B.O.B.

We're all friends here. We're in the circle of trust, right? We can share anything.

I will be attending my first sex toy party.

I don't think I've talked much about all things sex before. I guess it's not something that comes up in normal conversation. My preference in lubrication doesn't mix well with Alice's most recent food aversion.

I suppose there's no better day than today to have the sex talk. I like sex. I'm not one of the women you hear about who avoids it like the plague, faking headaches left and right. I think I have an average sex drive. I think I am averagely adventurous in bed. I mean, I'm not a prude, but I also don't have the need for a bullet disguised as a pen. Have you seen this? A pen that doubles as a writing divice and a vibrator all in one...and it actually writes! I suppose some people can't risk being caught without a pleasure tool, you never know when the situation may present it's self. The boyscout of the sex world! I guess I'm not that adventurous. Don't get me wrong, I've had my share of public sex. I've just never felt the need to bring toys into a public quickie. Maybe I've been missing out.

See, the thing is, I have a confession. A sad, sad confession. Brace yourself...are you sitting down?

I don't own any sex toys.

gasp

I'm the only woman in her early thirties who's never owned a vibrator. I don't even know how it's gotten so out of hand. Like I said, I'm not a prude. I'm the first to admit I pleasure myself. And, I'm lazy. So what the what?! I'm the perfect candidate for a battery operated tool to give me a hand. Talk to your friends, your sister in-law, probably even your mom, they have all owned a rabbit or a magic wand or something equally as pleasing. I'm the only one. And instead of solving this problem, I just keep whining about it. I've whined since last summer. I said then, enough is enough I'm buying a vibrator! But I didn't. It's not that I'm embarrassed to walk in a sex shop, I'm too lazy. I'd have to take the time to find someone to watch Alice so I can walk the three blocks to the shop. I mean, I think they'd frown upon me bringing her with me. I attempted to buy one on Amazon, but I got sucked into reading review after review and before I knew it I was reading reviews of anti aging serums instead.

I've been doing it the old fashioned way for far too long. My time has come. The party's Sunday. Soon enough I will say, how in the hell have I lived without this beauty for so long?! Every woman needs a battery operated boyfriend.

The D Word

I haven't written in a week. I haven't read a book in months. I haven't been to the gym in an equal number of months. I've cooked a handful of "real" dinners in many more months. I haven't finished any of the projects I've started in a very long time. Hearing all of this, I have a sister that would be whispering the dreaded D word, suggesting maybe I seek help.

depression

I don't know if she's right. Maybe she is. Maybe she's not. Personally, I don't even know if it matters. I know I have the power to fix all of this laziness. See, that's the thing, I see all of the above as a laziness rut. I was successfully blogging, reading, exercising, and laughing not so long ago. Things weren't great then and things aren't great now. The only difference, I stopped holding myself accountable. I stopped demanding more of myself. I allowed the holidays to be one great big excuse.

I thought 2013 would be a swift kick in the ass. I'm afraid I was wrong. Even though my actions haven't changed much, I have felt a mental shift trying to take hold. I've used my crockpot a few times recently. I've been baking. I've renewed my gym membership. And today I start reading again. I'm taking a class at Alice's school on promoting social emotional competence in children and my friends I'm required to read a book. Slowly but surely I'm taking control of my actions. I don't know if I'll be able to shed the D word from some people's perception of me. Like I said, maybe they are right. But, with every post I write, every mile I run, every chapter I read I feel better.

Color Virgin

I did it. Finally. I highlighted my hair blue. I know what you're thinking, midlife crisis. I'll have you know this is not a midlife crisis. A third-life crisis, maybe. If it was a midlife crisis I would have highlighted my dreadlocks blue. Mark my word, I'm going all out when I reach "midlife."

I alluded to my desire for color back in July, and even though it was only a dream there was truth to it. I have toyed with the idea of purple or blue for several years now, knowing that the "socially acceptable" window was getting smaller by the day. So, the morning I found a brand new grey hair on the left side of my head, I knew it was time for color.

Being a color virgin, I knew I needed subtle. As much as Fifty Shades of Grey would like you to believe a virgin can handle kinky fuckery, I'm not a believer. A virgin needs to start out slow, test the waters before diving in head first.

