The last thing in the world I like doing is airing my dirty laundry in a public manner. But my heart has been heavy for the past two months and I really need some sort of talk-therapy.
There is a distinct strain on my marriage. Nothing too dramatic, but a strain that shouldn’t have impacted our very young marriage, not this soon or so hard. It’s no secret that we’ve had financial problems and if anything can breed stress in a relationship, it is MONEY.
Thankfully, Steve and I have handled the stress, the strain, relatively okay, apart from all the “you drive me crazy!” comments (made by me, FYI). But the combination of my increasing health issues, our unpaid bills and Steve’s impending deployment has been a bit difficult to deal with, to put it mildly.
Let me admit something to you right now. Steve and I? We don’t have friends here. At all. Sure, he has his Army buddies, but he doesn’t seem them outside of the armory. We have family in town, family that has ignored my emails and voicemails and did I mention, we’re broke? All of this explains why I’ve left this apartment twice since November and each time was to grocery shop. That’s embarrassing to admit, how much of a hermit I’ve become, by default more than anything.
This is STIFLING. And I’m harboring so much bitterness in my heart towards the family that lives just up the road who pretend we don’t exist, when the family Steve and I both have in Vermont miss us terribly. I draft emails to my mom (among those I miss so much) nearly daily, all venting, “I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong, how someone can be this selfish.” (Followed by a billion “FUCK”s and “DEPRESSING”s.)
Living in Idaho has been immensely lonely. My crazy pills can only do so much. They can’t heal the pain of rejection from the immediate family nearby, or replace all the family and friends I miss to the depths of my soul. I don’t handle things of this nature well.
The Army does this thing, when deployments are imminent, for couples called Strong Bonds. It’s an all-expense paid weekend retreat at a nice hotel, with a bunch of relationship-strengthening activities. Obviously, kids aren’t part of the picture. The one for Steve’s unit is next month.
My first thought was, “wow, how perfect would that be?” But then I remembered, we have no one, NO ONE, who could take Dublin for two nights.
Thankfully, my mother-in-law, who lives in Vermont, offered to fly here to watch Dublin. It’s pretty sad that my mother-in-law can tell, just over phone conversation, that we need this weekend to ourselves, right? It’s also pretty sad that a family member has to drop several hundred dollars and fly across the country just so Steve and I can go on a date.
I don’t know how to tie this up neatly. This post was more or less a mad jumble of everything I’m feeling, not cohesive or coherent. I’m sorry to continue my Debbie Downer posts, but I can’t keep writing anything here without getting this all off my heart, my mind.
Comments are closed mostly because I feel lame, writing this. My email is always open. And thanks for sticking around, mucking through my melancholy.
Sometimes, no matter how hard things are in our personal lives, we need to understand that others are going through times that are even more trying.
I’m not sure who said that exactly, but it’s a quote that has run through my mind since we found out Stephen had lost his job.
I could lament how difficult things are, how panicked I feel every moment of the day. How I sobbed while washing dishes by hand this afternoon – this is not how I imagined our Christmas to be. This is not how I imagined our lives to begin when we first decided to move here.
Not all is lost, not all is broken. I have a son who brings me immeasurable joy, who’s very smile ignites my own. A son who is completely healthy, happy, and is probably the most easy-going baby I’ve ever encountered. This little person of mine is the reason I keep going, the reason I stop with the self-pitying and wipe the tears from my face.
And I have a husband, a husband who holds me wordlessly, each time I lose my shit all over the place. A husband who loves me when I don’t fold the laundry or put on makeup for well over a week. A husband who looks at me randomly throughout the day and says, “Have I told you that I love you yet today?” Even though he knows he has, several times.
I have friends who answer my call at 3 in the morning when I have an anxiety attack, friends who tell me it WILL be okay, I am strong and I WILL get through this, as I’ve conquered every challenge before. Friends who call me a few times throughout the day and tell me exactly what I need to hear.
I have the best family in the world. Biological, adopted, step, in-laws…they are all there to support me, albeit far away. The family I cried and cried and cried over leaving when we packed up our little car to move out west. The family that was there through every hospitalization during my pregnancy, who serviced our home’s furnace and dumped gallons of fuel in our tank so we wouldn’t freeze last winter as our monthly heating bill climbed to $600.
