March 29, 2008

What’s New With Me? Quite A Lot.

I have a confession to make, dear blog pals. I have a job. I’ve had this job for nearly a month, and I wanted to tell you all about it sooner, but I hesitated because what I do is so wonderful, so perfect for me, and I love it so much. I didn’t want to seem like I was rubbing it in your faces. I’ve had a stroke of good luck and I’m so thankful.

Shortly after I lost my job, Lisa Stone of BlogHer informed me that the BlogHerAds network had a position available for a headlines editor. After learning more about it, I was offered the position and I gratefully accepted. I’ve been working from home for about a month and so far everything is working out wonderfully. Not only that, I love what I do. This opportunity has allowed me to work just the right number of hours and contribute to my family’s financial well-being. The bonus is that I’m able to spend more time with Doug and Dawson and my house has never been this clean.

This is also the reason why my blog posting has been sporadic and I do hope you’ll forgive me. It took a few weeks to learn the ropes and get a routine in place.

Many of you know that March 17th was my 29th birthday. Doug took me to Chili’s for dinner. Neither of us had been there before and our local restaurant opened last fall. The place was booming for months and we wanted to wait until the “newness” wore off before having dinner there.

We each had the shrimp and ribs combo. The food was good, but overpriced for what it’s worth. I had one cosmopolitan with my meal and it was so strong I think I was drunk by the time we left. After dinner we went to a bar called Partner’s Pub. People celebrating their birthdays can drink free all night. Four double drinks later and I was really sloshed. We were home by 8:30, and I only missed half of Dancing with the Stars. The new season premiered that night. I have to say I’m not really into it this season. I know you’re surprised. I am a diehard DWTS fan. Except my boyfriend isn’t dancing this go ’round and I’m disappointed. It’s not the same with out Maksim. Although I’m totally rooting for Priscilla Presley and Kristi Yamaguchi.

I agree with Maks when he says that another woman may not win Dancing with the Stars. It’s true. Most women are reluctant to vote for other women. I was terribly disappointed when Melanie Brown and Maksim took second place to Helio Castroneves and Julianne Hough. Melanie was the better dancer by far. She worked hard and had the technique. But I think women were wooed by Helio’s charm and good loooks. Helio was a great dancer, but not the best. Kelly Monaco was the first and only woman to win DWTS thus far, and I think it’s because of her soap opera fans.

Back to talking about me. Heh. So where was I? Oh yes. My birthday. So, I wasn’t as nuts after turning 29 like I was when I turned 28 — although I did have my obligatory meltdown about age and having babies and blah, blah blah. I was content about entering my last year in my twenties, that is until my husband discovered a dozen gray hairs on my head. I totally believe he gave them to me. Like a contageous disease. And then the SOB plucks two out of my scalp. I did end up buying the hair dye. My new color is a bit too light. I should have just forked over the $60 bucks and had it dyed professionally. It would have turned out better, I’m sure.

The Easter UPS man delivered Dawson’s Leapster L-Max on Thursday and when we opened the box he got so giddy with excitement I thought the kid was going to explode. “Mommy! That’s for me! That’s mine! I waited for it a week ago!” It was so cute. He even said to me, “This is my favorite toy, ever!”

He played it non-stop for eight hours that day. Yes, you read that right. Eight hours. And then the game stopped working. For real. My poor kid was heartbroken. We tried to change the batteries and it still wouldn’t power on. Friday morning we tried again and nothing. So I had to call the company and have them send a shipping label so that we can get it replaced. It will take two weeks. Dawson is devastated. We don’t even know what happened. He was so careful with that game. Doug thinks it was defective to begin with.

In other news, I leave for New York City this coming Wednesday. Did I tell you about this? I can’t remember. Let me just start again. Last fall I decided I really wanted to go to BlogHer Business ‘08. I talked with another fabulous blogger about going with me and sharing a hotel room and she said she had been wanting to go to the conference, too.

So, I booked an airline ticket, made the hotel reservation and waited patiently for the conference registration to open. When it did a few months later, I realized how expensive it was and decided that I probably wouldn’t be able to afford it. But then Kristy from Blogher told me apply for a BlogHerShip to live blog the conference tracks which would waive my fees. I was just going to do so when I lost my job, and so I canceled the hotel reservation.

