Play....

I've heard rumors; some people think I am a "man-hater." I will quash that rumor right here, right now: I am NOT a man hater; I'm just a hater of stupid men. But what intelligent woman likes a stupid ass anyway? Dating, I thought, was going to be exciting. I welcomed the idea of meeting new and interesting people. I knew I would meet jerks along the way, but I just didn't think 99% of them would fall into the category. "Can I stay at your place tonight?" asked a dude who I had met only one time and who was too much of a pussy to drive in the possible sprinkle of snow forecasted for that evening. I mean, like a 5% chance. Um, yeah sure. I want a man who's a big baby and who creeps me out after date #1. Yeah, he stalked me for a bit. Ugh. Then there's the guy who I met in the city who started off, fully knowing I was nervous, "joking" with the cab driver about which river to throw my body into. Why I didn't hurl myself from the cab at that moment, I will never, ever know. As my Facebook friends already know, he also so kindly offered to swallow my gum for me when I didn't have a napkin to throw it out in before dinner. WORST.DATE. EVER. (As a side note, this person actually contacted me almost two years later. WHY, dude? Just WHY?) There have been others. If I ever made a second date with any of 'em, it was "just to see" if the first date wasn't fabulous simply because they were nervous or something. Me? I'm almost never nervous. I broke a tooth on one date and threw up on another and made it through, so nothing really paralyzes me. But, after almost four years of being divorced and sifting through those stupid dating sites, I decided that nothing was ever going to come of my search. Maybe, just maybe, I told myself, there was a reason I had to be alone for a long time, possibly to gain perspective or learn something more about myself. I don't know. Those things sounded good. I decided that perusing dating sites would just be for amusement purposes only when I was bored at work. Rarely have I been amused, though, because usually I was cringing. I read messages that started, "Hellow, great profile. Call me." (Really? Hellow? Didn't stand a chance.) "High! I'm really grate at grammer and speling. I double cheked my message twice. I think we are a good match. Look at m9rjf0y profile." (Again, not a chance. How these people got past second grade spelling tests, I will never know. I feel the need to hunt these teachers down...) But it's so true that when you throw in the towel, when you don't give a shit, that's when you will meet the right guy. And I did. We spoke everyday for hours and we laid our cards out on the table, the good ones and the bad ones. "Pass or play," he said. I didn't even have to mull it over. What he brought to the table was nothing I had seen in anyone before. Articulate, sweet, smart, considerate, kind, helpful, supportive, non-judgmental,communicative, and he has an awesome vocabulary and understands punctuation. Plus, he's adorable. What the fuck else could any woman want? Play. Play, play, play.....

Wounded and Scarred....

