We Eloped aka Taking the Easy Way Out

Here's a fun tidbit about me you probably didn't know...Hatta and I eloped to Vegas to get married. Not like yesterday or anything. This is old, but pertinent information for today's post.

Let's travel back in time, shall we. The year is 2006. Hatta proposed to me and I, for one wild reason or another, agreed to be his bride. I started an account on The Knot. We registered at Macy's and Crate and Barrel. I went wedding dress shopping. All normal things for a newly engaged couple to do. Then, the crazy took over. Not me, I wasn't like Bridezilla or anything. The family. Oh, the family. Everyone's two cents were constantly being thrown at us. But, let me be clear, when I say two cents that's completely metaphorical. No one was actually offering us money. The wedding would be paid for on our dime. Back to the unsolicited advice...Who we should invite. Who we shouldn't invite. Don't forget to invite these family members you have never even met. Where it should be. Where it shouldn't be. It must be in a church. You can't get married not in a church! Hatta and I, sensing the mounting tension surrounding our upcoming nuptials, contemplated a destination wedding. Jamaica was mentioned. Cue the family. You can't expect people to pay that much money to come to your wedding! If you get married out of the country *insert names here* won't be able to come. It's just selfish, that's what it is! Hatta, fearing for his raised catholic life, dismissed the destination wedding idea. Back on track for a traditional-ish wedding, we set a date and continued planning. I bought a book or two and started a binder. I contacted countless caterers, florist, musicians, wedding sites...the list goes on. Meanwhile, the growing strain of planning our wedding and trying to make everyone happy was taking a toll on us as a couple. Instead of sticking it out and problem solving our asses out of the situation, we took the easy was out.

That is what today's post is about.

We had a vacation scheduled to Vegas for a kick ass Halloween music festival. While we were there, we told no one in advance, and were married at The Little White Wedding Chapel by Reverend Keith Love. Not Elvis, much to Hatta's dismay. I loved our wedding. Truly. My mother had recently died and I couldn't imagine walking down the isle without my mom there. The way I saw it, for a brief moment all was right with the world. Hatta and I did it our way, putting the emphasis on our love not everyone else's happiness. And, my mother was the only guest there. Well, aside from the group of Italian tourist that flocked to watch as we said our vows outdoors.

Here lies the problem we never solved...family. Had we solved the family problem all those years ago we would know how to navigate them when they arise now. And boy do they arise. We took the easy way out, living in a dream world where no one else mattered but us. The honeymoon period, where that is concerned, is over. I assure you.

I honestly feel that we skipped a step in joining our two lives. Not because I needed the fairy tale wedding, I did not. As a little girl, you wouldn't have found me with a pillowcase on my head as a makeshift veil. I didn't fantasize about my wedding, having it all planned out well before I found a groom. The wedding didn't matter much to me. But successfully planning it, would have exposed Hatta and I to the complications family impose on a couple. In real life, you don't only marry your partner you also marry his (or her) entire family.

A fact I was made very aware of last weekend. The weekend forever known to me as hell weekend. I will not go into details, but suffice it to say that my in-laws greatly overstepped boundaries regarding the parenting of my daughter. The event as a whole made me so sad. Sad for me. Sad for Alice. But mostly sad for my husband. He is a good father and he deserves respect. Maybe, possibly, these most recent events will force Hatta and I to finally problem solve our asses out of the situation.

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.

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.

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?

Big Fork and Spoon

Did you every see the episode of Everybody Loves Raymond titled "Baggage?" The one where Ray and Debra have an unspoken battle over who's responsibility it is to put the suitcase away after a weekend getaway. Ray goes to such extremes as to use a plastic grocery bag as luggage when going away on a business trip, but not before he secretely places cheese in the suitcase. Marie mentors Debra by sharing a similar story of a battle of wills her and Frank had involving the big fork and spoon in their kitchen. "Don't let a suitcase filled with stinky cheese be your big fork and spoon," Marie advises.

The light in my living room ceiling fan is my big fork and spoon. Though, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one that knows it.

I'm a strong woman. I'm all for women's lib. I believe women can do anything. That being said, I live with a man. I do feel some tasks are better suited for certain genders. I may be able to mow the lawn, but I know from experience using our old fashioned push mower, it takes me far longer than my husband. I don't ask for much. But I think it's only fair for him to take out the trash, kill the bugs, and change the lightbulbs in the ceiling fixtures.

For months now...months I tell you, the light in the ceiling fan has been burnt out. If Alice wants to play with her dollhouse, I have to turn the kitchen lights on so she can see. People who walk in our house must think we are extremely cheap, not wanting to pay for the electric, or vampires. Even with the table lamps on, it's dark. Really dark.

I didn't want to change it. It wasn't my responsibility. Hatta and I had already had this battle last summer. The glass globe over the light shattered and it had to be replaced. When the globe arrived, it sat in it's box for months. He opened it when it was first delivered, looked at it and put it back. There it sat, being our big fork and spoon until, finally, I installed it. Now, here we are again. The damn light. The mother effing light that he doesn't seem to realize even needs changing. He's learned to live with it. His eyes have adjusted, I suppose. I've subtly mentioned it several times, hoping he'd get the hint and fulfill his manly duties. Instead, on Saturday, I pulled out the stepstool, got the old bulb down and took it to Home Depot to find a replacement.

