23-Steps to the Perfect Snow Day

The definition of the word 'purgatory' is defined as a condition or place of temporary punishment or suffering. I haven't been able to come up with the best word for what I've been feeling for the past year, but I read the word today and it basically nailed it for me. Okay, so, 'punishment' or 'suffering' is a little dramatic, but it wouldn't describe me if it wasn't dramatic.

 

I love old people. I've always connected better with people older than me--in school, in college, at my jobs. I lived in a classy subdivision that was basically a fancy retirement place for a month with my mother-in-law and I was in hog-heaven. I married somebody 10 years older than me. Does that make me mature for my age? Hell no. I've just always seemed to gravitate towards people who've got a decade(s) on me. That being said, I learn much from listening to them.

Something I've heard for a while now from more than one 'old' person is that the holidays bring you down as you age. I always thought, "um, are you crazy?" but after this year, I kinda get where they're coming from. From Halloween to New Year's Day, it's pretty much an adrenaline rush from the time you're old enough to recognize that holidays are special until you're settled enough to start sharing traditions with a family you created. Then, the newness sort of wears off and excitement, well, isn't really excitement anymore. Until you have kids of your own. Then the whole cycle starts repeating itself.

It never really bothered me before this year. And 'bothered' isn't the right word, but I can't seem to come up with a better one. I don't sit around pining for a child. But I find myself being a little sad because there are so many situations where I think, "this would be so much better if I had a kid". For instance, when my family gathers, there aren't any small children to entertain us anymore. So I think, "I'm the one who logically should have a child here for everybody to fawn over". Or Christmas shopping. (Shopping for my husband is pretty much equivalent to shopping for a kid, considering he got a light-up Star Wars Lightsaber Chapstick in his stocking this year, along with Batman phone cover and pajamas...) I feel like I would be so much more 'into' it if I were shopping and plotting for my children. And play dates. Lots of girls my age have kids now so they can get together and throw them into a room full of toys while they hang out and talk about parenting stuff. (Or drink adult beverages which is totally what I'd be doing if I were invited to play dates.)

 

Purgatory is where I'm stuck at. It's a place that I will eventually check out of because I'll either accept that I have the perfect family already, just the 2 of us, or I'll end up having my own brood and I'll go back and read this and think "WTF were you thinking?!" It's hard to shake the feeling of being punished when we pretty much have the ideal situation to bring a child into--both parents IN LOVE, (with each other, by the way), married, good jobs, good homes, good cars, good insurance. It's hard to accept when relationships fall apart around us then get rewarded with pregnancies that go off perfectly. It's a hard pill to swallow and it's one I've tried hard not to choke on lately. But it's happening and the only thing I can do is stay on idle in the waiting room of purgatory and wait for this chapter in my story to end.

 

Now, I'm switching over from Debbie Depression and easing up with a topic that is probably the most exciting thing for me since I was a Victoria Elementary Panther and that is a SNOW DAY. I'm sitting here whining about being punished because I don't have children and I'm missing a very important, very obvious fact punching me in the face: It's a snow day and I DON'T HAVE CHILDREN!

 

This is a 23-step guide to a girl teacher's (whose husband is on midnight shift and therefore nonexistent, has no children and no responsibilities other than her dog who fortunately is as lazy as she is and requires only to be taken down the steps to tinkle twice a day) snow day.

 

1. Go to a fitness class the night before the snow day for the first time in a year so that you're so sore you can do nothing, I mean NOTHING, without it causing physical pain. Pain so great, it takes 20 minutes to lower yourself down on the toilet.

 

2. Wake up whenever you want to. 10:30 is a good midmorning time because you can move from the bed to the sofa until 12:00 which everybody knows is the universal time to eat lunch.

 

3. Download samples of books on the Kindle you want to read. Read samples, pick the best, and read it. IN ONE SITTING.

 

4. Do a load of laundry.

 

5. If your eyes start watering from reading, take a break to Pinterest food that looks good. Walk into the kitchen and realize you have nothing but expired cheese slices in the fridge. Unpin all the food that looks good and order something from town. Send 15 inappropriate pins that you can't publically pin to your board because people will judge you to one of your BFFs. View all the ones she sent you an hour earlier.

