tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29464641895235460632024-03-12T18:03:43.327-07:00The First HalfWorking single mother wading my way through this thing.... Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-56116582600270922362015-10-14T18:24:00.001-07:002015-10-21T15:32:19.139-07:00Sweater WeatherEvery year, the transition from summer to fall is more than just the leaves morphing into color, picking apples and digging through sweaters. There's something else between melancholy and mindfulness ..... and feeling strange that both can exist simultaneously. <div>The summer months are filled with exposure and expectation. The days are long and lean, soaked in salt water while the nights are a cricket-filled symphony- easy to lull to sleep. But, <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">August has an abrupt ending and almost immediately the early morning air changes from hazy to crisp and the past comes rushing back. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I remember the silhouette of my mother calling for me from the side door, wiping away my runny nose after playing outside in the fall. I remember the kitchen in the house I grew up in and the smells of chicken soup, apple crisp and sweet candles my mother used to make. I remember hiding under the kitchen sink every night when I'd hear my fathers truck pull into the driveway and anxiously await for him to find me. He always acted surprised to see me in there! I remember sitting around the kitchen table and talking about our day and it always felt warm and safe inside my home. I remember imagining what it would be like to see my family from the outside of the house, looking in and thinking how lucky I am. The smells and sounds of fall remind me of those times. Still, as an adult the season makes me feel safe and warm. It's forced me to find those old recipes my mom used to make and recreate them for my own kids, passing memories down. Carving pumpkins, warm sweatshirts, back to school routines, soccer games and hot chocolate .... The expectation of summer to be out until the sun vanishes at 9 - is replaced with my favorite blanket at 5 pm and a good movie, guilt-free. The movie and blanket are even more wonderful when the leaves turn to snow. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Sometimes a sweep of sadness rushes over me too as the sun rays change its direction, and new shadows form. Sentimental ties to the past, missing "being parented" and longing for those lost along the way. The upcoming hustle of the holidays seems daunting, but like any parent I love seeing my kids enjoying the performance someone else is producing. I'm the producer now, and I'm amazed by what I can throw together. I'm amazed by my own parents. The anticipation, the safety of the dark, the stillness. The fall reminds me that the gifts provided to me as a child, has provided the gifts to my own children. Blessed by the past. </span></div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-NHRV3WDw6nY/ViYwsoHwl-I/AAAAAAAAAMA/7D92yKlpoVk/s640/blogger-image--1325190830.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-NHRV3WDw6nY/ViYwsoHwl-I/AAAAAAAAAMA/7D92yKlpoVk/s640/blogger-image--1325190830.jpg"></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-26902527176577774452015-10-10T05:52:00.003-07:002015-10-10T12:27:15.813-07:00Wyatt Henry and the run for my money.And when I say "run" I mean run like from a burning building, or to a finish line. Wyatt is one of three loves of my life. Born in July of 2007 with dimples your fingers could get lost in, Wyatt is truly his own person. My pregnancy with him was somewhat of a sadistic comedy show where the star of the show (me) would vomit her way through New England managing to eat only pre-packaged, out-of-season watermelon and orange soda for the first 3 months. I knew this kid would be trouble of the best kind by the second hospital stay from dehydration. And sure, I complain about him being crazy and tough to handle but the truth is - I wouldn't want him any other way. He's an amazing little spitfire who hits the ground running at 6 am and crashes and burns around 8. It's a long day for the little guy, but I assure you its a longer day me.
He's a typical "younger sibling", competing over nothing, outgoing, extroverted and curious but he's unique in that he absorbs everything he sees and tells everyone with the great detail of a Key Note Speaker. A few years ago at camp, <strike></strike>a woman from an aquatic center dropped by with sea creatures (lobsters, clams, crabs) to show the kids. Wyatt got into trouble for not listening (not surprising because he wants to learn by doing, not hearing). He apparently picked up his friend Mason's hand and began hitting him with it trying to be funny. For him, this type of erratic and impulsive action is as common as breathing. But after dinner that same night he began explaining the difference between the "crusher" claw on a crab and a "Pincer". So, while he was playing with his friends hand and being spoken to by the teacher - he was filing away the info about the crab. Now, I'm not sharing that info to say "wow, look at how smart my kid is".... I'm simply saying this because, well..... he's smart.
When he finally drifts off to sleep each night, I find myself starring at him like I would a still hummingbird. I touch and smell his hair. I look at each finger, some with the days dirt still caked under the nail and I can't help but to smile. As mischievous as this little person is he is absolutely<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PkBQIU9AL4Q/VhkIqdaSsGI/AAAAAAAAAI0/tH5zAEgg2pI/s1600/192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PkBQIU9AL4Q/VhkIqdaSsGI/AAAAAAAAAI0/tH5zAEgg2pI/s320/192.JPG"></a></div> perfect for me. He is a free spirit so loving and kind but so curious and adventurous. He tells me he want to go to Vegas and be star. He wants to dance and sing and make people smile. As much as I'd like to keep him safe in a box with me for all eternity - the day I saw him for the first time, I knew I was releasing him to the world. I had no choice but to set this bird free - to fly. <strike></strike>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-64271993329405724252012-01-18T17:29:00.000-08:002015-10-12T18:37:35.558-07:00Moving on.....<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pH5bJBm8Otg/TxeAowoOyaI/AAAAAAAAAGk/3JRdUn00PbM/s1600/picture-uh%253D6d86d094699d6d809123a429ea94e0c2-ps%253D3e251356bebf44a5e810c48bf740628a-29-Sagharbor-Dr-Auburn-NH-03032%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pH5bJBm8Otg/TxeAowoOyaI/AAAAAAAAAGk/3JRdUn00PbM/s400/picture-uh%253D6d86d094699d6d809123a429ea94e0c2-ps%253D3e251356bebf44a5e810c48bf740628a-29-Sagharbor-Dr-Auburn-NH-03032%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699165291197417890"></a><br> You all know I've been trying to move for <em><strong>FIVE</strong></em> long years. It's not that I'm incapable of actually packing boxes and moving. It's just impossible to move while being held prisoner in shackles by Wells Fargo. Our small condo is worth about 1/10th of what it was was when we bought it in 2006. It's served its purpose over the last few years, keeping us warm and cozy but like most people with kids, not having enough space is always an issue. To put in bluntly, when your husbands' tool box lives on the bedroom dresser - it's time to pack up and go. <div><br> When I was 27, I bought my first place - alone. I had $5000.00 to my name and with little debt and a decent job as a news writer I was able to walk into Coldwell Brokerage, hand over my last year's W2, a few pay stubs and purchase a 2 bedroom condo in an old mill building in Manchester. My mortgage was just under $400.00 per month, included heat and hot water and not far from downtown. Fast forward 2 years and I was pregnant with Cooper, Pete had of course moved in more than a toothbrush and things got a bit tight. When Cooper turned one, we decided to put the condo up for sale and move north to Franklin for a bigger and better house. The house on Edwards Street was adorable but the town, ahem - was not. Had we known about the vast number of crack heads and registered sex offenders, or the fact that if you are not a teacher, a cop, sell your own jelly or own a funeral home, there are no jobs.....we would have thought twice. Another life's lesson. <div><br> Just two years later in 2006 (and thank god before the housing market shit the bed) we put the Franklin house up for sale and decided to move back to Manchester. ("Hey look kids, Big Ben!") Our original plan was to live in the condo, save money for a down payment and <strong><em>finally</em></strong> buy our dream home. But much like the movie "UP", life is what's happening when you are making other plans. Cancer took Pete's mom in 2006, we had another son in 2007, Pete's job transferred him to Tennessee in 2008 and in 2009, the housing market tanked! 