Well. That doesn't look very impressive. I swear, it's blue. I did say I wanted subtle and understated, but honest, it's blue. Let me try again to highlight the highlights.

There. It's blue. Vibrant cobalt blue. I've been deflowered. Maybe next time I'll look into the kinky fuckery side of color and highlights.

 

Life Absent of a Mother

You know the saying, "time heals all wounds." Maybe you've even said it yourself in an attempt to comfort someone. I am here to tell you, this is not true. Not at all.

Some wounds never heal.

My mother died 6 years ago. Everyone said it will get easier, it hasn't. It's still just as hard to know I will never see her again. My mother never met Alice. She asks about her all the time.

"Mama? Did you take those pictures of your mama because you wanted me to know what she looked like?" she asked me just today on the ride to Toys R Us.

I am forced to spend the rest of my life trying to teach her about a woman she will never meet. Even when sometimes I'd rather not. Even when sometimes I'd rather just cry.

I walk through my days, motherless. Most days it's just that, life absent of a mother. The dishes are loaded in the dishwasher. The towels are switched to the dryer. The dog is fed. And then, there are the moments that hit like a grenade to my core. The moments that force me to think about the severity of everything I lost. The moments that make me relive it all over again.

Recently, I visited a very good friend's father in the hospital. Sitting in a chair in a small room filled with machines and wires and monitors, it all came flooding back to me. Six years flew past me and it was yesterday. It was my mom lying in that bed. It was my mom talking about the food she requested for tomorrow's breakfast. It was my sisters and I talking about the next days agenda and who would be there in the morning. It was my mother's room the nurse walked in when she wrote her name on the board. It was my mother's styrofoam cup with the bendy straw sitting on the bed tray. It was me worried and terrified about what was going to happen next. I sat in that chair and mindlessly chitchatted with my heart and my mind a million miles away.

I live a motherless life and it isn't getting easier.

Not the Most Popular Post

It was the Spring of 1993. I was at a small horse show in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. Being just a one judge, two day show it was not overly competitive and mostly for fun. I had finished showing for the day, untacked my horse, hung up my show clothes, and parked myself in a camping chair at the top of the hill with my friends to watch the remainder of the show. When not in boots, I usually wore flip flops regardless of the lectures I received from my father and my trainer, horses can crush toes, yada yada yada. Being a beach girl at heart, I ignored their pleas. But, that sunny day I had to wear sneakers. It had rained the day before and the ground was saturated and muddy. I sat there chatting with my friends, watching the barrel racing event, wearing socks and sneakers. Little did I know the repercussions of this simple moment.

Kinda like yesterday when I tweeted a link to the day's post.

The late spring sun had strengthened and unbeknownst to me, my legs were frying. That day I received my first sunburn of the season. Wearing socks and sneakers. This brought new meaning to the term farmer's tan. My feet and ankles were pasty white while my calves were a golden tan. I was 12 years old and my friends did not go easy on me. To top it off, I had to stand on stage in a frilly dress and strappy sandals at the honors tea, sock tan-lines and all. Numerous people even noted my freakish tan in the autograph section of my yearbook. I will never forget standing in the mirror and seeing the stark contrast between my ankle and my shin, and it never went away. No matter how tan my legs got that summer, you could still see the line.

I'm asking for your help, dear readers. I'm pleading with you, begging almost. Yesterday evening, in pain, I soothed myself with letters. I wrote until I had relieved the troubles of my heart. And then I hit publish. I needed the support of others who know what it's like to cathartically bear their soul for all to read. I needed you.

Ask and you shall receive.

You gave me love and compassion and support. By the boatload. One loyal reader and friend, Kelly at DeBie Hive, went above and beyond. In an attempt to show her nurturing encouragement, she posted a link to my post on her Facebook page.

And the hits just keep on coming.

My small blog is not capable of handling Kelly and her followers. Within moments, yesterday's post was launched to my most popular post. Within minutes, my post where I lamented my pain had outlandishly more page views than any other post.

