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

MMMBop... Yeah, that's Right.

I randomly hear the song MMMBop by Hanson (waaay back then) (usually at Wal-Mart and some idiot that works there inevitably has to make some stupid announcement over the loudspeaker as soon as it comes on....) but every time I do hear it, it makes me happy. Well, happy and sad. Happy because it's fun to sing but sad because the words are just so...true

I thought about the song tonight for some reason even though the last time I heard it was maybe a month ago in the mall. Yes, it sounds silly with the MMMBop, buh dip uh dop chorus but hey, the three Hanson brothers wrote it when they were really little so you have to expect a little silliness in the lyrics, don't you? But after all the MMMBops and buh dip uh dops are sung, the other lyrics truly do have a significant meaning. When it saturated the radio stations in 1996/1997-ish, (I remember I was a big load o'pregnantness with Thirteen at the time), I was hooked on how adorable the brothers were but really, I was in awe of their talent and drive, as well. Who comes up with these kinds of lyrics at the ages 9, 11, and 13?


You have so many relationships in this life
Only one or two will last
You go through all the pain and strife
Then you turn your back and they're gone so fast
Oh yeah
And they're gone so fast, yeah
Oh
So hold on the ones who really care
In the end they'll be the only ones there
And when you get old and start losing your hair
Tell me who will still care
Can you tell me who will still care?

Listen, I'm not saying the lyrics are completely genius, but maybe just a smidge.

It's so true that you have so many friendships and relationships in your lifetime but really...how many of them will last? So you have 6,854 friends on Facebook but of those 6,854 friends, how many really care and will still be there when you need them? When you're old and start losing your hair, (or maybe if you're like me, you start growing some in baaaad places), who will be there to buy you a toupee or to help you pluck your chin? Huh? Who?

When the chips are down, the ones that slink away are the "MMMBoppers": in an MMMBop they're gone, in an MMMBop they're not there as the great Hansons sing. As much as I love to sing the song because it's catchy and and the buh dip uh dops are challenging to sing, it makes ya think: Aren't there people in your life that really are there for the long-haul while others are just gone like that? ::finger-snap:: I have come to the conclusion that I've had, and no longer desire, too many of these sorts of people - these MMMBoppers -in (and apparently) out of my life. I'm so done with that. I want the people who will wipe my nose with their sleeve when I'm crying and have no tissues; I want the people who will feel the lump on my ribs/head/neck/toe/armpit so they can assure me I'm not dying; I want the people who will listen to me (and join me) when I laugh so hard or cry so fiercely that sound no longer actually comes out of my mouth. I want the people who don't care that I went to the deli for coffee in the clothes I slept in the night before, come to their house in said clothes and proceed to sit around for a few hours of gabbing. I want the friend who will sniff my pits in public to assure me I don't smell as bad as I think I do when I break out in some weird nervous sweat. I want the people who can tell me my faults without secretly enjoying it because somehow it makes their faults seem less...um.... faulty.

On the other end of that, I do not want people who laugh with me but behind my back knock me down or or do hurtful things intentionally. I do not want people in my life who begrudge me my successes, (even as few as they might be), but still. I do not want anyone in my life who doesn't add anything positive to it. And yes, I believe the friends that will pop the zit on my forehead or look down my throat with a flashlight are, indeed, adding something positive. They are accepting me for who I am, warts and all, and whether humoring my hypochondria or allowing me to boo-hoo to them about something, this is what friendship is about to me. Being there, no matter what.

Friendships and relationships take so much work but if you want great ones, whether it be with siblings, parents, friends, significant others or spouses, they can be as only as good as you're willing (and they're willing) to give and to make them be.

You have so many relationships in this life
Only one or two will last....
You go through all the pain and strife
Then you turn your back and they're gone so fast...


I never did and still don't give a shit that people laugh at me for liking Hanson (currently) and MMMBop but I have always found the lyrics so profound.

I often do wonder, in the end, who will be the only ones there.... ???

If Pride Had Calories, I'd Be 9,000 Pounds.

Boy, turning Forty came with more shit than I could have imagined - some good and some bad and some, well... I guess some newly-acquired knowledge. (I guess that can fall under either category).

Everything has changed for me and I'm not sure how I feel about that. I'm now questioning the virtues, the ideas, and everything else I've always believed in.

