different from the other two and something I did want to attain. I wanted to be a meteorologist from the time I was a teenager. And, unlike my other dreams I did try to make this one happen. Not as hard as I should have, but I did try.

I dreamed of chasing tornadoes and flying into the eye of a hurricane to get readings and measurements. I absolutely loved storms and natural disasters and wanted to learn everything I could about them. I wanted that to be my job. So I decided, sometime before my high school graduation, that I was going to reach this goal by going into the Navy. They would pay for schooling and pay me to work and travel so it was perfect!

And so I went…

I graduated high school at 17 years old in June of 1993 and I was shipped off to Orlando, Florida in September for basic training. I suffered through 4 weeks of boot camp and was doing really well, until the day they told me I was being discharged. That day also happened to be my 18th birthday. I was being discharged because I had TMJ. Half-way through my basic training I was cut off at the knees. To make matters worse, instead of being sent home the next day or even the next week, I had to spend FOUR MORE WEEKS in Seps (that’s short for Separations). There wasn’t much order to Seps like there was in my company. There wasn’t anything good about Seps. I found myself begging to go back to my company because at least I had friends and we had structure and I knew that it would all pay off in the end once I became a graduate of Naval Basic Training. Seps was nothing more than a holding tank of other girls being discharged for other reasons and waiting for their paperwork to process. I hated it. I actually wished I could go back to my company and my 3:30am reveille and 5:00am workouts. I do admit that a large part of me, at the time, was relieved to be going home. After the 4 weeks of hell I was happy to get out of there. That was a temporary feeling though.

My goals were crushed by this discharge. Instead of coming home and going to college and taking out financial aid, I was just glad to be home. But I still sulked. I got a small job and worked for a hotel as a desk clerk because my mom was also in the business. I never sucked it up and said to myself, “well, you want this bad enough find another way! don’t let this discharge get you down!”

Lazy, unmovtivated, slacker, remember?

My lack of drive and ambition paved a road of menial jobs and bad decisions that I would meander over the next few years. There is nothing I can truly be proud of in any previous years to 2002. I look back on who I was and I shudder. I regret so many things. I regret who I was and what I did. My life is chalk full of regrets.

I’m jealous of other people who enjoyed their 20’s, single, free, making a career for themselves, traveling and living life. I am very jealous. They knew who they were even then. They may have made bad decisions but they didn’t compromise their dreams or themselves. No, they weren’t perfect and maybe these types of people look back and find regrets and mistakes in their past. But, they tried, they lived, they knew what they wanted and went after it. They didn’t wait for life to happen to them, they made life happen for them.

I wanted to be like that. But I never tried. I never felt worthy enough, smart enough or financially capable enough. While there may be many many reasons for this, there is only one that stands out above the rest. Only one can truly be blamed for my lack of ambition and success…

Instant gratification. It’s the Debil!

Instant gratification is what kept me from staying single and being free and thinking for myself.

Instant gratification is what kept me from going to college.

Instant gratification is what kept me accepting those menial paychecks every week thinking hey, at least I have money now!

Instant gratification is what kept me buying new or newer cars because a new car was better than a paid off car, in my eyes.

Instant gratification is what kept me shopping and running up credit cards.

Instant gratification brought me nothing but demise and misery.

At this point you are probably thinking that I must be miserable with my life and am absolutely not where I wanted to be. Well, you would be wrong, dead wrong.

Sure, I’m 32 and on the verge of graduating with a little tiny Associates Degree in business which I should have gotten when I was 22, not 32. Sure I have never had a big career and don’t currently work. Sure, we live paycheck to paycheck in a small Midwest town. It’s neither mountainous nor metropolitan so why would I be happy here? Sure I’m lucky to get a shower every other day and generally clean up messes for the better part of my day. Sure, I sit in the bathroom with my soon-to-be 3 year old reading him a book while he sits on the toilet and I talk to him about how his poopy should go in the toilet and not his pull-up because that is where everyone’s poopy goes.

I’m sure you can guess what’s coming next…. I’m going to drone on and on about how I always wanted kids but never imagined how much I would love my children and how I would not trade them for any amount of money or expensive Manhattan loft and that sitting in the bathroom coaxing my kid into pooping is perfect.

Well, you are wrong, again. That would be predictable. That would something that every mother says. So, why bother saying it again. It’s been said to death.

Rather I’m going to tell you about another dream I had… at some point in my 20’s, while I was married to my first husband, I dreamed of being a stay-at-home mother with two boys, an SUV and a cute little Midwestern house. I swear on the lives of my children that I had that dream. My older sister who lives in a small Minnesota town can prove it, if she remembers. We drove through her town one day and I looked at all the older homes with huge trees lining the streets and I told her that I would love to live in a place like that someday and raise my kids.

