sueeeus

I’ve had an epiphany of sorts.  I’ve decided to have a love affair.

With myself.

I know, it’s been a long time coming, but it was bound to happen, sooner or later.  I have always been my own worst enemy, but it’s beginning to dawn on me that I have also always been my own best friend.

Who has been there every step of the way, for every tear shed, for every laugh bellowed?  Who has been there through every faux pas and every triumph?  Who is that girl with a smile on her face, who only wants peace and goodness for everyone around? Who is there, every morning, ready for the joys of a brand new day?  Who is there, every night, whispering away the cares of the day?

Who’s tripping down the streets of the city, smiling at everybody she sees?  Who’s reaching out to capture a moment?  Everyone knows it’s Sueeeeeeee.  Okay, so I got lost with the Association there for a bit.

It’s interesting, reflecting back on various periods of my life, that I’ve never been more lonely than when I was with somebody.  And that’s a tragic kind of loneliness.  An abyss.  When I’m alone, by myself, I’m not alone.  I’m in good company, with a dear old friend.  The conversation is seldom dull.  I’m with someone who’s got my back.  Someone who will always be there for me.  Someone who may sometimes let me down, but will always make amends.  Someone I admire.  Someone I respect.  Someone responsible, hard working, interesting, creative, smart, witty, kind, playful, loving, generous, conscientious, thoughtful, resourceful, compassionate, genuine, and fun.

Who?

the finest of friends

Yep.  Sueeeus Maximus.  None other.  She is one super fantabulous girl.

I like her.

I like her a lot.

shit.
shit shit shit.
shit shit fuk fukkety fuk buggers buggerdy bugger shit.

OMG!  I am SO King George VI!  Up tight, wound up like a clock, all decorum, all proper…   ….I can totally see myself exploring such profanities in just the way he did, in The King’s Speech.  Only, I probably won’t.  Other than the beauties I just posted.

Colin Firth and Geoffrey Rush have great faces to explore, and I’ve always liked Helena Bonham Carter.  I enjoyed the film.

not tonight dear, I have a headache

I’ve been giving Wellbutrin XL a go for the past couple of months.  I think it is helping.  I had a headache every single day for the first four weeks, but not the cloud or fog or lightheaded feelings I’ve experienced with other things.  I was lightheaded every day with Zoloft, even with a minuscule dose.

Anyway.  I still get headaches.  But I’ve been getting headaches and stomachaches for as long as I can remember.  And I still have anxiety.  It’s not debilitating, but it’s a nuisance.

I still have broken sleep.  It seems that I have an inner clock that insists I open my eyes at 4:36am.  Every. Single. Morning.  Generally, it’s not so bad if I can acknowledge the time, oh, it’s 4:36 again, isn’t that nice, and drift back to sleep.  If I’ve got things on my mind, though.  Forget it.  My brain is engaged and that’s all she wrote.  There is also the matter of the resident bedwetter.  If he’s wet, he tends to arrive at my door between 1 and 2 am.  I send him off to change his clothes, while I go strip his bedding and get him situated again.  I tuck him in, and he returns to the land of nod.  I may or may not return myself.   It’s very exhausting, this lumbering about, trying to function while in a dazed state in the middle of the night.

I might try having him wear an alarm watch, to wake him in the night so he can take care of things.  He’s such a deep sleeper, but perhaps the novelty of wearing a watch and knowing there will be an alarm will be enough of a wedge in his subconscious to cause him to respond.  It’s worth a try.

Meanwhile, I haven’t much to say.

Apart from this.

shit.
shit shit shit.
shit shit fuk fukkety fuk buggers buggerdy bugger shit.

I crack myself up.  That language is so out of character!

I don’t sleep enough.  I would very much like to sleep more.  Some things can be done to improve this — the part where life’s a balancing act and something has to give.  I can always work on rebalancing, and not giving up sleep in lieu of ‘me’ time or other things.   I’m not sure what can be done about waking children.  If it’s not one, it’s the other.  I want them to always feel safe and secure, and shield them from any turmoil that churns within me.  I want.  I don’t always succeed.

