Tag Archive: brutally honest

Affirmation {Songs & Meaning}

March 1, 2010 | about mommygeekology, married life, philosophy | Tags: , , , , ,
12 Spoke Up - Say Something

About a kajillion years ago, in 1999, when the dinosaurs roamed the earth, Savage Garden came out with a song that rocked me to my core. Affirmation. This song is everything I’ve ever thought. This song is like my mission statement. This song is my prayer. This song weaves melody and words into the intricate patterns that make up the tapestry of my heart and soul.

“I believe the sun should never set upon an argument”

This is a rule in my home, and I try to adhere to it as much as possible. Don’t go to bed angry, my grandmother and my mother have always said. It’s a way to make sure we make an effort to make it right. It’s how we ensure that resentment and anger don’t fester overnight, flooding our dreams, filling us will anxiety. It’s an affirmation of our love and devotion to each other as a family or as friends, a way to say this means something to me.

“I believe we place our happiness in other people’s hands…I believe I’m loved when I’m completely by myself alone”

We look too often to outside sources for happiness and confidence. We rely heavily on our friendships, social standing, careers or otherwise to provide us the happiness that we crave and deserve. It’s not always bad. A community, friendships, careers, these are all great things. But I also believe that we need to reach deep down within ourselves and find a happiness there. A happiness in just being alive, a happiness in being ourselves regardless of our circumstances, our friendships or status symbols. We need some joy in ourselves, and we need to protect it like the most precious gem. There will always be times of hardship, and that gem may save us and give us the strength to rise above.

“I believe your parents did the best job they knew how to do”

Isn’t that what we’re all doing? It doesn’t mean there aren’t bad parents out there. It doesn’t mean that they didn’t know it was wrong, or know they should do better. But I think that it’s fair to say that we’re doing the best job we know how to do. Now, whether that’s actually any good or not… well time will tell.

“I believe in Karma what you give is what you get returned”

I try to do good deeds. I try to hold doors, and put my grocery cart away, and spread a little love and happiness where I can, when I can. I give to charities but I also love to send my friends little gifts and care packages… just because. I hope that my kind words and good deeds have something to do with the luck, love and happiness that I’ve had in my life.

“I believe you can’t appreciate real love ’til you’ve been burned”

I have this theory about love. I think that every love counts. Puppy love, “true love” – it doesn’t matter. It all counts. I think we have a tendency to look back on our lives, once we attain what we feel is the greatest pinnacle of love we’ve ever achieved, and say – “that wasn’t really love“. I disagree. I think we loved as well as we knew how. We loved to our fullest capacity. It hurt when it ended, but I believe that with that love, and that hurt, we allowed our hearts to grow to accept greater love (and, subsequently, greater pain). I love my husband with every fiber of my being. But if I die tomorrow? I hope that he goes on to find someone else to love, eventually. I hope it will be a love just as great, or greater, than ours is now.

“I believe the grass is no more greener on the other side
I believe you don’t know what you’ve got until you say goodbye”

Every story has at least two sides, and every side has it’s trials and tribulations. Nothing is perfect, nothing, no matter how it may appear. When I drive on the highway, I usually pick a lane and stick to it. History has told me that unless I’m willing to be reckless, switching to a lane that appears to be going faster never helps. Traffic is going the same way. Eventually that lane will slow and I’ll look longingly at the car I was behind just a few minutes ago as it speeds past. I believe that loss sharpens our vision and provides enough perspective for us to see what we may have been missing or taking for granted.

“I believe you can’t control or choose your sexuality
I believe that trust is more important than monogamy
I believe your most attractive features are your heart and soul
I believe that wedded bliss negates the need to be undressed”

I’m bisexual, and when I was in high school my mother asked me when I was going to “get over this phase.” It was one of the most hurtful things she’s ever said to me, because she didn’t, and couldn’t, accept who I am. It doesn’t come up anymore because I’m married to a man, but it still hurts. I’m married to a man whom I trust and love, and our sexual preferences mean that one day, we may invite someone else into our bedroom from time to time. Trust is more important than monogamy. We’ve both changed since we were married. We aren’t as skinny as we used to be. I don’t wear makeup every day anymore. But it doesn’t matter. We love each other as whole people – not as an attractive combination of body parts.  Our love is more than a raw sexual passion. I use a tag on this site – marital bliss – you’ll note that those posts aren’t all about being naked. I mean, some of them are… but you get my point.

“I believe that family is worth more than money or gold”

I don’t think that I need to elaborate much on this one. If there is any one of you who disagrees with this statement I will say that I cannot fathom, at all, what you are thinking. I’d add to this list that my friends? My friends fall just beneath my family. Money is farther down… and only important in that it allows me to provide for my family, and my friends.

“I believe in love surviving death into eternity”

I believe in Heaven, or some version of it. I believe that we will see our loved ones again. I believe that I will be able to look down & watch over my loved ones when I die.  Barring that, then at least let me wander the earth as a ghost of some sort so I can scare the bejeezus out of anyone trying to hurt my friends or family. Or both. I’m good with both.

In all seriousness though – I don’ t think love stops when we die. Those who are living continue to love us, and I believe that those who pass to wherever, or whatever, the Other Side is, continue to love us as well.