Which brings me to today. I succumbed to the desire to see my living room again. I changed the light. Let it be known, I did it. I got the suitcase, er...the lightbulb.

When Alice walked into the living room after lunch, she said "Mama! The light?"

"Yes, baby. I changed it." It had been so long, she completely forgot what the room was supposed to look like illuminated.

"Oh Mama! You're the best Mama ever! I love you so much! Thank you! I'm so sorry I spit on you and kicked you. I won't do it again. Mama, you are the best!"

Obviously, the lack of light had been depriving her. If I had known how appreciative she was going to be, maybe I would have changed it sooner. Maybe.

Threshold

Over the past few days recovering from my wretched wisdom teeth surgery, I've learned a few things.

First, my body doesn't like narcotics very much. You never have to worry about me scouring the market for recreational prescription drugs. What I was prescribed, however weak and lame my husband insisted they were, left me nauseous, vomiting, and unable to eat.

Second, I can not tolerate eating bland, boring soft foods. By the fourth day I was licking the cool ranch off the Doritos. I've been forced to watch Hatta eat two subs since my surgery. The first a juicy cheeseburger sub on a crunchy roll, with sourdough pretzels on the side. The second a chicken cheesesteak. And even though they screwed up his order and added mayo, I would have maimed to have eaten that sub. Like a death row inmate, I'm already creating my "last meal" list, though I suppose in this situation it should be called my "first meals."

Third, in my absence, my daughter will exist on cheese and crackers. I'm not sure why, but she ate cheese and crackers at nearly every meal.

And finally, I learned the exact number of days of my husbands stay at home dad/caretaker threshold. Two. Just two. The first two days of my recovery, Hatta was stellar. He was doting on me and there for my every need, while he was executing the upmost patience with Alice. On the third day, everything changed. He still offered to help me out and he still took care of Alice's needs, though now everything was met with a sigh and an exasperated tone. He was exhausted and out of patience. I listened to him deteriorate as the days went by. I felt for him. He was out of his element. He was in my world now, and I can honestly say, he's not cut out for it. But I do commend him for putting forth a valiant effort. He really was spot on those first two days.

Emoticons

Please, for the love of conversation, can we stop with the emoticons already?!

I was fine when emoticons were simple smiley or frowny faces. I'm even okay with the wink. I think that's where we need to draw the line.

I'm not half witted. I do understand and value emoticons. I'm a sarcastic person, sometimes a little wink is needed to keep the reader in the loop of my intentions. And nothing follows the words No offense better than a smiley face. Such as, "You're not a very manly man. No offense :)"

I think the world would continue nicely if we smiled, frowned, or winked. Your text is no better because you emphatically smiled. You don't need to furrow your brow via characters. And what's with sticking your tongue out? When in real life converstation would it be acceptable to stick your tongue out at me? It's not. Ever. Not when you're 3 (Alice's latest) and not when you're 33.

Were you aware that someone has discovered a string of letters and punctuation that creates a cat face? Seriously. I can't, for the life of me, think of a text conversation where you couldn't possibly convey your message without a cat face. Maybe I'm slow and the jokes really on me. Somehow I doubt it.

Tuesday, April 3

Hatta: 8-|

Me: What's that supposed to be?

Hatta: It was the "eye-roll" emoticon.

See this is the problem with emoticons, trying to decipher the Morse code like symbols detracts from the original message.

My final plea to end the emoticon insanity is brought to you by, yet again, another text exchange from my dear husband. He is hopelessly in favor of emoticons it seems. We were...what do the cool kids call it? Oh right, sexting.

Hatta: I'd be happy to oblige.

Me: Sounds enjoyable.

Hatta: :-p

Hatta: That's me.

Hatta: This is u #:-s

Me: I think your attempt at emoticons caused me to rethink.

Hatta: Ugh

I think I've made my point. Nothing enjoyable happened, thanks to good ole emoticons.

Laces Out...I Mean, Handle to the Right

I'm a good wife...mostly.

I don't greet my husband at the front door in heels and my sluttiest hottest little dress, his favorite cocktail in hand. Dinner's never on the table when he gets home. Generally, he's greeted by a frazzled woman who vaguely resembles the person he fell in love with all those years ago.

The house is never immaculate. Ever. We have 2 cats, a dog, and preschooler. I do my best to keep the toys and the hair under control. Clean towels are always available. And we never run out of tooth paste.

What really matters, my shining moment, happens first thing in the morning. I make coffee, French press, everyday. I'm not going to sell you some story that I make coffee everyday for Hatta because I'm such a remarkable wife. It's not the case. I make it out of my own selfish necessity. I'm hopelessly addicted to coffee.

I drink my coffee as soon as its pressed. Then, I pour my husband's half into a travel mug. Every morning I consciously place the lid on his mug, handle to the right. And this, my friend, is why I'm a kick ass wife. For some peculiar reason, it bugs my husband when the lid is placed so the handle is on the left side of the mug. I don't get it. To me it doesn't matter, I'm not so particular. It matters to him. It's such a tiny thing, but I know it makes a difference. So I do it. I send him off to work happy. In my head I may be thinking a wide assortment of negative things regarding his peculiarity, but all that matters is that the lid to the mug goes on right.

When you hear someone say, "it was the little things," this is the exact moment they're talking about. What are the little things you do for others that show you care?