4 families in our condo complex up and moved. Neighbors went into foreclosure and our condo - which we have paid faithfully on every month for five years began losing value by the day. It was heartbreaking. Pete eventually moved back home after earning quite a bit of money for our new place, but as week's turned into months and months into years - it seemed like we were would never find a way out of the condo. That is, until now. But this house is another story.</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-34638531558848456122011-10-12T17:11:00.001-07:002015-10-12T18:37:24.559-07:00Time. The only truth.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zBZgcJhIJQU/TpY8Avp6vvI/AAAAAAAAAGU/uX-sZfY4CYI/s1600/DSCF1123.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zBZgcJhIJQU/TpY8Avp6vvI/AAAAAAAAAGU/uX-sZfY4CYI/s400/DSCF1123.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662779564954926834"></a><br>I can't believe this is actually the first opportunity I've had to sit and write since August 11th. Well, that's sort of a lie. I've <em>had</em> time, I just decided not to make any. Life's like that though. Just today, I had a complete meltdown at work. My tears, frustration and loss of sleep is the result of time - and lack of it. Not enough seconds in each minute to complete everything needed and expected of me. Doesn't it seem like there is <em>never</em> enough time? You love your kids, but they grow too fast. You can't wait to go on vacation - but you blink your eye and your back in your office chair, broke with a faded tan. Sometimes I force myself to not think about the things I'm excited about hoping to prevent the event from coming to fruition. In contrast, the moments I dread I can't seem to shake. Imagining Cooper and Wyatt going off to college, getting married, moving away....Moments that I'm sure will bring buckets of joy, pride and sadness when the time comes. I know my boys are on loan, but knowing that fact doesn't make the inevitable any easier. Lots of mom's I know - especially those with kids under 10 can't wait until they have their own lives back again - an empty house and an open road. Ah, Pete and I can take that cross country trip out on Route 66, and sleep in on the weekends!! Then I hear Wyatt's feet at 4 am run across the floor and jump into my bed to snuggle and I wonder how can I ever have a morning without this? Or seeing Cooper play his Lego's, building these amazing multi-layered jets knowing the kid wants to be a pilot and one day he will. I know these boys will always love me, but they will <em>need</em> me in a different way than they do now. And although that's the circle of life and how it's suppose to go, returning to "my life" when the best life I've know has been with my sons will be impossible. Your probably thinking - "you have plenty of time". A river of force, such a constant and inevitable thing. Time, it's really the only truth.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-2984601331997730362011-08-03T17:45:00.000-07:002011-08-03T18:56:12.890-07:00And so it goes....So - a few weeks ago, I attended my high school reunion. A reunion after 20 years seemed awkward at first, yet so comforting at the same time - like the old pair of Doc Martens collecting dust in the back of my closet. Exchanging smiles and hugs with people who knew you before you knew yourself. The "you" before the adult took over and went into battle! But for me anyway I couldn't help but wonder, "Am I good enough? Have I done enough with my life? How did people remember me? How do they see me now?" As I walked into the bar (with some of my favorite friends from back in the day, Scottie, ML, Lexy) it was like deja vu. Lindsey Matson was there to greet everyone at the door. I remembered seeing her for the first time during "move up day" in 6th grade and thought she was the prettiest girl I had ever seen. And Kristin Guinta - who I sat next to in 11th grade Law class, what an infectious laugh on that one! Every time I turned my head - there was another face, another memory. It was amazing, wonderful and hilarious. Sure, the same old groups sort of evolved as the night settled in but it didn't feel like it did 20 years ago. It was open and relaxed and kind. To hug Jason Riley - my very first boyfriend from 5th grade but someone I regretfully never spoke with in high school, or Sandown's own - Wayne Britton - those two looked amazing! Elicia, Jessica, Goonie, Jay, Charity, the list goes on and on. I couldn't help but to feel a sense of pride being back together with these amazing people and sharing stories, coloring in the gray of the past 20 years. Knowing nods of times shared but experienced separately. Seeing everyone again felt like getting on stage at the end of a huge performance. Although not every scene back then included everyone at once, we were all there. A wrinkle in time. My reunion sorta felt like that - only better! A curtain call complete with dancing, bathroom chats, a 3 am photo shoot with Dan Lane and lots of beer. Here's to another 20.... but may we all meet sooner than that.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-52545387413558675782011-06-22T17:38:00.001-07:002011-06-22T18:17:30.295-07:00The hardest years<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oe_l68r56WA/TgKShFsa8qI/AAAAAAAAAGM/RM7goEqZt7A/s1600/Dock.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 302px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oe_l68r56WA/TgKShFsa8qI/AAAAAAAAAGM/RM7goEqZt7A/s400/Dock.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621216382073631394" /></a><br />Nobody ever told me marriage would be so hard. The more I talk with my married girl friends, the more I hear the same thing: "things just aren't the same as they were". "Were" meaning: pre-children. When I was pregnant and waddling around buying baby clothes and crying for no reason, Pete and I were close. We'd talk and laugh and sleep in! We'd make time to play, and have fun. Not long after Cooper was born those lazy Sunday mornings turned into us practically drawing straws to see who was going to wake up with Cooper. I don't know how many times one of us would say "<em>I was up yesterday morning... it's your turn</em>". It's not that we didn't love becoming parents - we fell in love with him the moment he was born, but something happened to <strong>us</strong>. We became tired, cranky and short. I think of some of the negative things I say to Pete that I would <strong>never</strong> in my wildest dreams say to any other person in my life. And I'm sure he feels the same way. It's like we are each other's sounding board for all the shitty things you can say to another person (before they want to kill you) and although it's wrong and hurtful, we love each other and maybe that's why we feel like we can say anything. I don't know. <br />I was food shopping the other day and an elderly woman was staring at the freezer filled with OJ. She turned to me and asked "what is pulp?" I explained pulp and told her my husband loves it, but I don't so I buy "<em>some pulp</em>". That made her laugh! She said "Good for you dear for compromising... I was married for 50 years and I think it's from just turn'in my cheek". I knew what she meant. Picking battles, meeting half way, letting go, and making compromises. She swore to me that after her 4 boys (YES, 4) had grown and moved away, she and her husband started travling and playing Bingo. Her story reminded me that life exisits after children. They don't always stay young and the house won't always look like a bomb went off. Loving relationships repair. Ride the storm I guess, together with the unspoken understanding that one day the chaos will end and something new will begin.