Full lyrics

I believe the sun should never set upon an argument
I believe we place our happiness in other people’s hands
I believe that junk food tastes so good because it’s bad for you
I believe your parents did the best job they knew how to do
I believe that beauty magazines promote low self esteem
I believe I’m loved when I’m completely by myself alone

I believe in Karma what you give is what you get returned
I believe you can’t appreciate real love ’til you’ve been burned
I believe the grass is no more greener on the other side
I believe you don’t know what you’ve got until you say goodbye

I believe you can’t control or choose your sexuality
I believe that trust is more important than monogamy
I believe your most attractive features are your heart and soul
I believe that family is worth more than money or gold
I believe the struggle for financial freedom is unfair
I believe the only ones who disagree are millionaires

I believe in Karma what you give is what you get returned
I believe you can’t appreciate real love ’til you’ve been burned
I believe the grass is no more greener on the other side
I believe you don’t know what you’ve got until you say goodbye

I believe forgiveness is the key to your own happiness
I believe that wedded bliss negates the need to be undressed
I believe that God does not endorse tv evangelists
I believe in love surviving death into eternity

I believe in Karma what you give is what you get returned
I believe you can’t appreciate real love ’til you’ve been burned
I believe the grass is no more greener on the other side
I believe you don’t know what you’ve got until you say goodbye

Say Something

Job {Write of Passage}

January 11, 2010 | about mommygeekology, featured, making memories | Tags: , , ,
12 Spoke Up - Say Something

Summer, 1998. I am 14 years old. I dance several times a week at a dance studio in my town. I have long brown hair. I don’t usually wear makeup but I feel confident, and pretty.

My first job was at a local convenience store. The owners were Peruvian, an older married couple. The wife was my boss, and her husband worked the counter with her. He smiled a lot, spoke little English. He had white hair and was affectionate. At first, I liked to think of him a the Grandfather I didn’t really have.

It all started innocently enough. He would comment about how skinny I was, that I should eat more. He offered me tata and snacks for free. His wife was so austere, so stern, so harsh, it was a welcome reprieve when he spoke to me. It was a small store, and it was usually just me and them.

I can’t pinpoint when, but at some point he started to make subtle advances. He would put his hand on my waist as I walked by, murmuring about how tiny I was, about my “beautiful dancer’s body.” He’d come up behind me and put his hands on my waist, my shoulders, touch my hair. I didn’t do anything about it. I was young. I didn’t quite understand what was going on, though I knew I wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. I rationalized that he was just a nice, lonely old man. Like a grandfather. I clung to that thought, using it as a rationale to continue working there, continue talking and joking with him, continue ignoring what was really going on.

He became bolder. He would tickle me, taking the chance to slide his hands under my shirt and touch the soft skin of my belly, the smooth curve of my back. I giggled, I danced away, I pretended it was ok.

Even bolder. He would slide his hand up underneath my shirt, complimenting my beauty, my grace. I tried to ignore it. I joked, I spun away, I stopped rationalizing and went with a full-on mental block. It wasn’t happening.

One Sunday morning at 5am, putting together newspapers, I hit my breaking point. My mother was there with me, helping me put the papers together. While she was in the back and I was carrying papers out to the front of the store, he pushed his hands up beneath my shirt and touched my bra. I ripped away from him. I didn’t speak to him again. I quit my job a week later, and it was a year or more before I told my mother what had happened. Not until my sister wanted to apply for a job there. I couldn’t bear the thought of her going through the same thing.

———–

May, 2009. I am 24. I am working at a corporate office, and I am pregnant and happily married. I love my job.

Nearly 2 years ago, I discovered I was pregnant with Geeklet. We were thrilled, and after a couple of months I decided it was time to tell my boss. He took me out to lunch. He drove. We talked.  He was a good friend of mine. We worked in a small department, all sitting together in a large office. Three of us, only three of us — young Greek guy that I was sure was gay, whose attitude often rubbed me the wrong way, and Gustavo. He was from Peru, and he was a true gentleman. He held doors for me. He opened car doors and offered to get me a drink at company functions. He was proper and kind and sensitive.

He was even kind, and gentle, and a gentleman, when he asked me to have sex with him.

He was kind, and sweet, when he told me he’d nearly cheated on his then-fiancee (now wife and mother of his child) while she was still in Peru.

He was gentle when he told me that he wanted to have sex with another woman, but didn’t want to pay for a prostitute. But I seemed nice, and he thought I might have sex with him.

He was sweet when I refused him.

He thanked me for not slapping him.

He drove us back to work, and he was polite throughout the entire afternoon.

He was polite when HR called him in and questioned him about the incident.

He was gentle and remorseful when he admitted to asking me for sex.

He was gentlemanly and polite when I changed departments because I could no longer work next to him.

He was polite when I confronted him months later to tell him that I thought I deserved an apology.

———–

I’m at a new job now. I work in a department of women. My husband works here. It’s a good arrangement. ‘Nuff said.



Say Something

Brazilian, Baby {Green Post}

January 8, 2010 | featured, making memories | Tags: , , , , , , ,
10 Spoke Up - Say Something

I’m calling this a “Green Post” because it’s been recycled from my old blog. One of the challenges of the Mominatrix #sexualrevolution was to do a little down-low landscaping, and I thought I’d share one of my experiences with waxing. This is supposed to be funny, so LAUGH DAMMIT.

————

I understand that there are some cultures where body hair is accepted, even admired. There are cultures also that demand that women or men remove all or parts of their body hair, either as a religious rite or simply because it is culturally unacceptable otherwise. I tried to do some research on this, but have you ever tried doing a Google search for pubic hair and cultural perspectives? Yeah, don’t. Or turn safe-search on.