And I have all of you. I can’t even begin to tell you how incredible you all are. Tonight as I sat on the couch with Stephen, I told him that the Internet was hands-down the most amazing thing ever, even more amazing than BACON. YOU all are amazing. Between the @ replies, the direct messages, Facebook wall posts or emails, it has meant so, so much. I cried from your words, your jokes and all the love you’ve poured into my little family.
We’ve lost our income with Stephen’s job, yes, but that income can’t buy, as cliched as it is, all that love. And I am thankful, SO thankful, more thankful than I’ve been in quite some time, to have been surrounded with such loving, compassionate people.
Two years ago, I was in a horrible relationship and the distance to my family was measured in tension, not miles. I didn’t know a single person from the Internet, in real life or even through email. I was working 70 hours a week and could afford some of the finer, materialistic things in life but I was empty, unhappy.
So while things are tough and I might cry to the Internet too frequently, I am not alone. There are people in this world more deserving of all your thoughts and prayers and I feel so blessed to have yours. Thank you.
I’ve struggled to figure out how exactly to write this post. It’s a post I’ve wanted to a do for a while, but just didn’t have the time or opportunity. Now that we’re approaching the one-month anniversary of our marriage, I feel like I should explain our story. There are a few juicy bits I never mentioned…
A while back, when I mentioned our upcoming wedding, I received an email from someone who regularly comments on my blog. She asked if things had improved between Stephen and I, and you know what? I immediately felt guilty.
When Stephen and I first met, it was instant-attraction on both sides. However, we were met with quite a few obstacles. We lived about an hour apart, I was one month fresh of an awful breakup and…well, Stephen had a girlfriend. That last one was pretty much the biggest issue, considering he’d been with her, on and off, for around three years. Their relationship wasn’t a great one. Things had happened on both sides solely to cause pain to the other. It proved to be very tumultuous while Stephen was in Iraq for a year and a half, with both committing egregious acts to cause the other pain. I think his ex said it best when she told me in an email, “right from the beginning of our relationship, things weren’t right. It was always awkward, confusing, and neither of us had the balls to admit so. Our way out was doing horrible things to each other.” I’m not saying what either of them did was right and I won’t name any specifics, but the relationship wasn’t healthy.
The night I met Stephen, I sensed that he wasn’t single. And when I confronted him, he told me he was single. In email conversations to Heather a few days after I’d met him, we properly coined the nickname, “DB” for Stephen. There’s still a tag dedicated to “DB” in fact, it was how I referred to him on my blog. The DB was because the morning after I’d met Stephen, I found out through a few channels that he did have a girlfriend. And I called him out on it. I wasn’t overly attached to Stephen, I’ll admit. Sure, I’d never experienced such a pull towards another person, but I had only known him like 20 hours. I was annoyed, but I didn’t let it bother me. He admitted it to me when called out, but I wasn’t letting him off the hook for lying that easy.
In discussing with Heather how I could blog about him, we decided DB was suitable enough and I used it in my very first blog post about him. I used it on twitter quite a bit, too. The only ones who knew exactly what it stood for were Heather and I, so when Stephen commented on that blog post, using the DB handle, I couldn’t help but laugh. What did DB stand for?
Yes, my first nickname for my now-husband was Douchebag. Why? Because he was! The morning after, when I called him out on having a girlfriend, he admitted fully and I said I just was not down with that. He proceeded to try and have dates me with all that following week. I didn’t budge, until Thursday, when I went to his friend’s house for an impromptu wii bowling party. The entire time, I wanted so badly to snuggle with him, but he was a taken guy. I was NOT down with that. I didn’t want to be THAT girl. When I left that night, things were fairly unresolved. I told him I pretty much couldn’t be around him, not with the whole girlfriend drama going on. So I left that night, fully expecting to never hear from him again. I was sitting in the McDonalds parking lot at 2 AM, listening to Queen and eating cold French fries, trying to be okay with the whole thing. I made it home, went to bed and woke up the next day, Friday, went to work then home. I received a phone call from a fellow Vermonter who had found me through my blog, who I had been talking to for a few weeks. He was much older than me, but had his shit together, ie: NO GIRLFRIEND. We were making plans to meet up the following day for a luncheon, after I’d stalled meeting him long enough. And then call-waiting kicked in, guess who it was? Stephen.
