Thursday, June 28, 2012

Foggy Rather Groggy

I've been up since 6:13am. For no damn good reason. Husband's away for the week. It wasn't his snoring or coming to bed at odd hours of the morning that effed up my sleep. Daughters away at her aunt's for a sleepover. It wasn't her waking with the birds, in need of a cuddle that caused my problem. Animals were still asleep at 6:13am. I can't blame it on them. I have no one to blame but myself.

Hangs head in sorrow.

I have become, and I shudder to even say it...a morning person. An early riser. Normally, no biggie. But after a night out, it would have been delightful to sleep past 8 o'clock this morning. Instead, I'm left awake but foggy-brained. Let me tell you, it sucks. Not as bad as hungover and awake, but still not preferable.

I had hoped to write a bit before I retrieve Alice from her sleepover. I rarely get to write in the morning, coffee in hand, cool morning breeze blowing in the windows. My foggy rather groggy mind is not in love with the idea. So, while I wait for the caffeine to kick in, I present to you the topics my brain formulated and, for very good reason, rejected on this fine morning.

I think there was merit in stoning. Aside from the physical trauma of actually being stoned. I think there should be Internet stoning. That way I get the satisfaction of publicly punishing someone for their wrong doings, and no one is physically hurt. A stoning site. I suppose I could do the same via my blog, but then I may just come off as a bitter, vindictive lady.

Words acceptable in the Words With Friends dictionary severely limits my chances at winning. I understand the logic that my opponent is playing with the same rules as I am. Somehow it doesn't matter. I want to be able to play words like Nazi and zygote. I would win on a triple score with the word zygote.

I think Alice said shit the other day. If in fact she did, it would have been the first curse word she's uttered and used correctly. She was tossing a beach ball around in the house and one toss hit the tv. I swear I heard shit come out of her mouth. But she was mumbling and chanting singing so I couldn't be sure. I asked her to repeat, she refused.

Purple is not a flavor.

Why do Legos not come with a warning, "Beware! From this purchase forward, small microscopic plastic pieces will scatter your house. Try your best to contain them." If there was a warning like that on the box, right below it would be a button. When you pushed it, you would hear sadistic laughter.

Kids produce a lot of artwork. I use the term art loosely.

My oven has a self cleaning feature, why not my toaster oven? Not wanting to turn the oven on and heat the kitchen, I cooked bacon wrapped scallops in the toaster oven Tuesday night. Damn, that produced a shit ton of grease on the ceiling of the appliance! How am I supposed to clean that?

I need to make a dentist appointment. I was a no-show for my last. They sent me a letter in the mail expressing their disappointment in me. From the tone of the letter, they seemed to be more hurt than when I told them I wasn't a regular flosser. I don't want to call and face the wrath of the receptionist, so I keep putting it of. I don't think I'm up for the challenge today either.

Alright. I hate to end my oh, so successful list of nothingness, but from the texts I'm receiving it seems my time here is up. My daughter has over stayed her welcome. I must go fetch her. Sigh. On the bright side, I've drank enough iced coffee and feel clearheadedish. Coffee, my wonder drug of choice.

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Digging Myself Out Of The Trench

After adjusting the laces on my shoes, I stepped on, set the treadmill, and started to run. With my iPod in hand, I scrolled through the artists and found what I was looking for, an oldy but goody recently added to my new iPod, Damian Jr Gong Marley, and pressed play. I ran for a few moments, my thoughts racing from my to-do lists to my worries, and then the chorus kicked in. Just like that, I was transported back six years ago. To a time when things were different. I was different. And in that moment, running, all thoughts disappeared but one.

I'm back.

You often hear new moms talk about the dream of getting back into their pre-baby clothes, and don't get me wrong, I wanted the same. After six months I was there...mostly. But, without even being aware, what I needed most, was to get back to the pre-baby me. That has been a horrendously long journey. Alice just turned four and I can finally say I'm there...mostly.

In that moment, running, I felt it and it felt terrifically familiar. The it being the old me. She was there and finally shining through.