I was in the middle of a dream when I heard LB crying this morning.  It was a dream about the dating circuit, I think.  I was on my way to meet a man.  He had a name, but now I can’t recall what it was.  Mike, possibly.  I parked my car at a bar (a little more cadence and this could be a grown up Dr. Seuss style book — Doctor Sueeeus…  Ha!  Note to self:  tag for future sarcastic writing /  art project…)  and at the same time a very clean cut biker dude was walking by, to enter the bar.  He had unscuffed pale cowboy boots that were very close to his skin color.  He had a bearded face, but the beard was short and tidy.  There was not a bit of roughness about his look — no weathered skin, no beat up leathers, no ink or visible piercings, no bad ass attitude.  He had a bottled water and was complaining there was no place to properly recycle the bottle top, as he threw it in the yard.  (This annoyed me.  He could have put it in a pocket or dealt with it later or in another less offensive and more responsible way.)  He was self secure and there was no hint of lacking confidence.  Even though he dressed like a biker dude and was entering the venue of a biker dude, he seemed out of place by appearance, but he was fully confident and not subject to external influences such as the expectations of what a biker dude should be.  I noted all of this in the once over I gave him, and concluded that he’s a boring engineer.  I said “Hi.”

I must have asked him if he knew the man I was going to meet (who lived next door –yep, next door to a biker bar), wondering if I had the right address.  He confirmed, and actually knew the guy.  Next scene, the two of us approach the house.  There is a screen door and I can see through the house to the back, there is a man outside near a short chain link fence (this is turning out to be a biker bar residential trailer trash neighborhood, it seems).  I wave to him in greeting, and he comes into the house.  Meanwhile, the biker dude opens the screen door and walks right in as if he owns the place.  He has a six pack under one arm –I think it was beer, and remember noting that it seemed out of place because neither guy seemed like the beer drinking type, and I am certainly not myself.  The date looks at me, at him, and a fleeting expression of ‘WTH is this guy doing here with her’ crosses his face, but he masks it quickly since he’s a very nice guy.  They exchange hellos, since they know each other, and I walk up to the guy and give  him a hug, introducing myself.  “Hi, I’m Sueeeus.”  He is very short and very slight, but lean and wiry, somehow more masculine than the pseudo biker dude.  I could crush him.  He has dark brown hair, a pleasant face, and intelligent eyes.  I take note that I have no physical attraction to him at all.  He explains that he had planned for us to watch a movie.  I can see that he is internally scrambling to adjust his date plans, with the addition of the third party present.  He describes the movie –it’s a children’s movie, G rated animation.  “Oh, I know the one!”, I exclaim.  “I like that movie.  Iron Man.”  (In the dream it made sense that it was an animated G rated Disney or DreamWorks type film, even though it was Iron Man.)

I can see in the instant expression that crosses his face that he is disappointed.  Disappointed that the other guy showed up.  Disappointed that I’m not into him, and that this will be a first and last date.  He’s a nice guy, and puts on a smile anyway.  He doesn’t seem to notice or perceive that I’m not into the biker dude either.  The pseudo biker dude is just there, oblivious to the situation that he is actually intruding upon a date, being inconsiderate to his friend (and me).  I size all this up and decide that it doesn’t matter that the biker dude came along, since I’m not into either of them; there’s no relationship potential.   I’m not sure why he came along, in the first place.  He doesn’t give any impression of being into me.  He may just be socially oblivious.

The dream ends with the three of us preparing to watch the movie.  More might have unfolded, but I heard LB crying.

Before, or interspersed with that, was another dream in which I was at another person’s house. I think it was my daycare, in fact.  I needed to use the bathroom.  Usually I’d wait for the comfort of my own home, but apparently my bladder was insistent.  For some reason there was limited privacy, so I wanted to take care of it as quickly as possible.  I started to go, and saw from the corner of my eye that my sitter’s husband was approaching.  I scrambled, made some noise so he would know I was there and not barge in on me, and flushed the toilet.  Only it clogged.  I was distraught.  How could it clog when I’d only peed and not even finished.  Urgh, what an uncomfortable feeling, to halt that flow part way through.  And then to have to contend with a clogged toilet that I didn’t even clog, and potentially have to excuse or explain myself to him.  It was his house, after all.  I was embarrassed.  I scanned for a plunger, found one, and tried to unclog, working furiously so that I’d have the situation fully taken care of by the time he got to the door, a bit frantic as the water level kept rising.  I was hoping hoping hoping that it wouldn’t overflow and leave me with an even bigger mess to clean up.  I felt irritated, having to deal with someone else’s crap (literally…) which manifested as my own problem.  Just in time, I plunged again, the clog gave way, the water receded and drained properly.  I washed my hands and made my exit, relieved to be over with it, but still strained and stressed from the ordeal.