I pictured myself driving an SUV and running errands and playing with my boys. I always wanted boys, no girls. I pictured a nice old house with a front porch and big trees in the front yard and waving to all of my neighbors. I pictured shoveling snow and putting up a Christmas tree in the front room of the house.

So, exactly how does a woman like me who made monstrous mistakes, was generally a self-centered idiot and did nothing to deserve it get what she wanted? I do not know. I really don’t. I think it’s just luck.

Even though my previous 10 or 20 years are full of regrets, somehow I made it to this point and I’m happy. I still have those crazy idealistic dreams but I can accept them for what they are. Dreams. As I get older I learn more and more and it’s helps propel me forward into the right direction.

I’m still making mistakes and still love the instant gratification but, the difference is I can put a lid on it now, well, sometimes. I have children to worry about and their future to secure, let alone my own. I can’t live in the past and am trying hard not too. Recently I have felt a sense of release from my own desires. I used to be a prisoner of them. Now, I feel like they can’t control me any more and only the desires that will benefit my future are the ones worth holding onto. I feel like I have taken a large step towards becoming who I really want and CAN be. I feel proud of myself and feel free from my past so I can concentrate on the now as well as the future.

2002 was a pivotal year in my life. Unfortunately, I abandoned my family and a pregnant little sister in order to move across country to selfishly follow my heart. While I regret making them feel abandoned, I don’t regret my decision to move here and start living my own life. I can’t say where I would be if I still lived in Arizona. I can’t say if my life would have been better or worse. What I can say is that I am exactly where I need to be.

I spent all of my life worrying about how other people saw me and how I should look or act. I spent my life living in a cloud never ever taking the time to get to know myself. I never knew what I really loved, what made me tick, what I really needed or wanted. I never paid attention to any of that and because of that, I sacrificed myself for the sake of others, but not in an unselfish way. It was all in a self-centered fashion in order to be liked or accepted. So, I could spend my life continually regretting those years and all that I missed out on but I’m not going to. Instead, I’m am proud that I have finally found me and am learning to truly think for myself.

There are still mistakes that I am paying for, mostly financially, but those will work themselves out in time as long as I learn not to keep making those mistakes. The other mistakes or regrets don’t matter a damn bit and I am officially releasing myself from their grips. They no longer own me and you have no idea how good that feels, unless you have freed yourself from your past.

I am still a lazy, unmotivated, slacker. That may or may not change. But I’m not going to worry about that. There is a lot more to me than just my lack of ambition that I can actually be proud of. And, guess what? With this release of my soul I have found something… goals!

I have goals now! I have realistic desires that I can reach. I have the next 10 years ahead of me (God willing) in order to make things right and do what my heart really wants. I have an opportunity to stop sulking about my mistakes and past regrets and actually make something of myself. It’s never too late, right?

So, where do I see myself in 10 years? Well, I can actually answer that and to proclaim it loud!

Ten years from now my children will be 13 and 14. I will 42 and hubs will be 54. I want to be a paralegal, a really highly desired paralegal and working for a great law firm or large corporation. I want to be a hot 40-something mom of teenage boys who is tough, smart and successful. I want to be at all of their games or piano recitals in the evenings and weekends (whatever the case may be) and I want to be in my office drawing up contracts during the day. I want to be healthy and addicted to working out or at least semi-proficient in a martial art. I also want to be fluent in Spanish and have some decent knowledge of at least one other language such as French or Japanese. Probably Japanese since they are more likely to take over the world than the French.

In ten years from now I want to be able to say I have been to Hawaii and Europe. I also want to be able to say I have tried Greek and Indian (India) food and have seen at least 10 foreign films with subtitles.

In ten years from now I want my boys to be able to tell me that they have learned how to care for other people and treat others with respect before they walk out the door and attempt to light firecrackers in glass jars. I want my husband to tell me he is proud of me and that I have actually exceeded his expectations of me. I want my family to have truly learned something from me, something important so that I can be proud of my legacy in some way.

In ten years from now I want to sit down and write about how I was true to myself and accomplished many, if not all, of my goals and that I still have years ahead of me to do more.

I have finally figured out that if I was supposed to be a suzy-homemaker who scrapbooks every move her kids make and has a perfect garden in her backyard, then I would be her. But I’m not. I don’t need to be so I have stopped trying to be and will not be jealous of those moms who are.

I am happy with who I am and where I am and will raise good boys and who will grow up to make good husbands and fathers. I will have a career, in time, and will be able to support a gym habit. I will take trips away with the girls once the boys are older and I will get drunk and make a ridiculous fool out of my late 30-something self. I will be able to send my husband away on golf trips to Florida, Arizona or North Carolina so he can escape, too.

Ten years ago doesn’t matter, it’s done and gone. Right now matters. 10 years from now matters. I’m just so happy that I have finally realized it.

Thanks Pioneer Woman. I owe you one.