We all have a certain sense of pride, dignity, and integrity; some of us have small egos, while others have inexplicably ginormous ones; some people are self-righteous, while some are humble; some are conceited, while others are completely self-deprecating. There's well-deserved forgiveness and equally, well-deserved blame. And then there's the truth. The truth is a concept that has different meanings, or so it seems, to everyone.

I've come to a conclusion that all of those things mentioned above are full of great meaning and also full of shit at the same time. Yes, while all of those virtues and traits are fine and dandy, there has to be some sort of balance between them, as well.

I'm always able to swallow my pride if and when I have to. Sure, it tastes bad going down but, hell, when I have to do it, the results have always been worth it. Shit, if pride had calories, I'd weigh 9,000 pounds. What amazes me, though, is how other people allow their pride to get in the way of things and how they make their decisions. Sure, it's a wonderful thing to have pride in yourself and in your character, but when it prevents you from seeing situations from another person's perspective because, God forbid your ego takes a punch in the gut, is it really that important? When it comes to losing out on something significant in your life, is it not worth taking that small hit? I've always believed that nobody is that fucking great to take that hit.

But there's another, darker side to that, as well. A small ding in your pride is one thing. But when you let go of it almost completely, that's a problem. Like I said, balance is key. I've been to that side, where I've tossed all my self-respect to the ground and had it dragged through the mud for something I believed so strongly in, something so worth it, but in the end, unfortunately, all that did for me was make me feel foolish. But in another way, it was a good lesson in learning that whole 'balance' thing I mentioned. Wear your pride like you wear your winter clothing: in layers. Sometimes, you have to shed a sweater when it gets too warm, but at least you still have something still on so you don't get too cold. Does that make any kind of ridiculous sense? (Oh, my three readers, I've been up since 3:50 am. Please try to figure that one out on your own.)

Another thing I've come to realize with age is that I hate how people skew the truth in order to soothe themselves, to make themselves look better/smarter/superior to others, or just because the real truth isn't something they can accept for whatever reason. Damn, I've told the truth even when it shed me in a bad light but to me, it was the right thing to do. Sure the truth is always easier to say when it makes us look good, but I think it shows more character to admit it even when it doesn't. People dance around it, they twist and turn it, they ignore it, they exaggerate it.... To look the truth right in the eye though? (Mostly) unheard of.

Which brings me to forgiveness. I've had so many experiences in my life with so many people where this was an issue. I've forgiven people in my past for things I probably shouldn't have forgiven them for. But who says I'm so great or high and mighty that I shouldn't give others another chance (or two, or ten, or endless ones, which has been the case many-a-time). Why are too many people so intent, though, on being unforgiving? Is it their stupid dignity that gets in the way? Are they in some way partially to blame in some way, shape or form and can't accept that? Do they feel that forgiveness is a sign of weakness? I don't know about anyone else, but to me, being able to forgive is a sign or strength.

I hate questioning all I've ever believed in, all the virtues and ideas I've had about people and life, but every day, something causes me to do so. Certainly, I am far from perfect and at one time or another have had the scales tip too greatly on the pride/truth/integrity/whatever side. But I am human. I recognize these things about myself and I always want to find a balance; I strive for it.

We all have to look at ourselves in the mirror every day and remind ourselves that the person looking back at us is the one person we have to make decisions for and live with forever. When I feel like I'm losing my own sense of self or have done something I am not too proud of, I never revert my eyes from that reflection - I face it and try to do the best that I can to change or make up for anything I need to. I don't want my ability to forgive or to be honest or any of those other things to become unrecognizable to me. But sometimes they do and unfortunately, it's because I've allowed people and bad experiences to do that to me. I don't want that, and I really don't want to question myself and who I am because at the end of the day, warts and all, I still want and like to be Ol' Forty.

Thanks Be

Normally, I just say little prayers in my head and thank God silently. But here's a list to my three readers of what I am thankful for:

1) My kids, Thirteen and Nine. The lights (and pains in the asses) of my life. Nothing would be the same without you two. Even though life has changed for all of us, all is still pretty damn good and for those things that are a little shaky, Ol' Mama Forty will make it all good. I love you two to pieces.