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-51974538603456054102011-05-25T16:57:00.000-07:002015-10-12T18:36:58.465-07:00Closure on the "first half".<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uyF2TcdEgeg/Td22z7GLDSI/AAAAAAAAAGA/8wF1Ws0-GXw/s1600/image%255B1%255D.png"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uyF2TcdEgeg/Td22z7GLDSI/AAAAAAAAAGA/8wF1Ws0-GXw/s320/image%255B1%255D.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610841713926671650"></a><br>I'm about 2 months away from my 20th high school reunion. Timberlane Regional High School "Home of the Owls". Returning to the past, familiar faces, funny stories and years of new adventures since then - <em>June of 1991</em>. Long before ITouch, IPhone, Ipod, GPS, Internet, Map Quest and Snooki. Britney Spears was 10, Michael Jackson was alive and black and Nirvana's "Never Mind" album was just released. Back before the devastation of 9-11 changed life as we know it, and raising children changed us. We have traveled the world - college, military, marriages, divorces... we have lost many people we love. We have done some amazing things with our time and everything has lead us here. Saturday nights at Hampton beach have been transformed into treks to Story Land in the "family car" packed high with juice boxes, anti-bacterial wipes and sunblock. Gone are the days of spending our pay check on ourselves. The kids need new shoes, and it's picture time again. Paying our parents for the phone bill seems like pocket change now - compared to mortgage payments, daycare, insurance, heat, food and gas. Life was so easy back then, and cheap. No midnight worries about babies with high fevers or putting together a 300 piece train set 4 hours before Christmas morning. Santa used to come for us back then, but my how life has changed in 20 years. We have changed. We are mothers and fathers, husbands and wives. I was looking back at our year book the other day, seeing the eyes of young adults ready to conquer the world and some of us did exactly what we said we'd do - like Kerri Downs who wanted to "marry Brian and have a large family" (I heard she's up to 5 kids?) And Charity Reardon who wanted to finally get her license! But for people like me - I didn't have a clue what I wanted to be when I grew up. I still don't. What I do know is besides the roller derby thing, living in Atlanta, getting married, having kids - I'm pretty much the same person I was. Only stronger, more courageous and older. We were just kids in 1991. I think after everything we have all been through, it's time to let it all go. As excited as I am for this reunion, it's sort of closure for me. Closure on the "first half" of my life.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-44921039242945457842011-02-05T17:04:00.000-08:002011-02-05T18:10:54.885-08:00Meet you in hell, Melvil!<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/TU4CRD-d3gI/AAAAAAAAAF4/KdpTH6BjiHc/s1600/library00%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 255px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/TU4CRD-d3gI/AAAAAAAAAF4/KdpTH6BjiHc/s320/library00%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570392281252224514" /></a><br />I've only been fired from ONE job ever and I've certainly had some interesting ones over the years; clearing tables, Canobie Lake Park, news producer, promotions assistant, ice cream scooper, cashier, blah, blah, blah. So which job did I lose for simply "<em>not really getting </em><em>it</em>": <strong>THE LIBRARY</strong>. Who the hell gets fired from a job where you check in, check out and organize books and periodicals? Let me back up and try to redeem myself for just a moment - I was only 15 years old. Long before bar code scanners, the Internet and electronics did the job for you. Back when the DDC, also called the Dewey Decimal System was really the only source of locating a book - kind of like finding a needle in a haystack only the haystack was a large room that smelled like mothballs and the needle looked like this: <strong>BR-0009-87-FA/NON-28. </strong> According to WIKIPEDIA, the DDS is a proprietary system of library classification developed by Melvil Dewey (GEEK) in 1876. In a nutshell, the damn system organizes books on library shelves in a specific and repeatable order that makes it easy (no, not really) to find any book and return it to its proper place (lies.... all lies). Why isn't ABC order sufficient and to-the-point enough? Books don't need numbers. That's just crazy and if Melvil was alive today, I'd punch him in the face. I'd blame him and his idiotic, anal-retentive, OCD way of grouping books together - the reason I got fired when I was 15. It's sort of like paying a credit card late once- and it appears on your credit report for 7 years reminding you - you suck. The fact that I got fired from a job that from the outside appears like anyone could manage is demoralizing, embarrassing and plain retarded (no offense). Forward 17 years later - I now work in payroll where everyday I'm faced with all kinds of numbers. Big numbers, little numbers, negatives, calculations, %, and vacation accruals. Sometimes my 15 year old self comes out and I lose my shit (<em>ahem, this past Friday</em>) and wonder if I can really do my job surrounded by all of these numbers that need to make sense somehow. The Melvil's DDS didn't make sense back then, and frankly it still doesn't. Thank god I have a power of voice, and can just ask any of the metro-sexual dudes (at Barnes & Noble) where the "self-help" books are. You know, the books on people with obvious insecurity issues regarding past failures - which usually finds its way into like, now. Yeah, those kind of books.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-74329221189110261292010-11-26T17:41:00.000-08:002010-11-26T18:35:45.446-08:00So Long.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/TPBuJPZNszI/AAAAAAAAAFo/aJtph1GtBK8/s1600/DSCF0269%255B2%255D.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/TPBuJPZNszI/AAAAAAAAAFo/aJtph1GtBK8/s320/DSCF0269%255B2%255D.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544052246323245874" /></a><br />What do you say to someone who has just been given one week left to live? Do you say "see you later" (too casual) "Good luck" (too ridiculous) "See you soon" (your hoping NOT to).