I answered and he asked me to meet him at his friend’s house to talk. So I went.
To be continued…. Including how I dated the older blogger and Stephen on the same night….
I want to thank all of you for your thoughtful comments on my Birth Story post and the advice you offered on my Delta Airlines piss-me-off posts. Seriously, this is why I love blogging.
I have several posts in the works, one of which is a video blog (not a fan of VLOG). Exciting right! Anything in particular you wish for me to talk about?
The other post is one I should have drafted a long time ago. It’s about Stephen and I and our relationship. I regret the series of posts I posted at the beginning of our relationship, especially when we broke up for a day, and I don’t think I’ve been very fair to Stephen on this blog in everything he’s done for me. So again, is there anything along those lines you want me to discuss? I have received two email questions already, so if you don’t feel comfortable leaving questions in the comments, feel free to drop me an email. But really, anything is up for grabs.
And I’m finally going to revamp my “about me” and “blogs I love” sections. I’m excited! Also, a giveaway is in the works, so stay tuned!
This is a completely random list and I’m probably embarrassing myself fully. Sadly, I can’t blame it on the ah-ah-ah-alcohol.
I’ve just rediscovered “More Than Words” by Extreme. Love. I could use some song suggestions for our wedding, one week from today!
We are moving into the most bad ass apartment I’ve ever lived in just five days after the wedding. Seriously, 24-hour hot tubs, 24-hour fitness center, year round heated pool. And we get a deal because of where Steve works.
And just a few weeks later, miss Heather is coming to visit us (she’s really coming to meet Dublin, I’m sure). We won’t really have furniture, but we will have plenty of liquor. I’ve already promised drunken somersaults in the living room. Heather is the same person that, over a year ago, threatened Steve within an inch of his life if he hurt me. She’s basically awesome and I am so ridiculously excited.
My mom keeps having dreams that I’m pregnant again. And because she calls me to tell me this after every. single. dream, I’m prompted into extreme paranoid. “Steve! Put two on, like Asher Roth suggests!”
Yeah, I just said that on the internets. (Except, I would never recommend double-wrapping. I’m aware of how ineffective it is.)
I’m going to be a hell of a lot more open on my blog than I previously was. Before, the company I worked for knew I had a steady presence online and while I don’t think my blog was ever “found” by a colleague, I had to keep a lot of what I wanted to say under wraps because I was well-known within the organization and I didn’t need people I compose spreadsheets for every day knowing that I used to hump street light poles in eighth grade. Like Jessica has admitted on her blog, I am a bit more honest on this blog than I am in person with any stranger in real life (or coworker) and I don’t link to here from Facebook for that reason. But now, everything is fair game.
I’m also going to start posting more frequently, something I am very excited about.
Speaking of Facebook….WTH? It was awkward enough when my mom joined and added me…and then Steve’s parents joined and added me and then my father. Followed along with several aunts and then my GRANDMA.
I did something stupid. I ordered my wedding dress online. FROM CHINA. Without having tried it on. I received it, just five days before I’m due to fly back to Vermont for our wedding. Except they sent me the wrong size, a dress TWO SIZES TOO SMALL. Now, if it had been too big, it would have been a billion times easier to repair. Except, a funny thing happens when your body prepares for birth – your hips expand to epic proportions, possibly eligible for their own zipcode in fact (maybe that’s just me?). More on how this disaster was fixed later.
I’ve noticed that when I eat, I have this consistent compulsion to wipe my mouth after every bite with a napkin. I don’t know why.
Also weird? I pronounce “breakfast” as “breffast.”
That blasted Birth Story post will be completed! I have so many scattered pieces of it and I really would like to post it, I just don’t want it to be too mundane.
What kinds of random things have been on your mind recently? And for real, do you have any song recommendations for my wedding? I’m up for ANYTHING.
Note: Thank you all for your comments on my last post. I know, deep down, that I am doing what’s best for Dublin. I do. So I appreciate your confirmation of this fact!