 

6. Check out the DVR and find shows you want to rewatch. Realize that you have no more Breaking Bad episodes to see because you watched all 5 seasons in 2 days over Christmas break. Let the sadness seep back in for approximately 5 minutes. (It was THAT good, it deserves to be mourned!) Realize you also have all seasons of "The Mindy Project" recorded. Watch your favorite episodes, especially the ones with Cliff in them because you need him to star as the male character yuppie boy in the book you're going to read next from previous sample list.

 

7. Get attached to Mindy Kaling in a weird, long-lost sisterly way and get her book from upstairs. Reread your favorite chapters and try to be inspired to write on your own book. Sit down to write in your book and realize you are still facing a brick wall and can't think. Get aggravated and go back to Pinterest.

 

8. Search "Charlie Hunnam" and drool for 10 minutes.

 

9. Decide to Netflix Sons of Anarchy. Realize it's going to take at least a week to watch all seasons, so go to YouTube and search "Charlie Hunnam". Find the clip that has basically all his scenes, you know, those scenes.

 

10. Read second book. Imagine the new male character as not-so yuppie Charlie.

 

10. Practice writing your name in the dust on the coffee table in the living room.

 

11. Go get the duster, then decide, you'll do that later.

 

12. Check Facebook to see if the next day is also cancelled.

 

13. Text pictures of your road that's covered in a teeny tiny patch of ice and send it to your coworkers declaring you can't get to work in the morning because of the road conditions, even though you literally live 2 minutes from your job.

 

14. Realize the washer stopped 8 hours ago. Move them to the dryer.

 

15. Eat dinner.

 

16. Vacuum one room. (Let's not get carried away and do more than that.)

 

17. Read texts from coworkers that say school is cancelled again tomorrow.

 

18. Go get laundry from dryer, but half-way there, decide you can do that tomorrow.

 

19. Start new book. Realize your eyes are red and puffy from all the electronics. Put Kindle on charger.

 

20. Wrap up and take the dog outside. Don't actually go off the porch. Can't do steps without screaming in excruciating pain. Watch dog slip on ice-covered steps and tumble down the rest of them. Have mini-panic attack, but also realize you can't stop laughing and wish you could've recorded it. Let dog wander and do his business. Go pick up dog from the ground because he refuses to come back up them.

 

21. Change pajamas. Settle back on the sofa. Until your eyes droop so much you head to bed.

 

22. Say your prayers, give thanks for the family you DO have, for Pinterest, and for living in the south; therefore dealing with a dusting of snow that shuts down the educational system in which you chose your profession. Apologize for whining about purgatory.

 

23. Repeat steps 1-22 the next day.

For those of you who appreciate my visuals:

Yuppie male lead:

 
Not-so yuppie male lead:

 

 

 

Peace Sign, Kissy-Face

I just sat down and as I was booting up the computer, I had to look around for a strange sound coming from the sofa in my living room. Seconds later, I discover it's not coming from anything other than my fat rear because I'M BREATHING LIKE A 70-YEAR-OLD-SMOKER! I had to go upstairs twice then lug my week's worth of laundry across the house and here I am, creeping myself out with my weirdo heavy breathing episode. Which is seriously the cherry on top of my "That's it! I'm freaking going to exercise next week!" declaration from yesterday.

I had an appointment with a surgeon who confirmed that I have quite the gall stone chillin' in my gall blatter (which is apparently the yoga mat of the upper intestine area...lays around, not really serving any type of purpose.) Luckily, if I can tolerate any flare-ups between now and then, I'll have a simple procedure in March and he'll just yank that thang right on out. 

 

They call me back and the sweetest little old lady takes me straight to the scale. I get on and close my eyes and look away, then avoid what she writes down because hey, if you don't see it and don't hear it, it's not there, right? Well, technically, she didn't tell me a number but she did recommend a website that shows the American Heart Association Diet and Nutritional yada yada yada. Then she shows me a chart comparing my height and weight (like I don't know) and points to my height (which I lied about by 2 inches) and starts to explain what BMI is, all the while I'm mentally going, "O-FREAKING-KAY! JEESUZ! I'LL EAT SMARTER AND EXERCISE, DAMMIT! AHHHH! Get outta my FACE!!!!!"

 

So I'm doing it. I'm going back to classes starting Monday morning at 5 o'frickin' AM and I don't want to talk anymore about it. I can't start running because I can't kid myself into thinking I'm a runner. Let's be honest. If I'm running, the only reason for that action is because I've illegally maneuvered myself on the red carpet of the Golden Globes and I've just inappropriately grabbed Chris Hemsworth and now security is chasing me. 