<br />Two weeks ago, I went to see my big cousin David. We called him "Big David" b/c he's not only 12 years older than me - but when he was a kid he was BIG and ultimately grew into a BIG man. But, despite his size, he was a gentle giant. He passed away last week to liver (and several other organs) cancer. The irony was that he smoked like a sailor for decades and just days before his death - his own doctor said his lungs sounded fine. No cancer there. <br /> I went to see him (the same day his doctor finally told him to "go home and get comfortable") with several of my other cousins. Although he was sitting up, eating pizza and laughing - he had the look of death in his eyes. You know the way someone looks when they have cancer and are dying. Once you have seen this - you can recognize it time and time again. The cancer slowly depletes all life force, the skin tone, the drive and in time - the will from a persons eyes. It's a robber of the worst kind. <br /> I don't believe in the white gate, a bearded man greeting you with a staff, the angels singing, the grand reunion of everyone we have ever lost skipping together into everlasting life. I think these myths have been past down and twisted into book and story form, generation after generation as a way to give hope to those of us still living. I believe in reincarnation. When we die, I think our spirit frees itself from it's shell, be it old, sick, or damaged and finds a new place to call home. Maybe a California redwood, or maybe a new baby coming into the world once again. None of us have died and actually come back to tell about heaven of the afterlife but anyway. <br /> I sat in front of David and we talked. We talked about old memories I had of him when we were younger. The time he caught me lighting up a cigarette coming out of the movies at 13 but never told my parents, the camping trips, the holiday parties, growing up on Angle Pond. We laughed, and cried a little. I stayed for about and hour then hugged him one last time and said "I love you very much and I'm proud of you". He knew what I meant. He died one week later, exactly as his doctor predicted. <br /> My father says "<em>death is just another phase of life</em>" and although while you are losing someone - these words seems unbearable, unacceptable and too simple for the great emotion one feels at that very moment and often many weeks or months following, it's true. We are born, we live and then we die. If it were only that easy. Just words and actions with nothing attached. I'm 37 and have lost way too many people to this disease. I'm heartsick from saying So Long even though it's just a part of life.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-30014736520143693202010-07-24T18:16:00.000-07:002010-07-24T18:58:48.325-07:00Freezer pops and sun block<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/TEuaMJMSIcI/AAAAAAAAAFY/XncrGfu9PKQ/s1600/IMG_3056.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/TEuaMJMSIcI/AAAAAAAAAFY/XncrGfu9PKQ/s320/IMG_3056.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497657303552369090" /></a><br />Summer isn't what it used to be. I remember getting off the bus on the last day of school each June and feeling like I had the next "lifetime" off. Now, as an adult - one month simply turns into the next and instead of counting down the days til summer vacation - I'm counting down the months until my full week off. This week, was my week. I should say "our" week. My husband had the week off too. We spent some much needed quality time with the boys (<em>just the 4 of us</em>), took a few fun day trips and enjoyed a few ice cream cones but the joy of summer vacation as an adult doesn't feel the same. When I was a kid - my older cousin Lisa "babysat" my sister and I, and her younger sister Kim - all summer while our parents worked. I say "babysat" very loosely. She was only a few years older than us so we got away with so much more! We'd bribe her for money for the ice cream truck saying "<em>if you don't give us some money, we'll tell that you had boys in the house</em>". She'd fork over a buck for each of us! We were lucky enough to have a pool in the backyard so all of the neighborhood kids would hang out with us from about 9 am until the sun went down. Swimming, climbing trees, eating junk food and riding bikes. I miss that. Not that I miss those days for myself - but I miss them for Cooper & Wyatt. The trust in the neighborhood is gone. The ability to let our children go free and expect them to come back at dinner - is gone. Life was different back then. Life before 80 SPF's, solar swim shirts, bike helmets and bottled water. We survived on eating in the shade, freezer pops and skinned knees. We'd fall, we'd cry - we'd keep playing. And without sounding like an old woman saying "way back when I was your age".... I have to say - there is so much I miss about that life I once knew. It was a life I loved.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-26274827175739328142010-06-09T17:36:00.000-07:002010-06-09T18:12:08.954-07:00I can't help but to laugh<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/TBA44ivTLSI/AAAAAAAAAFI/IviYyhgOx68/s1600/311.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/TBA44ivTLSI/AAAAAAAAAFI/IviYyhgOx68/s320/311.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480943290558917922" /></a><br />Kids say the funniest things. When I say "funny" - I mean absolutely gut-wrenching hysterical. Around the time I pregnant with my second son - my first son Cooper was three, almost four. He was beginning to read all the signs he saw from the back seat of the car. "McDonald's".... "Pizza Hut"...."Home Depot". One day we passed the sign for "Toys R Us". I said "Cooper - what does that big one say?".... and of course he knew - "Toys R Us". A few minutes later he said "but toys aren't us, they're toys". How smart, and true! Then, there was the time I was soaking in the bathtub (about 8 months pregnant and HUGE) and Cooper barged in like they all do and began staring at my belly and breasts above the water line. He asked me if "those" (meaning the boobs) were where Wyatt's eyes were! Yeah - I guess if I was giving birth to a 50 lb alien. Kids say the funniest things. Now, I've got two boys saying the funniest things. Wyatt insists on wearing underwear on his head referring to himself as the "Underwear Queen" (his father is thrilled) and calls rain clouds "filthy" because they are dark. Sure my home is sticky, loud and unorganized - but so funny. Children offer a constant stream of stand-up comedy and perfectly timed one-liners. The best part is - they don't know it. Today, Wyatt didn't want pizza for dinner - he insisted on a "pickle sandwich". Yes, just pickles followed by a cold bath. The kid is strange. Cooper, now seven and almost too cool - wanted a nighttime snack (basically just prolonging the inevitable; going to bed) When I told him he could have fruit - he had the nerve to ask for a "fruit roll up" because according to him - it's made with 100% juice. You literally can't pay for this kind of humor.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-55097383911071377422010-04-04T18:15:00.000-07:002015-10-12T18:43:29.953-07:00If I could go back.....<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/S7qY9Q8PC2I/AAAAAAAAAE4/_jX58rnIJTE/s1600/daytona-umbrellas-400x300%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/S7qY9Q8PC2I/AAAAAAAAAE4/_jX58rnIJTE/s400/daytona-umbrellas-400x300%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456842076799830882"></a><br>I know - I can't. I'm just saying <strong>IF</strong> I could go back - things would have been different. Don't get me wrong, there's a lot in my 36 years I wouldn't trade for all the tea in China like my childhood friends, my relationship with my family, and my sense of adventure. I wouldn't change the places I've lived - or the college I chose but I do wish I knew myself as a teenager. If I knew myself at 15 I'd beg me to end the relationship with that guy I'd end up spending the next 6 years of my life with. If I knew myself at 17 - I'd tell me to stop spending my afternoons after school watching General Hospital and get me to join a school sport instead. I wouldn't of been so afraid to fail. I wouldn't of cared what people thought of me, because I did back then I guess like all teenagers do. I never thought I was pretty or smart enough. Instead of being with myself and liking me - I constantly compared myself to everyone else. If only the 17 year old me had the courage and personality the 36 year old does. I like myself more now than I ever have. <em>I would be friends with me, if I met myself </em><em>now.</em> I guess that's evolution. You grow up slowly liking (then loving) yourself until eventually you retire, move someplace warm and thankfully stop giving a shit about what the world thinks about you. If I could go back - I'd start old and grow young, bringing the wisdom and confidence of old age along with me when I really needed it -back then.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-68600240137010370122010-03-21T16:30:00.001-07:002010-03-21T17:34:15.890-07:00over a cup of coffee.....