Dublin is a healthy, happy baby and yet I still need validation that I’m doing a good job. When I’m with Dublin alone, or with Stephen, I have no insecurities. It’s the parenting in public that seems to unnerve me the most, when suddenly everyone and their dog has an opinion of how I’m doing.
I feel most uncomfortable being Dublin’s mom when I’m with a large group of people, or anyone I don’t know well observing me. The day we came home from the hospital, we stopped at a family barbecue and I remember sitting with Dublin on my lap and a woman I’d never met staring at me. (Later, I found out she disapproved of my having Dublin out so soon after his birth.) When Dublin was four weeks old, Steve and I stopped at a Taco Bell out of convenience. I prepared Dublin a bottle from the ready-to-feed formula he was on at the time and as I fed him and Steve ordered, there was a woman in her mid-forties glaring in my direction. I tried to pretend I didn’t notice, but I could guess she was unimpressed with my bringing Dublin to a fast food restaurant. After we finished eating and headed to our car, she asked me how old he was. When I told her, she just raised her eyebrow at me and turned away.
I guess I should shrug it off, but, to put so ineloquently, it’s hard. I love my son more than anything in this world, I would never dream of putting him in any kind of harm. I feel like I parent Dublin with my actions showing how much I cherish him. So when someone, albeit a stranger, questions my judgment, my care for my son…well, it’s hard to take.
Thankfully, I have Stephen there with me all the time, reassuring me that I’m taking better care of Dublin than any stranger could, that I love him more than just anyone could. Stephen constantly tells me to relax, to not worry so much. This month is the first time we’ve allowed Dublin to sleep with any blanket in his crib (he hated being swaddled, so we just had him in fleece pajamas), because I was terrified of him covering his head and suffocating. I think I take appropriate precaution in bringing Dublin anywhere (hellllllo, hand sanitizer!) and I feel it’s important for him to be out, enjoying fresh air and building up his immune system. But then again, I’ve done a lot of things that have caused conflict with some other moms (formula-feeding, circumcision, taking antibiotics for my kidney/blood infection during pregnancy). I’m not going to please everyone.
Being a parent is hands down the most rewarding experience of my life. Coincidentally (and consequently), it is easily the most difficult experience. If there is anything I’ve learned in the last two months, it’s to never take having a partner for granted. I honestly don’t know how single moms do it without having that kind of support on their side. I seek validation, mostly because I want to make sure I’m doing the best I can for Dublin because he is absolutely the best thing to happen to me.
So…I’m a little late to the facebook meme, but since I have very few blog friends as facebook friends (sad!), I am posting this here.
When I was twelve, my grandmother asked me what I wanted for Christmas. I asked for Parents magazine, believe it or not. And I got it, for three whole years. I loved it.
I have a hard time being friends with girls. I get along with guys so much better; I think it’s because they don’t flock to drama as inherently as females do. Our wedding party consists of two (confirmed) bridesmaids and FIVE groomsmen. Yeah.
I am not easily emotional, but whenever Stephen’s 2010 deployment to Afghanistan comes up, I ALWAYS tear up. I try to blame it on the hormones, but honestly? Stephen is the most enigmatic person I know; his energy inspires me every single day. I cannot imagine a year of sleeping without him. It’s not the “being alone” that scares me, it’s the fact that HE won’t be here.
When I was in high school, one of my nicknames was Nadia, after Shannon Elizabeth’s character in American Pie. Only because I resembled her. Before I gained the 50+ pounds I now carry (more so with the pregnancy, oy!), I received that same comparison from random strangers all the time.
I used to be HARD-CORE into the WWF (World Wrestling Federation) when it was still the WWF. I begged my dad to buy tickets when they came to Denver and he did. Seeing The Rock all rippling and sweaty and MANLY made my seventh grade year.
My brother Danny and I used to beat the hell out of each other growing up. As a result, I broke several fingers and a few have grown back crookedly. Ask to see my right ring finger! Whenever Steve is being ornery, I flash my fingers in front of his face and relish the disgusted reaction he produces. Because I am MATURE.
I have a creepy obsession with Totinos Pizza Rolls. Gross, I know, but I lived on them for a whole weekend while I moved into my home.
