Days like this...

So Ryan Reynolds and Scarlett Johansen are divorcing after 2 years of marriage....I mean come on....Really? I admit, my first thought was "whatever..." but then I thought about it and just got mad! Two years of marriage and now divorce! Really?

Two years of marriage, in terms of a lifetime together, is metaphorically, a rain drop in the ocean. Ryan and Scarlett, you bailed without even trying to figure the whole marriage thing out...It's the equivolent of standing on the customer service line at Walmart for 45 minutes for a return, then deciding to say "Fuck It!" and leave just as you make it to the cashier.

Marriage is hard. Relationships are hard. It all needs constant work and attention and revising. But that's life. Isn't that what most of us signed on for? Aren't we in it for the long haul? Believe me, after 13 years of marriage, I know, the whole experience ain't for wimps!

No one tells you about how you will fall in and out of love with a spouse, then passionately back in again. No one tells you there'll be times when you feel your pulling all the weight, or that you'll be so overwhelmed you want to pull the covers over your head and give up.

No one tells you that for every great day together, there
will be two that will bring adversity and challenge. No one tells you how to deal with in-laws or jealously or illness.

Or that you need to hold tight to the history you share as a couple, because those memories will keep you sane, keep you grounded, keep you in each others arms.

Almost anything you purchase comes with insructions....an owner's manual. Why isn't there one for marriage? Somewhere along the way we've all bought into this Hollywoodized version that neatly ties up relationships with a witty "meet cute" and a white pickett ending.

In reality, there is nothing neat about it. Spousal relationships are raw and visceral...like make-up sex. The answers lie hidden in the stolen moments, when you lie in bed together intertwined....just hold on and breathe.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

It's Not Always What You See

You don't know the all of me,
you only know what you can see. Sometimes, I am sweet, sincere, devout. Then other times I'm just inside-out.

Gruff and frustrated, simmering, too. Not sure to tell you off or give in to an angry screw.

The world is big and wide and full of doubt. You only see the me you want - heartfelt, subservient, with little thought...

It's not that I want to run away, just have you see the all of me, that elusive enigma that even I don't always see. And maybe one day, we'll all agree.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Not Tonight Honey, I'm On A Diet....

A recent poll published in USA Today cites that "for some women, weight control is more important than sex."  I had to read that sentence twice.  Honestly, I did....because I'm dying to ask those ladies, "Are ya' doin' it wrong?"

There are many things that I would give up if the Ab Genie granted my wish for a rock hard core, or if a plastic surgeon took me on as a charity case.....like lying about my age, cheating at Monopoly, rolling through stop signs, making my kids do silly dances for me before I will feed them, removing from my head the word "ruh-tard" when I see a mentally handicapped person, looting and pillaging my neighbor's collection of mail-order catalogs, hoarding and eating the kids Halloween and Easter candy.....but sex (for many different reasons).....would be no where on the list (despite my current knocked up condition).

Don't get me wrong, for as much as I love my husband, his penchant to grab my breasts in greeting, "just because he can" can actually be a turn off (side note: I mean, seriously, what is up with guys and boobs?  We were walking in Fisherman's Wharf in SF a month ago and a fat old guy walks past us wearing a T-shirt that said "I love boobies"....what up with that?!?).  So when I get really fed up, he whines that I can be a one woman sex excuse generating machine: 

1. It's too hot. 
2. It's too cold.
3. I have to poop....and it can't wait.
4. Odd days of the week are such a turn off.
5. Ugh, you didn't change the channel & I'm so NOT watching Leno, good night.
6. I just moisturized.
7. I think one of the kids just puked, better go check.
8. Poking me on facebook does not constitute foreplay.
9. I'm just 146 pages away from finishing up "Pride & Prejudice" for the 18th time.
10. You really shouldn't have had all those onions with dinner.
11. Oops, I forgot to put the laundry in the dryer.
12. I'm too worried about the economy and why Bill O'Reilly keeps picking on poor Jennifer Aniston?
13. Ooh, "Castle" is on and you know how much I love that Nathan Fillion....
14. This is a really hard Sudoku puzzle...I just want to finish it
15. John Mayer has been tweeting like crazy today....I can't wait to see what he says next!