<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/S6a5p0XtPeI/AAAAAAAAAEw/rN5nlcorm3k/s1600-h/250px-A_small_cup_of_coffee%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 188px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/S6a5p0XtPeI/AAAAAAAAAEw/rN5nlcorm3k/s320/250px-A_small_cup_of_coffee%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5451248527062416866" /></a><br /><div>So, I met my dear friend Mindy for Coffee last Friday. We do this every month or so to get caught up on life, and laugh. We have known each other for about 16 years and I consider her one of the greatest people I have ever known. You couldn't meet someone more honest and open (<em>at least to me</em>) about who they are. I only wish she saw herself the way I do. Our friendship started at an ice cream shop (laughing at customers and eating free samples much like Jay and Silent Bob at the variety store only LOUD and in color) and it grew from there. We ended up working together at two other places including a Lawrence youth summer camp. If not for our boss who was a total ass (and so "ungodly" if you ask me, not that I'm one to talk) we would have stayed through the entire summer for the kids. Min & I were convinced he was a closet drug addict who only took "this damn job" to feed his crack habit. We resented and loathed him so much, we ended up at "Friendlies" in Salem with his boss - <strong>THE PASTOR</strong>. Who can actually say they've shared a "Jim Dandy" with someone of the cloth? We worked on him for about an hour trying to get the guy fired but in the end our efforts didn't pay off. So, on the next really hot day - we jumped into my jeep during our lunch break and peeled out of the church parking lot after saying goodbye to the children (the only job I've ever quit without a notice!) and spent the rest of the afternoon swimming in Mindy's pool. Every time we see each other now, we go through the timeline of past events: In January of 1994 - we met. That spring, Kurt Cobain died. That summer we saw Green Day and I was sick in the parking lot. That winter - parties at Plymouth and a random conversation with an Italian soccer player. 1995 - obsessed with Tom and Jeff almost to the "stalker" level. Summer of 1996, i move to Atlanta. Mindy moves in with Torin. 1998 - I moved back to NH. 2001 Mindy married a wonderful man (not Torin). 2003 - my son Cooper was born. 2004 - I got married (yes, in that order). Then of course as with all friendships, the bicycle build for two turns into a baby carriage, early nights and carefully planned, sporadic cups of coffee in between sick babies and work deadlines. But really, these days that's all I need. Some good conversation over a cup of coffee with a true friend. Sure, I think often times its the wonderful memories we have with people that keep us together. And even though we're not drunk, throwing lobsters around at a frat party or staying up until 3 am just because we can - we are creating new memories now. "Remember all those Friday nights, when we used to meet for coffee?"</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-71986427252949293202010-03-04T17:42:00.000-08:002015-10-12T18:46:27.805-07:00Please, wash your hands.... with soap.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/S5BfKH1Q85I/AAAAAAAAAEo/oWi51iCaRiA/s1600-h/cdiaz_stall_angel2%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" kt="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/S5BfKH1Q85I/AAAAAAAAAEo/oWi51iCaRiA/s320/cdiaz_stall_angel2%5B1%5D.jpg" width="320"></a></div>So, I've got a thing about germs. Not as bad as Howard Hughes opting to sit in a dark room alone with a "pee jar" or Howie Mandel fist-bumping his blood relatives instead of offering a hug, but I have to admit - I'm getting close. As far as I'm concerned, life is one large germ following me and my children into a mildew corner of a wet basement. I have my dear father to thank for this (and his sister who wears latex gloves to go food shopping). He's a germ-a-phobe like I've never seen. He would bathe in antibacterial gel if it wouldn't cause dry skin or those silly 3rd degree burns. Disney as a kid was interesting - getting padded down after each ride with antibacterial wipes like a inmate getting frisked - but now that I have kids of my own <strong><em>he makes perfect sense</em></strong>. Let's face it - people are gross. I'm sure at times I've been gross too. Maybe forgetting as a kid to wash before dinner - or after riding on the school bus, but I am proud to say I have never (at least as long as I can remember) walked out of bathroom (public or not) without washing my hands. My boys think I'm crazy for the frequency in which I REQUIRE them to wash their hands. If NASA sold a anti-bacterial jumpsuit with matching face mask to the public in size small (and if it was socially acceptable) you had better believe I'd order them for the boys. Bathrooms, amusement park rides, buffet areas, vending machines, public computer stations, grocery store check out areas, ATM's, not to mention airplane tray tables, subway turn-styles, and the deposit-rocket things at the bank drive-up window are breeding grounds for god knows what. But whatever it is - I don't want to think about it. I can only keep washing my hands, wait for someone to open the public bathroom door so I can walk out without touching anything - and maybe get some therapy.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-31892997054175530022010-03-01T18:20:00.000-08:002015-10-12T18:55:50.497-07:00Mothering<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/S4x1ze1SvII/AAAAAAAAAEg/1s-iFOagEdY/s1600-h/Garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kt="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/S4x1ze1SvII/AAAAAAAAAEg/1s-iFOagEdY/s320/Garden.jpg" width="320"></a></div>I never really knew how much my mother loved me, until I had children of my own. My mother and I had a pretty good relationship growing up. Sure, it had its ups and downs (downs during the awful teenage years) but for the most part my mother and I were good. Different, but good. I think back now to all the sacrifices she made to and while she raised my sister and I. Sewing the Brownie badges, organizing the car pools, staying up with us while we were sick, making special snacks for school parties - my mom did it all. I didn't see it then - I think I just assumed "this is her job, she's the mom". All her efforts really went unappreciated. I always said "thank you" but looking back it doesn't seem like those two words were enough. Now that I'm a mom of two very active little boys, and see the work, time, patience, organization and money it requires - I have a new appreciation for her. I asked her once, when I was in my 20's if she could go back and do anything different - would she. She just smiled and said "I wouldn't change a thing" but after much prying - admitted she would have liked to have gone to college and worked with animals. Often times, women give up or at least set-aside their own dreams to raise children. Until my sister and I were about 8 and 10, my mom stayed home with us. Once we were old enough to get on the bus, and hang out for an hour or so after school - my mom rejoined the working class. Got a job at bottle-making factory - a job she <em>hated</em> but kept for exactly one year. She worked the nightshift and had to drop my sister and me off at my nana's so we could catch the bus early the next day. Those were tough days, and we missed our mother (and our own beds). The following year she took a job at an electronics factory and has been there ever since. Day after day. I'm sure wondering at times what her life would have been like - if she worked at an animal clinic, doing something she loved. Some of my best memories I have of my mother were not about things she did FOR me, but <em>with</em> me. Like the time she took a train (too afraid to fly) down to Atlanta, Georgia to help me move into my college apartment after she found out the "friend" helping me move bailed out on me in South