Back From the Dead, Yo!

Okay, not really "dead". Mostly just marriage, teaching and childbearing, all of which will take a HUGE chunk of time out of navel-gazing. But I've missed it, so now I'm back.



Hello, navel. How you been?



Anyway enough with the weirdness and on to... other weirdness, I guess. So, to recap:

1: Gipester and I got married in August of 2008. I got knocked up in approx. March of 2009 and


2:gave birth to our first daughter, Diablo Uno (G came up with that... kickass nickname in my opinion) in December of that same year.

3:In November of 2010, we found out that I was pregnant again (another girl, it turns out) and am due in July.



Oh yeah, we also moved out of the condo at some point in there. And we're trying to move again. Because we're going to have TWOOOOOOO KIIIIIIIIIIDS and need some space.

But I'm taking it all in stride.



Actually, that's bullshit. I'm a wreck. I can tell that comes as a shock. You may take a minute to absorb..... Done? Good.

Anyway, the whole point of this post was originally to bemoan the current state of my realtionship with the Gipester. Our sex life has taken a pretty serious hit in the last year or so, and it feels like we are so far out of practice that we may never get back in.
So to speak.
Sorry.


Anyway, I'm left feeling fat and ugly and undesireable (I am not a "glowy" pregnant lady) and more than a little bit embarassed. Then I get angry and hop out of bed at 2:30 in the morning full of righteous indignation ready to cry out the injustice of the patriarchy and biology to the world.


As I did this morning.


Then I opened up Blogger in my browser and realized that G didn't log off his Google account, so instead of my blog, there was his. The one he kept when he was getting divorced.
So I read it.

Not for the first time ever, but for the first time as his wife and as the mother of his children. I read about this sadness and this agony that I was unable to share with him or help him through.


And I remembered some important things about this man, chickens.


The Gipester has the soul of a poet.
He sees the world with the eyes of an artist.
He never gives up on anyone he loves. Ever.


And I love him more than I've ever loved anyone for all of these reasons and for a whole bunch of other ones that only he needs to know.


So, the white-hot flame of righteous indignation has passed, leaving behind only glowing homefires and the words of someone wiser than I:

"And this, too, shall pass."



Peace.

It's good to be back.

Don't tweak the brittle people.

Hello chickens. Today Sweet D is in, what my grandmother used to call, a Mood.

I have reasons.

None of them are good.

I've got things like, I painted at a friend's house today, went home, showered, scrubbed myself until I was all pink and a little more tender than I would have liked, dried off, got dressed, walked to the post office and realized that I still have tan paint All. Over. Me. The paint is kind of flesh colored, but it doesn't really match my skin so it just looks like I have some kind of horrible scarring or perhaps a fungus. Whatever. It looks like I need some sort of topical cream. Bugger.

In my sleep last night I bit my bottom lip and then, as far as I can tell, continued to chew on my bitten lip for hours and hours until it became the bloody sore it is at the moment. Double bugger.

Also, I had a dream about my ex husband. It was not a particularly emotional dream. We were sitting on the couch in my ex MIL's living room. The white one that the little kids weren't allowed to play on. I told him that he needs to be a nicer person. Something I never would have had the presence of mind to tell him in person. He told me I need to pay more attention to detail. Now, this dream would have been easily forgotten if it didn't apply in such a creepy way to something that happened to me today.

Now, let me set this up. Way back at the end of January, I got a quote from an insurance company, mostly because I hated the insurance I had at the time and didn't want to give them money anymore. So, I got the quote and sat on it for something like 4 months. I finally got back on the company's website in, like, April, maybe March, shit, I don't know. Anyway, I started filling out the forms to buy my policy online. Then, I'm guessing I got to a section that I didn't have the information on hand to fill out, so I stopped filling out the form, thinking I would come back to it. I never did.

But apparently I thought I did. I've been telling myself (and the Gipester) for the last three months that I had this company's insurance. But I don't. I am retarded.

It wasn't until G and I started talking about combining insurance that I realized that I didn't have any paperwork on my new insurance. Hmmm. Curious.

So I looked at my bank statement. They hadn't been charging me anything. Hmmm. Even more curious.

I called the company's 1-800 number and a nice lady explained (very slowly, because I'm obviously some kind of defective) that no, I was not one of their customers.

I'm so confused.

The bright spot is that I was waiting for my new insurance cards to show up, so I still hadn't cancelled my old insurance. Yay for not breaking the law, yay!

