Big Girl

As I'm writing this hullabaloo I'm 5'5" barefoot (although I lie often and say I'm 5'7", 5'8" in shoes).  I weigh almost 200 pounds, wear a 13 pant (yes I still wear Junior's), an extra large shirt, 40D bra and size 10 shoe.  Of all the stats I just divulged, guess which causes the greatest insecurity: that's right.  The shoe size.

I get it, I'm overweight.  When I sit down my tummy touches my thighs (partly because of posture, mostly because of Pepsi).  When I shop for clothes I feel my bottom lip stick out a bit because the tops and dresses and skirts I really like are in the cute girl section, and I'm over in Floral Print City, hangin' with the other Big Girls buying blousey tops and super-support bras.  But I can handle that.  I was once a healthy weight; no muffin top, no cellulite (I still don't have cellulite, for the record, but it's assumed that I do because I've broken chairs just by sitting in them...true story).  But being a Big Girl isn't something that troubles me, really.  Jonas still follows me into the bedroom when he knows I'm going to be changing clothes.  I still check out my own ass in the mirror at the tanning salon.  I wear my Bigness, it doesn't wear me.

Having said that; the insecurity I've been fighting since puberty is one that isn't often talked about.  I have a vivid memory of Christmas 1996: Titanic was just released at theaters and I went to a local Cinema to see it.  Sitting there, sipping my BFF Pepsi waiting for the previews to end (when the lights are still on) I scanned the spectators around me.  It was the usual bunch; pre-teen DiCapriaddicts, reluctant parents.  Then I spotted them.  A few rows down, just to my right, two feet propped on the chair in front of their owner.  Planted at the end of her athletic legs were two tiny pink and white Nike's, slightly worn.  I studied her feet, and the ratio of length to width.  They were...what's the word...normal.  I looked down at my banana boats and felt that familiar sting of jealousy.

Let me explain; as a Big Girl I have been the subject of some harsh ridicule.  At work I was having a conversation about the wintery weather.  I said, casually "I'm not built for this cold!" to which the vending guy immediately responded "Yeah ya are."  Burn.  As a Big Girl there are clothes I'm not comfortable wearing; tube tops (no one should, BTW), tight-fit button down tops (gaps), anything see-through.  As a Big Girl I pretend not to notice when fellow patrons of the buffet try to beat me to the desert bar in fear that I'll stack everything on my plate and have it eaten before I reach my seat.  And, believe it or not, I can handle all these things.  As they say; I have a pretty personality (hahaha).

As a Big Girl with Big Feet I have literally cried in the middle of Payless.  I walk passed aisles and aisles of size 6, 6 1/2, 7, 7 1/2, 8, 8 1/2.  Stilettos, flats, loafers, sneakers, thongs, Fuck Me Pumps and decks.  Beautiful, funky, chic, elegant, abstract, trendy.  Once you reach the darkened corner at the back of the store there is a half rack with a handwritten sign that reads 9-10.  Back here there are no shiny silver foot measuring thingy's.  There are no cushioned pedestals with built-in mirrors to admire your new wedges.  No eager employee to slide cute sandals over your soft little Cinderella feet.  Nope.  It's just you, 20 boxes of orthopedics and a random sequined platform nightmare.  Just you and the harsh reminder that you're not a worthy demographic.  You're a Big Girl with Big Girl Feet, and toes you can dial a rotary phone with.  You could probably borrow your boyfriend's shoes.  But not his pants, you'll never get them up over your hips.

When females become adults we (hopefully) have developed enough manners to refrain from calling Big Girls out as Big Girls to their face.  I don't think I've ever been ostracized for my girth by another female.  But my feet - my feet are fair game.  "Oh my god, you have like the longest toes ever!"  "I'd let you borrow my heels but you're feet are like 4 sizes bigger than mine."  "I got these at Shoe Department, but I doubt they come in your size."  Had any of these comments been aimed at my waist, instead of my feet, these would be fighting words.  But since it's just feet, I'm supposed to accept this criticism and forget about it.

But I can't.  Here's why: I'm OK with being a Big Girl, in part, because when I decide I want to be a Fit Girl or a Thin Girl, I can lose weight.  I can work out and eat healthy and take supplements and join a gym and pay for Weight Watchers and purchase bell weights and give up my one-true-love Pepsi.  When I decide that I'm no longer OK with being a Big Girl I have the power to change it.  To change myself.

I have an 8 year old daughter.  I've told her through-out her life that she needs to understand the difference between the things about herself she can change, and the things she cannot, and she can change her attitude toward the things that she cannot change about herself.  For instance:  she cannot change the fact that she has freckles.  She can change how frustrated she is that they keep popping up everywhere by choosing to accept and celebrate them as tiny reminders of her heritage.

I'm reminded of this lesson as I stare at my ski feet, dreading the impending Spring and, with it, all the occasions I will inevitably be barefoot in front of others.  I cannot change the size of my Yeti feet.  I can change my attitude about them.  My dad use to tell me "big feet are a strong foundation."  It makes me smile to remember how keen he was to my insecurities.  So as the Earth spins us predictably towards the Sun, and temperatures flirt with with the upper end of the thermostat, this Big Girl is going to make an honest effort to put on her Big Girl panties and take off her 9-13 socks.