The worst thing a person on a diet can do is talk about their diet so I'm not. My blog won't be about getting fit and in shape because my inner slob won't allow it. Don't ask me how it's going and if you're there, don't ask me during class a thousand times if I'm okay. No I'm not okay. I have to get up at the ass-crack of Jehovah and I have to start shaving my legs. It's laundry night and I have on 10-year-old booty shorts that barely contain said booty with knock-off Ugg boots and I can't tell where the fur from the boots begins and where my shin hair ends. I'm going to be grumpy and I'm going to be moving slow. Don't talk to me unless you're going to fake compliment me on my slendering appearance. Deal? Deal. 

 

Don't zoom in. I promise you, it won't be specks on your screen. It's probably my hair.

After my inner melt-down with the nurse, I get put into this tiny room to wait 20 minutes for the doctor. What did people do before smart phones when they had to wait during times like that? There's only so much picking at your nails you can manage. I adjusted my posture 100 times because I've never seen this doctor before so what if he's hot? I don't want him to walk in and see me slouchy with bad posture. I started fidgeting with the new bangs I got the day before but I didn't have a mirror so I couldn't tell if they were strategically placed on my forehead in the cute, Zooey Deschanel kinda way or if they were the hot mess, Nicole Kidman broom-sticks.

 

I pull out my phone which I was trying not to use because I didn't want his first impression of me to be "she's one of those people who constantly have their phones although she isn't really doing anything she just wants me to think she's so important" and I start angling the blank screen so I can see my forehead. But I can't see because of a shadow so I do what every 14-year-old with a smart phone would do and that's turn on the camera and start taking selfies. And even though I make fun of them relentlessly, I pucker and make faces with my arm jacked awkwardly in the air and click away. Annnnd then enters the doctor.

 

He's super cute. And he's like, 60. With a bow-tie. Yes, this is seriously him.

I turn fifty shades of red and toss the phone in my bag. We immediately jump right into conversation. I seem to have a way with doctors. Especially the avuncular ones. (BAM! Word of the week: a-vun-cu-lar. Of or relating to an uncle. You're welcome.) Come to find out, the cute old lady nurse's husband is an orthodontist in Richmond and is BFF's with my oral surgeon who did my jaw surgery. They have dinner on the reg. And my doctor, Uncle Bow-tie, is a huge fan of my retired family doctor, Dr. Bridgeforth from itty-bitty Victoria. So yes, spoiler alert! I'm pretty much best friends with every doctor in the Greater Richmond area. And they can pretty much compare notes on me from the top of my head to the tips of my...cookah. In fact, I'd like to think that my OB-GYN, my fertility specialist, my 70-year-old retired PCP, my orthodontist, my oral surgeon, and my newly acquired general surgeon are all sitting around a table at Carrabba's tonight discussing yours truly. In fact, this could be a completely legit scenario, except they've all made BANK off me so they're probably doing Ruth's Chris instead.

 

Gah! At least with all this other stuff going on, I've had no time to think about lack of babies. In fact, this long weekend should be the start of month 3, post-ectopic, which means my system should be cleared out and ready to get back to work. And maybe, once I have my gallbladder removed, doctors will find a long-lost connection between miscarriages and gallstones and all my problems will be solved! Until then, enjoy the following picture. Until I have a kid and other than the 700 pictures of Rudy I share on Instagram when I'm bored, this is pretty much happening on a regular basis. Even in doctor's offices!

 

 

 

 

A Series of Unfortunate Events

At Longwood I had this really quirky guy that was a Professor in the English Department and the class I was enrolled in was called "Teaching Children's and YA Literature". Our entire syllabus consisted of reading a variety of suggested books, commenting on them, then creating lessons using said books. It was basically a book club using kid lit. Which is totally right up my alley. One of the worst critiques I remember presenting was on Lemony Snickett's books, "A Series of Unfortunate Events". For my class, it was a love it or hate it series and I was the ring leader of the "hate fans". What kid wanted to read about the depressing lives of orphans?