Carolina. Or the time she rushed to my side when I was in labor with my first son Cooper. She stayed with me all night, running her fingers through my hair, telling me stories about giving birth to me while I sat soaking in a jet tub - filled with fear and excitement to meet my first child. These are the moments I think about when I think about my mother. I can only hope one day, my sons will understand my complete and unwaivering love I have for them. My wish in life is for them to be happy - which is what my own mother has always wanted for me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-90781044475691216652010-02-20T19:28:00.000-08:002010-02-20T19:33:14.315-08:00Courage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/S4CoOPeR95I/AAAAAAAAAEI/bzFdsYin4ug/s1600-h/trunk-bay-5%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" ct="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/S4CoOPeR95I/AAAAAAAAAEI/bzFdsYin4ug/s320/trunk-bay-5%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a></div><strike></strike>The greatest quality a person can have in life is courage. I wish I had more of it. People with courage are willing to take a chance, even though they could fall on their face - and hard ( possibly in front of many watchful eyes). Courage is allowing fear to fade into the background and worry to wash away. This bring to mind the man on St. John. About 9 years ago, shortly after Jared died - my father took me to St. John, hoping the sun and salty air would somehow allow me to find myself again. A few days into our trip we headed to Trunk Bay - named one of the top 10 beaches in the world by "Conde' Nest" magazine. Marble-blue water, small folding waves - silence. As we sat with our feet dug into the white sand - we noticed a family seated down the beach; a man, his wife and two sons maybe 12 and 14. I watched through my sunglasses making sure they couldn't see me. The kids eventually ran towards the water and played trying to coax their parents on. Finally, after some time - the man slowly turn his body to the side, and then shifted his entire weight onto his arms. Unable to walk - he <em>crawled </em>his way towards the water. I looked around and then up towards to top of the beach line and noticed a wheelchair. My father and I exchanged looks of shock and sympathy. Once the man reached the water he began to float and play around with his children - like any other dad. I realized then that dispite heartache, pain, fear, and even death - life somehow has to go on. It has no other choice but to.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-54411147953316711242010-01-16T19:08:00.000-08:002010-01-16T19:19:12.623-08:00Roosters are for crazy people with no children.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/S1J-8oGhEHI/AAAAAAAAAEA/w2yP1ajb18M/s1600-h/3253758933_b17a1a4abd%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/S1J-8oGhEHI/AAAAAAAAAEA/w2yP1ajb18M/s400/3253758933_b17a1a4abd%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>Ah, Dinkbat. I haven't thought about that little bastard in years until the other day the women in my office were talking about thier pets. I don't have any pets, but I did when I was a kid. The one pet (and I say pet very loosely) my memory seems to let slip by was "Dingbat.... my pet rooster". Who the hell would want a pet rooster, except of course if you live on a sprawling farm, or simply enjoy being tortured. I was about 10 when my dad brought this bird home. He thought it would be a nice addition to our two-stalled horse barn. "<em>A nice wake-up call</em>", my dad would say. Yeah - not so much. It didn't take long for this bird to wear out his welcome. It got the the point we'd throw our book bags in the air after getting off the school bus, running like bats out of hell as Dingbat would go for our ankles, shins and any available skin surface, pecking and cackling..It was horrible. So funny now, but awful then. My mother would stand at the end of our driveway, waving a broom at him so we could run around them - and get into the house. He'd grab the end of the broom with his (beak?) and shake it from side to side like a dog with a chewed up rag doll. The funny thing is - at night after the sun went down and the horses were fed and back in the stalls, we'd walk out and check on Dingbat. There he'd be, quiet and vulnerable up on a shelf my dad had made for him, peaceful and gentle. So peacful we'd be able to pat him a little. Then, 4 am would come "COCKADOODLEDOO"...and we'd be back on the bloody battle field for yet another day with this loony tune. My father got sick of the tears and agrivation and dropped him off one afternoon to a neighbor's chicken farm. We went back a few weeks later to check on him and there he sat in the corner of the pen - PLUCKED NAKED. Farmer said the chickens had gotten to him. Who's tough now, Dingbat?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-26800012433571850022010-01-02T19:01:00.000-08:002010-01-02T19:05:35.158-08:002010 is my new BFF.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/S0AGAKwTnLI/AAAAAAAAAD4/F3HngxoevwU/s1600-h/IMG_2633.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ps="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/S0AGAKwTnLI/AAAAAAAAAD4/F3HngxoevwU/s320/IMG_2633.JPG" /></a><br />
</div>So, I've decided - 2010 will be an amazing year for me and my family. Why? Because I say so - that's why. I woke up on New Year's morning in my best friends' guest room bed with my husband and two sons after a crazy night of drinking and strip-poker (no, not really - we were all sleeping by 11 pm after some wings and cheese and crackers but anyway) and I couldn't help but wake up to that feeling of complete newness. The kind of newness only January 1st, a new car or baby can bring. 2009, like for so many other people - brought disappointment, fear and unanswered questions. So many jobs lost, so much money spent, so many speeches and programs and hand-outs: my patience and tolerance was just about gone. But then something happened just before Christmas. Sure, it could be the Lexapro I'm now popping or the fact that the shortest day of the year has come and gone - but that switch that everyone talks about finally went off. Off went the worry, off went the fear, off went the "what if's" and the "I should have's". <strong>I'm done - so done.</strong> The worry has done nothing besides deepen my frown lines and make my husband crazy. Mark Twain once said "I've spent most of my life worrying about things that have never happened". <em>Me too, Mark</em>! So, I've personally decided to have a wonderful 2010 whatever may (or may not) happen. Whether or not I finally lose those last 20 pounds, whether or not we can sell our condo this spring and move into a bigger place, whether or not the spring is too rainy, or the bail-outs continue - this year, I'm going with it. If the boys stay healthy & happy and Pete and I stay employed - everything else will seem like a bonus. That's my resolution. 2010 is my new BFF!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-44630295195407956862009-11-12T18:26:00.000-08:002009-11-12T19:04:37.217-08:00The Junk Drawer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/SvzMCfvYBkI/AAAAAAAAADY/C7eTwaL9oYo/s1600-h/8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" sr="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/SvzMCfvYBkI/AAAAAAAAADY/C7eTwaL9oYo/s320/8.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>Come on everyone! Feast your eyes on my junk drawer. (No - not nearly as nifty and organized as the Lowe's number above) It's the little one to the left of my stove; I'm sure you can't miss it. I'm pretty certain it was earmarked as the "junk drawer" within the first few days Peter and I moved into the condo. It started with a few thumb tacks and screws - things that didn't quite have a place yet, in <em>our</em> new place. From there all hell seemed to break loose in our special drawer. Matter of fact, I am ashamed to say I can't open the thing without first pressing my hand down on an outdated address book, hoping things don't shift behind the drawer and spill out on to the array of cereal boxes below. The amount of crap that has accumulated over the past three years is mind boggling. 