Frenching

The first time I frenched a boy was in the sixth grade.  I would have been 11 or so.  Having typed that I suddenly find my stomach full of stinging bile because my daughter is only 2.5 years away from that very same age.  Ugh.  Anyway, I was 'going out' with a cutie patootie we'll call Jack.  'Going out' in the sixth grade consisted of holding hands in the hallway and writing love-struck notes that said things like 'you are really cute today in your blue shirt.'  Jack and I were obviously destined to be together for.ev.er.  Jack was not my first ever kiss, but he was my first ever French.  If you don't know what a French kiss is you aren't old enough to read this post.  Go brush your teeth, wash your face and get ready for bed.

My most distinct memory of my first ever French was that my heart was on a crusade to violently ram its way through my sternum to kiss Jack itself.  I knew the French was coming because we had given awkward little pecks before every single class for like a whole week straight.  Let me set the scene: just that morning before homeroom I kind of forgot to close my mouth all the way when Jack leaned in to lay a juicy one on me.  Since my mouth was slightly open the peck was extra juicy in the worst possible way.  Jack pulled back quickly, staring at me with a fear I can only equate to the look men get when you tell them you're pregnant.  Don't worry, I didn't figure that out until years later.  In my preteen insecurity I scrambled to save face and attempted a quick recovery by blurting out, "what?!  You never Frenched a girl before?  Geez!"  He blushed severely and then promptly ran away.  Full speed.  Smooth.

I sat through homeroom in sheer terror at what I had done and said.  I can't FREAKIN believe I didn't close my mouth.  Did it feel like when a baby tries to kiss you?  All toothless and slobery?  Did I taste like the cigarette I snuck while my mom warmed up the car?  Would he ever want to kiss me again?  The bell rang for first period so I shuffled into the hallway to search the perimeter.  No Jack.  I walked quickly to his locker.  No Jack.  The weight of rejection pressed down on me.  By third period I was convinced of my destiny to die an old maid, unloved, alone with my plants, when one of my besties passed me a note.  Inside she had written, 

You slut! 

You totally made out with Jack, 

every body knows!!  

luv u    

4 ur eyes only

I left class to find Jack, and seemingly every other person in the Western hemisphere, standing outside the door.  His cheeks had regained a normal color, I had regained my unjustified confidence.  I walked up brazenly and stopped within inches of his face, as though I was daring him to live up to my false pretenses.  I smiled, "Hey babe!" and lunged at him like a crocodile after a gazelle (which was fitting, considering he was really thin and I had gator grill).  Before I knew it our tongues were in each other's face holes and our audience sounded like a Saved By The Bell audience. "oooOOOoooOOO!" was the soundtrack to my first ever French.  And it was epic.

Jack obviously isn't the only boy I've ever Frenched.  I've had some really great kisses, some complete fails.  One guy I dated in college had a habit of impaling my uvula with his tongue like the Dark Lord trying to extract my soul.  After our first French I remember he pulled back, looked me dead in the eyes and said "You taste like a meal I could eat every day."  Like, legit.  So gross.  One long-term boyfriend had an interesting technique; he would almost lick the inside of my top teeth with the very tip of his tongue.  This was incredibly awkward because in order for him to accomplish this I had to maintain a 'dental chair' pose, so as not to pierce his tongue with my snaggletooth.  And then there were the total douche bags that capitalized on the opportunity to showcase their prowess in the hopes that I would realize their, ughmm, oral potential, if you will.  Newsflash dudes, it's not a skills assessment, calm the fuck down.  

There are moments in a girls life that are defined by a kiss; sometimes its a French kiss.  When you lose the big V, for example.  Sidebar, this is where it gets real.  Somewhere along the way society decided that putting your still-attached tongue into the mouth of another human is the universal precursor to sex.  Not every time, but often.  Its like you're pantomiming a permission slip for your partner to head to the next base.  Maybe it's a little under-the-sweater action.

Young people, primarily pre-teens and teenagers, use Frenching as a public expression of status.  Let me explain; from sixth grade through eighth, Skate World was the place to be.  Whether you liked to roller skate or not, you were there with your besties every weekend watching boys pretend not to notice your white bra glowing through your grey T-shirt, thanks to some strategically placed black lights.  And peppered through-out the rink were couples in semi-dark corners leaned against the railing, eating each other's faces off.  They didn't hide behind the Pac Man game, or sneak around the back of the building where us smokers liked to dwell.  Nope, they were front and center, making sure each one of the other patrons were an unwilling spectator to their premature PDA.

Young adults tend to be more illusive with their affection.  I once hosted a party in the apartment I shared with my then-boyfriend, and two of our guests were a newly married couple.  At some point during the festivities I opened my coat closet to find them half-way to third base, between the Christmas decorations and my snow vest.  All I could do was roll my eyes, shut the door, and break the news to Stu that he would just have to hold on to his jacket for a bit.