None of us are without wounds and scars. The scar on your knee/elbow/chin from the bicycle fall when you were racing home for dinner started out as a bloody cut; the one on your knee/elbow/chin from chicken pox was once a blistery-looking thing before it scabbed up; or the one on your foot from exploding Pyrex dishes when you were (ok, when *I* was) Thirty-Eight plus Three. Wounds to scars. Of course, those scars are the only ones visible to the eye. We are all wounded and scarred inside, as well, where nobody can see it or feel it or even know about it unless we allow them to. Sometimes we do allow it, but sometimes we don't and sometimes we just can’t. But when we do, it may be unknowingly or subconsciously. It's like when you're sad and you try to hide it, but only half-heartedly. Then when someone asks what's wrong and because you're so desperate and broken inside, the tears just come out because you're unable to be in so much pain all by yourself anymore. Not like you meant to cry, or meant to tell the guy in the coffee shop your problems, or even threw yourself into your bed while your ten year old sat down and pet your head and told you it was all going to be okay. (Guilty.) And then we realize how wounded we are - on the inside. How people and situations and even our own inability to change things causes all these wounds. I always told myself something would happen, something would be said, something would finally be my breaking point, because let's face it, we all have one. But what would cause it? Who would bring me to mine? When would it happen? The what: My back pain which resulted in leg pain and my inability to walk down the block without stopping ten times to rub the pains in my legs. Forty-Two wouldn't make it to Fifty-Two without a wheelchair. My body was breaking down. The who(s): A friend who stabbed me in the front and the back (in the eye, in my ribs and anywhere else that she could find)and who caused complete disarray, discontent, discomfort and distance between me and my loved ones; another friend who hurt me repeatedly and deeply, yet unintentionally; an utterly dysfunctional workplace where I have to go every day and walk on eggshells because the women refuse to like me, include me, teach me, and respect me no matter how kind and helpful I am, and a boss who ignores me and yells at me for things I wouldn't even yell at my dog for. Just to touch on a few. So, my heart was breaking down, too. The when: Well that was a building process. I can pinpoint a few times I just wanted to crawl into a ball and, well... bawl. For instance, when I could barely move at work but, like a trouper, I went in everyday without fail. An hour and a half in to one January day, I was in so much pain, I left crying and humiliated, barely able to make it out the door. Not one person offered to help me. NOT.ONE.PERSON. Then a week after that, my landlord suddenly needed me to vacate my piece of shit rental. The final straw was when I started feeling angry and sad all the time. I didn't want to speak to or see anyone except my kids. I didn't want to use the phone, which is like saying I didn't want air; I didn't want to go out; I didn't want to do anything but look at, talk to, feed and cuddle my kids. (For the record, Fifteen does not cuddle and Ten will allow it. On her terms.) I started to dislike me and it wasn't fair because I didn't want to dislike me. I happened to always think I was pretty likeable for the most part, but somehow now I didn't even like me. It wasn't even because I actually thought I was a horrible person, but because almost everyone around me -the liars, the selfish assholes, those who had a complete disregard for my health and well-being, and those who showed an utter disrespect for me - caused me to think I was somehow deserving of it all and if they thought I deserved it, then, hell, maybe I did. I mean, really...? Who looks at another person in major pain and just continues to type at their computer? What friend knowingly looks you in the face while she's secretly turning your life into a fucking disaster and she's OKAY with that? Why did my former gym-freak/aerobics instructor body start failing me so I couldn't even walk down the block to Ralph's Ices with my kid without wanting to saw my own leg off with the Stop and Shop card on my key chain? What did I do that was so horrible? Was this some sort of misfired karma? No, everyone said. But I was convinced. And because I was so convinced, so angry, and so sad that I hated seeing my reflection more than usual, I knew I hit my breaking point. Hard. No cushions, no soft falls. But when I hit it, it didn't hurt like I imagined it would because, really, I was already too broken inside and slowly breaking down on the outside so there was nothing left to damage. I had no self-esteem, no confidence, no back bone, no desire, no strength, no happiness, no love....nothing. Me. Hating life and ridiculously broken. I hated me for hating me because somehow I still knew that I wasn’t so deserving of that, and because I was aware that I didn't deserve it and wasn't stopping it, I hated me more. Vicious cycle. The only thing I did have was my love for my babies. I didn't want them to see their mom all broken and hopeless. How could I teach them lessons about being strong and not allowing others to shape who they were or what they thought about themselves if I, the tour guide of their youth, was allowing that myself and steering us all into a ditch? It was then, when I couldn't stand myself for another second, that I made a decision that started with major back surgery. Once I got the date for it, August 20th, I also decided that it was my date to start over, to find some strength somewhere, to take the risks that would, at the very least, start the ball of Forty-Two’s Single, Pain-Free, Happier Life rolling in some direction. I figured (prayed, actually) that nothing else would go wrong, but if the ball didn't roll forward into a positive direction, I was determined to make the effort to pull it in the direction I wanted it to go. The day of surgery I had two hours of sleep and I cried and worried I would die under anesthesia or I'd wake up with no feeling or that it wouldn't be successful. I told my sister where things were, what to throw out, my passwords and she knew, by default, she would get my clothes and anything cool I still owned. But I woke up from the surgery, wiggled my toes and cried with relief. The ball just rolled forward. Luckily, when I got home, I felt in my weary bones that I was going to be a quick healer. Maybe it was because I wasn't crying anymore and because my doctor ordered physical therapy only days after I got home. Even my therapist was amazed at what I was able to do so soon after surgery and I felt... confident. Another inch forward. I braced myself for my next move. I had to say goodbye to one friendship that was hurting me, and start letting go of another person who had once been a friend but who now made my heart race with anger at the mere mention of her name. As an added bonus, I made peace with another friend. That ball was really starting to roll now. Tomorrow is the three week mark since my surgery and since I decided to make positive changes in my life before I woke up one day and realized I wasted my life by living in anger, hurt, misery and by allowing other people to define my worthiness and who I was. It was three weeks ago that I took the (alleged) advice of Betty White and decided that I needed to (re)grow my vagina. So, now I have this large wound on my back that is healing into a scar. But it's not just a boo-boo wound on my skin from a physical fall or scrape; it’s bigger than that and certainly more significant. This newly-forming scar is significant because it’s the culmination of a very difficult year - physically and emotionally – and it represents my struggle, my determination and my strength to pick myself up and force myself to move forward. It represents all of my pain, inside and out. It’s proof that I can still make good decisions. It’s a reminder that no matter how bad I feel, no matter how hard my life gets, no matter how hurt I am, in the end, I will always heal.