I am seriously allergic to most spider bites. The bite can swell to a dinner plate-sized lump. I’m also allergic to nickel metal – it can lead to anaphylactic shock. I am highly skilled in epi-pen application.
I’ll admit it’s hard for me to get in the mood to clean, but when the mood strikes, I go crazy. I will literally clean my house, top to bottom, in a day if you let me. I usually end up over-doing it, so I’m laid up for days after…which essentially defeats the purpose of not being lazy, right?
I absolutely hate talking on the phone. I barely accumulate 50 minutes a month on my cell plan (we don’t have a home phone!), but I’ve been known to rack up 2,000+ texts in a single month.
I spent 15 years of my life in Colorado and the last five in Vermont…and I’ve NEVER skiied or snowboarded. Pathetic, right?
I can’t stand husking corn. I would rather shovel manure for hours than husk even one corn.
For the past two years I have had chronic migraines. Pregnancy has only aggravated them it seems, but the prescription I was on is unsafe for pregnancy. I have no confirmed triggers and they sometimes temporarily paralyze one or the other side of my face and cause “auras.” They are probably the most frustrating thing I’ve ever dealt with.
I met Stephen pretty randomly, right before we shared a tray of jello shots and in between him and my cousin’s fiance having a paintball/bb gun fight, inside their house. Our connection was instantly strong and intense.
I have a Tony Little Gazelle exercise machine, purchased on the Home Shopping Network at 3 AM. It serves as a wonderful towel rack…and that’s about it.
I love music. I have no rhythm, but if anything reggaeton kicks on, I go wild. The beat just sings through my veins.
I have SO much fun with Stephen. A lot of people said we’d get over our “honeymoon” phase, but we never have. I have never had such a fulfilling relationship in my life! He and I have a blast whenever we’re together, whether it’s at a drag race in Jersey or curled up in bed with movies and our dear friends Ben & Jerry. And it feels so great to be so completely happy.
The first CD I ever bought was the Macarena. It came with SEVEN different versions and I know them by heart; I kick ass at the Macarena.
I honestly don’t think my body was ready to become pregnant, unbeknownst to me. As a result, it seems to be working overtime. I don’t regret it, any of it, for one second. I just pray our baby is happy & healthy.
Buying this house and keeping on the payments has been the single most terrifying moment(s) of my life.
I’ve always been rather awkward and I’ve chosen to embrace it instead of complain that I’m always falling over myself.
I completely adore Middle Eastern food, which is my biggest gripe about moving from the outskirts of Denver to the outskirts of the middle-of-nowhere-Vermont.
My best friend Sona and I once skipped class to tear up and down I-70 in Denver, stealing political signs on election day in 2004. We ended up collecting several hundred signs that we hastily threw in the back of her Geo before speeding away.
I love everything about learning a new language and I have the study guides, miscellaneous flashcards and cds all around the house to prove it.
I understand the whole forgive and forget schpeel, but the forget part? Is unbelievably difficult for me. Some of the people I love the most have coincidentally hurt me the most significantly. And when I feel down, I immediately return to where I was when they hurt me so. It’s a cycle I need to figure out how to break.
I’ve spent six hours lying on my bathroom floor, inhaling fumes from our cleaning lady’s disinfectants. I am crying, sobs that wrack my body more than falling off of that slide in third grade ever did. I literally climb up to my vanity, stare at my muddled complexion and sigh with depression. I don’t know how it happens, but I end up in my bed an hour later, staring at the ceiling when my cell rings; it’s him.
Rewind twelve hours earlier: I arrive at school two hours early for the sole purpose of checking my email. I’m anxious and apprehensive. I have one of those feelings. The voice that persists in the back of your mind, saying what you know can be so easily true, when you desperately don’t want it to be. I open my email, noticing the single new email is from him.
Last night something happened. A woman I had been hanging around told me she liked me. And I realized I liked her, too. I felt guilty, but I want to be honest with you. We went back to her dorm…things progressed. I don’t feel comfortable discussing this over an email to you. Call me at your lunch.