Parents and couples who've been together more than a couple years are an entirely different breed of kissers.  You don't always get butterflies when you lock lips with your significant other.  Sometimes you're so pressed for time you forgo the previews and skip right to the feature film (if you know what I mean).  Even little pecks on the lips become rehearsed and reflexive.  That doesn't always mean the romance is gone; its probably just because you learn, over time, that there are far sexier things you can do as a couple.  Like finish the month with money left over, or eat from the same pint of ice cream.  That's one of the best things about monogamy.  Hollywood and Cher would have us believe that the only way to know if you've met your soul mate is by sharing an intense French while the Philharmonic suspends time with Bach.  According to Sheril Kirshenbaum, Special to CNN in an article for cnn.com, 

A passionate kiss acts like a drug, causing us to crave the other person thanks to a neurotransmitter called dopamine. This is the same substance involved in taking illegal substances such as cocaine, which is why the novelty of a new romance can feel so addictive.

If this is true, would a kick-ass French help amp up an existing romance?  Probably.  If Jonas (that's the boyfriend) cornered me in the kitchen, scooped me in his arms and passionately planted one on me, I would probably get those familiar butterflies.  But I'm not in the business of lying to people so I gotta say; my breath would most likely be a sinister combination of Marlboros, Doritos, some form of chocolate, Pepsi and cold coffee.  His breath would be laced with Vienna sausages, Slim Jims, Nutella and a protein shake.  If I'm in the kitchen it's because I'm cooking something so he would probably set fire to the hair on his arms and the counter would dig into the small of my back like a katana blade.  He's a foot taller than me (exactly) so he would have to contort his body like a giant Quasimodo and would inevitably squish what he affectionately calls my "Pug Nose".  One or both of our kids would spot us from the living room and immediately react they same way they did when we saw the hippo at the zoo take a shit in its own wading pool.  Jonas would playfully yell "Shut it" and I would be fanning away the smoke from the cigarette I would most definitely be smoking.

I know, I know, my life reads like a Danielle Steele novel, right?

I give Jonas a ton of crap for not romancing me like a movie couple.  So I'm going to recant some of the uber romantic gestures we do in place of Frenching:  

• Jonas cleans the make up and cheek oil off my phone before he puts a new case on it
• I scratch Jonas's gigantic back because his gigantic arms don't bend that way
• Jonas always cleans the toilet after Taco Bell devastates his intestinal track
• I yell our order across Jonas in the drive through because he thinks no one but me can understand him when he speaks
• Jonas always checks my nose holes for nuggets before we walk into any public place
• I let Jonas know when his facial man-scaping is uneven
• Jonas always opens doors for me
• I always smile, run my hand along the arm holding the door, and say thank you

I know what his tongue tastes like.  I know he will always lift heavy items.  I know any night of the week he will tackle a burglar butt-ass naked.  And I know he loves me to little bitty pieces, so I don't need a French to feel frisky.  

When I was a kid...

Let me start by saying that when I decided on the title of this blog post I felt that, while appropriate for the content, it seemed strange to me.  Most days, most hours really, I still kind of feel like a "kid."  I still really enjoy trampolines, roller coasters, candy bars, Disney Pixar movies (really, though, who doesn't).  I think it's SUPER funny when people fall, I ABSOLUTELY hate getting up with an alarm and I still have a favorite color.  But I'm gonna call it like I see it and say for all intents and purposes I'm grown.  I vote, pay bills, work, raise a kid, yada yada.

In the process of raising that kid I've noticed an increasing frequency of the words "when I was a kid" flying out of my mouth.  You know the script: When I was a kid we ate whatever mama cooked, When I was a kid we didn't have an xBox, we had our imagination, When I was a kid people didn't shoot schools up.  I've heard that prefix from every parent I've ever spent more than 30 minutes with.  I'm sure you can think of a few your parents used against you, maybe a few you've used against your own kids.

A few nights ago for dinner I cooked baked chicken with fresh garlic, sea salt and basil.  Yes, it does sound delicious.  Peyton (that's the boyfriend's son) didn't want to eat his chicken.  He's eight.  I'm 31 and I prefer Chicken McNuggets so I can't really blame the kid.  Jonas (the boyfriend) told him "Eat your chicken, Peyton, its good for you."  Sidebar: don't ever ever ever try to persuade any human under the age of 24 to do anything because it's 'good for you'.  You may as well tell them it's battery acid and will disintegrate their insides.   Peyton was still reluctant to eat the battery acid chicken so Jonas followed up his argument with "When I was a kid we had to eat everything on our plate."  To which I promptly responded with an exaggerated eye roll.  Jonas asked, "you didn't have to eat all your food?"  Umm, no, my parents love me.  Obvi.  Think about it; did the kid choose his meal?  His portions?  No.  Did he ask for baked chicken?  Nope.  Should he be gracious and accept the blessing to the nourishment of his body?  Absolutely!  Does he have to like it?  Hell no.  And, for the record, not all the things from when you were a kid are relevant to our children.  