capturing a new year

I’ve noticed some of my blogging friends have chosen a theme word to help focus the year.  Simplify.  Breathe.  Listen. Words like that.  What word would best encapsulate my aspirations for 2011?  I can think of many words that describe how I feel at this moment.

Drained.  Deflated.  Depleted.

Relieved.  Relieved to have my boys home, asleep in their beds, and to have a little alone time to regroup, try to figure out where I am, how I am, and let tears stream down my face as I try to sort these things out.

I’ve had a week off from work, but it doesn’t seem as though I’ve had a vacation, even though I did get two full nights of sleep in during that week, and even though I had two fine grown-up days that bathed the senses with visual, aural, and gastronomic goodness.

Maybe this is the year to focus on loving myself the way I want to be loved, or treating myself the way I want to be treated.  Or to put the golden rule into action and love others the way I want to be loved and treat others the way I want to be treated.  In general, I think I do these things (for others).  For me,  I can give myself time.  I can carve out more time with which to do things that edify me.  That I can do.  But what of intimacy?  Why is it that I have such a deep and persistent ache for physical touch, for embracing, for intimacy?  I don’t know how to assuage this ache alone, and I can’t make it an expectation for another.  So I’m stuck, like a spoiled and whining child who wants something she can’t have.  The difference being that that which I want to receive is also that which I want to give.  That said, I like to think that I don’t come across as spoiled and whiny.  I hope that I come across as loving, giving, and nurturing.

Stuck.  Stuck is not the word that I want to use to define my year.

Maybe I will find a way to overcome the ache, and just live, just be.

Be.  That can be my word.

Be.

I learned to juggle when I was eight years old.  We lived in Cambridge, England, that year, and some of the other kids would juggle two balls against the wall or in the air during recess.  I was intrigued, and gave it a go.  There’s a certain cadence, rhyme and reason to juggling.  It’s a learned skill, and some are naturally better at it than others.  I was fairly good at the two ball juggle.  I can even do it with one hand.  I’ve tried to add a third ball to the mix, off and on through the years, but never got the hang of it.  Once that ball was introduced, control was quickly lost, and the balls would tumble to the ground.

Sometimes it seems as though my life is like a juggling act.  Working and mothering.  These two things I can manage.  They are sustainable, and I can keep things going, more or less.  It’s not always smooth or with perfect rhythm, but I can generally keep it together.   A pattern seems to be emerging, in which the addition of a relationship is akin to trying to add that third ball.  I haven’t gotten the hang of how to adjust the rhythm, and sooner or later I get stressed out, start to compromise things, my mental and emotional states spin off into the ether, and everything falls apart until I can gather things together and get the rhythm going again.

I admire those kids you see playing that complicated jumping rope game in which two ropes are spun in opposite directions, one clockwise, one counterclockwise, and the kids line up, catch the rhythm, and jump in.  It’s so smooth, so perfect.  They blend, in what looks like effortless motion.  They skip and dance and sing.  It’s a beautiful thing to behold.  I wish relationships could blend so harmoniously, so smoothly.  For me, trying to have a relationship is about as successful as me trying to jump into one of those rope skipping games.  One step and I’m tangled completely, trip, and fall unceremoniously, possibly hurting others in the tumble, after which I have to pull myself together, apologize for the damage I’ve done and the trouble I’ve caused, scrape the dirt from my wounds, and hobble off to some safe place where I can regroup and heal.

I need to learn how to accept the limitations of time.  I find myself, over and again, succumbing to anxiety rooted in the inability to mold my life around the constructs of time.

The hyper awareness of time interferes with my rationale and affects some priorities that I set, decisions that I make, thoughts that I think, and emotions that I manifest.

This is already a broken record.  I can tell, even before I get the words out.