And the list goes on.....I'm sure you all have other good ones to add to the list (please feel free to share!)....

According to eHow, "30 minutes of intercourse will burn 195 calories."  Isn't that a much better way to burn off that late afternoon grande mocha? So why take one option off the list that would actually help keep those rockin' abs a rockin'.  Granted, it's no Zumba class, but it actually can be fun, when you get out of your head and let it.  Besides,there's a reason the book is called "Skinny Bitch," there are more health benefits related to sex than starving yourself, such as better body image, feeling sexier, stress relief, ....did I mention STRESS RELIEF?

I bring up stress relief, because we are becoming an increasingly angrier and angrier nation.  Workplace shootings; pissed off flight attendants; Kelsey Grammar (who, btw, recently dumped the wife who convinced him she had something called "irritable bowel syndrome"...and made him go on TV and talk about it...damn, why couldn't I pull that one off!); all those greasy, sweaty, hairless, leather-like gorilla Jersey Shore guys "creepin'" all over the place; the incompetent New York State legislature; and more and more Kardashians coming out of the woodwork each day....we are awash in a perfect storm of a listless economy, general overall resentment,  tawdry voyeurism through 24-hour gossip sites (LUV U PEREZ!) and global warming.....so I must ask, is anybody out there (other than me) having any sex?

The Steven Slater Effect

Yesterday, at a local diner, I recieved the shock of my life.  As the middle aged waitress (not to be confused with the Bitchy Waiter, btw) brought out our food, I lightly touched her arm and asked, "Could you bring us a new bottle of ketchup?" The 6 yr. old, Crazy Man, was already eyeing the, for all intesive purposes, "empty" bottle on the table very dubiously.  I thought I would ask, in an effort to head off the volley of questions that would spew from Crazy Man's mouth. 

She turned on me with angry glazed-over eyes and announced, "Do I look like ya' mutha?  Do I look like I have the time to go all the way back to the kitchen, then come all the way back here with a new bottle of ketchup, FOR YOU?  Look, look around.....does it look like I'm not busy today?"

I did look around, and was embarrassed to see the majority of the restaurant staring at me. "No...it's okay, don't worry about it," I mumbled.  But she had already turned hard on here heels, loudly saying, "But here I go, getting you another mutha-fuckin' ketchup, like I'm the f-ing Heinz 57- St. Paulie girl...."

"Quick, before she comes back.....grab the bottle from the table over there....AND HIDE IT." I told my 9 yr. old, fearing that if she saw, we'd be pelted with small packages of orange marmalade or even worse, the germ-laced mints at the register. Then it hit me, in one angry, curse-laden mouthful, I had been Steven Slater-ed.

Like the pissed-off JetBlue flight attendant, who according to Jimmy Fallon, "grabbed two beers and jumped."  I believe I was the victim of a walk by, table side "Slater-ing" - one, in what I fear might be a rash of copy cat acts from employees in the service industry, most of whom are fed up with the general douche-yness of their customers and the lull of modern life.

Now granted the flight was coming in from Pittsburgh....need I say more, but I feel that Steven Slater could've behaved in a more professional manner.   Let's face it Steve, if you can't handle the luggage, then get off the plane.....which you did, after you smartly threw down your very large carry-on bag, which I'm told looked like it would NOT fit in any of the overhead bins.

Let's not canonize the guy for re-gurgitating the "take this job and shove it" mantra and turning it into a glittering broadway revue.....soon to star Hugh Jackman as a down-on-his-luck singing, dancing,disgruntled sequin-clad air steward. Because we all know that the fanny-ing about with the drink cart has its perks, including making thinly veiled passes at married men, trying to secretly seduce them by coyly slipping them an extra Dr. Pepper, or two.