I'm not taking a stand against eating all your food, that isn't the point I'm trying to make.  What I'm saying is that using your childhood experiences to make well-rounded, sound judgments in parenting is a fantastic idea.  Lording the rules and punishments that were inflicted upon you as a child over your kid as a tool to diminish, discredit or demean their choices or desires is shitty.  And I'm just as guilty.  Stay with me here: In my personal experience the majority of the time when my dad began a sentence with 'when I was a kid' I didn't hang on the edge of my seat in eager anticipation of the sage wisdom he was about to lovingly bestow upon me.  No, I rolled my eyes in utter dismay at having to suffer through another example of his presumed suck-ass childhood.  If he were to collectively tell all his "when I was a kid" stories you would be strongly inclined to call child protective services to have his parents retro-actively charged for abuse, neglect, wanton endangerment and schizophrenia.  But if you ask my dad "how was your childhood?" he would respond with a sincere "It was great."  Now tell that to a ten year old who wants to stay up 30 minutes past bedtime but can't because her dad never could.  What?

And who's to say that the rules you were made to follow or the punishments you received were the most appropriate for you, or are the most appropriate for your child?  Let's reverse the role a bit; when I was a kid (see what I did there) I played in the street, with no adult supervision, for hours until it was too dark to see the dodge ball.  One neighborhood kid was in charge of yelling 'Car!' and NO ONE was in charge of reporting stranger danger when people walked by.  I was about nine.  If my kid asked to do that now I would lose my shit and lock her in her room for 15 years.  She could be kidnapped, killed, raped, sold for meth, given meth, talked into becoming a politician, fall onto a dirty needle.  The possibilities of impending doom are endless.  What was perfectly acceptable for me when I was a kid is unthinkable for my kid now.  When I was a kid I wasn't allowed to have my elbows on the dinner table.  Why?  My forearm is ok but my elbow is unacceptable?  Is this real life?  Are we having tea with the queen? Will someone faint at the sight of my boney elbow while they eat?  It's a little ashy, but not that bad.  

Now people have taken to social media to lord those rules and punishments over the younger generation.  And you sound like a grumpy old person who can't figure out all this new fangled techno babble.  These memes brag about being spanked like it's the sole reason you aren't a raging alcoholic serial killer who wears human heads as hats.  There's an underlying judgement against a generation of children that YOUR GENERATION RAISED!  Think about that while you enjoy the next photo.

MmmmHmmm.  So, riddle-me-this Batman; who bought the 10 year old the laptop, iPod and Blackberry? (which BTW no one owns a Blackberry...no one)  That's like parking your own car, then being angry at how your car is parked!  I know it's a generalization; so are all the jabs at the "kids these days."  Sidebar: One of my favorite quotes from a meme (sorry I couldn't find it!) said "Generation X invented the internet; show some respect Generation Y".  Is this real life?  That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Like ever.  

Will people stop saying "when I was a kid.." as a result of this blog?  Nope.  And that's ok, it's a time honored tradition of frustrated parents to try and rationalize with their mini-me's to get them to calm the fuck down about whatever injustice they feel they've suffered.  But, I would like to try and use this sentence enhancer in a slightly different way:

• When I was a kid my dad worked constantly, so I try very hard to be present with my child at dinner time.  Because I believe we're building memories she will one day cherish.
• When I was a kid I never saw my mom cry.  Because of this I felt shamed by my own grief.  I don't want my daughter to fight that demon, so I will show her my tears, in an appropriate way, to help her grieve freely and grow emotionally.
• When I was a kid I watched my parents playfully express affection with laughter and kisses and teasing.  I now find that same affection in my relationship and it makes me grateful that our kids see it too.
• When I was a kid my sister Jessie never let me wallow in self-pity, and now that she's in a health battle, I know how to pull her up just like she used to pull me up.
• When I was a kid my mother openly accepted every single friend I ever brought home, regardless of ethnicity, religion, sexual orientation or financial status.  She gave freely to panhandlers, tipped generously, smiled at everyone.  I grew up to be that kind of woman, and my daughter will do the same.
• When I was a kid my biological dad disappeared.  My step-dad didn't blink an eye, he just stayed right where he was; where he still is today.
• When I was a kid I was told constantly that I had immeasurable potential and that I would be loved unconditionally.  I am realizing my potential and loved relentlessly by my parents every day.
• When I was a kid we laughed every single day.

Because when I was a kid, life was amazing.

The Facebook Paradox

Hi, my name is Carrie, and I'm addicted to Facebook.

          Hi Carrie.

I've been Facebooking since 2009, I think.  It's really accelerated in the last 2 years or so.  At first it was just every once in a while, you know, if my friends were doing it.  Then my marriage got really rough, I turned to Facebook as an outlet, for relief.  Back then it was pure, you know, clean posts, just words and stuff.  Now all of a sudden it's cut and diluted and mixed with pictures and YouTube clips; and all these memes.  Fuckin' A, the memes are endless.  I just wish sometimes, you know, I just wish I had never even clicked in that What's On Your Mind box.  But, I mean, I'm hooked, you know.  I'm hooked.  And I'm not the only one.

As I'm writing this hullabaloo I have 472 friends on Facebook.  472.  In real life I think I have maybe 11, and that includes Jonas and our 2 kids.  I have literally ran into my FB friends in public and purposefully ignored them, as though I hadn't a clue who they were.  I've been approached in public by FB friends and didn't recognize them.  Not even a little.  This is the paradox we'll examine.  Sidebar: A paradox is a statement or proposition that, despite sound (or apparently sound) reasoning from acceptable premises, leads to a conclusion that seems senseless, logically unacceptable, or self-contradictory.  Also known as: shit that don't make sense.