I'm not sure what's more frightening about this whole scenario, that I was totally convinced that I had completed a task that I did not, or that my ex appeared to me in a dream to call me on it.

I swear, if he starts showing up in my dreams on a regular basis to pass down his special brand of wisdom in the manner of Buddha or similar, I will become a gibbering, drooling mess. And that won't be pleasant for anyone.

So that, my little chicken nuggets, is why I am in a Mood.

Peace, yo.

You're not the boss of me!

Text message sent to boyfriend: "I'm feeling the urge to get dressed up and be wooed. You should do something about that."
Text received from boyfriend: "How about an early showing of Speed Racer?"

*sigh*

In all fairness, this isn't exactly the way this exchange went down, but for the sake of simplicity I thought I would boil it down to its essence. Sweet D wants to wear a pretty dress and have a romantic dinner, drink a little wine, and have crazy sex. The Gipester wants to see a brightly-colored, seizure-inducing, vaguely homoerotic action flick based on a Japanese cartoon. (Ed. Note: It was actually pretty entertaining).
Since I have made the decision to become a Mrs. once again, I have been wondering about what causes this disconnect.

I thought that the rule with men was, if you want to do something, tell them. Don't expect them to read your mind. If you want to go to the movies, say, "I want to go to the movies." 6 guys out of 10 will say "Okay," simply because they are so relieved that they don't have to have the "I don't know, what do you want to do" conversation. I'm convinced this is how most straight men ended up at the Sex and the City movie...

But then, there's the last 4 guys. They are "the Divorced Guys" or "DGs" for short. DGs are fabulous for the most part. They have been in a committed relationship, they know how they work. They aren't squeamish when it comes time to talk about birth control or menstrual cramps. They have seen it all and for the most part a DG is a great catch. Plus, they make up a huge portion of the dating pool once you get to be about 27 years old.

But here's the thing, DGs don't like to be told what to do.
Ever.
They don't even like to think that you might possibly be telling them what to do.

So, when Sweet D thinks she's saying, "I love you and I want us to spend some romantic couple time together that doesn't involve eating dinner on the couch in my sweatpants." The Gipester hears, "Put on a tie and spend some of your hard-earned money on me. If you don't I will make you suffer. You hear me, bitch? SUFFER!"

So, Speed Racer it is...

Anyway, after the romance vs. action movie thing, I started to notice a very distinct pattern in our conversations. Three moments stick out in my head.

Moment 1: Dinner
G: So, where do you want to have dinner?
D: Give me a couple of options.
G: Chipotle or Noodles and Company.
D: Chipotle sounds good.
G: Let's go to Noodles and Company.
D: Okay.

Moment 2: Movies
G: Which one of the Netflix movies should we watch?
D: I've really been wanting to see movie A. (So sue me, I can't remember the movie titles. That isn't really the point is it?)
G: Let's watch movie B.
D: Okay.

Moment 3: Wedding rings (Ed. Note: He's making these rings, they are going to be fabulous, I have no problem with them whatsoever, but again, that isn't really the point.)
G: So, what do we think? White or yellow gold?
D: They're both beautiful. Hmm. I think I like the white gold better.
G: Let's go with the yellow gold.
D: Okay.

Now, the reason these moments stick out at all is because they all happened within a week or so of each other. Is this struggle of the recently engaged DG to hold on to his independence? Or is he simply a man who prefers pasta to burritos on any given night? I have no idea. That's why I'm asking you.

Have I mentioned this isn't a scientific study? I have pulled all of these theories right out of my ass. But I teach high school and it's summer vacation, what else am I going to do with my time? Sure, I said I was going to write all of my lesson plans, but really. Have you met me?

So, whatever it is, it comes and goes. We haven't had any of these kinds of conversations in the last three weeks or so, but that doesn't keep me from being curious about them, and really wanting to avoid them in the future.

I am a very laid back kind of girl. Where we eat dinner rarely matters to me, unless I'm really craving something (or not, whatever the case may be), if we have more than one Netflix movie, they will both get watched, the order doesn't matter.

Still, there are things I need from time to time. And they matter, even if they seem kind of trivial. How do you communicate your needs, or even just your wants to someone without them feeling dominated by your desires? Hmm.

Any ideas?

Once more with feeling!

Happy, happy Thursday my little chickens!

I am fully aware that I have talked a fair amount of shit about the venerable institution of marriage over the last few years. I really thought that marriage was pretty much a contest in which psychological damage was inflicted on one partner by the other (and vice versa) through passive aggression, sarcasm, and barely concealed resentment, until one of them died. The last one to die was the winner. What did they win? Not being dead. Fan-frigging-tastic!