Anyway, other cultures aside, my own personal preference is to be clean-shaven – pretty much anywhere that I can be. I love the hair on my head :-) But I also keep that short. I don’t like long hair. Hubby had long hair before we met. If I had known him during his goth or subsequent quasi-goth stages, we would not have dated. When we did meet, he had a nice military haircut. Totally acceptable and attractive!

My reasons for wanting to be hairless “down there” are numerous, from simple to upkeep, to cleanliness, to the “eww gross” factor during oral… the list goes on. No landing strips for me, either. Not a fan. It looks funny, to me. And it’s more upkeep! I’d have to trim and shave. I think that’s asking a bit much from a girl who doesn’t even get to shower as often as she’s like. (Aren’t you glad that you only know me virtually? lol. )

So, with that oh-so-essential background information, my candid account of getting a Brazilian wax while 7 months pregnant last Saturday follows:

***

The spa room was very nice. There were nice fresh sheets and towels on the table in the center of the room. The walls were painted in calming earthy tones, and soothing music played in the background. There were some nice iron scrolls on the walls, a hook and hanger for my clothes, and a display of creams and lotions.  I had just come from getting my hair cut and my maternity massage, so I was relaxed and feeling sexy and fun and flirty. The clinician, Rachel, offered me a drink of water or some tea. I politely declined – I think that peeing on the woman clearing out your bush is rude, right? I’ll be honest, I’m fuzzy on the proper protocol during a Brazilian wax.. but I think peeing on people is out unless you’re filming a crazy porn or something.

Rachel, by the way, is absolutely gorgeous. Long, dark, curly hair, big big eyes with long lashes, little cupid mouth. It was almost a little insulting how pretty she was. I mean c’mon. If I’m going to have someone staring at my vagina for an hour, I’d rather that she be less attractive than me. If she’s going to be more attractive than I am, and she’s looking at my vagina, she better not be down there to give me a Brazilian.

(Whoops, just outed myself. Bisexual, anyone?)

So, where was I? Oh yeah. Gorgeous girl, first Brazilian wax, 4 months of growth because I can’t reach my own hoo-hah and a huge pregnant belly.

She told me that I could hang my clothes on the hanger and get up on the table, she’d be right back.  That’s right folks, she left while I undressed. She also left while I dressed, at the end. How weird is that? I mean, it’s not like she wasn’t going to see it anyway!

Then again, after I had stripped and gotten up on the table, I draped a towel over myself. Even as I arranged it to keep my bits from showing, I questioned why I was bothering. I mean, she was going to be getting up close and personal. And yet… it would have felt so weird to leave it all hanging out!

So when she comes back in, I’m lying on my back, wondering why they didn’t bother to drywall the ceiling because those dated ceiling tiles are really unattractive to look at, when she pulls my leg to the side and plops some sugar-lemon gel on the area with a little spatula. No “How do you do, let me grab your leg here for a sec.” No “How about dinner? A movie? Sex in the back of my conversion van?” Not even a warning “Let’s go!” Just flip the towel aside, grap the spatula, plop the wax and hello, pain. Let me tell you – that gel is hot. And when it catches on the little hairs, it hurts a little. But I thought to myself, so far, so good. This’ll be quick and dirty. It’l hurt, but then I’ll be able to go, and I’ll never have to look this beautiful woman in the face again.  Then she grabbed one of those little waxing strips and laid it on the gel.  No problem. Then she took her whole hand (gloved, thankyouverymuch) and rubbed the strip down with significant pressure. Let me just say this – not so much a problem on the bikini line area. Totally strange when you get to the “inner” area. I was really, really glad that I wasn’t going to have to see her outside of this context.

Then she started talking to me, asking when I was due, did I have any names picked? I thought it was a little weird, but figured that she was curious and maybe trying to get her mind off of the task at hand (literally….)

I was right in the middle of telling her that I was due on ((RIP)) ((internal scream of surprise and pain)) November 4th, but that my daughter was ((RIP)) ((oh good lord that burns)) about 10 days early, so ((RIP)) ((I bet I’m as red as a tomato down there right now)) this one might be an October baby. With every bit of gel applied, she would apply the wax strip several times and rip, rip, rip away.

I was horrified at the pain. It burned. It hurt. It ached. It was sharp, and tingly, and there was nothing good about it, no way. I had heard that some women like to get this done. I think that whoever told me that was mistaken. They probably said that they like it as much as they’d like an ice pick to the eye. Or they like it as much as they’d like to swallow burning coals. Or that they like it as much as a visit from their mother-in-law while potty-training their first child, who happens to have diarrhea.

But I had started. And I figured that as long as I could just sit there, deal with the pain, and get it over with, I’d be fine.

But no. Rachel was seriously chatty.  She would ask me about how I liked living in B-town, and whether I liked it more than BL-town versus N-city, and how her boyfriend wanted to live in B-town but she wanted to live in N-city even though the commute would be worse, etc etc. Every so often, she’d pause, and squint at my lower half. I’m not sure if she was puzzled, or strategizing, or what. It was all very surreal and strange, and somewhat awkward.

It went on and on. This is not a quick process – it took 50 minutes to get everything.It was a pattern. Apply wax, ask a question, furiously rub on waxing strip, wait until I started my answer, RIP. I swear, she was doing it on purpose. She probably got some sort of sick thrill out of seeing whether she could get me to scream in the middle of my answer. (I’m proud to say that I did not! Though there was much wincing, pausing, and flinching)

I tried to rationalize the whole experience and say that it was good practice for childbirth.  I mean, pain at intervals lasting for 30 seconds to a minute (oh, the burning!) while maintaining conversation with the people around you. Because that’s totally how we all imagine our birth experience. Discussion about politics and complex science while also bringing life into the world, without any pain medication. I mean, that’s what my childbirth plan reads…. yeah.