There are 4 types of FB friends:

1. People you genuinely want to connect with.  These are your homies, your work peeps, your long-distance-but-close-to-the-heart-relatives, your boo and his mom, maybe a cool teacher you had in school, the hot girl from work, and so on.  There is usually one or two you care so much about that clicking Like on their status update is almost reflexive because you're Team Whoever They Are.  They share a meme, you share that meme.  They type Amen on some fake ass oh-poor-guy story, you type Hallelujah and misspell that shit without a second thought.  Because you're pretty much all about whatever they're all about.  For me, my sister Jessie fits this bill.  Til she gets all churchy then I'm out.  Which brings us to number
2. People you want to debate.  Don't even act like there's not at LEAST one person on your newsfeed that makes your heart flutter with that amazing fight or flight reflex every time they decide to jump on whatever band wagon pisses you off.  I have about 40.  I'm probably that person to about 70 of my FB friends, and I'm cool with that.  Somewhere on your friends list is an asshole who's posts tic you off just enough to get you to either respond full throttle, or post some passive aggressive status that goes something like this: "Think itz time ta clean up my frend list cuz SOME PPL don't no how ta mind they DAM busness fa real.  Worry bout yo shit ima worry bout MY shit ok? fa real cuz these bitches wanna ack like they no me n they betta then me BITCH YOU WILL NOT MAKE THA CUT"  I made myself giggle.  You may have an articulate opponent.  They fall into a subcategory of #2: The educator.  You write a post, or comment on their post, about politics, religion, justice and it seems for a while that they aren't going to respond. Until you get a seven paragraph report on the subject complete with links to reputable articles and news affiliates.  I love that shit.  That shit is my crack!  Like, legit.  Anywho, these FB friends will more than likely remain your FB friends because somewhere deep inside you is an angry little elf who wants to ruffle some feathers.  Then there's number
3. People you don't or won't unfriend because you don't want to be a dick.  This is a fascinating relationship (I have more than a few).  Sometimes it's accidental; like when you go on a few dates with a guy, and his sister requests you so you accept but then you find out he has a deal-breaking obsession with Dukes of Hazard memorabilia so you stop taking his calls and he finally takes the hint and you forget she's even on your list until she posts something like "spent the afternoon with David, trying to cheer him up.  I know his Princess is out there somewhere, just got to get over the evil witches he keeps running into. #lovemybrother #fuckyouwhore"  Maybe that's just my problem.  Sometimes you just legitimately grow apart and you find yourself stuck in some strange balance between 'I have no valid reason to maintain contact' and 'I have no valid reason to terminate this connection.'  That's just awkward...I don't really have any advice for that one.  If you come up with something feel free to leave a comment, I'd like to know.  Then there's my personal favorite, number
4. Thirsty Bitches.  Yes, honey, we all know them, we all love them, some of you are them and I just want to say from the bottom of my heart, you're out of control, go sit the fuck down.  So a Thirsty Bitch is a person who is so starved for attention they will 'bait' their FB friends with various posts.  They really want somebody to either tell them they are attractive/sexy, feel sorry for them, think they're super amazing, defend them, etc.  Sidebar: if upon reading #4 you suddenly find yourself formulating a response, what you're actually doing is building a defense, because you're guilty.  True story.  These are the FB friends with whom you wouldn't spend any actual time, even if it was the good end of a plea bargain.  The FB friends who's posts immediately cause a compulsive eye roll.  The ones you judge relentlessly for a myriad of reasons.  Examples?  Sure!  a) being fat and posting stupid shit like #thinkingthin on Monday, then on Tuesday "dinner was on point today! Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, cole slaw, baked beans, corn bread, bacon wrapped shrimp fried in Crisco, mac n cheese, pizza rolls, ice cream cake with banana pudding and cinnamon rolls"   b) posting an obviously filtered Instagram selfie captioned "No Make-Up"   c) the top of her page says she's in a relationship but her timeline is mostly selfies with her office ass on the bathroom sink (where her kid brushes her teeth BTW) with one hand in her hair and her Duck Face on, because every guy likes a squishy-ass platypus.  Classy d) The lonely heart: "Why is it so hard to find a good man/woman??"  eHarmony is pennies a day people.  The point is, these FB friends usually provide some level of entertainment value, and almost always make me feel better about myself in comparison.  I know, I know, that's awful. I don't care.  Sometimes Jonas and I will sit and thumb through our newfeeds and laugh at the #4's together.  On several occasions he has walked clear across the house with the sole purpose of telling me about a #4 and he always starts the conversation with "Did you see what this bitch posted?!"  So thank you for providing quality time with my boyfriend.  It's really enriched our relationship.  Like, legit.

So, back to my original point: the Facebook Paradox of defining a 'friend' doesn't exist in any other application of the word.  A similar paradox may be found when attempting to identify a colleague; a "work friend".  In adulthood we adopt the term acquaintance in an effort to compartmentalize the relationships we have that are impersonal.  But to label a person as any kind of "friend" would suggest a personal relationship.  In the movie "You've Got Mail" Joe Fox (Tom Hanks) defends the corporate take-over of Kathleen Kelly's (Meg Ryan) book store with the old adage "It's not personal; it's business."  Her response? "Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal."  Classic.  So I started to think about the 472 "friends" I've chosen to connect with on Facebook.  How many have I chosen to connect with personally?  How many would I willingly donate a kidney to?  How many would I invite to my wedding?  A dinner party?  Coffee?  And the cold hard truth is; not many.  I have a slight twinge of guilt in my heart parts but the reality is that most people feel the same way.  