Thanks for the Giving....

Yes, it's that time of year when everyone starts foaming at the mouth for stuffing and for thanking. It's also that time of year when everyone claims, "I'm not just thankful on Thanksgiving, but everyday!"

I think that, yes, we're all guilty of becoming quite vociferous about what we are grateful for in the weeks prior to Thanksgiving and up until the day. I also think that most of us, if not all, truly are thankful all year long even if we don't always talk about it as much as we do during this time of year.

While I've been feeling awfully down and out these days, seeming to complain A LOT, (even if not to others so much as I do to myself), I really do try to continue to remind myself of the gifts I am most thankful for, (Fourteen and Ten the absolute most, natch...) and that any and all bullshit needs to fall to the wayside; the way, WAYside. Of course, the "wayside" seems to have relocated itself to my lap so it's not as easy to escape said bullshit. But I'm going to try to expound upon my appreciations in life in my "2nd Annual Thanks Blog." (Who am I kidding? I'm sure I will forget to do this next year and the year after, so maybe I should take out "Annual" and just keep it at "2nd (and probably final) Thanks" blog.

Thanks for the Giving....

Thank you to those who have given me opportunities: whether it be an employment opportunity, one to speak my mind, or just an opportunity to try something new - Thank you.

Thank you to those who have given me support. I probably wouldn't crumble completely without it, but I'm glad to have it so that I don't have to find out.

Thank you to my family and my very, VERY select few friends for yelling at me all the truths I hate to hear, for listening to me vomit out my problems without hanging up the phone or punching me in the face. That alone takes restraint (the not punching me) and I appreciate it. If you do ever decide to punch me, just don't break my nose. It may be the one thing on me that I half-way like and also that is NOT big on me at the moment, or has ever been, for that matter.

Thanks for the Receiving...

Thank you to those who have received me into your lives completely. You are my truest, most beloved friends. By receiving me into your lives, that also means you have taken on not only me, but my hypochodria, my horrifyingly low self-esteem, my big mouth, my love for large belches, my sporadic neediness, my self-doubting monologues, and the occasional hyperventilating-from-crying-too-hard phone call and/or visit to your home at any hour (or a sickly combo of both. Sorry "D" but you're the best at keeping me calm.)

And as an extension of that, thank you for receiving me and my family into the circle of your families. Thank you, too, for receiving my whole-hearted efforts of being just as good to all of you as you all are to me. I may not be perfect and I may not always succeed at everything, but thanks for allowing me the chance to give you, or try to give you, something I want you to have; my love, my heart and my all.

Thanks for the Loving...

Again, this is another extension of the previous friends and family shout out. Sometimes it can be difficult to love someone when they are experiencing tough times, so I thank those who have loved me no matter what. You have continued giving your unwavering support and shared with me your strength, wisdom and advice, whether I have taken it or not. It seems I should actually take the advice, rather than just listen to it.