There is only so much time available.  Somehow I have to work, mother, keep my household, foster my friendships and tend to my budding relationship.  I would like to have some self-nurturing or at least recovery time.  I have to multi-task even that, and glean whatever pleasure I can wherever I can.  Rather than choke at yet another chore, I choose to savor the upkeep of my household and the shopping for groceries or other sundries.  It gives me a smidgen of peace.

And what of this budding relationship?  How does it fit in?  How does one have quality adult time and not compromise child time?  Beaten down by logistics.  There’s no time for seeing each other during the week, which leaves only the weekend.  Friday nights are nearly shot.  It’s late by the time any meeting can take place.  Saturday, and part of Sunday constitute the window of opportunity and the dynamics shift dramatically as a function of child visitation arrangements.  How to be relaxed and content when there’s no time for just plain living?

I don’t like juggling.  I don’t like the ‘hurry up and wait’ mentality.  I don’t like not knowing what time I will have with whom and when.  For all I know, I could be dead in five years.  Or tomorrow.  I’m grateful to make it home alive, each and every day that I have to traverse the freeways in the dark, when it’s raining.   It’s harrowing.  I don’t want a future life, I want a now life.

So I am confounded and frustrated.

I don’t know how not to be anxious about the time.  I don’t know how this life balancing act works.

Sometimes I find myself in thought, and realize that I’m not breathing.  Stress.  It’s a stress of some sort.  I have to remind myself to breathe.

Maybe I should ask myself what I want.  Why is the time or lack of it so stressful or so important?  Or did I not just write ad nauseum about it?

After I’ve put the kids to bed, there is a small window of time that I get for myself.  It’s all I have, and there are a thousand and one mentally, physically, spiritually, or emotionally productive or constructive things I could do with that time.   But for whatever reason, the need to decompress and refuel is amplified lately, and I find myself floundering and anguishing, at a loss for doing this with the faculties I have available.

Ideally (this is pure speculation) decompression and refueling could be a symbiotic process with one’s partner, given that there is regular contact.  But there isn’t regular contact, and there’s not likely to be regular contact in the foreseeable future.

So I am confounded and frustrated.  And feeling alone.

I said it was a broken record.

I found a Barry Manilow album at Costco the other day – Ultimate Manilow – and I’ve been waxing sappy and nostalgic ever since.  Love him.  And not afraid to admit it.

Anyway.

One of the hazards of Manilow Immersion – I’m coining a new phrase and accompanying acronym (MI) – is the tendency to wax melancholic.  It could go either way, but the weather, the time of year, the music, the memories.  What is a girl to do.

In years past, the season dredges up memories of being poor and feeling desperate, as though financial well-being would or could solve any of the real problems in life.  I’m finding that the deeper issues are internal, and immune to monetary influence.

And truly, what problems remain?  There are blessings beyond measure, really.  My life dreams are all realized.  Motherhood.  Home.  Loving family.  Rewarding and satisfying livelihood.  I can hardly ask for more.

And yet.  Melancholy pervades.  Emotions swing as the sun rises and falls.  Fragments of memories float through my periphery.  Waiting for babies to be born, waking through all hours of the day and night to feed or pump, and the accompanying exhaustion, the sudden loss of friends and loved ones, the desperation of life’s realities not measuring up to what a holiday season should represent, a marriage that crashed and burned.  Loved ones in loving and growing families having new babies of their own.

Can I somehow rise above my own inner turmoil, or at the very least, hide it from my children?  What does it take, to let the sun shine in?   A little less Manilow?

On the up side of the MI experience, I dance around my living room and smile from ear to ear, belting out ‘Could it Be Magic’ at the top of my lungs.

Spirit move me
Every time I’m near you
Whirling like a cyclone in my mind

Sweet [insert name of loved one, GG in this case, my Giant German]
Angel of my lifetime
Answer to all answers I can find

Baby I love you
Come, come, come into my arms
Let me know the wonder of all of you

Baby I want you
Now, now, now and hold on fast
Could this be the magic at last

Even better, if when my giant is here, I can put my arms around his neck and swing around my living room, looking into his eyes, singing this song.  Better yet, he happily puts his arms around me and amusedly tolerates my MI.  What could be better than a European man who is a child of the 70s and 80s?  I can play ABBA and sing to my heart’s content.  There’s probably not much that can challenge the manhood of a nearly six and a half foot tall, three hundred pound German man!