The worst part was the end, though. I had told her that I wanted everything – even the wayyy back – gone. She tells me that the last part is the least painful, don’t worry, and if I could get up on the table on my hands and knees and arch my back, that would be great. (Oh, how many times have I heard that? “This won’t hurt a bit, now bend over… ) So, with my big ass and my pregnant belly and my ridiculous stretch marks, I got up on that table and posed like I was asking Hubby to do it doggy style. My stomach rested on the table. My back was arched, my ass was in the air, and she says to me “That’s great.”

Oh goodness.

So she applies the gel and gets the strip, and right after she pulls the strip off, I start to giggle.

A word of advice: the next time that you’re in a table, ass proudly displayed in the air, while someone removes the hair from your body using a spatula, wax, and some cloth strips, do not giggle. It’s weird. It puts a strange mood in the room. No matter that you quickly, VERY quickly explain that you’re just thinking about how funny this will be to tell people later, and that you’re thinking of getting an at-home wax kit so that your husband can see how it feels to have the hair brutally ripped from his body, or that you know it’s totally inappropriate and you’re so sorry you don’t mean to giggle but you just can’t stop…

It’s weird. And for the last few minutes of that waxing session, there will be a silence in the room, like a thick, wet, flannel blanket, dampening everything. And you’ll still be stifling giggles.

Needless to say, I’ll be back in four weeks to get it done again. (That’s right, go back and read that sentence again. No typos, I promise.) (It lasts four weeks!) (And Hubby is paying!)

Say Something

Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman

January 6, 2010 | about mommygeekology, featured, philosophy | Tags: , , ,
7 Spoke Up - Say Something

britney-spearsI identify strongly with Britney Spears. Not in a show-my-hoochie-cuz-I-don’t-wear-panties way, or a crazy-behavior-for-shock-value way. I identify with her as a singer, a performer, a young girl, who is desperately trying to find her way in this world. I followed, and still follow, news stories about her closely. I read the gossip mags looking for a shred of truth, I listen to the lyrics of her songs, I buy her albums and I wonder, often, what it would be like to live her life.

Let’s lay it out in black & white:

Similarities:

  • We are both in our late 20s – in fact, we’re about a year apart in age
  • We are both singers (though, admittedly, she is more of a performer than songstress)
  • We are both dancers (though, admittedly, I haven’t danced in years and I am nowhere near as good)
  • We both married early
  • We both have two children (hers boys, mine girls) around the same ages
  • We both have divorced parents
  • We both gained a little weight after having kids (Gasp, normal!)
  • We both have our belly buttons pierced

Differences:

  • Clearly, I am not a celebrity, and therefore, I don’t have the stress (and yes, fun) that comes with that
  • I’m not divorced
  • My mother or father are not acting as conservator of my affairs, my life
  • I haven’t been married more than once
  • No one has taken my children from me
  • I haven’t been forcibly hospitalized
  • She had a personal trainer to help her lose weight and look HAWT again

The differences seem so clear until I look more closely. What is that list, really, except a list of chance? The lines get blurred when I wonder if I were somehow catapulted to stardom at a young age, who is to say that I wouldn’t eventually crumble under the pressure, using my behavior and words to desperately reach out for help from someone, anyone? Who can say that I wouldn’t go a little bit crazy from untreated depression? I’ve been there, depressed, horribly depressed. My family helped me. What if my family weren’t so aware of my depression? What if I were surrounded by an environment where it was not OK to be depressed, to have issues, to need help? What if?

When I look at stories of her from two, three years ago or more, I just see a scared little girl. I see someone screaming for help and I see the world capitalizing on it, ignoring the real message, judging. I want to scream at them – what if it was your friend? Your daughter? Your mother? Would you just sit back and watch or would you do something?

I look at her now and I see someone who, having received the help she needed, has gotten back on track. Who has accomplished more in her young life than I will likely ever accomplish. Who has gone through hell and back and who will hopefully be a better person for that experience. I see someone who needed family and friends to lean on.

That’s not so different than I. That’s not so different than any of us.

I’m sure it’s not just me. Who do you identify with?

Say Something

Bitter is the New Black*

January 5, 2010 | about mommygeekology, featured | Tags: , , , , , , , , ,
22 Spoke Up - Say Something

I’ve spent a lot of time this past year feeling bitter. I’m tired of the feeling. The aching, gnawing, acidic feeling in my stomach is not welcome in 2010. I’ve spent too much time consumed by bitter, angry thoughts; writing magnificently angry and righteous emails and letters to “friends” and family who have burned me, hurt me.

Just a few weeks ago, I was in the bathroom in the morning, getting ready for work. I was using a round brush to pull my hair back into a ponytail, my typical hairstyle of choice (though with a new haircut, we hope that will change).  The bottom layer of my hair is shorter than the rest, from a previous haircut, and it’s hard to get into the ponytail. That day I brushed it down and let it be a little messy. I thought about my friend Sarah K.

Sarah wore ponytails a lot. Except her hair was so short that half of it would fall out the bottom, like mine. I’ve always called her my best friend. Looking back I don’t know why. She wasn’t my best friend. She wasn’t even a good friend. I just wanted her to be my best friend. We’d been best friends a long time ago. Grammar school. Middle school. We were inseparable. We had so much fun … they called us Gasoline & Matches, we were always getting into trouble. We loved every minute of it.