Thanks for the Loving, Fourteen and Ten. My babies have shown me love through their strength and maturity. I admire them even if they don't know it, or even if I don't always show it. Blessed, I surely am.

A special thank you to a person whose love has meant more to me than they know, who, especially during this year, has re-defined to me what love is. No easy feat since you have raised that bar quite high - maybe even to unattainable levels.

Thanks for the Leaving...

And to those who have removed themselves from my life, truly, I thank you. (and NO, this is not referring to my divorce at ALL. Just clearing THAT up just in case. Moving on...)I am thankful that I no longer need to put up with drama, nor do I want to. I have all the drama that attaches itself to simply living the life as a single, working mom. I have learned from those people who have detached themselves from me that they're not worth my efforts and that I am worth more than those people made me feel. So thank you again, but most importantly, FUCK you, too. (For the record, feeling worth more doesn't mean flipping people off in my blog is beneath me or that I am better than that. I'm still working on some shit, people. :)

So, to all I say, Thanks for the Everything and please remember to consume human amounts of food on Thursday.

The Story of My iPod....

I guess I didn't have "What it Takes." "Things Just Ain't the Same" anymore but "Who Knew?" All I wanted was "A Little Respect" but "Enough is Enough." You can "Go Your Own Way" now.

They say to "Play at Your Own Risk," which I did, but you were too "Caught Up" in your "Control." You can't have it "Any Way You Want It" all the time. "I Don't Wanna Be" with "Someone Like You" - "I'd Rather" take my "Freedom" over bullshit any day.

"Sorry Seems to Be The Hardest Word" but I think it's a nearly impossible one. "You Say My Eyes are Beautiful" and that you're "Amazed" but that's all "Wordplay." No more "Clockwatching" or "Hangin' By a Moment" for me anymore. "One Day in Your Life" you will be "Sorry," "American Boy," but right now, just take your "Saturday Night" and stay "Away From Me." Ya know, "It Takes Two" but you just want to "Do Your Thing." I am no longer "Seventeen" and won't stay "Caught Up in You." You can be "Mr. Lonely" for all I care.

I don't "Love the Way You Lie" at all. "If You Don't Want to Love Me" I can't "Make You Feel My Love" nor are you worth it. "I Don't Know Why" I refused to see this but I suppose I'm "Lucky" I did now. I guess "Heaven Must Have Sent You" so I could learn a lesson but of course if "Falls On Me" to do your dirty work. "I'll Be" totally fine, as always. "Never Again," though...

"Hurt?" yes. But "Big Girls Don't Cry" "Because of You."

So, "Fuck You."

And that, my friends, is the story of my iPod.

Man-Child, How I Love Thee....

I think the last time Thirteen listened to direction or offered me unforced affection was probably when he was still in the single digits. I loved when he would call me Mama and when he actually enjoyed sitting with me. When I smothered him with, “I love yous” he always happily returned the love and sentiment. Long gone are the days when I didn't have to wrestle him just to get a smooch. Anything that began with, "Could you please..." was met with very little resistance (if any at all). And when we were together and I started a discussion, his little lispy self eagerly participated. We talked about Spider Man and the Green Goblin, or which suit jacket he wanted to wear with which costume, who his friends were and what they did together or whether he wanted liverwurst or fried bologna for lunch (back when he still ate on his plastic superheroes plates. Awww....).

These days, there are maybe three things he says to me, and two of them are requests: "Jill, can we go to GameStop?" or, "Can you make me Ramen?" (And, um, yeah, I don't know what's with the "Jill" thing. Apparently, he thinks he is now an adult conversing with someone other than the person who dragged around an extra 70 pounds to carry, nourish and give birth to his large-ass baby self). And the third thing - his favorite thing - is to say no to anything and everything I request or say like, “Please brush your teeth, boy.” He makes no bones about his answer: no hesitance before compliance, no annoyed look - simply, NO. And that's written in capitals because if the words took shape as they left his mouth, they would be in capitals (36 point font, bolded and italicized, too).