It may be pouring rain outside but I am in a serious dry spell. I cannot think of anything to write about. It is so bad that I’m wandering around my house begging for inspiration. I found my self staring deep into the basket of Beanie Babies that I have thinking, “Lord, there has to be a post in here somewhere!”.

DramaBoy said something funny yesterday as I was doing dishes and I thought, “Finally! A post!” So I rushed to the computer, wrote it out, and found two little lines on my screen…. nothing more. One funny little thing he said only gave me about 20 words. Hardly enough for entertainment of the blogosphere.

I’m on my knees groveling for hubs to do something stupid or for an idiot to piss me off! ANYTHING! PLEASE! I need a muse! I need a post! I don’t know who I am anymore without something to write about! Funny thing though, I have actually read books to my children and am caught up on laundry, so maybe this isn’t a bad thing.

Then, it happened. Actually, HE happened. The love of my life. The deep crush I have. The man I want to have sex with over and over and over again. The man whom I just want to sit with and listen to him talk. The man I want to make laugh and whom I want to make me laugh. The man whom I would seriously consider knocking off my husband for…

Nate Pritchett. The cute white guy with the big smile.

Nate just appeared on my TV screen as hubs was watching Pinks and I found my inspiration. See, ever since Pinks (a show on the Speed channel) began I have been hot for Nate. If I’m not mistaken, Nate actually competed on the show once. Then he was offered a job with the show and has been on Pinks ever since. My facts might be a little off, but it doesn’t matter. Nate is awesome, he’s on the show Pinks and I love him.

His unassuming self is what makes him so hot. See, he’s a normal, everyday guy. He has a real job and drives normal cars. He wears glasses and keeps his hair nice and neat, with a little bit of muss on top. But, when he opens his mouth and says things like, “That’s a 9 second car!” or “That dude is sandbaggin’” or “Heads up race, motor to motor, no spray.” then I melt into a million little pieces. You wouldn’t expect him to know everything there is to know about racing. If you were to judge him on looks alone you would probably guess that he could rattle off the specs to every PC in his office and upgrade your RAM module in his sleep. And, maybe he can. But, he can also work under a hood, race, and call out a sandbagging cheater in the blink of an eye with wit and sarcasm that doesn’t seem to mesh with his outward appearance.

Nate Pritchett, I heart you. Now, Rich Christensen is the host of Pinks and while I find him incredibly sexy and would totally enjoy slapping his ass and having him reciprocate, he just isn’t the long-term guy. I would use and abuse him and then drop him. And Rich, honestly, I think you know you are hot. That is not a trait I admire. So, I must give all of my attention to Nate. He is the one who doesn’t know how amazing he really is. He is the long-term guy. He is truly sexy.

Nate is at the top of my “list”. You know, that list husbands and wives have of their hottest “if you die or give me permission then I get to sleep with” people? Well, Nate is numero uno on mine. Weird huh? He even tops Matthew McCaughnahottie! Now that is saying something! It’s all because Nate is real. A real and normal guy. A man’s man. I bet he doesn’t “manscape” or spend hundreds of dollars on haircuts.

Here’s to Nate, the underdog. The unassuming man whom I crush, deeply.

Since I have not been able to come up with anything else to say, I have spent my Saturday morning writing about my secret crush, Nate Pritchett. Sad, but fun. I know he’s married, and so am I, but someday, if our spouses die, think of me, Nate.

Forever yours…

Nothing is safe. Not even the children.

Well, I will probably keep the children, unless the right offer comes along.

If it is hidden in a corner, behind a door, not being used or taking up space then it’s gone. G-O-N-E!

No one has ever accused me of being a pack rat. I. Hate. Clutter.

We have old satellite receivers, two printers that don’t work but probably just need minor fixes, a pack-n-play, DVD’s we don’t watch or that are broken, boxes with unknown contents, winter coats that we don’t want, and a boat load of Mary Kay stuff that I never sold (which is all being auctioned on eBay - go look - now! blessedmama28 is my user name).

I have already cleaned out my foyer and made it much more welcoming. I made pictures for the wall using old frames and scrapbook paper and made a few other adjustments. Now when people walk through my front door they won’t see old Christmas garland and two stuffed ducks from 1973. It will actually look neat, welcoming and pleasant! Well, except for the fact that the foyer walls are old plaster with long thin cracks in and could really use a nice coat of paint on. But, I made do with what I had available to me and I’m happy. Very happy.

Next is my upstairs. I need to get rid of clothes, old purses and goodness knows what else is hiding up there. I also have a large Rubbermaid container full of Beanie Babies. What the hell am I going to do with all of those? On one hand, I would love to keep them, but on the other hand they have been sitting in that container for years taking up space. So what is the point of keeping them? Are they even still worth anything?

I cringe at the thought of going through the other containers of things. One of the containers has my wedding stuff in it, so that one is safe… the others, I can’t promise anything.

And, on second thought, I have one dog for sale and he comes with two boys, free.