We once stopped riding our bikes near the front of my house and started a fist fight with each other to see who would win.

She once ate so many brownies and popcorn that she couldn’t even remember how much she’d eaten. Then she puked it up everywhere.

We used to sit on the sloping roof overhang outside her bedroom window and wait for the cops to see us and call her parents.

Her room was painted blue. Her middle name is Elaine. I always thought she was so cool. She’s great with children. I always thought she’d be great with my children. And the two times she saw them? She was. She was great with them. {oh god I’m going to cry. This is ridiculous}

I loved her very much, but she spent her entire life forgetting about me.

As I stood there in front of the mirror, tears springing suddenly to my eyes, I felt angry. I felt so angry that I had tried for years, reaching out to her, emailing her, calling her, finding her, reminding her that I was here, I wanted to be her friend. Catching one lunch, one dinner, one coffee every 10-12mos. I believed her when she said she wanted to hang out more. She wanted to see me more. She wanted to talk more. Email more. Share more. Be there for me more.I fell for it last year again, after she came home from a trip to Israel. She blogged about it, and I read every entry. {I am so pathetic}

She started blowing me off between Middle School and High School. She stopped being a tomboy and figured out how to be a girl. She hung out with a faster crowd and she did things I wouldn’t do. She would come back to me every so often and ask for my help. Boyfriend trouble, family trouble, job trouble, house trouble. She wanted my help fixing it. I fixed it and she went off, waving goodbye gaily, already forgetting what I’d done for her. Every time.

Senior year, at prom, she was drunk. She found me in the bathroom. She told me I was the best friend she’d ever had. She told me that she never appreciated how I always put her back together. She told me she wished she had spent more time with me, and listened to me when I told her that doing E at 14 was a bad idea. That dating drug dealers was a bad idea. That smoking pot was a bad idea. That coming to the senior prom drunk was a Bad Idea.

I knew she was drunk but I felt vilified. I felt recognized. I felt important.

We graduated and I saw her about once a year. Once each time I was pregnant. Once after Cupcake was born. Once after Geeklet was born, which was the last time I saw her.  I called her and left her a voicemail a few months later. Nothing. A few weeks after that I called and caught her – but she was busy. She said she’d call me in a few days. Nothing. I sent her an email. Nothing.

I sent another email and told her I wouldn’t be calling anymore. That I hoped she was having a good time, but that I couldn’t put any more energy into a relationship she wasn’t willing to put effort into as well. I needed some closure.

She responded and said she couldn’t deal with a “friend break up” right now because her boyfriend had dumped her. She’d call me in a few days.

Say it with me, people! Nothing.

I emailed her again, against the wisdom that is Twitter. I had too much history with her. I needed to get some closure. I told her I wasn’t surprised she hadn’t called – that was exactly why I couldn’t play this pretend friendship game anymore. I wished her happy holidays, a good new year, and signed off. She responded and said she was sorry that I didn’t think she was a good friend, then made a bunch of excuses.

I told her I was sorry too. That was the end. I cried for a long time. I mourned the death of a friendship that wasn’t even a good friendship. I was bitter about how long I’d pursued this friendship to end it like this. I’ve felt angry and bitter many times since then. The moment in the mirror, hair halfway to a ponytail, was just one. It hits me randomly in the car, or at work, and I wonder why she was so dismissive of me. Why I wasn’t important to her when she was so important to me. She was right, it was a friend-break-up.

I’m still sad and angry and bitter about it, but I don’t want to be this way. It’s a waste of energy.  A waste of tears, which are rolling down my face right now to beat the band and I can’t stop them. It’s a waste, such a waste.

Here comes my 2010 resolution: I don’t want to waste time on this, or any other useless, bitter, ridiculous situation this year. I want to try and accept things for what they are and if I don’t like it, I don’t like it. Bitterness won’t help me. I need to pick up and move on and stop being so angry, so bitter, particularly about lost friendships. I’ve gained so many new friends in 2009. Sure, only one lives within driving distance. Most I’ll probably never meet face to face. I’m of the iGeneration, I should thrive on this, these computer-screen/social-media/internet community friendships and I DO. Sometimes it’s not enough for me, but I can’t be angry about it. I can’t be bitter. If I want more friends I need to find a way to go out and get them.

So. 2010. Less bitterness. More friends.

Let’s go.

—-

* Title inspired by the book I just finished reading, Bitter is the New Black, by Jen Lancaster. It’s a light, funny read that is autobiographical, which makes it even funnier, and I really enjoyed it. Laughed out loud quite a bit, which is relatively unusual for me (I read books and watch movies with hardly any emotion on my face, causing people to think I am a) bored b)angry or c)asleep with my eyes open).  If it were summer I’d say it’s a good beach read, but since it’s winter I’ll say it’s a good read for when you need something relatively mindless and uncomplicated after a very long and complicated day. I have a lot of those, which is why I love Sophie Kinsella so much.


Say Something

Burnout

December 18, 2009 | about mommygeekology, featured | Tags: , , , , , , , ,
9 Spoke Up - Say Something

I am burning out. I need to find a balance between home, school, work, other work, kids, cleaning, laundry, relaxation. I can’t find it right now. I can’t find it right now, and I am burning out.