At my baby shower, four plus years ago, seasoned veterans offered advice like sleep when the baby sleeps and take all the help that's offered. Everyone made it out like all you needed to be concerned with is the window of time when your new child is a baby. It came off to ignorant me like life would return when the baby started to sleep through the night. People neglected to inform me that not only would life never be the same again, I would lose myself in the process.

Lose myself I did.

I wasn't even aware. That may have been the worst part. I was no longer me and I didn't even know it. It has taken several years and unique circumstances for me to finally shine the light on myself and examine what I have allowed myself to become. I had given in to the role of mom and become nothing but. I had allowed myself to become unimportant. I was a mother, nothing else. I can see how it happened. I became so engrossed in the infant stage, survival mode in the trenches so to speak, and every stage of motherhood thereafter brought new and equally urgent requirements. I never stopped for a moment to look out of the trench, look around at life and see it all going by.

Until I did.

When I finally woke up and realized the old Nelly was gone, it was a relief...sort of. It sucked, but at least I was aware. It's like being sick for years, being told countless times we can't find anything wrong, and finally having a diagnosis. At least I could begin to work to dig me out from underneath the mom mountain I had created.

It's taken awhile and many changes, but seeing myself in the mirror, running, listening to Jr Gong, I saw me. I saw Nelly, not just Mama. And when I had finished working out, I retrieved Alice from daycare. As we walked out of the gym, her hand in mine, talking about the butterfly she had made and the bug that had been on the step the day before, she took my hand and wiped her nose with it.

And all was good.

Monday, June 25, 2012

Do You Not Even Know Me At All???

Friday night I was fortunate enough to escape the jail cell I refer to as my house. I've served 4 years on an 18 year sentence. I hear there's a possibility for a work release program in the future. I'll keep you posted.

Anyway, Hatta and I were finally able to take advantage of parents night out at Alice's gymnastics school. For 30 bucks they will keep my kid alive for 3 and a half hours. Seemed worth it, so we signed her up, dropped her off 4 minutes early, and headed to the movies.

Snow White and the Huntsman has been on my must see list, with Charlize Theron as the wicked queen it was an easy sell to Hatta. I have to say, damn if I didn't find her evilness to be so damn hot. Though, I read glorified porn daily so my mind may just be in a constant state of arousal anyway.

A third of the way into the movie, Snow White rides off on a horse sans saddle. Hatta whispers to me, "Have you ever ridden bareback?"

To which I replied, "Do you not even know me at all?" followed by laughter I didn't attempt to stifle.

Let me fill you in on some background information. I got my first horse when I was about 6. I lived on a horse breeding farm the vast majority of my childhood. I traveled up and down the east, from Texas to Canada and practically all states between showing horses. To say horses were my life would have been an understatement. Hatta, having been my boyfriend since 1999, was privy to this horse knowledge. He still deals with the ramifications in our basement where I store my English saddle, show bridles, show halters, countless pairs of boots and garment bags of show clothes.

You can imagine my surprise at his question. Asking if I had ever ridden bareback was akin to asking me if I had green eyes and freckles. I suppose I should cut him some slack, he was watching Kristen Stewart galloping along on a horse. Maybe he was fantasizing and his brain wasn't quite working like it should.

Regardless, I was baffled at his ignorance. We've been together nearly 13 years. How is it possible he doesn't know such a simple thing about me? Does he just not care? Or should I chalk it up to him having a y chromosome? I believe so. The same reason he'd rather ask me the weather than look it up for himself, ask me if we have more toothpaste rather than look on the shelf, ask me if I've ever ridden bareback instead of think for himself. Yup, that's it, sounds about right.

To answer his question, since I was far too busy laughing and mocking him the other night, yes, I've ridden bareback. More times than I can recall. It's fun and impulsive.

Friday, June 22, 2012

Two Birds With One Stone

Sound the horns, beat the drums...I've finally killed two birds with one stone. Sort of. I didn't actually kill any birds. Though, in the spring, when the weathers nice and I'd like to sleep with the windows open, but I can't because the mother lovin birds in my neighborhood wake up at 4am, I'd like to kill birds then. I digress. Let me try again. I've finally accomplished two goals and I did them at the exact same time. I wanted to share the news with you sooner, but I didn't want to jinx it. I'm a bit superstitious. Ask me about the number 8 next time you see me. Second thought, don't. It might just prove I'm crazy and I'd surely lose readers.