Why?  Because its just Facebook.  

I think I read somewhere once that it began as a platform for students of universities to share knowledge, ideas, research findings, etc.  Now it's where I go when I'm bored to see if my favorite Thirsty Bitches are still struggling for a drink.  They are, by the way, I just checked.  FB introduced to me the single greatest time wasting mechanism known to man; Candy Crush.  FB allows me to KIT with the people who told me to in my year book.  It's where I go to brag on my kids, share stories of subjects I'm passionate about, rally support of life changing decisions, catch up with people I love but can never seem to make time for.  I connected with each of these 472 people for a reason.  Either because I love them, I like them, I respect them or I really really really enjoy judging them.  But I don't feel bad about that; every time I update my status I'm subjecting myself to those same judgments from those same 472 "friends."

So to my 472; if you're a #1, I love you, and I'm so grateful that we have a way of staying connected on a daily basis.  If you're a #2, I have some thoughts on Clay Aiken's political campaign I'll be sharing later this week.  If you're a #3, I'm either going to start connecting with you, or set you free.  And if you're a #4, stay Thirsty, Bitches.

Is This Real Life?

I wonder sometimes, especially when I'm observing nouns (you know: people, places, things), if I've become prematurely old.  I recently watched the Grammy's with my bestie Lee Lee and I found myself repeatedly shaking my head in disapproval of the nouns on the television.  The mustache on the guy from F.U.N., the Smokey The Bear Hat swallowing Pharrell William's head, every single thing Lorde did, wore, said.  Watching these beautiful, young, talented, probably rich celebrities doing and saying and wearing things that I'm sure are very trendy I just kept thinking to myself: Is this real life?

Like, is this a real thing? Wearing some weird frost-bite style black shit all around the tips of all your fingers?  Is this what people do now?  Because....no.

This shit.

And it isn't just fashion and pop culture that has me feeling like a fossil.  It's the behavior of the younger people I'm around.  I overheard a conversation the other day between two late-teen-early-twenty-something ladies (really sweet girls) who, according to them, really need to start going to church to "find a guy that's not into Molly's".  Yeah, because Match.com ain't got nothin' on Jesus, and every guy who isn't in whatever church you grace with your ulterior motive is a Molly poppin' douche.  Is this real life?

Maybe my problem isn't age related.  I mean, I'm only 31.  Sure, I can't climb a flight of stairs without cussing and panting, but we'll blame that shit on Marlboros, fat cells and gravity.  And maybe I have a few wrinkles and a suspicious looking "freckle" (because the word mole isn't in my vocabulary).  Maybe I shouldn't judge at all.  It's a sweet notion, but this is true story, not a meme about being a better person so save that shit for Pinterest.

I don't know how I've made it to this point in my life still clinging to my wide-eyed wonder of all things ridiculous.  You would think that at this point I would be pretty jaded, maybe a bit bitter.  But no, I'm still fairly surprised at the stupid/frustrating/outrageous shit I see and hear.  The chubby bastard from North Korea who, for the record, if spotted at the mall on a random Sunday would easily be mistaken for a 17 year old, blows my freakin mind!  His insane sense of entitlement and violent tenancies have me completely baffled.  Seriously, is this real life?  Then Dennis Rodman decides to be his BFF?  Like, legit?

A heavily trafficked freeway in my home town gets a brand new sign with a two-foot typo.  Come on, people!  Every single effin time I open a 2 liter of Dr. Pepper it explodes.  What?!  I can't substitute white cheddar bites for fries at Zaxby's because their register doesn't support that function.  Are you joking?!

But in all my frustration, when I really think about it, I guess I'm kinda grateful that I can still be surprised.  Like when my kid brings her already good grades up to great grades.  Or when I'm cramming to get work done and feeling stressed and incapable Jonas sends me a pic of our kids being ridiculously cute.

Being caught off guard isn't always a bad thing.  Sometimes, its exactly what I need.

Bathroom Pie

I'm sure your mind is conjuring a number of pretty gross images that could depict "bathroom pie".  Poop, mostly, I'm sure.  But, no, I'm not talking about feces here people, pay attention.  I'm going to tell you a ghastly tale of love, loss, danger, learning to overcome adversity, and one slice of pumpkin pastry.

Val (that's my kid) and I were getting ready one morning.  She and I in the morning are something like those people in the movies who suddenly find themselves on the cusp of an apocalyptic state of emergency.  We both lazily ignore our alarms in favor of our '5 more minutes' mistake until the last possible second we can sleep before I lose my job and a truancy officer knows us by name.  When we finally pull ourselves from our beds, primal panic takes over our bodies and we become, in a sense, lunatics.  We race past each other in the hall, get your shoes! where's my backpack?! did you brush your hair or teeth or either? get in the car Val! get in the car Val! get in the car for cryin' out loud Val!  Classy.