Anyway, once I discovered that game wasn't nearly as much fun as it seemed at first blush and I cashed in my meager pile of chips and bolted.

I lose, right?

Wrong.

Because, once again the universe reminds me that, sure, I might look smart, but don't know fuck all about the grand movements of the celestial spheres that govern all of our destinies.

Because, little chickens, I am getting married. Again. In 79 days.


The Gipester and I have tried to think of reasons not to do this. Trust me. He was militantly anti-marriage when we met. No way was he getting married again. Nuh uh. Never gonna happen.

See, he didn't know anything about the movement of the celestial spheres either. Ha!

But, fact of the matter is, we're in love. Normal, healthy, supportive love. And we just can't let that go to waste, so marriage it is.

I really am considering this post an introduction to the Bridezilla series. Just 'cause I'm engaged doesn't mean I'm any less neurotic. Really, I'm starting to think about things like:

"Is it okay to ask G to delete all of the emails tagged 'dating' in his inbox?"
"Is it unreasonable to tell him that I want the ring from his previous marriage the hell out of the house before the wedding?"
"Is putting my hands over my ears and screaming LALALALALALALAAAA! the best way to respond to his reminiscing about his first wedding?"
"When I joke about having kids and he makes some vague comment about us getting too serious, should I worry?"

See kids, this is gonna be FUN!

Plus, there's going to be cake. You've gotta love cake.

Peace, chickens.

Like a cat.

So, it's Friday. Which in my teeny-tiny world means it's time to clean the house. I don't do a fantastic job, but since neither the Gipester or I has ever actually had typhoid, I'm going to declare my housekeeping skills adequate.

I actually had a meeting this afternoon, so I wasn't actually planning on cleaning at all, but once I was dressed and ready for my meeting, I realized that I still had an hour or so before I even had to leave. So. I ran the dishwasher. Still had time. Wiped down counters in the kitchen. That took about 25 seconds, so I moved on to the bathroom. Wiped down counters and tub. I think, "The mirror needs Windexing." Is that a word? Hmmm? Doesn't matter. Still had time. "Fine," I think, "I'll clean the toilet." So, scrub, scrub. Clean. "Wow. The mirror is still really streaky... That's gonna drive me crazy."
So, I go get the Windex again. I had my reading glasses perched on the top of my head (headed to a meeting, remember?), a bottle of Windex in one hand and a paper towel in the other.

Now, in order to get to the top of the mirror over the sink, I have to get way up on my toes, which means my head tips back a little, just enough for my reading glasses to start slipping. We have ceramic tile in the bathroom, I really didn't want my glasses to fall off and break, so my knee-jerk reaction was to reach up to catch them. Guess which hand I used? Not the one with the soft paper towel. Nope. The one with the bottle of nasty chemical juice of death.

In my attempt to keep my glasses from breaking, I hit myself in the temple with the (surprisingly pointy) nozzle of the bottle. Then, because my brain was having a hard time processing what had happened, I turned my head sharply to the left to see what had hit me in the head and I sprayed myself in the eyes with Windex. And then my glasses fell off my head anyway.

I am effing AMAZING!!!

Happy Friday, chickens.

Wheee!

Today, my chickens, is May 1st. For any ancient Celts or NeoPagans in the crowd, it's also known as Beltane. Once upon a time, on Beltane, the ancient Celtic people would go out and start a big fire. And get wasted. And then have sex. This sounds like a holiday I can get behind. You throw in some marshmallow Peeps and I am totally down. Oh, and pie. I love pie.

Anyway, when Christianity wandered its way into the British Isles, much the way homeless people wander into the public library to use the bathroom, Beltane was discouraged and we ended up with May Day. You guys remember May Baskets, right? We made them in elementary school? Oh well, traditionally, May baskets are filled with candy and flowers and left on a neighbor's doorstep. If the neighbor catches you, kisses are exchanged. Oh yeah. Lots more fun than fire and hooking up...

So, in the spirit of the season, I am presenting you with a May basket full of the random crap that's taking up space in my brain pan. And since technically, you're catching me giving it to you, you can have a kiss. No tongue, though.