Three times in the past two weeks, I’ve just gone straight to bed as soon as the kids were asleep. Note: that’s unlike me. I like to stay up and do a little something. The problem is that it’s not that I didn’t have anything to do. I have plenty to do, too much to do, and I keep taking on projects.  I am hooking a fucking rug as a Christmas present for chrissakes. WHO THE FUCK HAS TIME FOR THAT?!

Part of it is the holidays. Part of it is just the regular ebb and flow of life.

Regardless, I still need to find balance. I need to stop jerking around to each part of my life, trying desperately to complete a task before I am pulled away again. I should be doing other things than blogging right now but I’m exploding. I need to get some of this out.

I need to breathe. I don’t feel like I have time to breathe. And when I find time, I don’t feel like I have the energy.

How do you do it? How do you balance? What do you have going on in your life? Write me a book in the comments, I don’t care. I want it. I need to know how you’re managing. Or not managing. I don’t want to be alone in this struggle.

Say Something

{From the Vault}

December 4, 2009 | featured | Tags: , , ,
3 Spoke Up - Say Something

I’d like to extend a warm welcome to Elizabeth of Boy Crazy [finding clarity in the chaos]. She had a heartbreak tale to tell for Girl Talk Thursday, but posting on her own blog wasn’t idea, so I’ve pulled up an extra virtual chair and let her be an author in this space for a day. Please keep all comments about this post right here, but make sure you visit her blog to see what else she has going on!

When Elizabeth wrote this, she was scribbling into a (possibly) tear-stained journal at 19 years old. She’s typed it up and published it here for our literary enjoyment. I’m so impressed with how eloquent she is!

Don’t forget to visit Girl Talk Thursday and check out the rest of the participants’ stories too!

~ xoxo MommyGeek

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(From the Vault)
July 13, 1997

We sat on the bench at the end of the dock. It was around 1:30 in the morning, but we were wide-awake. We chatted for a while about the movie, using small talk to avoid the  conversation that was lingering in the early morning air. I’m not sure if he sensed the urgency, but I felt so strongly that we needed to talk that a thick, heavy pressure squeezed my chest.

I asked him a question to lead us down the road we needed to go, but he sidestepped. Before he could take his tangent farther, I stepped in. The irritation and haste in my voice was more obvious than I intended, but I needed to make my point. He had succeeded at masking his recognition of our problem, but once I started talking he couldn’t hold back. He was on his feet in a matter of seconds; his face and body betraying his frustration before he even spoke.

I looked up at him, his features blurred through my tears. I wiped my eyes and nose with my sleeve, his borrowed shirt. I listened to him and watched his body against the midnight sky. The stars were sharp and bright behind his head, a backdrop for our act.

We argued back and forth, my captive tears finally set free. Two bodies, but one mind; we wrestled with the same fears and doubts. While I was relieved to know we felt the same, it stung to hear his doubts vocalized.

He sat down next to me, but too far away. I felt like we were actors in a play, that everything was over-dramatized. The waves washed over the pier, soaking my sandals. The water was much higher this year. I looked up. Thick clouds were creeping in and swallowing big swaths of the starry sky.

I moved closer to him, linking my arm through his and resting my head on his shoulder. I could feel his tension.

It isn’t supposed to be like this, he said. We should be returning from a movie, happy and in love, sitting on the dock seeing the same shooting stars. Everything should be picture perfect.

In awe of the irony, I sat silent, listening to the distant thunder rumbling its warning of the brewing storm. We sat for a few minutes, needing to speak but having nothing to say. Finally, he went inside, leaving our conflict unresolved.

I walked back towards the cottage, but I sat at the picnic table outside the door. In the dark, I cried with my head down on my folded arms on the tabletop. I cried for the confusion and for the understanding. I cried for the past I wanted back and for the future I feared. I cried for the present, upon which everything depended.

I don’t know how long I sat at that table. My eyes were heavy with sadness and sleep. Standing up, I looked at the sky, searching for at least one survivor star.

But they had all disappeared.

As I headed up the stone steps, I heard another rumble of thunder, but this time louder and closer. It was only beginning, and this could be one hell of a storm.

Say Something

Heartbreak

December 3, 2009 | about mommygeekology, featured, making memories | Tags: , , ,
20 Spoke Up - Say Something

Things had been unraveling for weeks. Honestly, I should have known from the beginning that it wasn’t going to work. He was too diffident. Too closed off. Too mysterious. Too punk rock. Too sophisticated. Too immature. He was the very embodiment of enigma but to my young mind it was that very fact that made him so alluring.

Oh! How I wanted him.

It all started innocently enough. We were both involved heavily in the music department. He had a band, mostly punk rock. He sang a cover of the Captain Planet theme song that made you admit that you did know the words to that song, and scream them at the top of your lungs, hoping he’d glance your way. He wasn’t attractive in the traditional sense. It was really more about his attitude, his aura – he was sexy. I recognized that despite the fact that I hardly knew what sexy was at that time. It didn’t matter. I’ll admit it: I was a little bit obsessed.

I can’t quite remember exactly when we became exclusive. Did we kiss first, and commit later? Did he ask me out? I’m fuzzy on the timeline. I was a Junior in High School – 17 years old, old for my grade, I fancied myself more mature. I was as foolish and as vulnerable as any other young girl in love.  We were dating during the school musical, I spent rehearsals sitting in his lap in the darkened auditorium, or clinging to his side while he entertained us with his guitar. I think it was Fiddler on the Roof that year. During the first few rehearsals, we flirted. He and his best friend both courted me, flirted with me, vying for my attention and it made my head spin. I felt so powerful, and seductive, and powerful.