2) My family (Ol' Sixty Eight, Forty-three and even Ol' Forty-Eight). No matter what, you are all constants in my life through the good, bad and the-fucking- so-ugly-it's-ridiculous.

3) My friends. The ones I met through my kids' school, the ones who I've known through my own schooling and the ones who've gone away and come back. You all are the people who I hold near and dear to me, sometimes nearer and dearer than other times. ;-)

4) My sense of humor. It gets me through all those aforementioned good, bad and so fucking-ugly-it's-ridiculous times. I laugh at myself constantly even when I want to scream. Who else can walk into work with a bra hanging off her shoulder and laugh all day?

5) My sense of who I am. It's taken me years to figure it out but I finally know. I no longer care so much how others perceive me because perception is just that - we all see things differently. My truths are the most important to me because I know what I believe, I know what I mean, I know my own intentions. If someone else chooses to see it differently, then so be it. As long as I know what I know.

6) My determination. I have done things that I never thought I would do. I have pushed through things I never thought I could get through. I have achieved certain goals that, at one time or another, seemed unattainable. Sometimes it takes me years and years to accomplish what I want to, but I always find a way.

7) My belief and desire to forgive and be forgiven. Everything and everyone deserves chances - sometimes one, sometimes two, sometimes countless. Most, if not all things, can be worked through. At least I think so.

8) Pizza and Pindar. (come on... we knew that was coming)

9) The opportunity(ies) to speak my mind. We should all be able to do so no matter what.

10) People that tell me my bra is stuck to my shoulder. I am so thankful for you.

11) Food Network. The day isn't complete without the Neelys or Paula Deen, y'all!

12) My dog, Almost Three. She's a little nutty lately but she wags her weapon-like tail at me and always smiles when I need to see one.

13) Discount stores. How else would I be able to buy a wardrobe for under $100?

14) Suavitel fabric softener. My clothes smell yummy all for the low price of $7. Who needs Downey? (well, except for the one below...)

15) Robert Downey Jr. Period.

16) To those that love me through it all... no matter what. You make my days brighter knowing that you believe in me and the person I truly am even when I fuck up, which I will admit to doing here and there ;)

17) My age-earned wisdom. Even though sometimes I'm off the mark, at least I'm reasonable enough to know and understand WHY I'm off the mark. Age does have its benefits.

To be continued.....

Ol' Forty

An Open Letter.....

How many times have you had conversations in your head with people who you need to speak with but you can't for some reason? How many times have you wanted to bawl someone out who fucking deserved it but you can't because it would cause too many other things to snowball so you just hold it in? How many times have you eaten a really good fucking slice of pizza and wanted to hug the person who put just the right amount of cheese on it and baked it to a bubbly brown? How many times have you just had a damn day/week/month/year that was so crazy, you wished you could address everything and everyone involved personally?

For me? It's been millions. So here's an open letter to all:

Dear The Idiots I Have Recently Encountered:

Thank you for showing me that in order to make yourselves feel better, you make up lies and embellish stories. Not only have you fucked up parts of my life, but you've also made me realize that 99% of people are just selfish assholes and I can no longer have faith in most people. Somehow, someway, I will find the strength to delete you all from my stupid Facebook account.

Dear Former Employers Who Have Treated Me Like Crap:

You have taught me many a lesson in being an employee. I will no longer be able to be honest to a fault about who I am and what I want because you have taken advantage of that and have treated me like a worthless piece of shit. Lesson learned and I pity the fuck that crosses me again in the work place.

Dear Friends Who Are No Longer Friends:
Oh, just fuck you. So not worth more words than that.

Dear People Who Have Stood By Me:
Well, thank GOD there are a handful of you. What would I do without you?

Dear Selfish People:
I have given you 100% or more of me. And when I make a mistake, suddenly I am like the plague. How sad it is that all the good I have added to you and your life (lives) is instantly forgotten. I guess human error is unheard of when all you can do is think about yourself(ves), Carry on with you life(ves) and leave me the fuck alone. I will no longer give more than I should and that's too bad.... because, damn, I can give an awful lot. You screwed all the people that I may encounter one day in the future.

Dear Pizza:
You make me feel full and warm and happy when I am sad and down. You soak up my wine just enough so that I feel cozy and lovely. Thank you for being ever-present at the mere cost of $4.50 for two slices of your heavenliness. I heart you.