There.  Bang bang.  I’ve gone from melancholy to cheerful in the span of a few paragraphs.  I don’t suppose it’s quite what the professors in engineering school had in mind, but the phrase (and phase) has stayed with me, through all these years, this past quarter century.  Who would ever have guessed that an education in classical control theory would ever fit someone the likes of me?  Yet, somehow, it does.

It’s a miracle
A true blue spectacle
A miracle come true

the bird

I’ve been sick all week.  Trying hard not to let it take hold.  I even took all of us to urgent care on Tuesday, to get checked out.  We got the all clear, but got one prescription for LB for the pink eye that was making the rounds, just in case.  So who gets pink eye?  Me.  Followed by BB.  LB has a runny nose and a cough.  BB is a bit stuffed up.  And I’m a complete mess.  I took a sick day on Friday, which is just as well because BB got kicked out of daycare the minute they noticed his rosy eyes.  It’s funny how such a ruckus is made over pink eye.  Whatever version we have doesn’t even hurt.  It’s nothing compared with the sore throat that has persisted all week.  I’ve been drinking lemony tea, gargling with cayenne pepper and vinegar, sucking on menthol throat drops, popping the ibuprofen like it’s going out of style, and even working my way through the remnants of my ancient prescription painkillers.  Thank GOD the boys don’t have the sore throat.  I wouldn’t know how to help them and it would break my heart to know they had to just suffer through it.

So this is the big wedding weekend for Gadget.  His daughter and stepson are here from Kentucky, having arrived on Tuesday.  His twin and significant other arrived yesterday from New York.  I’m not sure who else is here, but rumor has it that it’s a big wedding, with 200-300 guests.  Gadget mentioned something months ago about the boys having a role in the ceremony.  I started trying to make some plans a few weeks ago, so that the kids could see that side of their family.  It turned out that Friday was a no-school day, so I told Gadget that I could actually bring the kids over on Thursday after work.  That way they could spend some time with their siblings.  They’ve never even met LB.  “We’ll see….” is what I got from Gadget.  I tried to solidify plans as the week progressed.  He finally said “No, don’t bring the kids over until around 4pm on Saturday.”  Why not Thursday, I asked.  Gadget said he wouldn’t even be home until 9:30pm Thursday, and his kids wouldn’t babysit.  WTH.  I wasn’t asking them to BABYSIT.  And at 16 and 21, are they not responsible enough to spend a few hours with my boys, their BROTHERS, unaccompanied?  WTH?  So it comes out that there is some function on Saturday for the over 12 crowd and there is nobody to watch the little kids.  He pretty much declares that I should bring them over at 4 on Saturday and pick them up Sunday.  I told him I’m not a taxi service.  My window of helpfulness was Thursday evening.  If he couldn’t work with that, then figure it out his own.  I thought I was very clear.

Fast forward to today.  Saturday.  3:54pm.  He texts me.

Him: Are you bringing the kids?

Me: I’m sick.

Him: That’s ok two can play your silly game. I knew you would pull some crap like this, but whatever.

Me: What game.  I’m sick.  U can come get them if you want.

Him: Whatever

Me: I’ve been waiting for you to communicate about how u want to handle the boys and haven’t heard a word.  What do u expect?

Him: At least I didn’t make up something. To be at least civil and not make up a lie not to do something. I wanted to bring the kids here to spend time but everything didn’t  work out that way but I have talked to you and you wanted nothing to do with anything so there you go.  You got all mad. You’re just pissed.

Me: U told me when u wanted them here.  I told u what worked for me-Thurs. I told u to figure out a plan.  Did u? And I DON’T LIE.

Him: If I have to pick them up then  they won’t be back until u pick them up on Wed.  When I say I don’t have fuel I’m not making it up.

WTH.  He didn’t even TRY to figure out an alternate plan.  He thinks it’s appropriate that I drop everything, drive an hour each way, and drop the boys off at the time he edicted.  His family members live North of me.  He lives South of me.  He could coordinate with someone to pick up the boys on their way.  He’s asked my dear friend’s husband to photograph the wedding.  He could ask them to bring the boys.  He had several options he could have explored, yet he did nothing.