Unfortunately, my air ticket was non-refundable. But Liz offered to have me over for a visit and I graciously accepted. Another turn of events and stroke of strange luck occurred, and it turns out I’ll be spending two nights in NYC (a pal of mine hooked me up with an apartment rental on the Upper West Side, two blocks from Central Park, at a too-good-to-be-true rate) and the third night with Liz in Jersey. I’m totally cool with that because I’ve always wanted to tour the museums of Manhattan, and I don’t know when I’ll have another opportunity. The best part is that an old friend of mine lives in Queens (the one who scored the apartment for me) and we’re meeting up for dinner on my first night in the city.

It’s strange that I’ll be a pseudo single girl in Manhattan, but I’ve wanted to do this for years and never did. I’m a little nervous about flying, though. The last time I was on an airplane was 15 years ago when I went to Washington, D.C. in ninth grade.

So, that’s pretty much what I’m up to these days. Tomorrow I’m going to tell you about my ridiculous shopping trip to Kohl’s yesterday. It’s a funny story. Stay tuned.

March 28, 2008

Free (Link) Love Friday

I’m home alone this morning.  No husband.  No child.  No dog.  Just me, my blogs and silence.  Golden silence.  I wish it could last all day.

Doug took Dawson to Grandma’s to give me a little break, but they’ll be home by two o’clock.  Shucks.

I realize I could write a million blog posts today and catch y’all up on what’s down with me, and I’ll do that.  For tomorrow.  Today, I’m enjoying reading blogs and I’m lovin’ some hilarious bloggers today.

The MomBabe over at the Bingham Diaries has me cracking up over her children “riding away” the other day.

I giggled like a maniac over Veronica’s conversation with her brother.

Pensieve discovered one of her children’s rabbits may not be male.

DeeDee had me pee-my-pants laughing at her “daughter’s engagement” and an ear-piercing scare tactic.

And, I loved this post at the Potted Goose.

Go on, read up.  You’ll love ‘em.  I promise.

March 27, 2008

A Letter to My Body: Overcoming My Own Body Image Issues

**Cross-posted from BlogHer

When Suzanne introduced BlogHer’s Letter to My Body project I was very excited to participate. Excited but nervous and scared, as well.

For so long I’ve struggled with body image and my very unrealistic expectations of how I should look and what I should weigh, and I didn’t know how I would put my feelings into words.

So many amazing women have written beautiful letters to their bodies.

I’ve felt similar feelings about my body as Angella has about hers:

You have never made it easy for me.

For as long as I can remember, I was referred to as a Big Girl. I was bigger than all of my friends. Taller, wider, thicker.

I was a regular kid who liked candy and Pop Shoppe pop. My Mom loved me to a fault. She did not want to deny me anything, for fear that I would choose my Dad over her. Any food, any treat, was mine to be had. I was never denied anything.

I had friends who were skinny. They could eat candy and drink pop and still retain those pencil-thin thighs. I was beyond envious.

My thighs were never pencil-thin. I had that inner thigh that swayed in the breeze and reminded me that I was not in the same class as the Pencils. I would pound my pillow while chanting, “It’s NOT FAIR!” and hope that you would hear me. That you would ramp up my metabolism and let me be like the other girls. Candy and pop, and pencil-thin thighs.

You did not listen.

This made me so very, very sad. I would cry myself to sleep and wonder why my body hated me so.

Lady Beams is amazed at how reliable her body is:

Here we are after spending a half a century together, and I figure I know you pretty well. We’ve pretty much come full circle, the baby with her belly hanging out over her diaper, the little girl who was taller than almost everyone in her class, the blossoming young woman who quickly turned into “full figured”, and the older woman who has once again turned into a body with her belly hanging over her underwear. You’ve taken me from being a kid to having 3, and I must say we got along pretty well thru all of them. We’ve gone thru menopause together and it was easy. No matter what I’ve done to you, you have always bounced back and been strong and reliable.

But it’s Sepha’s letter that moved me to tears (please read it’s entirety at her blog, Undone):

I used to revel in my body; it looked pretty fancy without much effort, it brought me pleasure, allowed me to feel good. The breasts came in a little early and I could have done without nasty people pinging my brand new brastraps. But perhaps it’s good that they did because it gave me a little more time with a full pair before the mastectomy at age 28.

Didn’t you know body, that you weren’t supposed to let cancer in? That it was a baddie who you ought to have fought? I know I didn’t go in for playing cops and robbers when I was a child, was that what you needed to teach you to fight baddies?

You did bad, you let me down, you’re responsible for the lopsided mess that is now my bosom and yet you still didn’t learn because you let Mr Cancer come back and set up residence in my bones and lung. How did he sweet-talk his way back in? Was a year’s worth of hideous treatments not enough to teach you to attack Mr Cancer?