This particular morning was no exception.  I was mid where-the-hell-are-my-keys when her small voice broke all four of my current trains of thought.

"Can I have this pie?"

I looked up to find her, not dressed (of course), hair a mess (of course), holding up a piece of pumpkin pie on a tea saucer (of cou - wait, what?).

"Is that...pie?"  We both looked at it, me in shear wonder that pumpkin pie would materialize in my child's hand, her with shear delight that there was pumpkin pie to be had.

"Yeah, I think it's pumpkin.  Can I have it?"
"I, I mean, I guess.  Where did you get it?"

"The bathroom."

Now we stared at each other, me in utter confusion that she would find pie in our bathroom, she in utter confusion that I wasn't pouring a glass of milk for her to enjoy with her Bathroom Pie.  I don't know, really, what was going through my head.  Why was pie in the damn bathroom?  Where did it come from?  Who put it there and why didn't they eat it?  Why the hell did I tell her she could eat it before these questions were answered?

To her dismay I took the pie from her to examine it.  It was relatively fresh, no sign of the weird pie dew that forms on the top when left out, it was room temperature, it smelled delicious.

"Can I eat it now?"

What was I supposed to do?  I saw the MythBusters episode, I know what happens when you flush with the lid up.  How could I let my precious 8 year old daughter consume Bathroom Pie that was possibly bedazzled with microscopic shit bits? 

"Sorry, kid."

She looked down at her shoes, I knew she was disappointed.  I tried to console her.  "Tell ya what, kid, go brush your hair, and if you happen to find, like, a chicken leg or something in there, it's all yours."

She brightened up a bit.  "You promise?"  
Sigh.
"Cross my heart."

That evening I had all but forgotten about the shit bits.  Jonas came in, happy as always, so I started my evening ritual of telling him all the crap about work that he jovially ignores.  I was following him through the house recounting the day's happenings until he stepped into the bathroom.  He pulled back the shower curtain, looked around the tub, beside the toilet, behind the door.

"What are you lookin' for, babe?"

He then turns to me, in all seriousness, and says,

"You seen my pie?"

I felt my stomach turn.  My upper lip started to curl and my eyebrows shot up to my hairline like those 7th grade girls who think it makes them look tough but really they look like they just smelled a dirty diaper.  The Bathroom Pie was his pie?  My sexy, muscular, college-educated, Greek god-like man eats Bathroom Pie?  UGH!  The man who I whole-heartily believe I was designed specifically to complete eats Bathroom Pie?  In the midst of my major life alteration he brushes passed me in the hall and heads toward the front of the house.  I heard his voice coming from the living room.

"Val, you seen my pie?"
"Yep, but Mama wouldn't let me eat it."
"Then where is it?"
My child, my sweet little baby, puts on some hateful, accusatory tone I had never heard come from her tiny pea head and tells him, "I don't know, she probably ate it just so we couldn't."

What?!?!  I took off down the hallway, through the kitchen, into the laundry room. I scooped up the trash can and took into the living room.  Holding it up at both of them I yelled "Look!  Bathroom Pie!  Right there!  Of course I didn't eat it, I'm not a whackadoo that eats Bathroom Pie for cryin' out loud! It's disGUSting!" I turned my glare on Jonas, "and the thought of you eating ANYTHING in the bathroom makes my stomach turn!  Who does that?!  Who takes food from the kitchen, into the bathroom, where the nastiest possible things happen, and consumes it like you're at Ruth's Chris and its completely normal?!  Who does that?!"  Back to Val, "and YOU, little girl, had better not EVER go behind MY back saying that I did ANYthing that I didn't, you hear me?  I don't care if you ARE just talking to Jonas that's SHADY and I'm not having it!"  I carried the can back to the laundry room, cussing under my breath.  Tell me I ate the damn pie, ya'll was trying to eat the damn pie I'm trying to save ya'll from salmonella shit bits.  Ingrates.  

It wasn't until much later that evening that I addressed the Bathroom Pie again to Jonas.  I explained that it was the NASTIEST thing I could imagine; eating in the bathroom.  And the thought that either of our kids could have easily consumed it and become violently ill really pissed me off.  He explained that he likes to eat while in the bath.  He sits in the tub and soaks his knee and eats.  Ugh.  I tried to empathize, but couldn't get passed the reactive disgust.  "I don't want to live in a house with food in the bathroom.  I don't want my daughter to see that I think its wrong but that you think its ok and then she's left confused and forced to make a decision that could leave her feeling like she's having to choose between us."

And that's it.  That's my problem.  My anger didn't show it's face until I felt like the kid was pitted against me.  And she said what she said because she felt like I was pitted against her and Jonas.  "She probably ate it just so we couldn't."  I was terrified that this was a sign of what was to come.  Our kids having to choose sides because Jonas and I were of opposing opinions or actions.  It made me sad.  It made me angry.  