I think I've had too much coffee today.

I joined the gym and Alice has been babysat by complete strangers, i.e., gym daycare. This is big, people. Huge. Both feats.

Prior to growing a human inside me, I exercised regulary. I ran. A lot. I had a 6-pack. I fit into a dress that looked like a Barbie doll could wear. The pink, floral dress still hangs in my closet taunting me. Then, I didn't get pregnant as quickly as I wanted and my cycle started to become irregular. My ob doctor, concerned I was becoming too under weight, blaming my trouble concieving on it, suggested I cut back on the amount I was running. So I did. Fast forward to now, nearly 5 years later, I have a beautiful, brilliant daughter and a 2-pack at best. I haven't exercised with any regularity and it shows. I can accept that my body may never look like it did before, I was in my 20's and now I'm not, I've birthed a child, things change. However, I have not admitted defeat regarding my growing ass. I finally redeemed the Groupon I bought for a gym down the street. I'm proud to say, I'm addicted again. I think my lazy ass, stagnant streak is over.

Now, about the daycare. Some friends I talk to think it's bizarre that Alice isn't in daycare or preschool or hasn't been babysat by anyone but family yet. I see their point, she is 4. But, up until now I've never needed outside of family help and I was never comfortable with the idea anyway. The idea of some stranger in my house, snooping through my desk, riffling through my pantry never exactly thrilled me. I know one day we will hire a college kid to watch Alice and it'll be fine, we just haven't needed to yet. This all means Alice is extremely used to me. And I'm very comfortable knowing she's safe. Cut to the first day at the gym. I walked her in the daycare room. It looked fun, the kids were playing Play-Doh. I'm sure my heart was beating just as fast as hers. This nervous, excited feeling for both of us. She clung to my leg as I talked to the teacher and pointed out the fun she was bound to have. I told her I would be back soon, and I separated her clingy arms from my leg and walked out of the door. That was it. She wasn't screaming. She didn't cry. She just stood there for awhile, flabbergasted I think. In shock that her mother actually left her with strangers. I'm sure she doubted my judgement call. I went about my exercise regime with only minimal concern for my child. Every now and then, I'd peek in the window at her, always happily playing dollhouse or barbies, but always alone.

This will be good for us, as individuals and as a mother-daughter duo. I'll get back to my pre-pregnancy self and, with any luck, into that dress, and she'll have a nice introduction in separation before preschool in the fall. A win win if I do say so.

Patting myself on the back for a job well done.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

June 9th

June 9th, 2006, the day I got the call. That phone call changed my life forever.

My story begins the Saturday before, in my mother's hospice room. I was 26 years old. Alone, just me and my mom, I laid with her and cried, my cheek to her's. She was unconscious and had been for several days. Her body had done this before, enter a comatose state for a day or two until her levels stabilized. She would awaken and life would begin again. This time, this coma, was different than all the others. This was the end. We all knew it. It was only a matter of time, without food and water, before her heart would finally cease to beat and her lungs would take their last breath. It was the sad, heart wrenching reality of science. I think talking with God at this point was no longer a prayer of life, but rather swiftness in death.

That day would be the last time I saw my mother ever again. Lying with her, I knew this as fact. For what seemed like an eternity, my life had become my mother's life. My world revolved around her. I took a leave of absence from my job to devote my days to my mother. I canceled a trip to Sanibel Island when it looked like my mother was taking a turn for the worst. I backed out of plans and stopped making them all together. Cell phone always with me, even while I slept. I lived my life for her, to be there for every moment she had left. To spend as much time as I possibly could with her. To have no regrets.