So, here I am, sicker than hell, can barely swallow or breathe, and I just break into sobs.  Right in front of BB.  So then I have to tell BB that I’m crying because his dad thinks I’m lying about being sick.  Not to mention, my beautiful angel of a boy has been excited and looking forward to seeing his relatives.  And I had to tell him, no, you can’t go see them Thursday.  Or Friday.  And it doesn’t look like he’s coming to get you now.

Still sobbing, I check the clock and call my friend.  Luckily, they’ve not left yet, so they come over and get the boys.  Solution.

The man is incompetent.  And an ass.  Check out the reflection.  It’s ludicrous that I would make up a story and lie.  That he could even conceive such a notion speaks volumes as to how deeply he knows the essence of ME.

Un-flipping-believable.  I am *this* close to incorporating the f-bomb into my vocabulary.  I was recently able to produce the gesture depicted above, albeit still with a smile, and not directed at the ex.  That one was directed at my geeky friend, who I shall call Sailor.  I think he’s trying to toughen me up.  He shares his drama and I attempt to give him a rational female perspective.  I share my drama, and he offers his crude male perspective.  Basically, he says I should stand up for myself and take Gadget to the cleaners by going after max child support and daycare contributions.

Thus far, no man I encounter seems to understand my idea of the high road.  I don’t get it.  They almost unanimously share tales of child support woes.  Maybe it just kills them to see that they, being the nice guys they are, get shafted, yet Gadget, being the apparent ass that he is, gets to skate.  Gadget, as we all know, thinks he is being shafted.

I’m tired of trying to explain it to anybody.  I don’t want to hurt him.  I don’t want to make his life miserable.  I’m not vindictive.  I just want him to step up and be a man.  Good Lord.  Just. Be. A. Man.

And I hope and pray with all the hope and earnestness that I have in my heart that I can live long enough to raise my children, because if they had to be raised by him, they would have a tough road, without good and honorable examples and guidance.  I don’t want them to think it’s okay to lie.  Or to be selfish.  Or self-serving.  Or materialistic.  Or lazy.

So I guess I better step up my game, as far as taking better care of myself goes.  I have young lives to help shape.

boring

• I worked seventeen hours yesterday.
• In addition to gracing the workplace with my presence, I earned $4k of cold hard cash for my company in exchange for ten hours of my time.  Oh but wouldn’t it be sweet to be able to take that home!
• I stopped cold turkey with the Zoloft on Saturday.
• It probably wasn’t the best idea to go cold turkey, but I was on such a low dose (25mg) that I wasn’t even sure it was doing anything to me or for me.
• Based on how I felt yesterday, I think it’s safe to say that it was, in fact, doing something to me and for me.
• I had quite a few ups and downs yesterday.  Tears.  Anxiety.  Loss of focus.  Dizziness.  Loopiness.  Clumsiness.  Frustration.  Muscle aches.  Headache.  Blurred vision.  Irritability.
• Oh sure, possibly I had cause for all those things, aside from withdrawal.  I did have a very long and taxing day.
• Not to mention the whole man scene.
• I like being a strong and capable woman, but it sometimes seems like a handicap.
• Where are the men who aren’t intimidated by strong and capable women, and who have the heart and soul and emotional fortitude to embrace, protect, honor, respect, appreciate and otherwise care for such women?
• I’m not really a man.  I just play one in real life.
• For someone whose life dream was to be a housewife and doting mother, I sure seem to have missed the boat.
• It kind of bothers me that nobody has ever wanted to take care of me.  What’s up with that?  I’m a carer.  It’s my nature to want to nurture.   So why does it seem that nobody, and by nobody I mean no man, has wanted to care for me?  What ever happened to ‘do unto others as you would have done unto you’?
• Sometimes I wish I could just sink into a man and let him be the man, so I can rest.
• Because I am so very tired.

Stupid stupid stupidy server that keeps choking, how am I supposed to blog with you being so fickle?

Gadget’s MO is to play his passive aggressive games and not give me the courtesy of any advance notice with regard to when he will take the boys. While it appears there may be a light at the end of this tunnel, since he’s expressed interest in synchronizing the visitation with his new woman’s visitation schedule such that all children can be together for the same weekend, there is no guarantee that he will follow through with any level of consistency.