 

I was 20 while attending that class. I lived at home and even though I also worked full-time, life was pretty much handed to me on a glistening, shiny, silver platter. Now, as a 28 year old teacher, I'm finally beginning to see the glistening, shiny, silver linings that come from appreciating a book series that eight years ago I despised. I'm a walking, talking, live version of a character from A Series of Unfortunate Events. I could basically have Jennifer Lawrence play me in a movie about my Unfortunate Events. I'm pretty much Oscar-award entertaining.

 

Since it's January, I officially declared myself as resolutionless. Historically, I'm a take-the-situation-as-it-is kind of girl. Especially situations I have no control over. This being the case, there's no need to declare dramatically what I'm going to change this year because, also historically, things are going to do what they want anyway. Hence what has happened to me this week.

 

For weeks, I've been working up to a somewhat sort of motivation to exercise. This is a long process. It usually involves me looking at old pictures of my skinny self. Then pinning 150 diet ideas on pinterest. Then talking about exercising with my friends and coworkers. Then realizing I have no cute exercise clothes so I squash thoughts of publically exercising. Then I think about how I can't exercise alone because I won't hold myself accountable, just like I can't go to the bathroom in public alone because I don't wash my hands after I tinkle unless somebody is there to judge me. Hey, that's what tiny Bath & Body Works germ-x is for. Annnnnnd I'm back to square one.

 

Up until I was a card-carrying recurrent miscarriager, I considered myself a pretty healthy person. Then it's alllll down hill from there, apparently. I don't consider myself a hypochondriac. I'm more like a person who has a medical flare for the dramatics. My very first "real" gynecologist papsmear at age 19 resulted in a surgery the very next week because I had an ovarian cyst that was about to bust. I couldn't just have braces ONCE, I had to have them twice, the second occurring at age 25 along with a side dose of 2 broken jaws. When I try to get pregnant like a normal 26 year old, I end up embarking on this road of insanity that has been 4 miscarriages. At 27, having never had a broken bone (other than jaws but they don't count because I don't have a cool story about how they got broken) I fall out of a chair and land on my elbow and have to wear a sling and wrap for weeks on end (and THERE'S the cool story to which I was referring). And more recently,  at 28, my first bout of heartburn the other night results in a diagnosis of gallstones that have to be removed ASAP. See, medical dramatics!

 

Gallstones? What am I? 60? At 3:00am the other night I'm thinking I'm having a heart attack while pacing the living room. I'm like, looking around the house, trying to mentally give away my stuff to people I'm about to leave behind. I'm thinking that I'll never get the chance to Blindside a kid. And I don't mean physically hit them, I mean, if it comes down to it and we have to adopt, I'm dying my hair blonde, going to the ghetto, and finding the best kid-athlete orphan I can find and Sandra Bullocking him. Seriousness was going down at my house Sunday night, people.

 

So, alas, it has come to my attention that the disaster that was 2013 for Mike and I will also now dribble over onto 2014. I'm meeting with a surgeon next week to discuss options, and praying that another attack won't happen between now and then because I'm down to deciding who gets the Jonathan Taylor Thomas autographed glossy photo and seasons 1-3 of Jersey Shore. The struggle is real.

It'll get better, they said. Make lemonade, they said. Well, since all the lemonade in my world is bitter right now, I guess the best thing I can do is look back on the sour parts and toss a little sugar on them. After all, the series "A Series of Unfortunate Events" (aptly named, 'The Complete Wreck' <---- can I get this monogrammed on all my shirts?!) eventually, ended.

 

Fa-lah-lah-la-lah-la-lah-lah-lah

This week has gotten me totally reminiscent of Christmases past. (Is 'Christmases' the right usage? IDK. It is now.) As I get older, Christmas loses it's luster a little bit each year. I don't know if it all just seems so redundant or what. Usually what puts me in the spirit is remembering how things were when I was a kid. My parents (my mama) were the total balls-to-the-wall Christmas people. I'm talkin' bout decorations ev-er-y-where. Regular towels and bathroom accessories were switched out for Christmas themed towels and bathroom accessories. Dishes had snowmen on them. Windows had fake candles in them. Multiple Christmas trees in the house. REAL live wreaths were made for outside that even had REAL fruit stuck in them. A well-lit village sat on the hutch that was so big it had its own zip code. There wasn't a doorknob in my house you could touch that didn't jingle. Then I move out and it's like, "ughhhhhh a tree costs $200? Oh HECK no!"

