It wasn’t that kind of revival

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May 17th, 2010
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Today I had to have a Come to Jesus talk with other people. Twice. No, this wasn’t religious in any form. It was more along the lines of “Straighten your ass up, or I’ll make your life hell” kinda talk.

The first group was my employees. How I managed to hire a full dozen people that never matured beyond second grade is beyond me. The meeting was productive and I think that some necessary changes should help make everyone’s day’s easier, but sweet baby Jesus, they are a loud bunch. Ex-inlaws loud. Monster truck rally loud. I think I still have a little reverb going on inside my head.

The second talk was with my eldest. She’s testing her boundaries as a teenager and pushed too far again tonight. There was the standard “Oh shit, I’m caught” moment. The five minutes of yelling time. The requisite twenty minutes of pouting silence, and then the hour long talk. Or should I say TALK. (It deserves capital letters.) My daughter seems to be under the misunderstanding that I should be her friend. All her friends are BFF’s with their mothers. Their mothers understand. Their mothers share.

Ok, listen kiddo. I’m not your friend. You have plenty of friends for that. I’ve met them. I’m your parent. It’s my job to make sure that you grow up to be a respectable human being that can take care of herself. Someone who will consider consequences before she acts. Please understand that when you’re older, I’d love to hang out with you, but right now it’s not in the job description.

Years ago, my cousins were causing some trouble. They were teenaged boys and involved in many stupid acts that teenage boys can get into. There was drinking, drugs, pregnancy scares, wrecked cars, detentions, arrests and boot camps. When their mother, my aunt, was filling us in one evening on the latest escapades of debauchery, she made a statement that has seared into my brain. She said, with all the nonchalance she could muster, “Well, someone had to be Charles Manson’s mother.” Ummm….really? She was excusing herself for everything? No-second guessing? No regrets?

Now what my child did is nothing compared to the cousins. It’s a blip for an otherwise good kid. She goes to school, her grades are excellent, her friends are not wanted by the police. But did I over-react by not being her friend? I don’t think so.

And dear Bette, if years down the road you ever read this, I love you but I was right. We can be friends now, but back then you needed a parent.

I left my uterus in San Francisco

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Apr 21st, 2010
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Not Really. Actually I left it at the hospital. And while I can have no more children, I am more than happy with the two I have. Bette and The Blonde are more than enough for any person.

Have I ever told you that my children saved my life? No? Hmmm, lemme share a story with you.

I had been married for a few years when I became pregnant with the first-born. Now like most women I know, our own health care come last on a rather long list of things to do. I wasn’t on any medications that required doctor visits. I had no medical issues at the time. Annual check-ups were things that just never happened.

With some sudden on-set nausea and a pee-stick confirmation, I made an OBGYN appointment and received confirmation that I was pregnant. Let the testing commence. Lord, the amount of tests ran on various body fluids for a pregnant woman is astounding. At any given appointment, I was apt to leave looking like a well-fed heroin addict. (I don’t have great veins and seem to attract nervous phebotomists.)

To get to the point, at some point I was diagnosed with advanced cervial dysplasia. This is only one step away from cervical cancer. Now, it stands to reason that while pregnant, one’s body is into growing things. Babies, hair, everything grows faster. I was a baby making machine, what with cells dividing and whatnot. Unfortunately, this also sped up the abnormal cells squatting on my cervix, like hobos moving in for the winter months. Chances are that the cells would have prgressed at a slower rate had I not been pregnant, and I would have ended up with undetected cervical cancer. Which could have spread to other places. Which could have ended me.

My child saved me before she was ever born. Post-birth, I had surgery. The hobos were removed and life went on. Three years later, the same doctor told me they were back. And yes, I was pregnant again. Post-second-birth, all offending female-ish parts were removed, and hobo-land was permantly removed from the map.

Moral of the story: Bette made me realize that I had something to lose. The Blonde made me lose it and live happier and healthier as a result. My children saved my life. I have a feeling that it was so they could make me crazy for the rest of it.

Round and round

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Apr 14th, 2010
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Sometimes life can get a little…oddly complicated. Sometimes we get in our own way and our stubborness refuses to budge. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I feel that I have let myself fall into a rut that is all too familiar. It’s a procrastination/avoidance/denial rut and it’s one deep motherfucker. Like, gonna need a tow truck to pull myself out of this.

I have a bad habit of extremes. I can focus on the larger picture, and I can focus on the minute details. It’s the middle part. The part that matters. The execution. The work. I blame my brain.

Does anyone else wake in the morning with a clear plan of exactly how their day should go? I’ve done this every day for as long as I can remember. And not once has it happened the way my head thinks it should. Rarely my day turns out better than imagined. Mostly it doesn’t live up to the plan rattling around between my ears. Sometimes it sucks way worse than I could have ever dreamed.

This however isn’t the problem. I can handle change, go with the flow. The problem lies in the thinking. At the first sign of variation from my planned day, I must re-think the whole day. See the problem? As you can imagine these changes occur approximately 4,352,218 times a day.

Now on the surface it appears that I can make most (not all) decisions quickly and efficiently. I can delegate, administrate, and facilitate my ass off. In my head there are about a gadzillion scenarios spinning wildly out of control, each allowing for multiple variables.

The biggest problem with this whole mindset is that with each change comes a little disappointment. It’s not what I wanted. (And yes, I realize that makes me sound like a conceited bitch.) But that’s what happened and a little piece of my heart hardened with each change. By the end of most days I feel flat and weak, disheartened and shamed at my own ablility to make my world what I wanted.

This is affecting my life and I need to get off the hamster wheel. Is there a way? Does it require planning?

Ya git what ya git and ya don’t throw a fit

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Nov 8th, 2009
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I’ve been thinking alot lately about what I want this blog to be about. I am having a hard time deciding what I do want, but I definitely know what I do not want it to be about.

I do not want to write about high tech devices or the state of the economy. There are people way smarter than me to address these topics. Unless I get something very cool, then I will have to go on and on about it, until I’m sick of it.

I do not want to write about recipes, laundry spot removal, or where to find the best coupons. That just ain’t me folks. I make a lousy soccer mom. Unless I have a brilliant momma day, then everyone will simply have to know.

I’m not gonna write about my sex life. My vajiminy and what ever parlour tricks it performs are none of your bees wax. Unless it’s funny, then I will totally tell. Honest.

I ain’t writing about work. Ok, maybe occasionally I will write about whatever stupidity I have to endure, because I’m all about sharing. You understand, right?

I’m not writing about my kids and family. Wait…I’ve already done that, so nevermind. Whatever.

So see? I’m completely out of ideas.

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