Yes, the point of this post may have just been a shameless plug on the real money makers, my ebay auctions. So what. Just buy my shit and give me money. That’s all I want.

This weekend, there is a yard sale in my future. I hate holding yard sales. In fact, I seem to remember, long ago, a post about never, NEVER holding another yard sale. And, here I am, on the verge of holding another one. The only reason I’m doing this is because half the crap out there will be for free, and the other stuff should be completely marketable and turn a profit. I just want it gone.

Now, go to my ebay auctions. Don’t go and read the next blog on your list. Forget it. Just go buy my Mary Kay shit and give me money. If you’re a dude, buy something nice for your wife. Shock the shit out of her.

Does Marissa Cooper (on the O.C) ever wear a bra? Ever?

If I say something like, “Martha Stewart is the D-E-V-I-L!” can I be sued for libel if she somehow stumbled upon my blog and wanted to take me to court where she would rear her glittered horns and threaten to bury me under her exotic fern collection. Just wondering, because I do think she’s Lucifer, for the record. Bring it bitch.

At what age do people stop caring about farting in the stores where everyone can hear it? The other day I was in Wal-Mart and kneeled down to look at some makeup on a lower shelf and this put an old lady’s ass about 2 feet from my head. As if on cue, she let out a big rip and yet she never broke stride in her conversation with her husband. Right. By. My. Head.

Why do mom’s think that it’s appropriate to bring their children to a play area and then sit on their asses talking on the phone the entire time? If you are going to sit on your ass (like me) then pay attention to your kids, or, here’s a thought, read a fucking book!

Is Billy Mays the Bill Gates of infomercials? Is Billy Mays going to take over the world with Oxy Clean, Orange-Glo and Mighty Putty? At least he got rid of the ponytail before taking over the world.

Why is it that when I find something I love, like Rockstar Energy drinks in the “punched” flavor and peanut butter Twix bars, I can’t ever find them!!!??? If I like it and want it then it damn well better be sold in every fucking store I go to, aw’ite?

I had a dream last night that my neighbor, a woman, told me that my boobs looked really nice and big in a shirt I was wearing. Jamie, I’m talking about your SIL Jen. I dreamt that Jen told me my boobs looked nice… and big! I was ecstatic. No one has ever told me that. But, this was just a dream… of course.

“They say a man should always dress for the job he wants, so why am I dressed up like a pirate in this restaurant? Shoulda gone to FREEEE credit, report dot com…” Oops, my bad…. Yeah, I know the whole jingle. I also know the one about the car, “Well I was shoppin’ for a new car, which one’s me, a cool convertible or an SUV… too bad I didn’t know my credit was whack cuz now I’m drivin’ off the lot in a used sub compact… F-R-E-E that spells free, credit report dot com baby….” Yeah, like when we are watching shows on DVR, hubs will actually let these commercials play out just so he can hear me sing (badly) the entire jingle… and then call me a dork. Now I hope that I have invaded the very deepest parts of your brains and you sing this song all day long, because I’m evil … but not as evil as Martha Stewart.

And we’ll stop there… that’s all I’ve got… immature nonesense…

Poetry is subjective, that much I know. But that is about all I know. In truth, I don’t want to know any more than that and I don’t believe you need to know any more than that. I had recently checked out a large book of poetry written by a variety of the most famous poets. I tried to read them and tried to understand them, but I was lost. I gave up.

Today I found that the subjective nature of poetry is what makes it so wonderful. Reading the famous works of Walt Whitman and Edgar Allen Poe are not something I will probably ever fully understand. It does make me feel a bit one-dimensional and less smart, but it is just not a part of me so I accept it. What is a part of me is making my own poetry. You know, that wonderful thing called “poetic license”? It’s like art, people may not consider that a picture of dogs playing poker is art, but some do. Some people may not appreciate the works of Edward Hopper as much as I do, but some people might.

Life itself is poetic, if you look. So, the great works of William Blake (remember he had an honorable mention in Bull Durham.. God love that movie) may not touch my soul despite the greatness that may have flowed out of his fingers but I can still find the great works. I’m about to turn mundane nothings into life’s little poetry because I can, because I am not one-dimensional, because I have poetic license, even if it’s only a third grade level.

You won’t find a haiku, a sonnet, iambic pentameter or even rhymes here. Poetry encompasses more than that anyway, in my opinion. Poetry is beauty found in every day life. Poetry is the parallel lines that can be drawn between what you see and what feeling it brings you, no matter how unrelated they may seem. So what you will see is my own poetry, written as a simple story.

Yesterday the husband and I attended the final day of the Taste of Chicago. The children spent the day with their grandparents and aunts. The husband and I had tickets left over from our previous visit and we didn’t want them to go to waste. We also decided we would need more tickets once we got there. The day was going really well and we were enjoying all the food offered, once again. At one point we sat down to eat and found ourselves watching some master martial arts teachers practicing for an upcoming demonstration.