 

I will report that my living room now is happily decorated with a tree, stockings, village people (as in Mayberry, not Los Angeles-like my mother's) , and coffee table knick-knacks. But the only fruit in this house, I assure you, is an expired can of peaches in the pantry.

 

While I was a ridiculously spoiled to the bone child--let me rephrase that--While I AM a ridiculously spoiled to the bone child, I've always found 'giving' more exhilarating than 'receiving'. I like to think long and hard about the gifts I'm giving and I like to be dramatic with the presentation of said gift. One year, the grandchildren decided to get granddaddy (an avid hunter) a talking deer-head to hang on the wall. Did I mention we could get tacky with our gifts? As the entire family opened gifts at Mammaw's on Christmas night, I couldn't sit down because I was so wound up with anticipation over the fake deer. GD goes last, so when he got to his last present, I rounded up the family and we headed to the garage--because really, what woman wants a deer head hanging in her living room? And that goes for all animals, living, stuffed, or singing. When GD walked into the garage, we were all holding our breath for his reaction and I was bursting at the seams to shout, "YOU CAN'T SHOOT A DEER IN REAL LIFE, SO WE GOT YOU THIS ONE!" It was classic.

 

A few years ago, Mike and my cousin-in-law were slightly tipsy on a beach trip. They performed a spine-tingling rendition of Elton John's "Tiny Dancer" while, unbeknownst to them, I recorded their entire musical debut on my phone. At Christmas during their time to open presents, I plugged my phone into the speakers and blasted their botched version as I presented them both tiny ballerina (aka, tiny dancers) Christmas tree ornaments in front of the entire family. Hey, go big, or go home I always say.

 

One of my favorite shows has always been Modern Family. Cam--the insanely flamboyant gay guy is my all-time favorite character. His character is so much like me it isn't funny. Especially when it comes to dramatizing and flaunting when I'm around certain groups of people. I can't help it. It's just in me. My students have a program this week and during practice, I have to remember to tone it down a notch because sometimes my Cam is showing. He's always a Nazi for having things done perfectly and 'showy' (especially if his hand is in something). Today our students were practicing on stage and in the middle of a student speaking, I cut her off, walk up to her and say through clinched teeth just for her to hear, "Sugar, you better get on that microphone like it's a Hershey bar and smile like President Obama is sitting on the back row". Then I turned and walked away and mentally cringed, because I had opened my mouth and let a 40-something gay man come out. I apologized and the child wasn't traumatized. If her cheeks are still hurting tonight from smiling all day, well then, so be it.

 

Cam is also a fan of "themes". He'd be so ashamed if he came in my house right now because even though one room is decked to the walls, it's sadly lacking in other departments. However! A small Christmas miracle has occurred and tomorrow is Tacky Christmas Sweater Day for teachers. It's also the night of my team's Christmas dinner party--at a restaurant. In public. Like my mother, I can totally get balls-to-the-wall into a theme and while Lynette and Cam would turn their noses up my house right now, they would totally cry out in joy when they see my outfit for tomorrow. It's the epitome of 'Christmas tacky' and I'm so glad to be able to make them proud. How I acquired Mammaw's sweaters and 1990's puff-painted sweatshirts without totally offending her is beyond me--but I'm so glad I did. I'm proud to sport the clothes I remember her wearing when I was a child because it totally boosted my spirits and put me right into the jolly holiday mind frame I should have been having all along.

 

So! If you're having a hard time getting into the swing of things this season, think back to your earlier Christmas memories because I'm sure it will put a smile on your face. And as always, be grateful for what you do have-not what you don't. Except for tiny snowmen and reindeer statues in your bathrooms. Because you should be grateful Frosty isn't there anymore to stare at you while on the toilet.

 

 

 

 

BFF

I've been on a Facebook ban here in the last few weeks (with the exception of stalking purposes as needed) and have become OBSESSED with Instagram. I've basically gone from one addiction to another and instead of reading everybody's every waking moment on FB, now I get to see them through pics. Plus, I limit who I follow and who follows me so nobody's feelings get hurt when I delete them, which I was doing daily on FB. ANYWAY! One of my favorite authors posted a screen shot of her blog that had over 1 million views. She was flipping out, as she should have. Then I logged into my blog to write and I have reached over 8,000 views!!!! Is 8,000 anywhere near the ballpark of 1 million? Heck no. I'm so far away from the ballpark, I'm sitting in a restaurant across the street taking a sipasomething watching the ballpark on TV. Yet, I about spit out my imaginary drink when I saw my numbers tonight because I'm tickled pink. Are 7,000 of those views from me when I check to make sure everything is written appropriately? Probably. Do I care? Not even in the slightest. Y'all are freakin' fantastic and I love that you are interested in me enough to read my nonsense. And I'm even talking to the ones who just accidentally clicked on this; hey, every click counts!