My hands shake and I feel all the warmth leave my face in an instant. I skip class and call him, while sitting outside on the grass that was turning brown with the fall. He answers and have a knee-jerk reaction to being charmed by his southern accent. I remember a year before we dated, when he would say “Rodeo” in his accent over and over because it made me laugh so unexpectedly. But he isn’t going to make me laugh today. He cries when I do and tells me he is sorry. He really hasn’t made a decision about what to do. I am clutching my stomach, willing my acid reflux away as I slowly, quietly, rock myself back and forth. My mind screamed no. I hit “end” almost instantly. A moment later, I call back and he answers the phone in an unrecognizable voice. I can barely make out his words because he is crying so hard. He says he doesn’t want to lose me, but he doesn’t deserve me after what he has done. He promises to call me that evening.
I finish school, barely, and walk the two miles home, giving myself ample time to think. It’s December 1st and I’ve been in love for the first time for just a month. I’m not normally dramatic or outwardly emotional, but I can’t seem to ebb my frustration, anger and total pain. I pray that my stepmother doesn’t notice and am relieved when I arrive to an empty house. I try to eat lunch, but feel like vomiting. I am so pissed off that I’m letting this effect me so intensely. I’ve been cheated on before and I’ve suffered worse betrayal and never have I cried. I find myself on the bathroom floor, rubbing my tear-stained face into the guest towels.
And then he calls that evening. I answer, calmer, but fatigued beyond belief. He tells me that he doesn’t want to hurt me any longer and decides to end our relationship, nicknaming it our own “Sweet November.” I realize I don’t really know what I want with the relationship, the “after,” that is. He says we can be friends, though we both know how unlikely that is. He tells me, sheepishly, that he is going to go after this other woman. Though I don’t doubt he was sincerely in love with me, I know that things moved too fast between us and it scared both of us. I felt that this was his easy way out.
On Christmas, he calls me to ask how I am. I’m bitter. I’m still angry, but I’m okay. He tells me things are going great with her. They’re in Vegas visiting his father. I try to listen and be attentive, but in reality? I’m growing increasingly upset. There has been no contact whatsoever since that devastating phone call from before and I didn’t expect our first conversation to be filled with how happy he is with her. It’s hard to swallow. I end the call abruptly, but tactfully and make empty promises to keep in touch. With sudden clarity I realize I’ve lost not just the person I fell in love with, but my best friend.
Three years later, I receive a random instant message from him on msn. He’s just broken things off with her. He needs me.
At this point, I’m in a secure, healthy, trusting relationship. I’ve moved on. Part of me still harbors resentment towards what eventually happened between him and me. But I listen; I’m there for him. He phones me and lays everything out -telling me exactly what went wrong. He asks for my help in getting over her.
If I had been the same girl I was when my heart was broken, I’d probably turn him down flat and pride myself on being strong. But the girl I am when he enters my life three years later is stronger. I can be angry that he floods these memories back and I can be sad that he doesn’t take a second to ask how the hell I’ve been in the time since we last spoke. It’s okay for me to be these things because I’m human. But he’s human, too. And because he’s part of the reason I’m in a happy relationship years later, I can help him be happy as well. There’s no pride to swallow, this isn’t an obligation. This is much more than forgiving and forgetting.
A month later, when he starts seeing someone new, someone promising, he tells me, “You’re the only one who has ever been there for me. When I listen to “Best Friend” [Queen], it’s you I think of.”
I’m touched and tell him so. He promises to stay in touch, though I know better. Six months later, I hear from a friend he’s engaged and planning a wedding.
This relationship is so poignant to who I am and the kind of girlfriend I am today. Though he and I don’t talk to this day, I feel it’s easier that way. We both recognize the significance our relationship had on our maturity and hopefully he looks back on those two years of friendship with good memories. Because I do. We had our good times, despite how it ended. But as much as I miss that friendship, I don’t want to be the girl I was four years ago.
(And T, if you still read my blogs - I miss your stories, your accent and the pepper spray. Be happy.)
I love men. I’m very attracted to men.
That is said from someone who would never consider having an affair and is in a very secure, loving, honest relationship. When I say “I love men” it is without the romantic love. Just thought I should say that up front.
But really, I enjoy men, they’re great. Captivating. Enthralling. Scintillating. I love their personalities, their jokes, their distinct laughs, everything.