It’s so hard to hate you, body, because you are me and hating you means hating me - but I do. I can’t really bear to be with myself a lot of the time. I look away from the bathroom mirror when getting into the bath. I struggle over what to wear that won’t show off a non-existent cleavage. You’ve cheated me - because the world out there thinks that women have *two* breasts - it’s in the magazines, on the Television, in films, in fashion, it’s instilled into every baby being breast-fed; it’s on every woman I see walking down the street. You’ve turned me into the Non-Woman.

I had over a month to write my own letter to my body, but I hesitated and worried about what I should say. Each time I started writing, I would find something “wrong” with my letter and I’d start over. I thought that my letter had to be perfect. Then I realized my body image issues were carrying over to other aspects of my life, and it was time to end this obsession with perfection. Here’s my letter:

Dear Body,

For most of my life I’ve treated you terribly. For most of my life I’ve been unhappy with how you look. Growing up I never believed you were pretty. I constantly compared you to other girls. Your hair wasn’t long enough. Your eyes weren’t blue enough. Your stomach wasn’t flat enough. You weren’t a size four. You would never be a super model.

I’d like to tell you these feelings of inadequacy began in high school — junior high even — but I remember feeling depressed about you, dear body, in fourth grade. I still remember my tenth birthday and calling you fat for the first time.

Do you remember that day? Mother had taken us to a department store to buy a new outfit. I was trying on clothes in the dressing room, looking at your stomach and thighs in the three angled mirrors, and wishing you were skinny. You were the body of a typical ten year old girl, but I thought you were ugly. I didn’t know that you weren’t fat. I didn’t understand that you were still growing. I didn’t know you were healthy.

My perceptions were skewed by what I thought you should look like. Looking back now, I truly believe my first dressing room experience affected how I would look at you for several years to come.

Every television commercial or magazine ad featured a thin, blond, green-eyed girl with sparkling white teeth. Those models always looked so happy, so confident, so beautiful. I believed it was because they were petite and thin. I thought they had the perfect bodies.

Those ads made me feel worthless. I hated you. You didn’t measure up to the bodies of those girls. You were big boned and “hefty,” as the school nurse called it. She tried to tell me not to fight genetics. That I should be happy with who I was, not what my body looked like.

Body, what you looked like affected everything in my life. I never went to prom because I didn’t think you were thin enough to wear a formal dress. I stopped playing sports because I thought your thighs were huge and I didn’t want anyone to seem them jiggle when your legs ran. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a two-piece swimming suit because you had large breasts and wide hips and I couldn’t risk anyone seeing my less than perfect body.

As I reflect on all of this, I get angry. Not at you, dear body, but at me.

I’ve spent twenty-nine years insulting you instead of cherishing you. You’re the one constant in my life. My relationship with you is the longest I’ve ever been in and I treat you terribly. If I treated my husband this way, he’d have left me a long time ago.

I constantly insult your breasts, stomach, ass, thighs and arms. For ten years I forced you to smoke cigarettes. For too long I’ve shoved chocolate and potato chips into your mouth instead of all the healthy foods you need to function properly.

I’ve neglected you, yet you’re still with me. Your heart still beats. Your lungs still breathe. You conceived and carried a beautiful child for nine months. I never thanked you for the wear and tear, and the pain you endured to deliver my precious baby.

I’ve never treated you with respect and honor. I’ve done nothing to show you how much I appreciate you. In twenty-nine years I’ve never told you I love you. Not once. But, I do love you.

I love your eyes. I love your hair. I love the freckles on your knees. I love the scar on your right arm, proof that you were able to heal from my gymnastic clumsiness in kindergarten.

I love your wide feet (even if it is hard to find shoes that fit them), because they’ve carried me everywhere I need to go.

I love your lips, they’ve given many kisses. I love your arms, they’ve given many hugs.

I love your stomach, stretch marks and all, proof that a little person lived there. I love your breasts that nourished my baby.

My deepest regret is not taking the time to tell you how much I love you and appreciate you before now. Thank you for sticking with me. Without you I’m truly nothing.

Love Always,

Me

Writing this letter was therapeutic for me. As I dug through all the layers of my body, I discovered so many emotions have prevented me from loving my body. I had taken my body for granted, always expecting it to just be there without realizing what it does to keep me alive and well. It’s empowering to discover how much I do love my body when I think of all it’s been through.