20 Chucky Cheese tickets "for when we go back", several dead batteries, a black electric cord that powers something, 2 dead cell phones, scotch tape (who doesn't keep tape in the junk drawer?), a few paperclips, pencils, cap-less crayola markers, the outdated address book, a few curled up photos, and a bunch of rusty pennies. When I open the drawer (<em>usually to add more junk</em>) I begin to understand just a little, what it must be like to be a certified "hoarder". No, it's not stacks of unread newspapers or pizza boxes, nor piles of clothes with tags still on them, but useless junk that I can't bare to part with because "what if". What if we go back to Chucky Cheese and I need those 20 tickets? What if the TV remote shits the bed in the middle of "The Big Bang Theory" and I don't have even a dead spare battery to try out? What if we find the waffle maker or table saw that fits that ugly black powercord? (just kidding about the tablesaw) but after all this time, how dare I even suggest purging the drawer of its contents given the unpredictable nature of day to day life? Isn't that why everyone I know and don't - have junk drawers in the kitchen?Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-63483863211587978732009-11-08T18:47:00.000-08:002015-10-08T03:21:36.358-07:00I Miss Myself.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/SveFIyMFb5I/AAAAAAAAADI/TW5td61dJ50/s1600-h/Garden.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" sr="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/SveFIyMFb5I/AAAAAAAAADI/TW5td61dJ50/s320/Garden.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>There's a few things about me that have gone unchanged. I pluck my eyebrows too often and wear chapstick out of habit. Bathroom rugs are for show - not wet feet. I sleep better with an empty kichen sink and smile more when I've have time to blow-dry my hair. I burn candles daily - only Yankee. Coffee is my first thought apon waking. I can't seem to get past the fact I've never had a perfect body, and most likely never will. I talk to my parents almost everyday, in a way most of my friends have never understood. Peppermint patties and diet coke are the perfect snack. But all that aside, there's so much that keeps changing in my life. I used to trust EVERYONE, but after a few broken hearts and a stop at a South Carolina crack house (a future blog) - I stopped doing that. I've become cynical and skeptical of everything. I miss my old self. The self who loved without fear, gave without expecting and laughed for no reason at all. I miss the self - who used to give decent advice that my friends actually followed - instead of the self that needs it now. I miss the self that never said "what if?" and went for it instead. I miss my free-falling self, the one at parties who picked the music, danced all night and talked to total strangers. I miss the self of Yoga classes and a nap to follow. I miss the self who decided in a week to move to Atlanta alone for two years - the city of 3 Million people. You'd think little ol' me would get lost in a place like that - but ironically I was found. I miss the self who pointed to the 7th market television station and simply said "I think I'll get a job there" and did. I miss my dreams in that life. The "I'm going to be" and the "I can't wait until".... sometimes I wished my life away. One of my dearest friends, Melissa (who I met when I lived in Atlanta) ended up doing everything she said she was going to. She was going to be a world-traveling Artist/Curator at some fancy museam and wed her high school sweetheart. The last time I talked to her (at her seaside wedding) she had just landed "THE" job. As happy as I was/am for my dearest friend - I was crushed inside. I couldn't help but to think back to those long chats in coffee houses on Peachtree Road, exchanging plans about our future. She's be the famous artist. I'd be the famous producer/writer. We'd each get married and have kids at the same time and life would be great. So, as I watched her first dance as husband and wife, I couldn't shake the feeling I was Bette Midler in Beaches.... "<i>Your </i><i>everything I wish I could be</i>". What about me? The jet-setter me? The famous producer/writer me? The one in designer suits, 8 pm business meetings and press passes to my hearts content? Now, don't get me wrong - I love my family and little life in Auburn. But I can't lie and say there isn't a part of me - staring out at the ocean at my best friends wedding wondering how my plush red carpet rolled up and became a play date on a rainy Sunday afternoon? Sometimes, I really miss myself.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-41308595169696890662009-10-29T10:24:00.000-07:002015-10-12T18:56:05.691-07:00Laugh-lines, my ass..... The lines on my face, that is. I was staring at myself in the mirror the other day wondering "when did I get old?" Was it the moment I saw my 2 year old close our cat in the dishwasher? Or those few crazy week's when I was 28? Did it happen when I wasn't looking? These days I resemble a frowning-Joker. My laugh-lines (more like ABSOLUTELY HYSTERICAL LINES) are about a mile long and my "I'm not really happy with this situation and the sun is in my eyes" lines just above the bridge of my nose are slowly sauntering towards my hairline. And the lines are not my only gripe. The spots. When on God's green earth did these things appear? You can only call them "Freckles" so long. Maybe it was all those afternoons when I was 17, laying on my front porch in direct sunlight from 10 -2 listening to The Smiths "<i>Louder than Bombs</i>", covered in baby oil (yes, baby oil). I can still hear my mother yelling out the window "don't stay out in the sun too long - it's not good for you". Yeah right mom, what do you know. <b>WHY DIDN'T I LISTEN TO MY MOTHER?</b> So, here I am 19 years later in the isle at CVS staring at cold creams, body wraps, seaweeds, clay masks, grapefruit-infused eye gel, mineral body-butters wondering what the hell to do. I could try each one - dropping a few hundred bucks or I could take out a second mortgage and get injections laced with pigs blood and Agent Orange. If I only knew then what I know now....If I had only listened to my mother. If only I didn't look like an over-tired, polka-dotted slightly-upset Heath Ledger. Men seem to age with such style, and grace. Besides the hair loss and beer gut, what do they have to complain about? Women on the other hand - tend to end up looking like an old leather boot. One you've worn again and again to nightclub after nightclub - until eventually its' sole falls off.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-47590404665713589772009-10-27T18:50:00.000-07:002015-10-12T19:01:22.727-07:00No Shoes, No Shirt - No Problem!<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/Suevgaqm8xI/AAAAAAAAACg/3-tXKc6rb6U/s1600-h/594.JPG"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/Suevgaqm8xI/AAAAAAAAACg/3-tXKc6rb6U/s1600-h/594.JPG"></a><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4MXt80dKqyg/Vhxl5UyLZ6I/AAAAAAAAALs/yR-NRJ4IFuc/s640/blogger-image--966566125.