And yet, that Saturday I finally started living again. My husband (at the time my boyfriend) and I had our annual trip to the Outerbanks of North Carolina planned for the next day. I needed this trip. He needed this trip. He had been a rock for me and my two older sisters during this horrible time in our life. He picked up the slack when we couldn't. And I'm sure, given the mental state I was in, he was my emotional punching bag. Though, as much as I needed this trip, I didn't know how I was ever going to go. To cancel would have been easier. Continue sitting by her side, waiting for her to die. It was all I knew at that point. The grief couselors advised me not to cancel. They wanted me to go, to live. They reminded me, sometimes sick people wait for loved ones to leave them before they pass. They assured me it was okay to go. I wasn't a bad daughter. I knew everything they said to be true. I knew, for me, I had to go. However, I had no idea how to go.

How do I walk out of the room knowing it would be the last? I couldn't. I talked with my mom, not knowing if she could hear me. I let her know I would keep us all together just as she had done. I told her I was happy in my relationship, that we were going to get married and have kids one day. I reassured her I would never stop loving her and she would never be forgotten, a worry of hers. And I told her it was okay to go. I begged her. As I cried the words, they sounded foolish. How does one go? How do you stop living? My mother had so much to live for, asking her to let go was a rediculous request. She didn't want to go, she wanted to be here with her daughters. She lived for us.

Sadly, the hours past. The sun had set, the room had grown dark. The wicked, scary end was coming. I felt the dread creeping into my lungs. I still hadn't figured out, in my heart, how do I physically walk out of the room knowing I will never see my mother again? How was I supposed to say goodbye? I was dying inside. I was too young to have to be so brave. She was too young. It hurt. It played on all my feelings of guilt. Was I wrong, should I have canceled the trip and been by my mother's side, letting her decide how it should end? I cried until it seemed I could cry no more. I kissed her, held her and couldn't let go. My heart wouldn't let my arms release her. On my time, I grew strong, knowing I had to. I whispered in her ear, "I love you, Mom," kissed her cheek, stood and walked out the door. I couldn't look back. It hurt me that I couldn't, but I knew it would make leaving so much harder if I did. As I shut the door to her room, the click of the latch triggered the release, tears fell silently from my swollen eyelids down my cheeks.

From that moment forward, I knew my life would never be the same. June 9th was merely a formality.

In our beach rental house, as I was prepping myself for a day lounging in the sun and watching the guys fish, my phone rang. Before I answered, I knew. It was the call I had been dreading. To hear the words from the grief counselors, "I'm so sorry. Your mom has passed away." The rest of the phone call, a blur of insignificant details. I hung up and went to them, my sister, her boyfriend, and my own. I don't remember a thing, but I'm certain I told them the life altering news. All I remember is holding my one sister, pained for my eldest sister who was not with us. And in that moment, I felt the most bizarre feeling. I wanted to be as far from my family as possible. Remove myself from the nightmare that had consumed us for so long. I had lived and breathed them for what seemed like a lifetime. I needed to get away, to escape everyone that reminded me of my mom. They no longer provided comfort.

I found myself, not at the beach where you would normally find me, but rather at the pool. I stood leaning against a railing, overlooking the pool, away from the hustle and bustle of the kids playing, and called my dearest friend from my childhood. A friend who wasn't involved with the situation that had consumed my life for months, a friend who knew me sometimes better than I knew myself. And I told my story. I found comfort in that phone call. Comfort that my sisters and my boyfriend could not provide. In that phone call, I felt peace. Not exactly peace with my mother dying, but instead, that I would have peace in my life again.

Monday, June 18, 2012

The Tragic Tale of Ariel's Disappearance

Something tragic happened today. Someone took Alice's Ariel book.


This is how it went down. After canceling our zoo plans on account of the rain, we decided to go to Storyville. For those of you not in the know, Storyville is this amazing play space, complete with 8 different themed rooms, inside of the public library. And it's free. It's really great, except on rainy days when school is not in session. Which, coincidentally, today turned out to be. When you don't have a school aged child you forget about things like summer break. Since they only allow a certain amount of people in at a time, we had to wait. They even give you the light up buzzer thing to notify you when it's your turn.