I had never seen anyone perform martial arts in person before and was immediately taken in by what I was seeing. We stayed to watch the actual demonstration (which was basically just a live advertisement for Bally’s new total martial arts program) and we saw some amazing board breaking and high kicks and cool stunts. Then they announced that we, in the audience, could try it out with the professionals. The husband and I both jumped at that chance. It was something so far removed from myself that I just had to try. I stepped up to the stage, watched the people ahead of me take there chance at breaking those boards and waited to for my turn.

In the minutes before my turn I stood there wondering if I would make a fool of myself or if I would actually be able to do this. I was in a skirt and am not known for my physical strength so I was siding with the fool. My chance came, I walked up to the master teacher and bowed. He showed me quickly where to strike the board and how to position my feet and fists.

I posted my feet and ground myself into the stage, formed my fists, sighted the board and then swung my arm through the air. My fist went through the board like it was a piece of paper. The elation and sense of accomplishment I felt was instantaneous. I was giddy and laughing and felt so high. Before I knew it, one of the other masters put his arm around my shoulder and motioned for hubs to take our picture! He didn’t do this for anyone else mind you. As this was happening I grabbed the master teacher that had held my board and had my picture taken with both of them.

This is me, breaking the board (suffering from dorkism and lackachinitis… poetry can still be funny)

This is me, high, elated, strong and happy.

I, the slightly off balance, nerdy, schleprock of a woman, broke a board, with my fist. It was the most empowered I had ever felt. It is something I want to feel every day. I could buy a year’s supply of boards and teach DramaBoy how to hold them so I can wake up, drink my Dr. Pepper, break a board and go about my day, in order to feel strong. Or, I could just remember that moment and hold on to it, forever.

I am most definitely inspired to take a martial arts class and it is something I have always wanted to do. I hope to fulfill that want in the near future. It seems very therapeutic and liberating. Until then, I have the memory and the board to behold every day.

You could cheapen my elation by saying these are trick boards used to pull you in so you’ll feel great and take the classes. You could do that…but I would glare at you until I bored holes through your chest and then poked you in the eyes Stooge-style. Trick boards or not, trick advertising or not, cashing in on gullability or not, I don’t care. No one is going to steal my thunder.

This isn’t so much about the physical side of myself anyway. This is more about doing something simple that goes against the grain of me… and succeeding. Getting a tattoo or a nose piercing is along the same lines.

When the time came to leave I started walking and looked down to find tickets on the ground. The tickets were laying on the ground in the exact same spot that I had stood moments earlier to take hub’s picture as he was breaking his board. I assumed they were mine and picked them up and breathed a huge sigh of relief that I had not lost more tickets. We walked away and soon found a nice shady spot and sat down to collect ourselves. Then we decided we were still hungry and I pulled out my tickets to see how many I had left.

That was when I realized that the tickets I had found were. not. mine. I had found a bunch of tickets, by chance.

Last week, I had lost a bunch of tickets, by chance.

The poetry of that is deep and personal and most definitely subjective and probably something only I can understand. I feel it is much deeper than just luck. You could say I’m dramatizing it. You could say I’m making a big deal out of something really stupid. But again, you can’t steal away what I feel.

Yesterday I felt higher than I have felt in a long, long time. You can’t inject that kind of high directly into your veins. The day truly was, poetic. Subjectively poetic. It’s up to you to understand it… or not understand it and just close the book (or browser) and give up.

If you chose the latter, then find your own poetry. Make your own poetry. You don’t have to understand mine or even like it just as I don’t have to understand or appreciate Walt Whitman. I simply appreciate life and the little gifts it brings me, every day. That’s poetry.

I guess you could say life is a series of lost and founds. Whatever is lost comes something else that is found. And lately, I have been doing a lot of finding, which is always more fun.

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Disclaimer: I am not a poet, a writer or even a philosophical genius… I just write what I’m thinking. No apologies.

I’m back to thinking that I want a tattoo. A couple of years ago I had decided that I should get one. Then, in recent months I had come to the conclusion that it is too permanent and I can’t make that kind of commitment. Now, I’m back on the tattoo bandwagon. I really want one. I even found a fabulous website that has supplied me with all the information I need about getting my first tat and it even has a wishlist that you can create of your favorites! My list is growing daily. Tattoo Johnny is the bestest!

I’m sure you can already see the problem. I’m wishy washy about it and this is one of life’s things that you should not be wishy washy about. One month I’m gung-ho for it, and the next, I’m against it. I have actually swam against my normal current and didn’t impulsively get one because I realized that they are THAT permanent. For once in my life I didn’t do something on an whim and then later regret it. Shocking.