And while air travel has become increasingly no frills - no pillows, blankets, food or leg room - the flight attendants are there to set a friendly tone and to gently remind passengers that we're all in this together, so let's make the best of it. Having recently flown from coast to coast in my "fragile" state, it was not only an uncomfortable experience, but an extremely eye-opening one.....NO ONE....I repeat NO ONE helped the very visibly pregnant woman hoist her bag into the overhead bin, then once again, hoist it back down at the end of the flight.  Of the 4 flights, (I connected each way), NOT ONE of my smelly, agitated fellow passengers, or any of the "friendly" flight attendants so much as lifted a finger to help, or ask if any assistance was needed.  I realize that pregnancy is not a handicap, and women were long ago giving birth on the job in rice paddies and farm fields, but I thought modern manners would have garnered me a little help, and not comments like, "Oh my, you have to pee AGAIN, dear?"

I could have put any number of people in my pregnancy-fueled hormonal-cross hairs, but I didn't.  Propriety brought me back to my seat to do numerous sharp reps of kegel exercises.  As I counted and clentched, my anger subsided, though, sadly, the urge to pee did not. Now with every new news item about Steve Slater (or the now inevitable View appearance), working class hero, or t-shirt with Steve Slater in the likeness of Che Guevara,  or Facebook tribute page, I just want to scream!  Because if he had only "Queen-ed" up, done his own version of a kegel exercise and turned the other cheek, he could've been trolling for a sugar daddy on the next flight to Boca....like tomorrow!

Knocked-Up.....AGAIN!

I stared in disbelief at the three pee-soaked sticks on the bathroom vanity....two thin lines, then just a plus sign, then finally, the nail-in-the-cradle....a new-fangled digital LCD display that arrogantly flashed "YES!" ....As in "Yes, you stupid bitch, the rabbit died...YOU ARE PREGNANT!"

I fumbled for the test instructions, reading and then re-reading again in Spanish...then French....hoping some shred of information regarding false positives was lost in translation. But I quickly realized, that "You're fucked," pretty much means "You're fucked," in any language.

And on many levels I was....or had been...very vigorously (but not memorably) sometime around the beginning of February. Now it was April and I was pregnant. But before the reality crept in, before I told anyone, before I let my mind begin to ponder what color would we have to repaint the guest room....I began to oddly rationalize my way out of this situation, because hadn't my husband once famously announced "We have three....you're not having anymore, at least with ME anyway."

Afterall, maybe the pregnancy tests that I had purchased at the local CVS were wrong. Maybe all of the pregnancy tests in the state of Connecticut were wrong. Or maybe, I shouldn't have purchased that one with the lines at the Dollar Store. Or maybe I have some syndrome in which your body only THINKS its pregnant. Or maybe this is just the final episode of LOST.

It wasn't any of those and I started to mentally live out my own variation of the movie "Knocked Up"....but my husband is much cuter than Seth Rogan (though probably just as hairy), and we ARE married...doesn't that count for something....AND.....no one in the house had a raging case of pink eye.

We should have known that somewhere between my husband's horniness, an astonishing disregard for any kind of birth control, my fertile Irish peasant genes, and my cast-iron uterus (which has known to go by the moniker "Ole Reliable") we were playing with fire. And so we sat dumbfounded in the Obstetrician's office when he confirmed what I already knew and then flatly stated, "I thought you said at your last visit, you were done?" I didn't know what to say, because honestly, a year ago, I thought I was. It was my husband who spoke first, visibly peeved by the comment, "Yeah, well, that's what Brett Favre kept saying, but he still signed with the Vikings."

As we walked out of the office, I had a sinking feeling that I'd hear that comment alot. That the question of "I thought you said you were done?" would be dogging me until November. And really, how DO you respond to that? "Well....it sure beats a 9 to 5." Or, "It was either a baby or a dog....and we know my husband's not allergic to babies."

Slowly, I began to test the waters with my news....by telling total and complete strangers. People that I knew had no connection with any friends or family members. Random people that I knew, a Russian Reflexologist, an Asian yoga teacher, my Israeli therapist, the mentally handicapped bagger at the grocery store....all who had no idea who my husband was and had very thick accents....So there was little chance of any of them running in to him with a chorus of congratulations and VERY little chance of him understanding them if he did. Thus mitigating the "What the hell, why did YOU tell HER" arguments from my husband.