While we waited we visited the libary, which was also ridiculously crowded. Note to self: Get your shit together and get out of the house earlier if you don't like waiting with swarms of loud screaming crying children or stay home and just listen to one loud screaming crying child. Even though I wasn't looking to check out any books, Alice's friends were allowed to and I'm not ready to be horrible mean mommy out in public yet, so I let Alice pick out a few. Her picks were a children's baking cookbook, Tinkerbell, Fancy Nancy, Strega Nona Takes a Vacation, The Story of Darth Vader, Snow Dog Marley, and The Little Mermaid.

When our light up vibrating thingamajig went off, we checked out the books and headed into Storyville. I put our books in the coat and bag room. Knowing that princess books are a high commodity, I put Ariel to the bottom of the stack and put boring Marley on the top. This was my best effort at deterring theft.

Apparently I shouldn't be left to guard prized jewels, because my theft deterrence system failed. When it was time to leave Storyville, we went to gather our things when I noticed the Marley book was no longer on top. It didn't take Alice long to realize Ariel was no longer in the stack.

Commence full hysterics.

"Someone took ARIEEELLL!! Mama, someone took my book. Who took my book? Mama, I WANT ARIEL!"

"I know, Alice. I'm sorry someone took the book you picked. I'm sure they didn't know you had already picked that book. Come on. We already checked it out, we need to go let the libarian know what happened."

"Then we'll get my book back, right Mama? Cause I picked Ariel first. It's mine, Mama. Are you going to tell them it's mine?"

Ignoring Alice, I needed to deal with a bigger matter. I didn't want to be responsible for a book I didn't have. After settling the issue with the librarian, I held Alice's hand and walked her to the door. That's when it hit her. He mother, the person she trusted the most, was going to walk out of the library without locating the book in question. She stopped in her tracks and started sobbing. Scream sobbing.

"But Mama! WE CAN'T LEAVE WITHOUT ARIEL!! No Mama! Go get her! GO GET HER MAMA! I picked Ariel! She's mine. Tell them to give the book back to me MAMA!"

I tried to explain that I didn't know who took the book, therefore I had no way of getting it back. She wasn't listening, she couldn't hear me over the sounds of her overly dramatic crying. Holding her hand we left the library sans Ariel. On the ride home, Alice continued to grumble under her breath. At one point I heard her say she should have picked Snow White instead of Ariel. I suppose in the preschooler crowd dimwitted Snow White is not as desirable as flirty Ariel, ergo less likely to be stolen. I'm glad she picked Ariel. One less princess book I have to read over the next three weeks.

The moral of the story, eh, there's no moral. Theft happens. Move on. That's what I did when someone stole my jogging stroller 373 days ago. I certainly haven't thought about it every day since then. I've moved on. I'm sure Alice will, too.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Possible Erotic Fiction Junkie

I don't want to alarm you, but maybe, just possibly I might have a problem. It's still too early to be sure.

I downloaded another erotic fiction novel, Bared to You by Sylvia Day.

After reading the Fifty Shades trilogy, my introduction to the genre, I attempted a grown up, semi intellectual book. Maybe you'll remember my reaction when my husband read said book.

And another tweet a few days later.
I'm guessing that's where I went wrong. If you've been doing coke (which, by the way, I've never tried) and you run out, is moving on to candy necklaces really going to cut it? I think not. I was used to reading porn and I tried to switch to oceanic science. No part of me was having it. Especially not my libido.

Then, through the chatter on twitter I heard what I needed to hear.

Hanging my head, I visited my amazon account and added a new book to my kindle cloud. Reading the first page, it was like that itch I had been trying to scratch for weeks was finally soothed. I had given in, to smut. Glorified porn. And I liked it.

I'm not sure what's to come, hehehe, with my possible addiction. Will I be able to read non-trashy novels again? I can't answer that right now. Only time will tell. But I know, for the moment, I'm pleased to be reading something so, um, pleasurable.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Baking Bread

Alice has an ouchie vagina, yeast infection to be proper.

Side Note: I'm afraid to say, I think today's post is one that will come back to bite me in the ass when Alice is old enough to peruse the Internet. I'm quite confident she will not like me talking openly with everyone about her nether region, but then again, I didn't exactly like how she treated mine 4 years ago. Maybe now we'll be even. Come to think of it, 21 hours of later, 4 hours of pushing...not even close to even yet.