Once in awhile I try to put that fucker into place, but he's been testing out his man-voice and his man-size on me and, unfortunately, I can't set him straight that easily. He's got about 7 inches in height on me and about 60 pounds of weight and even though he's still my kid, he manages to use that to his advantage. I think he thinks he can at the least shut me up but shutting me up ain’t ever gonna happen (for the record, it's nearly impossible).

But I, Ol' Forty-One, have always been a softie no matter how hard I try to lay down the law. I usually (and stupidly) relent and just do things myself. I also grudgingly accepted that the love he gave so freely as a little boy would never be given freely again.

A few weeks ago, right before he turned "Fourteen," my tough-ass boy surprised me. I had just gotten home with Princess Nine and he called out to me.

Fourteen: "Mommy!"

Concerned that he wasn’t referring to me by name, as was his newest preference, I stopped in my tracks. And it wasn’t “MA!” either. It was a sweet, mommy.

Ol’ Forty-One: "What do you want?"

Fourteen: "Come watch Harry Potter with me."

I am typically banned from his man-child cave unless bearing food or money, so the shock of the invitation (and the delivery of said invitation), and the fact that I had neither viddles nor green on my person, sent me running with a fire under my feet. He was on his bed getting ready to watch one of the HP movies and when I went to him, he made room for me on his bed.

Now the moment the blur of my racing body passed Princess Nine, quick footsteps followed me into his room.

Nine: “Mama, I waaaaaant you.”

She's not one to stand for any inattentiveness on my part.

Forty-One: “Sorry, kid. Brother has beckoned.”

Arguing, appeasing, and bribing moments later, we three were settled. Nine with one of her girly fashion books, me next to Fourteen and Almost Four even got in on the act and tried to fit her puppy self on the bed, too.

But the love didn’t end there.

Imagine my disbelief when Fourteen held my hand and kind of cuddled up next to his little old Ma. By the look of death in her eyes, I knew Nine wasn’t thrilled , but I was. For all his tough-boy, hormonal bullshit, for all his bad-ass non-compliance, for all his whatever elses, it made me realize that no matter what happens, he still loves Ol’ Forty One and needs to show it once in awhile.

And oh, Man-Child, how I love thee, too.

Ol’ Forty - God Bless My Mess

Have you ever met those types of people that are so put together all the time - not a hair out of place, always wearing cleaned, crisply-pressed clothing, make-up never smeared, house always spotless with a place for everything? Yeah, well, I have and I am definitely NOT one of them.

I probably shouldn’t admit this, (although I have in other blogs) but I think nothing of rolling out of bed, (and yes, I have actually rolled and fallen out of bed) and going as is to the deli/friend’s house/Home Depot/pick-up-my-kids-wherever-they-may-be. I have gone out of the house with the previous night’s mascara smudged all over my eyes and I enjoy wearing my leopard slippers to 7-11. It’s just me; I can’t help it. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I just accept that I’m sloppy; it’s too much of a hassle gettin’ coiffed all the damn time. Let me add that my house suffers from that same state of disarray that I suffer from, too. And because of that, I don’t want anyone coming over. (Well, only my very closest besties who know me, understand me and who still love me for some mysterious reason).

But then there’s that teeny, tiny one percent of the time when something strange and unfamiliar comes over me. Sometimes it’s caused by something as simple as walking into someone else’s home and feeling envious of they’re organizational skills. Other times it’s only after I’ve tripped/slipped/banged up parts of my body which always results in deep, dark, painful bruises that I decide it’s time for a change. But the other day, it was when a friend wanted to come by (one who does not yet fully know me, one who does not yet completely understand me, and one who of course because of the previous two, can not yet love me), that I decided it's time. It still remains a mystery to me why I bother to try though. I'm way too long in the tooth to change but, shit, one more time wouldn't kill me.

Yesterday, my entire lunch hour was spent buying cleaning supplies and I went home armed with a plan. Damn it, I was going to be organized to some degree even if it was to the smallest degree ever. I would eventually open my rickety old door and welcome people in without turning even slightly pink with embarrassment. When someone asks me if I have a toothpick, I will know exactly where they are! (Note to self: buy toothpicks). If someone needs a fork, they will be in the drawer, cleaned, dried and with all its other little fork friends in its little fork-shaped space and not mixed up with the wrong crowd of sharp knives. Paper and pen, you say? In that drawer over there, and yes, the pen has ink AND a cap. That was the plan. WAS.