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-4MXt80dKqyg/Vhxl5UyLZ6I/AAAAAAAAALs/yR-NRJ4IFuc/s640/blogger-image--966566125.jpg"></a></div><br>I never thought I'd be the kind of girl who would actually enjoy country music. But, I kind of do these days and here's why. A few years back when Pete & I lived in Franklin, NH - a small town between two valleys - only a few radio stations came in clear enough to listen to and one was <em><strong>ALL COUNTRY, ALL THE TIME</strong></em>. I used to be the girl who made fun of country. Thought it was all white-trash, red-neck, hill-billy, banjo, bubba bluegrass CRAPOLA! It was all the same. It sucked, with no wiggle room as far as I was concerned. In my mind, every song was about sick dogs, gun racks, corn fields and confederate flags flying. Typical Stereo-Types. It's a tough pill to swallow - but I stand corrected. The first country song I remember sitting and listening to was "<em>God's Will</em>" by Martina McBride. I could still cry thinking about that freaking song. It haunts me. Many other heartfelt songs have followed. I stopped hearing the melody, and started listening to the words. The great thing about country music is I'm never embarrassed by the words in front of my kids. No F-bombs, "Niggas", "Whore's", Baby-daddy ghetto shit. No "poor me, my life sucks and everyone in it sucks". With country there are no surprises - just heartfelt advice, encouragement, and well-told stories about everyday situations. If it's broke - fix it. If your heart is breaking - talk about it. If your tired and stressed raising small children - don't wish it away - your going to miss it. Country music is like Seinfeld. You can relate, even in the smallest way. Keith Urban's "<em>Only you can </em><em>love me this way</em>"... Are you serious? Or "<em>There Goes my life</em>" by Kenny Chesney? Now that I have children of my own - I get it. These days, country music brings forward new pictures in my mind (not the gun racks and burning crosses of 10 years ago). Now, its sipping lemonade out of mason jars, catching fireflies with my sons, and spending quality time with the people I love. Maybe one day, I'll hate country music again but during THIS particular chapter, it's just about right. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-41876369530240762952009-10-20T19:02:00.000-07:002009-10-21T03:14:34.335-07:00It's about the journey....<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/St7ehiJ1I2I/AAAAAAAAAB4/vVjj5E_Jnm4/s1600-h/Tree.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/St7ehiJ1I2I/AAAAAAAAAB4/vVjj5E_Jnm4/s320/Tree.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394994071321518946" /></a><br />Nine years ago - when I was 27 I signed up for the 3-day Avon Breast Cancer walk. The walk started in Leominster, Massachusetts and ended in Boston. I decided to walk after I lost my fiance at the time, Jared Tuccolo to brain cancer. I wanted to do something as a way to give back to all of the people, relatives, friends, doctors, nurses and perfect strangers that offered an ear, a caring smile, and top notch treatment at one of the best hospitals in the world - Massachusetts General Hospital. After he died I needed something to pass the time away - replace my sadness with a sense of purpose again. I think many people caring for someone dying have felt the same way. You become so used to dealing with the sickness, pills, schedules, and doctors that once it's over - you don't know what to do with yourself. At least, I didn't. So, I joined the gym and began walking everyday on the treadmill. First - walking 1 mile. Then, 4 miles. A few months after that - 6 miles and I realized how much I loved to walk - and still do. One afternoon at the gym, I saw a sign up sheet for the 3-day walk. My first thought was "60 miles in 3 days? How the hell am I going to do that?". But then, the more I thought about it, I realized - "If people fight everyday, battling cancer or other life-threatening diseases - I can walk 60 little miles". So I signed up and began training and raising money. Most of my donations ($1200.00!) came from people who had also lost someone to cancer. Once the day finally arrived, I began walking. And walking. And walking some more. Sometimes, I walked alone. Sometimes in small groups. Sometimes with one person - and we'd share our stories. I met mothers, daughters, parents, and many widows. It was the people and the stories that made this walk the most important walk I've ever gone on. As mile 60 approached, and the crowds and news crews gathered in the streets along the Charles River, I understood that my purpose in life - was to keep living. The walk allowed me to grieve and heal and ultimately move on. Two years later - I walked into a pub in Manchester NH and met a man named Peter. I married him 2 years later. He and I are talking about walking again - together. He lost his mother a few years ago to the same disease. Life has a funny, strange and unpredictable way of working itself out. Personally, I think it's all about the journey.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-10420471211398569992009-10-17T09:57:00.000-07:002009-10-25T17:54:26.288-07:00Tub Toys & Plastic Bins<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/SuLmzxD_tEI/AAAAAAAAACI/4dcJi-SX1MQ/s1600-h/IMG_2067.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/SuLmzxD_tEI/AAAAAAAAACI/4dcJi-SX1MQ/s200/IMG_2067.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396129080561087554" /></a><br />I remember finding out I was pregnant for the first time. Boy, was I excited, nervous and sick. After the hugs, congratulations and questions ("<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">How'd</span> you find out?".... "When are you due?") the WARNINGS came. 1. Kid's are so expensive! 2. Ya better start saving for college now! 3. Wait until they can walk! (or drive, or date) But the one thing nobody ever mentioned to me was the mess. The sticky glaze, crunchy stuck things, crayon marks, tub toys and unimaginable amounts of plastic bins covering every inch of my home. Bins for race cars, bins for L<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">egos</span> (OUCH, if you step on one!), bins for art supplies, bins for hats and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">mittens</span>, bins for bins! Only 7 short years ago - I hadn't even heard of "Rubbermaid Stackable Bins". Back in that life -everything smelled good, was neatly folded and put away. My dishes matched. The fancy glasses weren't plastic sippy cups of every color (with missing lids). My fridge was in order: salad mix, tofu, wine, fruit - maybe some lunch meat and soy milk. Today: 100 juice boxes, cheese sticks, a few 1/2 eaten things wrapped up for later, pudding cups, science experiements and milk. Just stepping into the tub takes some fancy foot work trying to avoid all the army men and squirt guns. Cleaning when your children are young is like putting a bandaid on a bullet wound. But, dispite the complaining - I wouldn't change it for the world!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2946464189523546063.post-3486548193998946292009-10-14T18:41:00.000-07:002015-10-12T19:10:16.771-07:00Behold - the first post of "The First Half"<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/SuTz4G3GSrI/AAAAAAAAACY/tMsStBffjRM/s1600-h/Autumn+Leaves.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_CcYOLDDxQ5Y/SuTz4G3GSrI/AAAAAAAAACY/tMsStBffjRM/s200/Autumn+Leaves.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396706398736632498"></a><br>The official "first half" of my life will be completed in four years. Then, I'll be 40 but I don't care about the number as much as I do the quality of life I've lived so far. Maybe I'll luck out and live to be 100 and if that's the case... I'm alot further away from the middle than I thought. More time is always a good thing! The places I've been, the people I've met, the conversations I never wanted to end, and the ones I dreaded - have all impacted my life in some way. People I have loved, and lost, teachers for one semester, strangers in airports, the five friends I've known my entire life, and the 100 "friends" I have on facebook - each person in my life now, or before are all pieces of my own personal puzzle. A puzzle that is finally finished when death comes and that last corner piece is found! I think my first half hasn't been so bad. It's given me two beautiful sons - Cooper and Wyatt Henry, two college degrees, a happy home ... but I'm still longing for something more. So, I started this Blog for me. A place to sort out my thoughts, tell a few stories, and prepare for the second half.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18285207052482061605noreply@blogger.com0