It started over the weekend, the complaint of an ouchie vagina. I love that my daughter uses the word vagina. I know some parents elect to name genitals silly nicknames or just refer to them as privates, not me. Years ago I taughter her, her leg was called a leg, her elbow was called an elbow, and her vagina was called a vagina. It was a simple parenting decision for me.

Back to the ouchie va-jay-jay...I had her lie down so I could inspect the situation, see what was really going on. You know what I determined as a card carrying member of the vagina club myself? I had no clue what the inside of a 4 year old vagina was supposed to look like. It was a weird predicament to be in. I'd diapered her for 2 years and bathed her every other day, ahem, every fourth day, and yet I had no clue what her healthy, um, inside was supposed to look like. I knew that hers, on Sunday, didn't look exactly like I thought it probably should. I know the anatomy. There are 3 holes down there, and one of hers looked a little out of sorts. And it was oozing a bit, I think discharge is the appropriate term. Still though, I wasn't sure. Maybe that's just what it looked like? I called in back up, my eldest sister. Alice was completely comfortable. Freely holding her own legs up in the air for all to inspect what's supposed to be the most private of parts. No modesty what so ever. After further inspection, it was confirmed...her vag didn't look right.

Upon further complaints Monday, I spent the better part of the evening researching all the possible causes of my poor girls pain and hoping to find research to convince me I did not need to spend Tuesday morning sitting in the germ infested pediatric office.

Tuesday morning I found myself in said office, holding my breath hoping my daugher for once would not be the kid screaming as soon as she set foot on the premises. Until Tuesday, June 12, Alice had screamed and cried every single mothafokking time she had visited the doctor. I don't just mean a little whimper. I mean, regardless of shots or no shots, she cried from the moment we walked back towards the office until we walked down the hall to leave the building. Until Tuesday, my pediatrician had never heard Alice speak a word except "Mama! Mama!" And she's been talking since 9 months old. I think they hate us there.

Anyway, the good doctor confirmed, yeast. Apparently, little kids are unhygienic filthy beings. And their dirtiness can cause bad things like pink eye and yeast infection. Maybe if Alice would heed my constant advice, "Front to back, for the love of God, FRONT TO BACK!!" she wouldn't be dealing with a funky, painful crotch, now would she!? From the words of Mother Gothel, "Mother...knows best!"

Monday, June 11, 2012

Men and the Not-So-Obvious

While at the pool yesterday, pretending the small child whining and pouting for no apparent reason was not mine, I overheard an argument conversation between a husband and wife. The couple has two kids, a 3 year old and a 5 month old. From the words we've exchanged, I gather they are good people.

The conversation starts like this, husband in the lower level pool with 3 year old, wife at the upper level pool holding baby begins to yell to husband. It's noisy and crowded and yet, the couple is successfully having a yelling conversation between two separate pools overtop of the noise of the children playing and splashing.

Wife: Where did you put the baby sunscreen?

Hubs: What sunscreen?

Wife: The sunscreen...FOR THE BABY?

Hubs: I dunno. In the bag?

Wife: It's not there. What did you do with it at the house?

Hubs: What do you mean?

Wife: When you were at the house. You put sunscreen on the baby. What did you do with it when you were done?

Hubs: I put it in the bag.

Wife: You put the baby sunscreen in the bag?

Hubs: What do you mean "baby sunscreen?"

Wife: The sunscreen that's just for THE BABY. Thats what you used on her, right?

Hubs: Oh. That bottle ran out. So I just used other sunscreen.

Wife: You used the other sunscreen? ON THE BABY?!

At this point, the wife rolled her eyes, ended the conversation and walked away. I recognized the look on her face. I've made that face before. My eyes have rolled in the exact same way, saying the exact same thing. It's a universal look.

"My man is a tool."

In all reality, her husband may or may not be a tool. That's for her to decide. But I know for sure where she went wrong. Where I often go wrong. I assume my husband thinks like me.