 

This post is dedicated to something that owns nearly half my heart. Mike has a chunk, my family has a chunk, Los Cocos' Pollo con Crema has a chunk, but a huge portion of that particular organ is designated to my child, my best friend, my confidant: my baby dog, Rudolph (Rudy) Giuliani Peebles. Tomorrow is his third birthday and he is deserving of an entire blog about him, but he'll just have to settle for an article tonight. Some might say I probably have an emotional attachment that probably needs to be psycho-analyzed. A therapist would probably conclude that since I'm (human) childless, I've got a furry friend to replace that longing. However, if you know me, you know that I've been in love with this K9 since his breeder turned the corner with him in her palm.

First night

 

I've always been a dog person and my first true doggy love relationship was with my mama's Yorkie, Sparky. We got Sparky when I was in 9th grade and he, unfortunately, saw me awkwardly make it through adolescence. When I painfully went through the worst (at the time) situation of my life, that poor dog would come into my room at night, curl up beside me on the bed and let me cry into his fur whenever I needed him to. I probably should've listened to the dog's advice in the first place when he attacked my dirty bastard of a cheating boyfriend every time he came to my house. If your dog don't like 'em, you need to ditch 'em. That's philosophy I learned at a young age and stand firmly beside it to this day, thanks to Sparky.

 

As for Rudy, he's seen me at my best and my worst. There's not many things he can't do that an actual child can.

 

He begs for food.

 

 

 

He's nosey.

He wears clothes.

 

 

He laughs at jokes.

He goes on vacation.



 

 

He sleeps.

 

 

He models for 330 of the 430 pictures on my phone's camera roll, apparently.

 

He tries to emulate his mommy when she exercises.

 

He watches TV.

He gets in your personal space.

 

 

If this dog could go with me to work, it would only make me the happiest person on the planet because leaving every morning for eight or more hours is the hardest thing I have to do, most days. I'm convinced that God thinks I may not be able to love an actual real child as much as I do Rudy, therefore we haven't been successful in that department. I've also prayed these actual words, "God, if I can't have children, please let Rudy live forever". It's quite sad, actually.  And by that I mean, I've made fun of crazy people before but I'm a certifiable crazy dog lady at age twenty-eight. If I had extra money, you all would have gotten Panda-themed invitations to his birthday party tomorrow night where you would've been asked to wear tuxedoes (which color-coordinate with the guest of honor). In a nutshell, be thankful I don't have extra money.

 

Dogs have traits that people look for in other people all the time. Loyalty, companionship, good listeners, lets you walk around naked without making gagging noises, etc. Since I'm counting my blessings lately for the things I have, Rudy will have to be number two on the list. I can't speak highly enough of him and I certainly hope I've brought as much happiness into his little doggy life as he's brought into my little human one.

 

Don't Forget the Tablecloth

Mammaw gave me an article weeks ago that she cut out of the Richmond Times specifically for me. No offense to the woman who’s in my top five list of favorite people, I wasn't overly eager to read what she had found. I stuffed it in my bag and honestly had forgotten it until yesterday, when I was emptying things out and saw the envelope and became overly excited for two seconds because I thought somebody had slipped me some money. Whomp whommmmp.

The article was written by a woman who had experienced three miscarriages and was speaking out about the “hush hush” that always accompanies the people around women who have experienced loss of pregnancy. It has been my priority for two years to talk about my own experience with this topic—um, obviously, I have an entire blog dedicated to it. I’ve never wanted anyone to feel uncomfortable around me because of what I’ve been through and I CERTAINLY do not want women I’m around to feel awkward because they have children or are pregnant. I also don’t want to go so far in the other direction…shove my experience in your faces. (Although the “miscarriage card” has been used in the past and I’m not afraid to use it again, in dire situations, specifically this one: ‘oh I can’t exercise that way because I’ve had trauma to my body and my doctor doesn’t want me to over-do it’). (Insert winky face).