Dear Paycheck:
I worked really hard for you and you made me smile amidst any gloom and doom I was experiencing. God bless you.

Dear Debit Card:
Thank you for seeming to be endless lately. I have enjoyed swiping you at Nordstrom, Marshall's and TJ Maxx for the past three days. Please don't disappoint me when I need to go to Toys R us.

Dear Westbury Liquors:
Pindar Winter White for $9.99 a bottle...the big one. No more explanation needed.

Dear Me:
I am bruised and hurt by people who were/are supposed to know who I am and what I am about. But I will fight like a mother fucker to not let them get me down. I know the truth about everything and that's all that matters. I will make sure I let myself heal and then move onward and upward. I will no longer beat myself up for mistakes, wrong decisions or anything else. Please keep remembering these words when I can't sleep at night when I think of those bruisers and liars and selfish people who make me feel horrible.

Dear New House (even though you're not really new and sort of old but you're new to me):
I like you and will make you my home.

Love Ol' Forty who no longer gives a fuck.

A Hairy Situation - An Open Letter

Dear Hair Follicles:

You're fired.

You're services are no longer needed from my eyebrows down. It has come to my attention that you've all been working overtime without permission and have taken it upon yourselves to pick up some day laborers as well. Please cease any projects you are working on now and vacate from those premises immediately.


I no longer have the desire or the funds to find new ways to remove the over-production of hair in places that make hair-removal necessary. My legs have endured too many cuts, bruises and scrapes as it is, so I refuse to use anything else on them that might cause bleeding, require immediate medical care and cause possible scarring. It has come to a point where I need to carry tweezers with me at all times for plucking emergencies.

Cease and desist any and all hair growth from my face down. I have sustained red, mustache-shaped burns over my lip in my efforts to be hairless along with an angry mob of blisters above my eyebrows. Because of your insistent desire to over-produce and because of the pain my poor face has endured, my only choice is to fire you all and just consider going with the Tom Selleck look. Please don't take it personally.

You are all very hard-working, dedicated follicles with potential for continued growth. I've heard my scalp has lost some employees and the ones that remain are lazy and unmotivated. All applicants are welcome.

If you all feel qualified, which I know you are, please make the journey to the top of my head and begin work immediately. It would be nice to brush my hair without gathering it all up afterward from the floor, sink, counter tops, my dog's head or the front of my shirt. It would also be nice to have more than three strands in my ponytail, which I can only hold together by one of those tiny rubber bands kids use when they have braces. I am not greedy and I don't require much at all. My only preference if anything is that when you begin producing, please make it that nice hue of brown rather than that wiry silver that seems to be all the rage up there.

Love and Ponytails,
Ol' Forty

A Heads-Up to Santa....

Dear Santa...

I know I am going to win "Meanest Mother Award" but please by-pass my house this year. I know it sounds unreasonable to ask you to do such a horrific thing, but let's review:

- Thirteen no longer believes in you so... screw him. Why go out of your way to bring him 652 presents he tosses aside, some which he never winds up using anyway?

- Eight is onto you, as well. She's a savvy little creature. But at least she pretends to believe: she helps me leave you cookies and milk and always wants to wait up so she can hear Blitzen and gang trampling on the roof. But she will always keep up the charade, that little schemer, because she now wants a laptop, an iPhone, a pink convertible car with leopard-striped interior and exterior (no, not a Barbie car - a real one), an iPad, anything with a lower-case "i" prefix, actually, and a Blackberry. If you decide to fly by, just drop an "iCarly" video into my mailbox and keep going. PLEASE.

-I busted my old ass going through my basement, or what I should really call, The Toy Graveyard From Hell, aka - Someone,-Please-Break-Into-My-House-of-Toy-Horrors-and-Steal-Everything. I carried up approximately thirty board games, boxes and bags of Legos totaling probably thousands of tiny pieces minus the ones my nephew, Fifteen, claimed to ingest a few years ago "just because" and the ones my dog probably munched on, three boxes of books, maybe 10 of those books, if that, read, a Leap Pad, a ghetto-version Lite Brite (which anyone who knows me knows I spilled half the pegs on the way up the stairs), and a shit-load of puzzles. Nevermind the half-colored Spiderman, Dora and princess coloring books I tossed.