It isn’t just the wishy-washy decision making that is causing problems, though. In the last few years I have grown aware of a not-so-great trend in my life. I have actually been able to see this trend and realize exactly where it stems from. That’s a pretty big step to accomplish all by myself, huh?! Well, it seems that I’m trying to fill some vacant spot in my life that should be filled with great memories from my adolescence and early 20’s. School was never fun for me because I was always the butt of teasing. I was not cool, I did not dress well at all, I always ended up making myself look stoopid, I didn’t party and I don’t have awesome memories of school or things I did because I was a boring, uncool, freak. I don’t even have band stories or drama club or debate club stories because I wasn’t involved with anything. I was not cool and was even more desolate and nerdy than the other nerds.

After I graduated and began working full time I blossomed a bit and became more free. I really enjoyed my single and independent life … and became a whore. Sure, I had fun and did some pretty crazy shit but it isn’t really stuff I can be proud of. They just make hilarious and slutty stories that I share with people when I’m drunk.

At this point in my life, with two marriages, two kids, a mortgage and a PAID OFF SUV under my muffin top that I can’t even hide with a belt, I find myself longing for those simple things in life that I should have done when I was younger, but didn’t think I was cool enough to do or was too scared to do.

So, imagine me now, 32-years old with belly fat, a big ass and still donning that freckly, pasty skin that is my trademark. Now imagine that I’m thinking of getting a small diamond stud in my nose, or a tattoo on my foot and upper back/neck and trying to wear fashions that really belong on the 15 year olds. Are you vomiting yet? I can wait… go ahead.

I’m trying to justify this by saying to myself and my husband that, “I’m just trying to be different!” or “I’m still young! I can be a cool mom!” or “You are never to old for this kind of stuff!” or “Why shouldn’t I do things that make me feel young again?!”

Those things just scream out, “DON’T” with a black bar across my eyes in Glamour magazine. So, what I should be asking is for all of you to talk me down, tell me I’m never going to be young again and to just give it up, accept the fact that I’m now 32 and stop fighting it.

That is what I should be doing.

What I am really doing is asking for you to tell me it’s OK!! Get a tattoo! Get your nose pierced with a classy and tiny little diamond stud. Do it! Sure, you should still avoid the jelly shoes and leggings with short skirts, but go for the piercings and tats! They are acceptable for people of all ages!

So, go ahead. Tell me what I want to hear. Patronize me. Butter me up!

Then, lay it on me, the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Tell me how stoopid I am for thinking about these things.

There is also one more small problem to consider before giving me the advice I want to hear need. Since I am uncool, stoopid and not your typical, run-of-the-mill girl, things that are perfectly fine for other people tend to be seven shades of fucked up for me.

Case #1 - Waxing. I had my eyebrows waxed a few years ago and I had such a bad reaction that I had to wear a baseball cap for a few days and that still didn’t hide the massive redness and pimples.

Case #2 - Everyone in the office will do something wrong for a period of time and not get caught, then I will try it and will get busted right away.

Case #3 - Friends will swear by some new product and insist I try it. Then I do and it doesn’t work or backfires on me.

This is just the kind of luck my life provides me. That should seal the deal, shouldn’t it? If I try to get my nose pierced or a tattoo my skin will probably flare up and turn 10 shades of red or I will have such a horrible reaction to the tattoo and ink that I will end up paying thousands of dollars in laser removal fees…. cuz that is how the cookie crumbles in my life.

So what the hell do I do?

Here are more points to consider before you answer my plea for help.

1. I got a henna tattoo on my honeymoon and LOVED IT! I absolutely loved it.

2. My sister’s skin is similar to mine, she is pale and freckly, and she has several tattoos.

3. My sisters skin is not AS freckly as mine so I’m not sure how my tats would look over a bunch of tiny freckles.

4. I’m only considering tattoos on my foot and the back of my neck/upper-middle back at the moment.

5. I consider the nose piercing pretty and classy if it’s very small.

6. I am only considering pretty, feminine and flowing tattoos. I want it to mean something special to me and I am not getting anything tribal or asian in design. I want to remain true to myself with the design.

7. I have a problem with being really into something for a moment and then do a complete 180 the next. Tattoos are not really reversible.

Now, drop everything else in your life, ignore your children and office duties, put the housework on hold, forget about the state of the union and gas prices and concentrate on my vital issue. Do it. Now.

]]> http://thequeenofdrama.wordpress.com/2008/07/03/real-problems-suck-my-manufactured-ones-are-much-better/feed/ DraMa http://thequeenofdrama.wordpress.com/2008/06/30/honey-i-love-you-but-you-can-fuck-up-a-one-car-funeral/ http://thequeenofdrama.wordpress.com/2008/06/30/honey-i-love-you-but-you-can-fuck-up-a-one-car-funeral/#comments Mon, 30 Jun 2008 18:46:33 +0000 angelh28 http://thequeenofdrama.wordpress.com/?p=731

Saturday we ventured to the Taste of Chicago. Unless you have been living under a large boulder you know that I have been talking about this event for awhile now. The time has finally come for me to stop fantasizing about it and actually partake in all the gastrointestinal goodness that this city has to offer!