Jonas and I talked about this at length.  For days, really.  We would get heated and hurtful and back away to cool down.  We (sadly) threw some your-kid-my-kid grenades.  He took a few I'm-a-better-parent-than-you bullets.  I suffered a few this-is-why-your-relationships-implode machine gun fire.  But we didn't stop talking about it until we both agreed that our best strategy as co-creators of our blended family is to show a united front.  If that means telling either kid "let me talk to your mom/dad first" then that's what we do.  If that means going into another room to throw emotional grenades until a common ground is identified, then so be it.  No good-cop-bad-cop, no mom-said-no-so-I'll-just-ask-Jonas.  And, for the love of sanitation, no more Bathroom Pie.

I Got Your Bitch

Don't flinch at the title.  Also, for the record: if spelled phonetically as I speak it, it should read "I gotchur Bitch."  It's a South End thing.

Jonas and I have been living together for a year now.  And, since I'm in a reflective mood, I've been thinking back over the past 12 months of co-habitation.  They were, if I'm being honest, the Longest. Twelve. Months. EVER.  Um, duh, I love Jonas, he's my penguin, my bestie, my boo.  But seriously, longest ever.  Ever.

Many moons ago a beautiful soul named Gator told me that if a couple can make it through their first year of marriage and come out smiling, they're good to go.  I'm going to assume that his prediction applies to couples living in sin.  I was married before and I came out of the first year with packed suit cases and squashed credit.  Jonas was married before and it lasted damn near a decade, so who the hell knows.

Jonas and I fought from day 1.  We fought over furniture placement, for cryin' out loud.  We fought over who was responsible for what, what time my alarm should go off, why I don't wake up with my alarm, who should get the bathroom first, how we should parent, or not parent, each others' kids, house guests, money, TV time, nail clippings, detergent brands.  The laughter diminished as swear words and animosity moved in and took up all the empty space between the ill-placed furniture.  I tried every approach to "talk" to him about it.  I tried active listening, lectures, texting, metaphors, crying, ignoring, reverse psychology, an actual psychologist and even some ugly ultimatums.  Every single time his response was the same: "Stop being such a bitch."  

I got your Bitch!

How frustrating is that?!  He has spent months blaming me for all our problems.  As though if some Bitch Fairy waved a magic wand that zapped all my bitchiness out, we would be just fine.  What a douche!  Some days it was so depressing and disheartening I wondered if I had made a huge mistake.  How could I live with a man who was so infuriating and inconsiderate?  How could I spend the rest of my life with a man who claimed I was "being such a bitch?"  

I got your Bitch!

But I stuck it out.  I kept thinking he would change, be better, nicer, more helpful, more considerate.  Every single day I came home from work and had to be the house (wait for it....) bitch.  Cook dinner, set the table, fix drinks, serve the food.  Grrrrr!  And he just sat there (like a douche) waiting to be...well, waited on.  Geez.

Then something REALLY infuriating happened.  It was late, my kid was asleep, Jonas was (of course) resting.  I went into the kitchen to get some Pepsi and realized there were no clean cups.  I was INSTANTLY pissed!  I scanned the counter, of course finding dirty dishes in the freakin sink and on the freakin counter.  Why the FUCK don't I have ONE CLEAN FREAKIN GLASS for my Pepsi???  

Then I had it.  My Oprah "ah-ha" moment.  I was pissed about the dirty dishes, because Jonas always washes them.  Always.  Twelve months, I had never noticed.  Never even thought about it.  Probably because I was busy packing for the all expense paid guilt trip he was about to take for never cooking.  

It really got me thinking.  What else hadn't I noticed?  The oil in my car.  Always changed.  My car insurance.  Always paid.  My alarm, wailing for at least 45 minutes every morning while I snored like a grown man, all right next to him.  My daughter.  He throws her onto her bed every night, sometimes like she's on a roller coaster, and she laughs hysterically and falls asleep smiling.

I got your Bitch.

The mail is always on the table when I come in.  I don't even know how many times I have sighed audibly and smacked it down on the DAMN counter to get it off the DAMN table so I can fix your DAMN dinner and serve you like a DAMN private chef.  How many times I've literally KICKED his shoes into a corner because they were in front of the door, maybe because he had just walked the trash to the corner and picked litter out of our yard.

I got your Bitch.

How many times have I fired a hurtful "your big ass coat doesn't go on the back of my chair"?  All the while, my clothes don't even leave room for oxygen in the closet.

Yeah.
I got your Bitch.


And its me.

I hate it that he's right.  Not because it means I'm wrong.  But because it means that for the longest twelve months of my life I was the antagonist.  The bad guy.  Not every single time, he's a flawed human like everyone else.  But all the horrible things I suffered were a product of my own ego.  All the while I was waiting for him to change, all I had to do was take his sincere advice, and stop being such a bitch.  So it took about three glasses of Flat Rock Red, a half a pack of Marlboro Special Blends and some real-shit soul searching to really admit to myself that the one who needs to change, is me.  This time, I gave myself an ultimatum.  I was either going to start focusing on all the fantastic benefits of our relationship, or set that poor boy free.  Because he's fucking awesome.  Like, legit.  And I don't ever want try to recover from losing him.  But more than that, I love him so purely that I couldn't stand the thought of him being stuck with a bitch out of loyalty.

Is it perfect now?  Don't make me laugh.  Do I still get frustrated?  Absolutely.  Do we still fight?  To the fucking death dude.

But not everyday, and certainly not over furniture.