Five over-stretched garbage bags later, I'm still not even close to having anything resembling a clean house. There are still:

- Twenty baby dolls, some with newly streaked blue hair, most naked, all neglected.

- BINS and BINS full of body parts: Green Goblin/Spiderman/Superman heads, arms, legs, wings, feet. You name it, my kids dismembered it.

You get the idea.

If you really need to drop by, come pick that stuff up and give it to kids who enjoy using the stuff. I'm throwing that shit out on the driveway to make a few bucks so you better come before I sell an entire Game Cube system with 100 perfectly good games to the lady who doesn't speak English except to say, "No, a quarter."

Dude, we're really Jews who become conveniently Catholic in December anyway.

Just a heads-up.

Shalom...
Ol' Forty

I'm Going to Kick Your 3rd Grade Teacher's Ass

Today as I was driving, I bypassed my annoying, evil iPod to see what was happening on the air waves. Every station was saturated with the same shit I hear all day, everyday, whether it's on the radio or blasting from Thirteen's iTouch. Finally I settled on, I'll Be Missing You by Puffy P. Diddy Daddy. Something old, yet new compared to everything else.

But then it happened - I heard it.

Every bref you take....

I suddenly felt venomous towards Puffy Diddy Daddy's third grade teacher.

Seriously, why is this man rich? Clearly, he has not been able to master the difference between the sounds th make and the letter f and people pay to hear him mangle the alphabet?

Then I got to thinking: I've heard waaaay too many people do this. Unless you're under the age of 12, (and that's very generous) or you have something physically preventing you from proper pronunciation, please learn how to say the following as these are the most common (that's so fucking sad) and the most annoying:

birthday, NOT berfday.

breath is NOT bref

While I'm on a rant, if I see one more apostrophe where it doesn't belong like on the end of a plural, NON-possessive, or another error where their, there and they're is concerned, I'm going to find the offender, force the name of their third grade teacher out of them, and kick their ass hard. The same goes for your and you're. Really.

I'm by no means a grammar snob, but if you think so, then you can Thuck Oth. ;-)

The Smell of Defeat

Come a little closer and take a whiff - no, not of my ridiculously expensive perfume that I will never, ever, ever be able to purchase again. Not that. Come on, smell... Got it now? It's strong and it's the other scent I've been sportin' lately, which, by the way, is quite costly in its own way and is called, "Eau de'Feat." There are several translations and/or pronunciations in English:

1. Oh, Defeat!
2. Oh, fuck.... defeated again!
3. Fuck My Life
4. Really? Why? Whyyyyy?

and my favorite...

4. My boss is a mother fucking hairy prick who has no compassion, human decency, or interpersonal skills who thinks his pocket bulging full of money (and probably only money, if ya know what I mean) make him better than everyone else.

I wish someone could explain to me why I decided to forgo the usual "interview smile and head-nod" and went with, "be forthright, be relaxed and be yourself." What, I ask you, was the point of being forthright to this potential employer (who went from "potential" to "actual") when all he did was take advantage of that? And is it really too much to ask for that same courtesy in return? Whoever can explain those mysteries to me, please also shed some light on a possible reason(s) why when someone employs a very eager, smart person who's willing to learn (and can learn!) anything that the employer constantly speaks to this employee with contempt, impatience and disrespect.

What happens to people when they become successful? Do they turn into selfish, arrogant fucks immediately? Or are there prerequisites for being successful, like they need to possess inner-scumbagdom (yes, that's a word: my word), or have complete disregard for the less-than-human folk that they employ?

I have approached my job searches in several different ways: the above mentioned "interview smile and head-nod" combo, then I've used that one along with the "outgoing-personality-willingness-to-learn" approach, and then I've gone the "Full Monty" approach - just being completely honest about who I am, what I want and why I think I'm a good hire. That's probably what helped me get my current position, although I think somehow my honesty and willingness fucked me in the end.

What is it that employers want? They place ads which take time for people to carefully respond to but then don't have the courtesy to respond back in kind. Then the rare few who do call you in for an interview, put you through a four-interview process over the course of weeks, hire you, then proceed to treat you as if you left your brain back in your health club locker. But, because we all need that green paper, we take it. We take all the bullshit because we have to. We work harder to prove ourselves, we bite our tongues when we should really lash them out with venomous words, then we work even harder to prove ourselves more and then we get screwed. Or at least I did.