Hubs and I were free from the boys and on our own to celebrate our anniversary and eat, eat and eat. We got our tickets and began to make our way through the crowds to find our first stop.

Typically our first stop is a place called Ricobene’s….

Round 1

A yummy breaded steak sandwich covered in marinara sauce. I forgot to take a picture of it before I was halfway through it.

Round 2

Something sweet to cleanse the palate…

A giant chocolate covered strawberry.

Round 3

An iced cawfee to wash it all down, and then get ready for more.

Round 4

Chips with the very best guacamole on the planet. I only got the small portion and regret it terribly. I should have gotten the giant one. But, I have learned my lesson and when I go back this week I will get the GIANT portion.

We took in the usual street performers while we gave our stomachs a short break…

Awesome tappers, awesome! This, was also the very last moment that I saw my tickets. The tickets which you use to get food. The tickets that cost $8.00 for a strip of 12.

Captain Idiot strikes again. I was on my way to another booth to get something and realized my tickets were gone. Hubs was at a booth next door getting a giant slice of watermelon. He came over and I regretfully told him that I was S.O.L, my tickets were gone. That’s when he said, “Honey, I love you but you can fuck up a one car funeral!”

Twice, in one week, a tiny thing called a ticket has practically ruined everything. I am not sure if they were pick pocketed from me or if I dropped them. Either way I was crushed and very angry. Our anniversary seemed ruined because I lost all my tickets. Hub’s then went to the bathroom and I sat down on a curb and sulked and tried hard not to cry. He came out and found me sitting there with my head in my hands severely pouting. He then did something quite surprising. He told me to, “suck it up, they are just tickets, go get more and lets get on with our anniversary, you aren’t going to ruin this day for us.”

So, I stood in line, bought more tickets and we moved on….

Round 5

The very best steak taco… ever. I get this EVERY year. Again, I only got the small one, to conserve my tickets, but this week when I go back, it’s balls to wall baby!

Round 6

Lou Malnati’s Pizza, a Chicago favorite. This is also one of our stops every single year.

We wrapped up with a fried dough from Harry Carey’s… deep fried dough slathered with butter then powdered sugar…. mmmmmmmmmm

At this point my appetite had been cut nearly in half because of being upset over losing my 30+ tickets. So I was full by now and ready to head home. Now I am ready to go back this week with my SIL. She and I usually take a trip down there mid-week, just the two of us. So, this week I plan on getting bigger portions and making sure my tickets are totally and completely SECURE!!!!!!

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Sidenote for my UK-BFF: Those tapping street performers pictured above, well, a picture of their feet anyway…they did a routine to Kanye’s and Estelle’s song American Boy!!!! I tried to get it on video with my phone for you but I couldn’t get it. I’m sorry. I was just so excited to hear that song and told hubs that I had to tell you about it.

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Final sidenote, completely off topic:

I didn’t think I could love Dr. Pepper more…

Dr. Pepper, as a bridesmaid?

… but now I do. HA HA HA!! Get it? “I do!”

Tomorrow is my 5-year anniversary. Tomorrow we celebrate the day that we said our vows in a stuffy 90-degree room in and old Victorian mansion with my new father-in-law’s face directly behind a groomsman’s butt because my outdoor garden wedding was rained out due to a monsoon, in the Midwest. No, I’m not bitter, still.

Regardless of the weather, the hot room, the seating arrangements that sucked and the mud that ended up on the bottom of my fabulous wedding dress, it was a blessed day and the rain did prove to be very lucky. We had two gorgeous little boys soon after and our lives are now full of, well, toy cars, trains and an endless supply of “boys! knock it off!”

It’s perfectly perfect.

Hubs and I have had our rough moments, very very rough moments, but we are still here, strong and happy. He has forgiven me and I have forgiven him, many times.

The reasons why I love him aren’t as concrete as other people’s are for loving their spouse. Mine are more intangible and unable to be put into words. There are, of course, simple things like his soft hands and soft lips that I adore. They are always soft and warm, always. I love that. Then there are also things like him always remembering the little stuff that makes me happy, like buying my favorite candy bars or making me breakfast.

The rest of the reasons why I love him are made up of things that can’t be contained inside of a little box that we call love. They can’t be explained or listed neatly on paper. We aren’t perfect for each other. We butt heads a lot because of our completely different backgrounds. He pisses me off more than anyone can, and I return the favor. We are opposites in many ways. We aren’t the ideal couple whom people envy. In fact, I can be pretty sure people wonder why we are together sometimes.

But, that is where the fun comes in. We did find each other, by fate. We did move in together in a bold, spontaneous and crazy moment of insanity. We did get married despite the doubts everyone had about us. We even survived a really close call of the big D. Still, after 5 years we are here, today with some cuts and bruises that have healed well and we are looking forward to the next 5 years, 15 years, 50 years.