Anyhow. He called at 8 a.m. Saturday morning and said he’d take the kids, and to meet him at 9 a.m. Nice. Does this give me time to make any sort of weekend plans?

I prefer to be able to make plans. I still sort of fall apart when the boys aren’t here. As much as I yearn for some down time or me time, I still haven’t learned how not to fall apart when they’re not here. A cloud of anguish descends — the grief that we aren’t a family, and I so, so, so want to be a family. Not with Gadget. That ship has sailed. It’s just grief that we aren’t a family, or rather, I’m not a family when my boys are gone. So I fall apart. Because, truly, that’s all I want. Family. Sigh. Therefore, knowing this is how things tend to go, I like to be able to book up my alone time so that I don’t have much time to fall under the spell of that cloud that so deftly and swiftly descends upon me.

Luckily, I’ve been able to schedule very short notice massage appointments each time I’ve come upon a free weekend. If nothing else, this indulgence does much to improve my overall well being. Man hands on me, this time for two full hours, working deep, deep, deep into the bound up muscles of my body. Wow, that almost sounds saucy. I could put a little more effort into that prose and come up with something racy! Massage doesn’t have to be man-hands. I’ve been trying different practitioners, but lately am pleased with this particular therapist. He’s got a little familiarity now with what I need, and because we went for two hours yesterday, he really made some progress and was able to loosen up the upper back and shoulders. I’ve been having chronic headaches, so this is a step in the right direction. And besides, I’ll take two hours of man hands on me any day, even if I have to pay for it!

So this free time can become very expensive. Shopping is one thing that gets me out of the house and that can be done on the spur of the moment. And what struck my fancy this weekend? I stumbled upon this iPod speaker contraption called an iHome, that claims to produce excellent sound. It’s kind of odd looking, and more expensive than the other options, but I figured, what the heck. I can return it if I don’t like it. Oh, I love Costco. Love. Costco is my crack. There, I said it.

Of course I can rationalize any mad spending. See, a speaker solution for the iPod allows me to listen to music without having to wear headphones and carry the iPod around. I seldom have pockets, so have to stuff the thing in my bra. And if I’m dancing around, well, it gets sweaty. Gross! Not to mention potentially limiting the lifespan of my iPod. Electronics and moisture don’t play well together. That’s just plain irresponsible, and we can’t have that!  And singing and dancing to music, reliving memories and experiences that the music evokes, is very therapeutic. Therefore it’s good for my soul. Good for my well being. And something that is good for my well being is worth spending mad money on. Yes? Yes!

I’m good. What can I say.

I tried to wrangle together a date or two within my minuscule window, but it’s just as well that I wasn’t successful. I could get myself into trouble if I acted on spontaneity like that! Instead, I stayed in, drank some wine, bombarded everyone’s FaceBook walls, and cyber flirted. So entertaining. This week I’ve had a sugar daddy offer, a few boy toy prospects, a heap of not-at-all-my-type-please-leave-me-alone pursuers, messages from a small handful of actually nice sounding men, including one or two I might agree to actually meet in person. Maybe. Or maybe not.

It’s fun, but wearying. I don’t really want to look around, troll about, or anything like that. I just want Mister Right-For-Me to show up in front of me, and I want to recognize him, say, “Hello there cutie pie, how are you, where have you been all my life?”, to which he says, “Looking for you, Sweetheart”, and that’s that. We live happily ever after. We don’t have to figure out if we’re ready to meet or even be with someone. We don’t have to figure out if we’re compatible. We don’t have to figure out if we’ll get along until we’re a hundred and one. We don’t have to wonder if the love and honor and respect and compassion and communication and understanding and interest and attraction and affection and everything or anything else will ever fade. We don’t have to wonder if the other will help raise our kids the way we want them to be raised. We don’t have to wonder if they’ll be true and honest. We don’t have to wonder if they’ll always have our back.  We don’t have to wonder if they’ll be responsible and trustworthy. We just jump into forever together.

I know. I’m bat crazy.

hello cutie pie, it's me, bat-girl

I don’t want that sugar daddy, though. That much I do know.

Oh, and that iHome thingy?  Sounds pretty darn good.  Whodathunkit?