And this is where you, my dear readers, come in. I don't want that painful moment in time to be at the top of my popular list. It doesn't deserve to be there. Regardless of the quality (or lack of, whichever it may be) of the post, I don't want to see it in the side bar reminding me how I felt in that moment. It hurt and I don't want a daily reminder. It's like the sock tan, I had to walk around like that for months. I was constantly ridiculed and it hurt. I would have loved to wear pants daily for the rest of the summer.

I want to put pants on yesterday's post. I want to disguise it beneath all the other posts. I don't want it at the top. So I beg you, please read another post. Pass it on, suggest your favorite silly Alice story to your friends. Tweet a link to any other post but yesterday's. Facebook users, do your thing. I need help getting a yucky moment out of my mind.

Thank you. And, if you ever need a favor, I'm your girl.

Spew Venom

This will be a very cryptic post and for that I give you a million apologies. If you find yourself lost and struggling to make sense, I will not be offended if you take a pass and come back tomorrow. But, dear readers, sometimes I write for cathartic purposes. Maybe the letters that make up today's post are better suited for a journal. Forgive me, publishing to this blog is all I know...

My heart struggled to keep beating. For that moment, reading those words, it wanted to stop. I felt it. So deep in my chest it physically hurt. A pain like no other pain. With those six simple words the reality of the situation came flooding back. I stared at my phone, unable to move, the letters staring back at me. I wanted to run as fast as I could, escape the pain and the heartache. I wanted to be somebody else.

I read the words again, trying to find different meaning in them. My heart wanted to rip the sender to shreds for the pain. The phone on the other end of the letters had to have known the agony those simple words would cause within me. I wanted to lash out. I wanted the suffering to be felt by others. Misery doesn't just love company, it needs it. It thrives on it.

But, I couldn't do it. I couldn't spew venom, as much as my heart was begging me to. My heart needed the release. Just as two wrongs don't make a right, causing pain to others never makes me feel better. Over the years I have learned the pain my words can cause. The rage within me comes out so eloquently. The venomous words flow like water from my mouth. Within a heartbeat, the damage of my diatribe is done.

I couldn't do it. Ultimately, I cared. I felt pain because the situation had betrayed me. Not the person. I composed myself. Let out two pounds of a sigh and acknowledged those six words. I didn't run. I didn't bitterly attack. I suppose I'm still a work in progress, but I am making improvements.

Early Morning Words

Still sleepy, I felt her stirring next to me in bed. I knew it was only a matter of moments, with the first glimmer of the sun peeking around the curtain, before Alice would be up and ready to go. I cherish these moments. For one, sleeping Alice is a peaceful Alice. It's the only time in the day she looks young. I see her chubby cheeks, her stubby baby fingers, fine wisps of blonde waves around her face. Sleeping, she is my beautiful, angelic baby girl. I also love this brief moment because I enjoy sleeping. My days of sleeping till nine are gone. Now, as a mom, I savor resting extra seconds every morning. I want to be the mom who gets up before the kids, spends quality alone time in the quiet house before it rises and consumes you with noise and demands. I am just not this mom. At the moment, I am satisfied lying quiet and still next to my little girl. Snuggled up next to her, I do not hear her whines and cries. I feel the love in my heart listening to every breath she takes, remembering the days long ago filled with new mom anxieties, when I'd rest my hand on her fragile infant chest to be sure she was breathing.

And just like that she's awake.

"I want to have my picture taken with Rich, too," she says without missing a beat, as if we were in the middle of a conversation.

"Uh huh," I mumble, confused and sleepy.

"I want to have my picture taken with Rich, too," she tells me again as she stretches her arms above her head.

Still unsure of what she is talking about I say nothing. I am always intrigued by her first words of the day. Given my druthers, I wouldn't speak to a soul in the morning until I have a cup of coffee in my hand. But, Alice always begins the day with excitement. She picks up exactly where she left off, either in her dream or the night before. She doesn't spare a single second of awake time, she speaks instantly. The moment her eyes are open and registering daylight she starts talking. Uttering her first word at nine months I should have known Alice would be a talker.

Not satisfied with my silence, she elaborates, "Like I got my picture taken with Santa, and I'm going to get it with Ray Rice, I wanna get my picture taken with Rich, too."