He doesn't. Shocking, I know.

He's a man and men think very different than the ladies. Things that are obvious to me go completely unnoticed by him. I assume that some things can just go unsaid because any normal, halfway intelligent person is already aware. Apparently, this isn't always the case. And surprisingly it has nothing to do with their intelligence, or lack there of.

Where to go from here? I have the knowledge that men and women don't think alike. Though, that doesn't directly help me with the daily frustrations. I have come up with three options.

a.) Care less about having things done "the right way" i.e., my way.

b.) Be very vigilant about slowing down to explain my expectations thoroughly.

c.) Do it myself.

I'm not certain as to the correct answer. I imagine the good marriage doctors would say a nice combination of a and b, with a kiss and a smile to top it off. I tend to lean heavily on good ole "if you want something done right, do it yourself."

Where do you weigh in?

Friday, June 8, 2012

Wit and Wisdom - Stop Sign Edition

I present to you the wit and wisdom of my 4 year old darling. That's right...she's now 4. Insane. Birthday post coming when I can stop saying "My baby! Where did my baby go?!" for long enough to write it.

Alice and I were in the car (of course) driving home from a super duper fun visit to our local FiveBelow. Party favors were purchased.

Her: Mama?

Me: Yes.

Her: Wasn't that a stop sign?

Me: Yes.

Her: Then why didn't you stop?

I chose to ignore her smart ass, back seat driving self. I suppose, only being 4 and not 14 like she thinks she is, she's never heard of a California stop.

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Dear Ole Dad In-law

Happy to report, I might just have a stalker. Relax, no need to be jealous quite yet. No one is hiding in the bushes with high tech photographic equipment taking pictures of me undressing. I haven't even received any cool hate mail, constructed entirely of hand cut magazine letters and blood.

I believe it's just my in-laws.

Pray tell, you ask, why are your in-laws tracking you down?

Easy. My old blog was crack to them. A highly addictive fix that got them through the day. I was their dealer, yet, I had no idea until their supply was cut off. I always suspected they were using, but never could be certain. They lurked in the shadows, enjoying my words, reading my thoughts aloud, never commenting, never saying a thing.

Until their son heavily tread on my free speech and I ended it all. Then, out of deranged withdrawal, they came forward. But not to me, mind you. Just to my husband. Wanting my intoxicating tales of their granddaughter.

A few days ago, my husband warned me, "My dad may or may not have a twitter account now."

"Okay. So? What's that even mean...he may or may not?"

"He does. My dad's on twitter. And he asked about your blog, if you were still blogging."

"Okay. Whatever."

Here's the thing. I'm easily found. I may be hiding out here as Nelly, but it wouldn't take long if someone really wanted to locate me. My old blog is still online. Many of the same people that commented then, comment now. And I like to return the favor to my few readers. My old twitter account is still in use, with many of the same followers. Connecting the dots is just a few clicks away. I'm okay with that. I don't need the anonymity. What I do need is for my cover not to be blown. I enjoy blogging. It's like therapy, only free and I don't have to cordinate appointments around sitter availability.

Dear dad-in-law...if you're reading this, please play by my rules. If you blow my cover, I'll have no choice but to blog privately. This time, don't let it be known that you lurk, certainly not to my husband. Don't quote directly from my posts in normal conversation. Read my blog secretly, just you and mom. Remember, inebriated family members tend to talk with loose lips. If you follow the code, things with be just fine. So, please, just try and be cool.

Monday, June 4, 2012

Stair Step Waterfall

I wrote a very personal post today, but it wasn't ready for publishing yet. Or maybe I wasn't ready. It's hard to put yourself out there for everyone to see. Your raw emotions and biggest fears and failures. One day...but not today. Instead, I will share a picture that's a tiny bit related.

This is what happens at the end of my block during the worst, lightning and thunder, monsoon-like rain storms.

I took this picture after a very emotional day. It was a very welcome distraction. The waterfall is amazing. Alice and I can stop and stare at it forever. It's unexpected.

It just goes to show, that even during the worst possible storms, something cool can happen if you just allow yourself to see it.