1. Wow. That was a huge lead-in. Sorry about that.
2. I listened to a couple argue for 45 minutes at the park yesterday. Guess what they were fighting about? Another woman? A missed birthday? Nope. She was giving him a huge ration of shit about how he never fights with her. Yup. A fight about how they never fight. These people need cable. I think her point was that she felt he was emotionally unengaged. But still. Yeesh.
3. It occurs to me from time to time that I don't know anyone's phone number anymore. You're all in my phone, but if I were to lose my phone and need to call someone, the only people I could reach would be my parents. And that's only because they've had the same phone number since I was 18 months old. If they move, I'm screwed.
4. Do any of you know a straight man who is over 35, has never been married, and isn't a complete sociopath? If so, send me his name. I have a bet running.
5. Why do boys constantly talk about boobs, I mean girls, no, never mind, I mean boobs, they've known before? I swear to Buddha, I've seen men get misty like they were talking about old Army buddies. I remember my college boyfriend named mine. I'm pretty sure he liked them better than he liked me. Weird.
6. Since were on the subject, I understand that boys like boobs. I'm a pretty big fan of them myself. I guess when I had them, I felt like I was part of the club, now that I'm an A-cup, I feel like I've had my girl card revoked. For the first time in my life I'm considering breast implants, just so I can fill out a halter top better than say...Orlando Bloom. How's that for an image? *shiver*

So, how was that for super awesome? I'd say more, but I spent most of the day painting a friend's basement and I think the fumes have disabled the section of my brain that allows me to focus, so I'll just say....oooh shiny!

This Moment Is More Precious Than You Think

Over the last few days, I've been presented with a few reminders from the universe that life is short. That the days never stop coming. We are always moving forward, burying (sometimes literally) the scraps of our past.

The phrase, "live life to the fullest," is trite. I hate to use it. Mostly because I have seen more than one good person "live" themselves into an anxiety attack. There is this constant push to always be doing.

Join another community group, take on another project at work, mow the lawn, join a third book club, sign up for another committee at church, try to remember to have sex this month, mow the lawn, make sure the kids are signed up for that second day camp, paint the guest room, MOW THE EFFING LAWN!

I have never really been a joiner. I tried Young Life in high school. Didn't take. Key Club, FBLA, Student Counsel, none of these things appealed. According to my mother, it's because I just don't like people. Okay, in all fairness, what she said was just that I have never been "warm." Which is her way of saying I don't like people.

This isn't true. I like most people. There are people I don't like, but for the most part they're douchebags, so who gives a damn. There is only one person on the planet I don't like who everyone else I know seems to have zero problem with. And she happens to be a sterling example of the psychosis detailed above.

This woman just flat out gives me hives. She just must, must, MUST be in this or that club, or on a committee, or engaged in some kind of activity that reminds us all that we care less about poverty, or women's issues, or politics than she does.

She is the kind of person who will skip her 10-year-old son's soccer game to sit around discussing the issues facing women in wartime Iraq. Are those issues important? Hell, yes. But there are two things to consider: 1) Re-imagining gender roles in the Middle East amounts to little more than intellectual masturbation, especially when you are member of a women's group in northern Colorado and 2) Your son will never, EVER forget that Mommy's meetings are more important than he is. Really. He'll come leaping out of the closet when he's 18 in the hopes that you'll let him march in the gay pride parade with you and whatever committee you're affiliated with that day.

Hey, a gay son is the best possible accessory for a hip socially liberal mommy. Even better than that $200 Patagonia fleece and $300 Danskos you've got on.

Wait. I'm losing my train of thought. Oh, there it is.

My point is that I feel like, as a people, we are losing the ability to just be. To sit for two hours, drink a bottle of red wine with someone we love, and talk about the hypothetical future without constantly checking our cell phones for messages or looking at the clock. No, that kind of frivolity is not tolerated. If you're going to talk with a significant other, you better be arguing about money, or discussing the division of childcare duties. And put that wine away, slackers! How dare you linger over something as trivial as romance when there are meetings to attend!

All of us have some of this in us somewhere, and please don't think that the point of the post is to deride club membership. Joining groups and clubs is a great way to meet people with similar interests and keep our intellects in shape. We just need to also rediscover the beauty in everyday things. Things that don't require meeting attendance. Sitting on metal bleachers, watching 10-year-old boys playing soccer. The smell of blooming Russian Olive trees. The feel of familiar hands. The taste of our favorite foods. The sound of our favorite songs. Just being.

Because here's the thing. The next time you smell those flowers, taste that food, feel those hands, kiss those lips, could be the last time.

Because we are always moving into the future, and there are always things that can't keep up.