Ahh, now it's all starting to make sense. She's talking about Rich, a member of the band and Disney Junior TV show, The Imagination Movers. Rich is her favorite; he mostly plays drums.

And just like that, my baby is growing up.

This same child refused to sit on Santa's lap three years in a row, has never sat on the Easter Bunny's lap, ran screaming and crying from Curious George, was finally growing up. Her first morning statement made me smile. Hatta had told her yesterday he would take her this year to an event with Ray Rice, her favorite football player, so she could have her picture taken with him. There was discussion about the level of bravery needed in that scenario. She was photographed with Clifford the Big Red Dog during Halloween and standing in front of Santa a few weeks ago; I was confident she could do it. And, obviously, so was she. Finally, my little girl was learning the advantages of being brave. Maybe, just maybe, she's learning to dance.

The Story I Don't Get to Tell...Yet

Driving on the beltway my brain was writing a post. Selecting choice words and metaphors to tell the story I just knew I was going to be able to write after I left the doctor's office. With great confidence my story went something like this...

Girl takes a test. Doctor calls. Girl retakes test. Doctor calls. Girl's worried. Girl has to have a more invasive test. Doctor tells girl everything looks fine. Doctor and girl smile in relief. Girl gets ice cream to celebrate results.

Unfortunately, I don't get to tell that story. I didn't celebrate with ice cream after yesterday's doctor visit. Instead, I get to wait and worry six more months. For six months I get to stew about the cells in my body, anxious abut what they are doing, wondering if the abnormal cells have been eliminated yet. For six more months I will tell myself the same as the past three, odds are in my favor and everything is going to be just fine. Except it isn't always.

All Good Things Must Come to an End

Today's the day. January 2nd. The day I have been waiting for with equal parts of fear and loathing mixed in.

2012 was not a horrible year. Sure, I have written a handful of posts that would like to convince you otherwise. But, truly, in the grand scheme of life it wasn't horrible. I have a nice warm house to play in, I never go to bed starving, and Alice was fortunate enough to have a very good Christmas. I will not complain.

With the start of a brand new year, it's natural to reflect on the previous one. As far as personal achievements, I did good. I made reading a priority. I committed myself to exercising on a regular schedule, and in doing so rediscovered the old Nelly. I made having adult fun a crucial part of my life. I no longer believe I am just a mom. I did all this for the better part of 2012...then I started slacking. A little slacking here and there turned into a shit ton of slacking with a large heaping of laziness on the side, and before I knew it I was no longer going to the gym at all. I wasn't reading or writing. I was enjoying the holidays with reckless abandon. I had a very good and somewhat legitimate excuse to eat and drink all I cared to and then some. By Decemeber my "damn your ass looks good in those" jeans no longer fit. I had resigned myself to leggings, yoga pants, and two pairs of fat jeans.

Life was good. Until today.

Today I begin 2013 with determination to fix what I broke. Here goes, hold me accountable blogosphere.

• I will not bite my nails. I will not use the excuse "I'm just biting the skin." I will take the time necessary to have pretty fingers.
• I will blog. I will stop making excuses. If I have time to search YouTube for Y&R episodes, I have time to write.
• I will exercise. Regulary. All year long.
• I will organize my finances. This does not mean straighten the money in my wallet. I probably don't even have any money in my wallet.
• I will organize my house. Again, no more excuses...see above, regarding Y&R episodes.
• I will read books. Not only glorified porn. There has to be more than smut on my iPad.
• I will do what's necessary to take care of myself in as many ways as necessary. Seems vague, but I do it for Alice. If her skin is dry, I take the time to lotion. If her socks are getting too small, I make it a priority to buy new socks. I will wax because smooth makes me feel better. I will paint my toes because a pop of color can brighten a dreary day. I will take care of my skin because its the only skin I will ever have. I will spend money on new bras because they make me feel pretty. I will buy makeup when needed, doing so does not make me a lifetime member of the Sephora Club kind of girl.

I'm not normally into New Year's resolutions. And really, these aren't so much resolutions as a swift kick in the ass. I had a good thing going over the holidays, but gluttony doesn't fit me well.