It feels so nice being around men; I prefer it three-fold to being around a group of women. As clichéd as it is, it’s so true: women are catty.
I am completely in my element when I’m in a room with another man. I’ll be charming, funny, witty, everything I like about myself. When I’m with a woman on the other hand, I feel my I.Q. points slipping and my personality being that of a clownfish (who are so not funny, despite the connotation their name provides. The only thing remotely interesting is the male’s sex change, but then again, I wouldn’t be a male, I’d be a female – thus proving my point > men are just interesting!). I just did a Google Images search for “Damn you Clownfish” and nothing relevant popped up. Maybe I’m the only one with such a fervent disdain for these misleading fish. I mean Nemo was alright, but he’s the only thing those clownfish got going for them (and yet again, Nemo was a male!).
Men are just so natural; they don’t pretend to be nice, to have the best manners, to care what you say…yes these all sound negative, but I don’t intend them to be construed that way. Men are REAL.
I love men, perhaps I’m dazzled too easily, but they are vibrant. I’ve had the fortune of meeting many excellent specimen.
It is my sincerest desire that I bear only male children. I’d hate to be the mom who cries in anguish when the obstetrician gleefully announces “It’s a girl!”. Moreover, I’d hate the years that follow, listening to the drama that a girl teenager is obliged to fall into.
On a side note, to go off of my previous tangent, I feel compelled to buy this shirt and start the revolution:
(Clownfish just aren’t funny)
Ever since we moved up here (me from Colorado, him from Idaho), for some reason it’s been an absolute challenge to find/make friends. I got a myspace account so I could meet people, and that worked brilliantly (sarcasm). I met one guy who ended up being neurotic. I met one girl who ended up going to jail for a DUI. I met another guy (originally from Germany) who decided that Germany should take over the U.S., in his words, “again”. All people in the town I currently live. Basically, I was pursuing these potential friends myself, not letting it happen naturally.
Obviously, I didn’t do a great job, because 20 months after moving here, I’m still in the same situation. We work at an elementary school, where 90% of the staff are at least forty years old. I have a few friends, that I knew before we moved here, only one of them is not a part of my family (so the others I’d have to be friends with anyway out of obligation). I decided about a week ago that I’m going to give it to God, if I make friends up here it will be on His timing.
Last night Shane and I had a date night, including Mexican food and Cosmic Bowling (bowling from 9pm to midnight). When we got to the bowling alley, I started feeling nauseous, as I do when I’ve had too much caffeine. I laid in the backseat of the car, and just wanted to go home. Shane had been looking forward to bowling all week, but I just wanted to go home. Shane asked me if I wanted to go home, but I knew I should at least try to stay.
We ended up having to share a lane with two guys, one thing I hate with bowling. Shane and I always get stuck with the people who have to take a 30 minute cigarette break, while we wait for them to come back and bowl their turn. Either that, or we get the 13 year old girls who will leave and go flirt with someone at another lane, while we wait for them to, again, bowl their turn. This time, it was two guys who looked to be around our age, one of them having multiple piercings, the other looking like a prep. Shane chatted a bit with them, as I sat there, sick and bored. Shane is much more outgoing than I am, so I left all this chatty, get-to-know business up to him. About ten minutes in, we started joking around with them, sharing our similar taste in music, cringing when some rap song came on over the speakers. We joked about how I was bowling much better than all three of them at one point, about the piercing guy’s (J)’s relationship with his wife, about the two hour drive home, in a snowstorm, that A would have to endure, how some 15-year old girl kept flirting with Shane right in front of me, my “mafia” ties, and how J and A were so completely different, but were actually brothers. As the hours progressed, I realized there was some potential for friendship here, we were all so alike, laughing the whole night. Shane took the initiative to suggest that we meet at the bowling alley again, next time, and reserve a lane for us four. Thankfully, A and J warmed to the idea, and we are now going to meet the last Saturday of every month.
As we left the bowling alley, I felt so excited, so happy, to finally meet people our age, with our interests. I believe that God’s planning was perfect, as I always, unfortunately, realize later. After learning that A was a former Christian just confirmed everything I was thinking. I look forward to hanging out with them again, visiting Six Flags (where A works), meeting J’s 4-month old son and getting to know them better. Benedetta.