I chose him because it felt like electricity every time he touched me. I chose him because his breath on my ear, as he leaned in to whisper witty cynicisms I could hardly comprehend, made my spine shiver and sent my insides churning.

He wrote me poems, taping them to the inside of my locker, folded in perfect little football triangles. I don’t have them anymore. My favorite was about a caged bird who wanted to be set free to sing, a caged bird who had the power to leave her cage but didn’t because she thought she could do it tomorrow, but tomorrow would never come. He gave me that poem and a necklace, a little silver key. It was simple – cheap, even. I treasured it like nothing else I’d ever owned.

I gave him my memory books – blank notebooks that I wrote in throughout the day, jotting down anything that poppped into my head, be it doodle or words or song lyrics. It was a peek into my self. I let him have them, I let him have me, my essence.

Ultimately though, he gave me nothing. He wrote me poems about what was wrong with me in beautiful verse. He gave me symbolic gifts that urged me to change. He gave me nothing of himself. To this day I know very little about him and his life, but he knew everything about me. It was too much, I couldn’t sustain it.  I couldn’t give everything and receive nothing in return. I loved him, I needed to know more of him than his favorite foods or his vocal range.

I can’t remember which of us broke it off. I remember walking down the hallway in that god-forsaken high school and passing him a note. I remember the crushing weight of my sadness on my chest making it hard to breathe. I remember him saying Goodbye. I remember the way he smelled. I remember the way he walked.

I remember riding home on the bus in a fog. I got off at my stop. I started to walk down our little dead end road. I took 10, maybe 15 steps before I broke down. I clutched the necklace he had given me, my key to happiness, and it seemed to burn my hand. I dug my fingers into my palm with this little key curled inside my angry fist and I wanted to draw blood. I stayed there, kneeling on the ground, broken, for a long while.

Finally, I rose. I took the necklace off and threw it into the woods. I went home. I did homework. I talked to a few friends. I went to sleep. I got up and I got through the next day, and the next day, and the next.

It was hard. I was heartbroken. I thought I had known love, and it was ripped away from me. I thought I might never love again.

Thankfully, I was wrong.

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This post is part of Girl Talk Thursday, which is one of my favorite things ever :) Want to share a story about love or heartbreak? Join in on the fun! You don’t have to post on Thursday, just post before next Thursday! And don’t forget to visit the other participants!

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GTT: Job Venting (a guest post)

November 5, 2009 | featured | Tags: , , , , ,
8 Spoke Up - Say Something

The boobalicious Chibijeebs has some work woes that she doesn’t want broadcasted at her blog, so I offered up my (albeit a bit dusty from disuse of late) space to vent away. It’s all in good fun, and where good fun is involved, you know you’ll find Girl Talk Thursday. If you have a post that you’d like to write but can’t write in your own space, feel free to email me or leave a comment here or at Girl Talk Thursday. I’d be happy to feature it here, and I know the other gals at GTT would be thrilled to have you at their spaces, too.  And don’t feel like it has to be TODAY TODAY TODAY because it’s Thursday!  We’ll be reading, commenting and dishing out the girl time fun all week until our new topic next week. xoxo ~ MommyGeek

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The lovely MommyGeek (seriously: love her) has been kind enough to lend me some blog space because I’m paranoid.  Well, and because the set-up at work combined with this particular issue would make me VERY easy to identify by anyone who knows me IRL, and I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of exposure.  *ahem*

I willingly and openly admit upfront that my complaint really isn’t that big of a deal — all things considered, I have it pretty good.  But this is fresh and I’m still worrying over it and it spilled over into my personal life, so yeah.

The office is half of a very large shop on one of the owner’s property; his house and a pool house (where Grandma lives) also occupy space here.  (I guess before Rob built the shop, the office occupied space in Wade’s (owner #2) basement, so they’ve always played it close to the vest, so to speak.)

Before the end of the day Friday, Rob asked me if I would be interested in house sitting for them.  I sat there in stunned silence because I wasn’t sure just what this entailed — they DO have three kids and a dog: was it just house sitting, or was it really babysitting?  I recovered by asking when.  He told me that they were all going to Hawaii in two weeks for a week, then Grandma would be returning with the kids while Mom and Dad stayed on for an extra week.  He told me I could stay in the pool house if I felt more comfortable, and mentioned something about the hardest part being feeding the dog (even at the time I thought, if it’s just a matter of feeding the dog, I could do that before I went home/when I got here in the morning).  I told him I’d have to talk to The Man-Thing, and he assured me that it was no big deal if I couldn’t — that they’d find someone else — but that he thought I might like the “commute.”

Instantly, I was filled with dread: I can’t really give you a logical explanation, but the idea of house sitting makes me anxious to the nth degree.  I’d being staying in a strange house.  Alone.  In the dark.  I’d be sleeping in a bed not my own, when I already have “issues” sleeping in my bed.  What do I do with my clothes?  Do I bring a week’s worth?  Where do I put them?  What do I do about dinner?  Are they going to make sure the kitchen is stocked, or is that up to me?  Who looks after MY home while I’m looking after yours?  (Obviously this was before I met The Man-Thing and/or operating under the assumption that he’d be house sitting with me.)  WHY doesn’t anyone think about THAT when they ask you to house sit for them?!?  This is now the third time I’ve been asked to house sit by a boss/superior; I don’t know if they think I’m trustworthy or a push-over.  Or a trustworthy push-over.  Either way, it fills me with dread and I haven’t done it for anyone yet.  Hell, even my parents’ house gets cursory every-other-day visits when I “house sit” for them, and I lived there up until three years ago!