As I was reading what this woman had written, I found myself tearing-up because she nailed what I’m feeling exactly. Freaking nailed it. Her analogy compared every miscarriage to a magician’s trick of yanking a table cloth from under a fully-set dinner table. For a brief moment before the cloth is pulled, there’s nervousness, anxiety, chaos. Then, the thing is yanked from under the china—and there’s a moment of complete shock and silence. Yet the table stays set, everything in order, and its dinner as usual. But what about the tablecloth lying crumbled in the floor, away from the table, looking on?

Since this last time, almost two months ago, I’ve drowned myself in things to keep my mind literally running non-stop from the time I wake up in the morning until the time I lay my head on the pillow at night. I volunteer for things. I take over things. I keep crazy-lady post-it notes covering my desk so there’s not a single second of time wasted thinking of things I can’t deal with. I don’t think about a single thing concerning uteruses, periods, egg-whites, temperatures, counting days, and on and on and on. I mean, I do think about it, but I’ve tricked my mind into thinking of other things when those thoughts pop up in my head so I won’t dwell on them. So technically, I have been dealing with it. Probably not in the best way a licensed therapist would suggest, but hey, it’s been two months and I’m still here, so that’s saying something.

The article also brought up the writer’s feelings toward God. Her feelings reflected mine almost exactly. After the first MC, it was, “Okay that was a fluke, my bad. Please let me get pregnant again soon.” After the second, it was, “Um, God…can’t believe you let that happen again…c’mon man. Please, I want a baby”. Then the third, “Um, excuse me, sir?!?!?! I don’t know why this is happening or why I’m being punished but I’m letting you handle it”. And then the fourth, “WTF!!!!!!” Now, my prayers are pretty much just me listing all the things I’m thankful for and I’m not asking for a damn thing. I used to pray for things in general, like, “please let us have a successful pregnancy.” Then I broke it down and started asking for specific things, like, “please let this sperm make it to where it needs to go and let this extra folic acid build up and this aspirin not clot my blood and these vitamins provide me with extra good stuff.” Now, what’s the point in asking for anything? God isn’t Santa. God isn’t my mommy. I can’t just ask and I’ll receive. I needed to be the tablecloth lying on the floor so I could take a step away from the situation and look at it as a whole. My table is set. I can’t change it. Whether it’s God or fate or the Jedi in charge of my destiny, it’s already been determined and there’s not a cotton-pickin’ thing I can do about it but fold my tablecloth up and eventually make my way back onto the set table.

I’ve been so disgusted with myself because of the bitterness that I’ve allowed to overcome me. Bitterness towards time (because it’s slipping away from me). Bitterness towards people who I don’t think deserve to be pregnant (because I’m so much more deserving? HA) Bitterness towards any faltering relationships of those around me because my next thought is usually ‘oh I’m sure they’ll end up pregnant’. The first step is admitting the problem and I just did. I’ve been a bitter person and I’m frankly sick of myself.

This is me, shaking out the wrinkles in my tablecloth. Folding myself up neatly. Forgetting the tugging that was done and living in the present and being thankful, so very thankful, for what I DO have and giving not one more single solitary thought about what I DON’T. After all, tablecloths can withhold being snatched, balled up, and tossed on the floor. They get cleaned and go right back to doing what they’re meant to do. Except for exercising, because, you know. Tablecloths must be stationary to keep their decorative, festive appearance. (Insert winky face).

Silver Medal

I just finished writing my fourth post from the last few weeks and unfortunately, because 'we got it like that', my husband was able to talk me down from publishing it. Again. I have been strung so tight lately with stress from situations I have no control over. Stress from situations I've had to deal with personally and stress from worrying over other people’s situations. Needless to say, the last four posts I've written have been bitter and straight-up opinionated on said situations that I have no say in whatsoever. So until I’m a famous author and can get paid for officially offending people, I’ll keep my posts sugary-sweet. Regardless of how I’m dying inside to let out all my thoughts. 

Why do men have such an emotional attachment to football? I mean, I’m obsessed with books, and while yes, I get caught up in characters that I wish were in real-life, I don’t pretend to know them personally. For a week now, my husband has been in a constant state of depression because of Aaron Rodger’s injury and inability to play for the next three weeks. When I say depression, I mean, almost actual tears shed. We've lost four pregnancies and have dwindling hope for a successful one I’m the only one in the relationship who has ugly-cried. Rodgers goes down and we are ready to spend our next paychecks on airfare to Green Bay to support Aaron in his time of healing. It’s not depression anymore. It’s daggone emotional cancer.

