Twenty-eight

Does anyone else ever feel like they're choking to death in a pit of what the fuck?


I mean, pardon my French, but if you ask me, I'm too familiar with the taste of that nasty muck.


I'm a poet and I didn't know it. (Sorry, second and third grade humor reigns in my house.)


It's all one step forward, two steps back sometimes, isn't it.


Yay, my bonus is coming! Boo, we owe more than that in taxes. (BTW, can someone tell me what country doesn't suck that also doesn't have taxes? Because I'd like to move there, please.)


Yippee, the puppy finished school with flying colors! Rats, he just ran out of the house and tore across three lawns and into the street with all four of us chasing after him.


I'm sure he thought it was the most fun he'd had since he polluted the RV. And if I was watching it from a neighbor's window, I'd probably pee my pants - which I have been known on occasion to do - at the sight of us all running at full speed but coming nowhere near to catching him. We could have maybe caught his tongue, which was flapping in the breeze, but that thing is slippery.


In the moment though, his escape wasn't that funny. We had just been talking about taxes, which formed the thick, murky base of the WTF choking potion, which came after the fight to get Seven to do her homework, which was timed perfectly with the argument with Nine about why three cups of organic cheesy bunny snacks isn't an appropriate snack in and of itself, even if it IS organic, which led to us being a mere 8 minutes away from the time that ballet class starts. And in case you were wondering, ballet doesn't start in my living room, it starts one town over. That's the moment when the puppy decided to shove his gigantic, hairy self out of the front door, take a leap over the front hedge, and take off like a racehorse heading for a finish line decorated with kittens and milkbones. Except in his case, the race ended with the alpha dog (also known in this case as The Very Angry Husband Who May Have Just Pulled A Hamstring In The Middle Of The Street) catching him and "helping" him back into the house.


Now, if I was the dog, and I'd been listening to the taxes and the cheesy bunny conversation and the whining about the math, I'd have run away too.


Let's be serious, I'm not the dog and I wanted to run away.


But I didn't. I swallowed my crazy, and got in the car with the girls and drove like a maniac safely to ballet, explaining all the way there that no, me and their dad actually aren't the meanest dog owners in the world, because listen girls, it's really, really hard to teach a dead dog that running out of the house into the street isn't a good idea, because he might get hit by a car. Then, I choked back some tears, got a chai tea latte, sat in the hallway at the studio and started tapping away here.


How do all of you deal with the dance of life? Where do you find the extra joy you need to make those backwards steps not quite as tumultuous? Is it juicing cucumber and spinach? Pouring a Chardonnay? Taking an extra exercise class? Writing a blog? Do you meditate? And if you do, on a side note, how do you meditate without falling asleep? Or is that the goal? Because I can always use more sleep. And more Chardonnay. And more dancing and meditation and exercise and green juice.


This is me, begging the collaborative you, to share your infinite wisdom so that I can catch back up with myself (and the running puppy). I need to remember where to find the silver lining on days like this. I need to find my uncrazy self so I can be happy, helpful, smiling, grateful mommy.


I need to inhale and outhale and keep plowing ahead, even with the full realization that the choreography of life will take me backwards again at some point.


Thanks in advance.


Love,


Grumpy McNeedsalot

Twenty-four

I have approximately 28 minutes of silence to myself, so I thought I'd use the time to do a little bit of housekeeping.


Not my house, obviously. Don't you know me by now? That place is covered in dog hair and muddy paw prints, because where we live, it's been raining for two days, and the rain has apparently called the puppy by name, each drop screaming in dog tone, "Dumb puppy! Come pounce in my mud!".


The housekeeping is for my blog house. This one right here.


I fear that if I were a fish, I would be a selfish.


I've been looking at this blog as mine. Meaning, a place for me to get out my thoughts and questions and ponderings. Then I sit and wait, and you people (all 5 of you or however many are taking the time to read this on a regular basis) write me back. Mostly the response has been a resounding "Me too!" or "That's my life. Are you a spy?" or something of that nature.


But lately, I inadvertently have been putting questions out there that are then creating some questions in other people's minds.


The first one was when I wrote about Paula Deen. Who knew pie was so divisive? I certainly didn't. But it was just my opinion, my point of view, my feelings on the topic at that time. And although I love hearing the opposite point of view, I didn't (and don't) write here to get anybody's panties all bunched up. It's just me on me.


The second one was the last one I wrote...I have a feeling that it was internalized and thought about a lot. Some of you wrote to me and said again, "Me too!" or "That's my life. Seriously, stop spying on me.". But I think there are a different set of you - probably some of you who know me personally - who are thinking that me writing and wondering about where I live or where I am in my life is about you.


I'm here to tell you it's not. It's still just me on me.


I question everything. I worry about everything. Including where we live and the quality of our relationships and whether our daughters are happy enough and engaged enough and settled enough and eating enough. See? It's a tangled web I manage to weave, and I think some of you who are physically close to my sticky threads felt like I wandered over and bit you. Just a nip.


Side note: I gotta get off the spider analogy because I am afraid of them and am now fighting a case of the heebie jeebies. Also, I just really wanted to type heebie jeebies.


Back to the matter at hand, with 17 minutes left.


If you know me at all, you should know that I say what I mean and I mean what I say. I don't lie because I'm really bad at it and also because I can't keep the one true life I have straight, do you think I could keep another story going alongside? Well, I can't. 