I’m challenging you to write your letter to your body. Don’t hesitate like I did. Don’t worry about what to say. Your body is beautiful, imperfections and all. Won’t you share your story with us? Click over to this post at BlogHer and the Mr Linky to ensure we click to your blog to read your amazing letters.

What are you waiting for?  Get to it!

March 24, 2008

Toilet Paper and Hair Dye

Since I’ve been home every single day, the bulk of the household chores have now become mine. I’m not complaining. Not entirely. I really do enjoy picking up after my husband, my son and my dog. They are my boys. I love them so.

However, what I don’t enjoy is the way they constantly leave the same things in the middle of our living room, over and over again.

Like Doug’s shoes! He takes them off leaves them in the middle of the floor, and then I end up tripping on them as I zoom from room to room on my broom cleaning and dusting and putting things away.

Or Dawson’s toys! It doesn’t matter how many times I put a certain toy away after he’s finished playing with it, the toy magically makes it’s way back to the hot zone next to my husband’s size 12 boats.

Or Murphy’s bones! He has two nylon bones that he chews on and leaves them all over the house. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve nearly broken an ankle because I’ve accidentally stepped on one of them?

I’ve actually fallen into a routine. Wake up at 7:30. Eat half a bagel and an omelette. Work online for four hours. Finish work and then yell at Dawson to pick up his shit. Put all the pillows and cushions back on the couch. Follow the kid around until all his toys are back where they belong. Dust and vacuum the living room. Blow up the damn TV that always seems to have SpongeBob on. Make all the beds. Vacuum the bedrooms. Clean the bathroom. Do the dishes, sweep the kitchen floor and take the garbage out. When the husband comes home from work, escape to the gym. Rinse and repeat as necessary, seven days a week.

And then in the midst of all of this, my husband uses the very last roll of toilet paper and doesn’t tell me. I don’t discover this until I have to pee and realize I have nothing to wipe with. So I shake myself dry and do you know how infuriating it is to shake female your parts over the toilet seat and hear your butt cheeks flap? And you wonder why I go to the gym obsessively?

So this weekend, I told my husband how angry I was that he didn’t tell me we were out of toilet paper. He gave me his usual excuse that he forgot or maybe he said he didn’t tell me on purpose to drive me over the edge, I’m not sure because I was so mad I started to hyperventilate.

Anyway, as I’m calmly discussing the situation screaming, my husband, who is much taller than me says, “Wow…are you getting gray.”

I can feel my face getting hot. He inspects the top of my head. “Holy hell, woman, you’ve got a dozen gray hairs on the top of your head.”

I do not think this is funny. Not funny at all.

“If this is some stupid male tactic to distract me from what I was yelling at you about, it’s not going to…OUCH!” He plucked a hair from the top of my head. Sure as rain, the hair he pulled was as white as snow.

“Okay, so that’s just one…OWWW! Stop pulling hairs!” I look to see the second white hair in his hand. I began to cry.

“There’s like, ten more. You want me to get those out, too?” my husband asked.

“Are you fucking nuts? An army of silver hairs will come back to replace the two you just killed.”

Through my tears, I got up, put on my shoes, grabbed my keys and started out the door.

“Where are you going?” my husband asked.

“I’m going to Wal-Mart,” I said. “To get toilet paper.”

“Don’t forget the hair dye!” he shouted after me.

Not funny. So very not funny. I’m only twenty-nine! I was prepared for gray at 40, but not at my age. I’m still young. Right?

March 23, 2008

The Easter Bunny Is Very, Very Late

Since Dawson was a baby I’ve The Easter Bunny has always prepared an Easter basket for him, filled with little chocolate eggs, a hollow chocolate bunny, jelly beans and a small toy or two.

In past years, he’s been too young to understand what’s going on, and this year he finally understands that The Bunny hides a basket of candy somewhere in this house and he is supposed to find it.

However, this year I failed The Bunny sort of forgot. In fact she was so busy it didn’t even cross her mind until THIS MORNING that she forgot to fill a basket.

Dawson is oblivious to the fact that The Easter Bunny makes mistakes and he is so distraught that I told him The Bunny is just running late, and that to make up for her erroneous ways, she is sending him something super cool, scheduled to arrive on Wednesday, when the Easter UPS Man gets his bunny-butt hoppin’ (the Easter Bunny ordered the super cool thing on Monday as a surprise, but didn’t think to use express shipping to get the item here by Friday. What a dumb bunny!).

In the meantime, we’re coloring Easter eggs because that damn bunny forgot all about that, too. She’s definitely not getting the Bunny of the Year award now!

Happy Easter, everyone!