When I got home I lugged all my cleaning supplies into the house. After I banged myself on the box of stuff in the entryway (one day, I will call it the foy-yay), I felt the rush of excitement that only the thought of possible unclutteredness could bring. I was feelin' it.

First, I decided to get dinner done AND the dishes so I started to make meat sauce for my son and meatloaf for tomorrow with the extra bit of cow I have left over. Popped that into the oven while stirring the meat on the stove. I got out a pot to boil water for the ziti. Damn, I thought, I’m on a roll. I figured I'd make my brisket and get that done, as well. So, I grabbed my trusty old glass Pyrex dish and put it on the stove because I had no counter space. Shoulda known everything was going too smoothly....

BOOOOOOOMMMMMM!

The entire glass baking dish exploded all the fuck over, knocking my can of sauce (no comments, please. I’m a Jew and don’t make real ‘gravy,’ people. Baby steps......) Glass everywhere: in the meat sauce, in every crevice of the stove, all over the counters, floors, in the dining room carpet, and of course a piece had to take a chunk out of my foot.

Sauce everywhere, including my brand new, on-sale, light-colored capris, and blood just running out of the gaping fucking hole in the top of my foot. I tried to look at it but I thought I saw bone and decided outta sight, outta mind and covered it with 12 cotton balls.

Fast forward past the ex husband coming over to possibly take me for stitches, (but shrugging it off when I asked if he thought I needed a few); past my besties coming over to make sure I wasn’t gonna lose my foot or pass out from loss of blood, past my poor, usually-non-helpful-but-struggling-to-sweep-up-sauce son, past my daughter asking too many questions as usual.... I thanked God again that nobody lost an eye from flying glass (or a foot). When I finally hobbled off to bed all throbbing and full of bacitracin, my house was still a fuckin’ wreck.

All I can say is that one percent will always be a lost cause because I will always be a fucking disaster.

God Bless My Mess.

Definition: Love

I never, ever stop analyzing - my mind turns everything over and examines things from every possible angle in order to find the meanings, reasons and purposes of everything I've experienced in my life. One of those things that I've been thinking deeply about has been the true definition of love.

It's probably safe to say that most of us are well-versed in the Corinthians passage, "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy..." Ok, so...yeah, it's all that. But oh, there's so much more.

It was as I was contemplating where I am in my life and what it is that I want that I realized how much more there is to it. Everyone probably has their own definition of what love is and it's something we all want, we all need , but do we all have that kind of love as we each define it for ourselves? I recognized in that moment of thought that it's been through every experience and through every person I've met, whether they had a positive or a negative affect on me, that has helped me to understand what love is - and is most certainly not - to me. I suppose I've taken little pieces of each moment or experience with the people who've come into and gone out of my life and put them together to make sense of something so powerful and significant. While it can be difficult to define with words, I think I've finally come to what I believe is an accurate definition - again, to me. With all my thinking (and listening to a lot of Adele lately), this is what I feel:

Real love awakens the five senses: touch, taste, smell, sight, sound. It intensifies your sense of humor, your sense of self, your sense of all that surrounds you. It moves you in all ways -to tears, to laughter - it, encourages you, and it turns darkness into light. When you feel that love, it captivates you and nothing can change it, repress it or offend it. No argument can shrink or weaken it because with pure love, your heart is bigger and stronger than your pride.

You know it's always there. It awakens in the morning with you and sleeps with you at night. It runs through your veins no matter where you go and you feel its presence no matter what you're doing or who you're with. Physical distance doesn't dim it, illness doesn't deter it, and mistakes don't make you question it. It lives and dies with you. Your heart is always content, your soul infinitely full, warm and complete.

....and that, my 5 or less followers, is what it's all about.

Ol' Sappy Forty. ----> Take a listen.... Make You Feel My Love