Also, if we're truly friends, you know that as a Taurus, I'm loyal as hell to those that are true to me. I'm stubborn and I'm grounded and if you're my husband, you might call me a cat, because I'm perfectly content to find a warm spot and lick myself into oblivion, then roll over and go to sleep.


I don't like change and I don't need any more of it. I'm content sipping my tea or Chardonnay, just knowing that my coral - near and far - is at the bottom of the ocean and always will be. I love to be near you, but I also love knowing I'm near enough, even when I'm not physically right next to you, because you're right where you belong in my heart of hearts.


If you know me at all, you know that. And you know that if I write about moving away or moving aside or moving around, you know me well enough to know that if I've put you in my heart, I'd never move away from you, and I'd never move you aside and I wouldn't mess around with a good thing. I'm cool like that.


So. With 12 minutes left, I'd like to end this little love letter to my friends and readers with a plea. I'm worried about everything and everyone else. Continue to be the thing that makes me uncrazy, if you will. I gotta put it out here, because it helps me, and if me putting it out here does anything but inspire you or make you think or push you to write back to me with an Amen, Sister, then just say something to me, please.


My psychic power "on" button got lost a long time ago. I think it eloped with the "off" button that used to push itself after a couple of glasses of wine, telling me to switch to water. I hope they are very happy together. And I hope we will be too, forever and ever and always.


Seven minutes left. I think I'll meditate. And by meditate, I mean do sit ups. And by do sit ups, I mean play Angry Birds.


Good night, friends.

Seventeen.

It's been longer than five minutes and my husband is still in town.

Granted, he leaves again Sunday, maybe Monday, but for the moment he is here, so he's finally cleared some mind space, and read the whole blog. His comments about it crystallized the differences between men and women. He liked it and was very complimentary. He even said he laughed out loud at one part, although he couldn't recall what it was. He said, You know, it was something about the four of us doing something. I was all, Super specific, thanks.

But he said something else that I thought was so interesting. And by "interesting" I mean I shared it with Chicago right away to get her perspective, because she's the kind of best friend where if something happens in my life or hers, it didn't really happen until we can share it with each other. So I wrote to her and she emailed back and instantly made me feel uncrazy, as she tends to do. 

So, he said, I don't know, it just sort of seems like you're sad. And I was like, Sad? I'm not sad. Well, sometimes I'm sad, but I'm not writing because I'm sad. He said that he's just not the type of person to throw his life out there for people to read or see. You know, he's a man. I explained to my sweet, unassuming, confused man that this is what women do. We feel something, and then we feel around to see if anyone else feels it too, and then when we discover they do indeed feel it too, we all feel better.

It's a lot of feelings for a man to wrap his man-brain around, I get it. But I've been thinking about what he said ever since, because I like to dwell.

What I've come up with is that women are just different from men. We love the feeling of feeling connected. Even as little girls we joyfully hold hands, and to catch a glimpse of little girls holding hands is to catch that sweet, innocent, burgeoning female connection in its infancy. Eventually, we hold the (clammy) hands of our first boyfriends, and our next. It makes us feel giddy and breathless. We hold the hands of our husbands or partners. It makes us feel adult and exclusive and publicly devoted. We hold the hands of our children. It makes us (and them) feel guided and safe and in control. We hold the hands of our parents when we are all adults. It makes us feel thankful and full of remembrance and less out of control.

Women need to hold hands with others, even if it's virtually. For me, reaching out and connecting helps keep the Good Ship Amy balanced as it creaks and sways and navigates through life.

Men like to stand solitary on the bow, feet spread, hands on their own hips, steady as they go. I think it makes them feel stronger to manage the course alone.

But women's hands are never just on our own hips (without grocery bags and infants and backpacks, I mean), and we learn early that steering alone doesn't make you stronger or braver or more capable. It just makes you alone. Women's hands are forever wringing, washing, carrying, clasping, patting, soothing, making, cradling. Our hands are exhausted. We feel less tired when we feel warmth. Solidarity. Support. We need to feel another woman saying, I've walked in your shoes, and my callouses are right where yours are - do you feel them? You aren't alone, I am with you - do you hear me? I will stand by you and walk with you and listen to you and feel for you. I will squeeze your hand to remind you that I am cradling your heart while you cradle that baby through another sleepless night. I will brush the hair off of your pretty forehead as you cry out of sheer exhaustion or frustration or anger or heartbreak. 

Or, I will read your musings and I will write you back and tell you that your journey is my journey. And that your kids sound like they act like my kids. And that your life seems wonderful and crazy and you're a lunatic (but I say that with love) and you made me laugh today and also? We. Are. One.

Women love that shit. Men, not so much. And that's okay. Because I can feel something, and throw it out there thinking, Man, am I the only one who feels like this? And someone writes back and says, Me too. And then I know it's not just me, because I have proof. Someone else said it out loud too, and that means it's not just in my head. See? Uncrazy.

But that's only part of why I'm writing. One side of it is that it gets all these ramblings out of my head. The other side is the side that connects me to you. So I will use the hands that I use to hold my babies, to make dinner, to love my husband and to care for the house-eating puppy, to do this too. To write away. And as I clickety-click it all out there, I will feel your hands holding mine. Just holding and squeezing and outhaling through it all, every time.

Sad? No. Exactly the opposite, actually.

:)))