But as June rolled around, and maternity jeans loomed in my near future, we anxiously waited for the Amnio results before we told our kids about sibling number 4. But when we did, one night at dinner at a local diner, after the 6 yr. old's short stack of choclate chip pancakes arrived, their reactions were not what I had expected. Crazy Man, the 6 yr. old, was at first excited, then turned very serious and asked, "So, where is it going to sleep?" My third grader, who up until this moment was the quintessential middle child, was very worried, and looked at my husband and said, "You're kidding. This is a joke, right?" But the 11 yr. old rejoiced to hear the baby was going to be a boy, and her Queen Bee status would remain intact. "Well, I feel bad for those two.  You know, I'll get a lot of attention, because I'm a girl and the oldest....and the baby will get a lot of attention because he's the youngest....you guys are on your own." she said and pointed to her two brothers.....because yet again, in her middle school mind, good news, no matter whose it was, was always, in some way, about her.

To make matters worse, reactions didn't get any better when started to tell family members, each dumbfounded in their own way, all seemed to offer up different versions of "You've got to be joking!" or "Better you than me." However, the most unusual comment came from a neighbor who remarked, "Well, it's good to know that someone on the street is still having sex." I'm still trying to figure out if that last one was a backhanded compliment or just plain creepy.

Now it is August and only a few more months to go and we have finally reconciled ourselves to refer to "The Situation" as a pleasant surprise, and not a covert military op (i.e., shock and awe). But, I fear the little playful jabs will linger...at a BBQ this past weekend, a friend remarked, upon hearing of our recent trip to the West Coast, "Well, at least when the two of you are alone together between now and November, you can't possibly make #5."

Oh silly friend, where there's a will, there's a way.....and if not, there's always the fear of osmosis.

The Game of Life

Viva la vida.

If only life truly was like the board game.  And all that you needed came in one bright, shrink-wrapped box.  One little pamphlet of instructions was all you needed, in English and Spanish, to start you on your way. One spin and the decision is made and your path decided...all by the caprice of a mini multicolored roulette wheel.  There are no heavy sighs, no pros and cons to weigh....just an eagerness to get on with the game.  There are no arguments in your little plastic car about money, the children, sex, who didn't take out the garbage and who left the toilet seat up.  Even during the mandatory marriage stop it doesn't matter if the front seats are occupied by pink-blue; pink-pink; blue-pink; blue-blue....come on, is anyone REALLY  going to stop the game to protest the coupling of same sex plastic pegs???

And while the stakes are high, someone always wins and someone always loses, they are not serious.  There is always the promise of next time when the game is put away and taken out again, days, weeks, months or even years later.  Perhaps what I've been craving is that intangible ability to hit the reset button and play anew with a different and exciting outcome....the way you can only do in a game or at a sporting event.  Each time a team takes the field, be it soccer, basketball, football, etc., there is that wonderful unknown promise of a possible victory...of possibly pitching a perfect game, or running for a record number of yards.  And while much may be chalked up to luck - being in the right place at the right time - this luck, this fate, it is also ours to make....or break.

And while eternal optimists will drum up slogans to make you feel good about life's incongruities and the mistakes you've made along the way, such as.....

"Life is a cabaret." - Liza Minnelli as Sally Bowles

"Life is like a box of chocolates."  - Forrest Gump

"Life is what you make it." - Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus
"Life is one long menstrual cramp." - Snooki from "MTV The Jersey Shore"

The paradigms are all pretty much bullshit. Life is good. Life is crap.  But in the end, it pretty much is what it is....real life, not a game, full of emotions and tough decisions with countless wonderful moments in between.

And so while I wobble in and out of the blog-o-sphere, I thank you for your continued support and well-wishes, because life of late has thrown me for an unexpected loop and a brand-spankin' new infant seat will be in the minivan come November!  (Yes, baby #4!) But more on that to come.....C'est la vie!

Adversity

Everyday, we make choices. Some are agonized over, some are as simple as what should i have for breakfast or do i want butter or cream cheese on my bagel....and with all of the seemingly irrelevant decisions, how often do we really think about their universal impact on who we, as a person, ultimately are.

Yet, today, I have to make a decision that will have profound impact on every part of my life....on every part of my soul.