When we are 80 and 91 I will probably still be beating him with my cane and calling him a jackass. Then he will probably put his teeth back in so he can call me spoiled. Then we will kiss, put our oxygen back on and go back to watching Dances With Wolves for the 6,856,986,031 time, because I’m sure he will still watch that fucking movie on TNT when he’s 91 years old.

That is why I love him… because he watches the same movies over and over on the t.v whenever they are on and no matter how often they are on… Dances With Wolves, Braveheart, Star Wars, Legends of the Fall… He watches them with all of his heart because he cannot get enough of those movies.

I love him because he sneaks up behind me and steals my ice cream cone and takes a giant bite, then hands it back to me and does a full on happy-dance across the floor. And we laugh until we pee.

I love him because cooks for me. All the time. He bakes me whatever I want, whenever I want.

I love him despite the fact that he never wears his damn wedding ring.

I love him because it is hard for him to say no to me, but he can, when he has to.

I love him because he is a family man and there is no one more important then the boys, me and his family.

No matter how wrong we might be for each other, no matter what other people think, we are together, happy and living a really great life. There will always be hurdles in our future but we have proven that we can overcome them so we will just keep plugging along as hard as we can for the next 5 years… and more.

Happy Anniversary Babes. I truly love you and look forward to gorging ourselves sick tomorrow at the Taste while the kids are being well cared for by our niece. Alone time… just you, me and food. I’m not sure it could get any more perfect than that.

I have recently been the recipient of a nice little gift in the form of sanity. If you have read this lame blog for any length of time you know that I’m not exactly stable. I have severe ups and downs. Most recently, in March, was one of the worst “downs” I have had. I have spent years and years trying to find me, the real me. I have spent countless hours agonizing over simple, unimportant aspects of my life and beating myself up over everything and worrying about things completely out of my control. I have spent a lot of time writing in this blog, expressing my deepest feelings and exposing my insanity at times. I have bared the deepest parts of me and have learned each time.

I have had low lows and high highs. My lows consisted of shutting myself off from people for a spell, hating myself, feeling unmotivated and generally miserable. My highs were feelings of confidence, motivation, dressing like I felt and being happy, productive and on my game.

Currently, sanity is winning over all the other junk and it feels really good. A combination of things are creating this new me and I can only hope that it will remain consistent. I am known for going through these “highs” like I am going through right now and then the floor falls out from under me a few days later. So, while I’m hesitant with this newfound clarity, I am still enjoying it and will work hard to keep it around.

<Interjection: The fucking ants have moved into my desk. I have killed three since I started typing this post. Fuckers.>

Aaaaand we’re back.

Hesitation in embracing this new feeling is always there because nothing ever lasts with me. Nothing. One day I feel one way, the next I feel the opposite. One day I start a project that I’m completely gung-ho over and the next day I wonder what the hell I was thinking. I’m consistently inconsistent. That is my one and only constant… well, that and Dr. Pepper.

With this clearer thinking, better mood and stability I have noticed that I am still an idiot, (ok add that to my list of constants: inconsistency, Dr. Pepper and idiocy) forgetful and dorky. But, that is fine with me! Those are my quirks. Love me or leave me alone. But, even more important than that is the fact that I am starting to learn that I need to be my own best friend. Several years ago I heard something that I have tried to repeat to myself as often as possible…. be honest with yourself. Those words resonated within me and meant a lot more than their seemingly unobtrusive appearance suggested.

Then, I heard something else in recent days, similar, and equally as powerful. Be your own best friend.

To me these words mean things like, do not beat yourself up over every little mistake. Do not let people control you. Have control over your own mind, desires and heart. These are all things other people might take for granted, but for me, they are things I have never paid attention to. I let other people dictate my jealousy, my thoughts, my words, my heart.

I abandoned myself, time and time again. If I can’t be a friend to myself, how can I be a friend to anyone else?

Yesterday I read this… I printed it out and put it up on my wall right above my desk.

Then today, she posted this.

How is it possible that someone could post things, two days in a row that outline and emulate exactly what I’m feeling? Well, that doesn’t matter. The point is, she did… and she said it better, too.

So, I think, well, I hope I have reached a point where I can unload all of my baggage and stop living in the past. Stop reliving my mistakes. Stop obsessing over things I can’t control.

This new leaf is in my hands and I’m turning it over… but I’m still a bit scared. I need help staying on track, so I have to remember that I am my own best friend. I have never had a real best friend or that best girlfriend who lives down the street that all the experts talk about us women needing…. The girl who fits that bill and whom I truly love lives 8 hours west of me in Omaha and really needs me right now, as much as I need her. I love you B, and still need you. P.S, I’m considering buying boy jeans myself!!

And now, my first act as my own best friend is to say to myself, “you fucking stink, go take a shower and  stop wearing those low rise jeans… your waistline was not made for them you dumbass.”