Mike sleeps literally twelve hours every night and will set Rudy on fire if the poor dog needs to go out before said hours are up. Yet, he’s up at the crack of Christmas to check his phone for notifications from the Packers on the return of Aaron. I feel like he has used his policeman resources to stalk the man’s doctor’s contact info so he can be reached personally on Aaron’s status. I can’t make this stuff up, people.

Ironically, my husband’s obsession with football played an integral part in how our relationship started in the first place. In 2007, I was working as a front desk clerk at a hotel in town. Mike was a police officer for the town. Because we were the only place open later at night (other than gas stations), the cops would come in and hang out in the lobby. It wasn't uncommon for a select few to come hang out with me nightly until my shift was over. On a Friday night, I stopped by the hotel after a class I had just to see what was going on. (I’m not lying when I say that working at a hotel was the best job ever, so much that I wanted to hang out there even when I wasn't working.) Back then, I drove a new GT Mustang. I parked it in the same spot every day, which was pretty much at the entrance. That particular night, I hung out inside for a while then came out only to realize a K-9 police car had me blocked in. One of my frequent cop visitors (the non-K-9) was parked next to it. I made my way over and was basically “shootin’ the shit” with the cop I knew when I noticed the K-9 cop’s uniform. It was different from the other cops’, like a tactical outfit instead of the dressy one. I said to the K-9 guy and my future husband, “Why is your uniform different from everyone else’s?” and he replied in what I can only describe in a "jerk voice" something a total jerk would say. Ugh. Jerk. Too bad I can't remember what his actual line was. I stood outside of his car, awkwardly, and tried to hang with the conversation.

This K-9 cop was sarcastic, like, over-the-top with the sarcasm, yet I couldn’t help trying to check inside his car for glimpses of his left hand for a ring. I’d always heard his name and even knew he used to work with my mom at the same hotel, but I couldn’t drudge up any current info on him in my brain. And obviously, I'm a girl, and it's in our DNA to be attracted to well...jerks. So the next day at work, I did what any self-respecting female in 2007 would do when she was interested in a man. I My-Space stalked him. Low and behold, I had an email waiting for me when I signed into my account.

The email was a one-liner. “When can I drive your car?” What a jerk. I replied, “When I can drive yours" (meaning the police one). We basically bantered back and forth like this over the next few days. Since the Super Bowl was quickly approaching, one of us came up with the idea that we’d make a bet. If the Colts won, Mike got to drive my car for an entire day. If the Bears won, um, I actually don’t remember even having a prize, so obviously I didn't have much stake in the game. Peyton won and thus, Mike did too. I was school girl giddy the day we planned to meet. Mike says all he remembers was wanting to drive my car...I met him and he drove me to Raleigh for our first official date. I think I said three whole sentences the entire afternoon/night. If you know me, you know it would take a zombie apocalypse to make me shut up for five minutes, therefore, it can be said I wasn't myself that day. I was insanely nervous. He is a smoker, so I think at some point I even tried to smoke a cigarette to be cool like him, but that worked out horribly because I didn't inhale and basically wasted a cig from his pac--which he was obviously not a fan of.

From his emails, I knew he was intelligent because there were hardly any grammar and spelling errors. Aside from teeth, that’s my thing. We spent most of the evening together, silently, and ended the night with not so much as a peck on the lips, and I mean the dry kind that you give your granny. I liked him, but our age difference worried me. He says to this day that he wasn't going to contact me after that date because of how snobby I was. I had a court date for a speeding ticket the following week on Valentine’s Day and I think he texted me to see how it went. I was on another date that night and after that date was over, I texted (is this even the correct tense of "text?!") Mike back and we haven’t STOPPED talking since then. He may not have gotten me to say a word on our first date, but I can promise you, he relishes every opportunity to get me to be quiet now.

I guess this is why I take this unhealthy attachment to a football team and in particularly, a star quarterback, in stride. When the going gets tough for us, (and that's quite frequent) at least we still have each other--baby or not. If it wasn't for a stupid bet on a team, I’d never be where I am today with the person who has helped shape me into what kind of person I am...which is clearly a silver medal to the thirty-something, broken-down quarterback for the Green Bay Packers.