I am faced with 2 roads to walk down. One decision will bring my entire family along with me. It will not be easy, there will be bumps and hills and challenges for everyone at different points along the way. Each will be effected both positively and negatively at various times in there life because of this choice. Because of my choice. But, we will all be in it together.

The second choice will only truly and adversely effect me. It will be my cross to bear and it will be a dark and infinitely windy road. The decision will be made and locked away in some far away corner of my mind. It will be my memory and mine alone. Life will go on for those around me because they never knew...and I will never tell. I know for everyone this might be the right choice. Why disrupt life for so many on the whim of just one. Is that really fair?

And through all of this, my heart and my head rally for two different choices. What I want, everyone says is impossible or ridiculous or selfish. What I want should not be an option for consideration.

I look at my family and my heart aches. In the end, they will not know what I faced and how I agonized and cried...I will change and they will not and it is so. It is not fair, either way. It just is. It is life. And life is full of adversity.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

I am.

Am I a Super Woman? I am.

I have been knocked down, chewed and spit out. My cape may not be as brilliant as it once was. There are tears, imperfections....but they make me wise.

They make me smile. They remind me to laugh, to be, and to sometimes just be still.

I have so many facets, yet not enough time to let them all shine. A diamond, solid and tough. Brilliant and elusive.

I am every woman and you are me.

Fat Grrrl, Thin Grrrl

Some one once told me, with a very straight face, that inside every fat girl, there is a thin girl dying to be let out...what a load of crap! Or in my case, abdominal fat. Once again, I've found myself at the heavy end of the gain-lose-gain-lose-gain roller coaster that dominated my twenties and early thirties. But as I inch toward 40, it is time to get off.

These days I find myself trying to mentally peel away the layers of stress, inadequacy, failure, fear, loneliness and unfulfillment that have encircled my thighs, arms, chin, neck and torso in a cage of fat. There is no thin girl underneath it all, just me. Looking deep this time, beyond appearances, beyond feelings, beyond excuses and rationalizations to solve the riddle that is me: fat girl, thin girl, girl caught in the middle.... Yet, all three are one and the same.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Inner Peace is Hard Work

I am not perfect. I am not always silly, funny, snarky.  I am not always organized, thoughtful, together.  There are some days in which I feel that all that I am and all that I offer is the sum of what I am not.

As the first weeks of the new year unfold, I resolve to be at peace with who I am.  To be at peace with what I am not.  To be at peace with my mistakes.  To be at peace with forgiveness. To be be at peace so that I can let it all go. 

Below is my poem, my mantra, my mission statement. When you read it, know that however you are, however you feel, however life finds you at this moment, it is okay.

Taming The Demons Within

Tonight I want to howl at the moon

with wild, visceral abandon.
To cast off cobwebs and shadows and demons of the past.

I want to throw my head back and let out a throaty, reckless moan.
From deep in my chest, from the curve of my spine, to the kink in my neck
I need to let go.

Of anger and guilt and shame and regret.
Of numbing emotions that caused me to forget
What it is like to live, to thrive, to be.

I need to release the memories, the excuses, the fear
That have woven themselves into my mind, my being,
The very essence of my soul.

I have let this happen. I have indulged those thoughts.
I have rewritten and crossed out and amended myself according to the interpretation of strangers.
And over time I believed this was my story, my sacred text, my I Ching of me.

Tonight I want to howl at the moon, to reclaim myself. To cancel, erase and delete the untruths.
To cast off the worries, the bandaged battle scars, the mantle of discontent that I has hung over my shoulders and neck and temples in an illusion of watery, dripping jewels.

And now I, and only I
In one long guttural burst can let it all go, can shatter the past, release the future, and recreate the mold of myself
Only I can blossom and boom and start anew
With passion, and zest and strength.
In one long guttural burst I can embrace my strength and chart my direction and my find my true self.

And when the dawn has broke and the day has begun,
When old familiar thoughts start to creep back in, and ooze about the cracks in my resolve like hot, sticky paving tar.
I will howl to myself, in my heart, with a clear conscience and true vision of how I want to life my life.
To make bold colorful choices and harbor no regrets.

I will howl and howl and howl. Until the negative is no more.
Until I use my internal compass to find my way again. Until the only voice I hear is my own.