Because this position I have is seasonal, most of the staff is laid off for either the entire summer or for part of the summer. Me? I got off for August with my re-hire date near Labor Day. But I never heard exactly when. So I emailed the Prick. After treating me like shit on his shoe (I have witnesses!)he sends me a negative email in response. He accused me of having a 'bad attitude.'

An overview of the beginning:

April: Four-part interview with Prick and his interview side-kick, Fat Pork Sword
Second week in: Mother Fucker Side-Kick Pork Sword bullied me into silence.
Every week following: Sarcastic remarks, no eye contact when speaking, rare acknowledgment of my existence.
Oh,, and apparently, when either of them raised their hand in my face, it meant, You, Woman. You no speak.

Many disdainful looks, snide side-comments and snickering between the two of them, and one-too-many belittling grammar corrections later, I was thrown into an ocean of "do this with little or contradictory instructions" and basically told to swim. When I asked for help, the hand went up in my face and I was spoken to with contempt.

I feel defeated. Not completely, where I'm gonna lay down in a puddle of my own tears, but enough where I reek of it already. Add a few other disappointments and struggles (to be announced in a future blog of misery)and I feel the urge to warn people to stay away from me as the smell of defeat is pungent and will curl your nostrils.

I know mine are. And like I mentioned earlier, it's a costly scent. It's costing me a little of my self worth and confidence.

Thank Yous Long Overdue

I'm a big believer in thanking people (even if my gratitude isn't always so sincere). Here we go...

Thank you...

... to the guys/girls/old men/little-kids-with-manners/creepy-dudes who hold doors open for me even when I'm a hundred feet away. Way too kind.

... to the lady who just stumbled off the curb probably thinking that because she was next to a huge truck, nobody saw. But I did. Much needed chuckle for an already-shitty morning.

... to my 3rd grade teacher who encouraged us to get extra credit points and by doing so, brought out the wanna-be-writer in me.

... to my professors in college for continually helping me to hone my (so-called) craft. (and for letting me sit in your office listening to all my tales. You know who you are!)

...to the people who actually take the time to read what I write. You five people ROCK!

... to all those wonderful, loving people out there who have taken it upon themselves to knock me down and kick me while I'm there. Again, more people who ROCK!

... to my puppy, Two and a Half - you make me smile daily. :)

... to my sister, Forty-Three. A girl needs to have someone in life who she can share a secret language with. You know what the raised left eyebrow means in any given situation. Thank GOD.

... to whoever it was in my family, (Sixty-Eight?) that I got my sense of humor from.

... to those who have taught me harsh lessons. Those are the ones I will never, ever forget.

...to Pindar Winter White - you make my evenings more enjoyable.

... in the same vein, to the Local Liquor Store for amusing me by taking my suggestion half-way seriously of having a card to stamp every time you come in. Every ten bottles gets you a freebie. (Come on, guys - Subway used to do it!)

... to Senor Frog's in Mexico. Period.

... to Seth MacFarlane. You are a comic genius and I don't care who isn't with me on that one. (also to TVLand for running all those Roseanne marathons for when Ol' Forty can't sleep).

... to Anne Murray for singing a song that makes me cry like a fucking idiot. My iPod seems to be a source of pain and self-punishment somehow. Maybe I should set it on fire.

... to my fantabulous boss for paying me that unbelievably HUGE mountain of cash every two weeks just so he can have someone to sneer at daily. It is SO fucking worth it.

... to anyone who loves me, warts and all.

... the guy at the nail place who gave me a really long and quite awesome foot massage recently. My toe nails looked lovely in that shade of red, btw.

... to all those who never cease to amaze me.

... to my daughter, Eight, for having that wicked Mizrahi sense of humor. She's 59 pounds of solid love and companionship and she makes me laugh.

... to my son, Thirteen, for shocking the shit out of me with his strength and courage. Yes, he whimpered when he got his ear pierced but he didn't even flinch in the face of something else that should have knocked him down.

... to Eight and Thirteen. Never have I been more proud of the two of them. When hit with shitty news, they were both courageous and understanding. I love them more than life.