As I was leaving, he excitedly asked me if I wanted a tour of “where [I'd] be staying.”  I really didn’t want to, because I was all anxious and had pretty much already made up my mind to not do it, but I figured I’d humour him.  I totally felt like I was trespassing, especially considering Grandma wasn’t home at the time.  It was rather awful.

When I got home, I brought it up to The Man-Thing, all pshaw about it and stuff.  He waited until I was finished before suggesting I do it: he’d be fine for a week on his own, and besides, with Rob being the younger of the two owners, he’d likely be the one to continue the company when Wade retires, so if I do him a favour now, it might pay off down the road.  I looked at him, aghast.  First, the mere thought that this particular incident might possibly affect my future employment sent me into paroxysms of horror; and secondly, thanks for implying that I don’t think you’d survive a week without me — could you TRY to hide your excitement of a week in your underwear eating pizza, plz?

It SO wasn’t how I’d expected the conversation to go.  I expected we’d discuss either me going home after work and both of us coming back to “work” at the end of the day, or him coming out here to meet me at the end of the work day.  I certainly didn’t expect the damn-near Alone Time Happy Dance, simultaneously leaving the neurotic one (me) staying in a strange place ALL BY HERSELF.

For some reason, I couldn’t even articulate what was going through my head, other than to blast him for wanting to get rid of me (which, naturally, he didn’t take very well) and voicing shock and dismay at the thought I might lose my  job for saying no (in his “defence,” he’s currently involved in a course that is examining networking, and he figured this would just be one more way to make a “connection”).  He bristled and got defensive; I clammed up and cried.  Then?  We didn’t speak.

FOR TWO HOURS.  (Simply because we’re both horribly stubborn assholes who wait for the other one to “crack.”)

That was all resolved… blah, blah, blah.  I then had to come in on Monday and tell Rob that it wasn’t “going to work for us,” making up some BS excuse about The Man-Thing starting another course that week, and… <enter petered-off babbling here>  He told me it was no big deal, again repeating that they’d find someone else.  *phew*  Awkward and guilt-inducing (because I swear to Ceiling Cat I have the deadly combination of Catholic AND Jewish-mother guilt), but done…

…until Grandma came by with the mail Tuesday.  I guess Rob hadn’t told her that I turned them down.  She asked if I was going to be “staying over”; when I explained why I wasn’t, this look of panic overtook her face as she started worrying out loud about who they were going to get — ALL the (extended) family was going to be away/unavailable at that time.  She started talking about how she KNEW she should have waited and gone when Rob et al got home.

Oh, fuck.  Hi, Guilt!  SO not nice to see you again.  *sigh*

(I haven’t changed my mind, but I still feel ridiculously bad about it.  Oh, and I didn’t tell The Man-Thing the latest with Grandma because, well, just because.)

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A General Rule

October 26, 2009 | about mommygeekology, philosophy | Tags: ,
16 Spoke Up - Say Something

If you asked a group of 10 people whether “honesty is the best policy” you’d probably find that about 8 out of 10 say Hell Yes and give you a lecture about the dangers and treachery of lying, tangled webs and whatnot. I don’t necessarily disagree – I’m quite honest on this blog.

As a general rule in my life, I try to live by this motto: “If you have the balls to ask me, I’ll have the balls to answer you.”

Maybe that’s not a smart motto. And Lord knows I don’t always manage to live up to it – but I try. I’m human, fallible, and it’s all I can do. I have the hardest time being honest with my family – my mother, brother, and sister – because since I was a teenager it was always assumed I was lying. It didn’t matter – I was lying. Sometimes it seems like I might as well – I mean, dammit, I’m going to be accused of lying anyway, right? So yes, sometimes I do lie to my mother, my brother, my sister. I think we all do from time to time. Even beyond the “I’m fine!” response to “How are you?” in the grocery store while you have tears pricking the corners of your eyes, or “I love it!” when you unwrap that birthday present to find an adult-sized bubble-gum pink sweater with a crude unicorn crocheted in the center.

Sometimes it’s just *easier* to lie than to tell the complicated truth. But usually it’s not.

Sometimes, *certain members* of my family would rather hear the lie – because the truth would cause a rift too big to ever cross again. Sometimes the lie is what we need to tell ourselves to get ourselves through the next day.

I’ve thought about honesty a lot and I do try to ensure I am as honest as possible. I don’t know if you can tell from any of my more recent blog posts, but I’ve decided that I can feel safe here – in this space – I mean, might as well go for it right? If the blog is found by someone I don’t want to find it, and they share they with my family… well it’s not like I haven’t been honest. I can at least say that. I won’t lie here. These are my feelings. This is my life as I see it. You don’t like it? Go see something else. Am I right? (Yes, yes I am.)

So. With that said, I was pretty pleased to see that Colleen and then Psychmamma had given me a little bloggity blog award. I don’t usually get these sort of things, or participate in memes, but this one goes along with my theme here on ye olde blogge, so here it is:

HonestScrap

There are some rules for this award, but I’m not much for rules (unless I make them) so I’d like to do something a little differently. Normally, the rules are to say 10 honest things about oneself and pass this along to 7 others.

I’d like to challenge you.

I want you to write something completely, 100% brutally honest. If you can’t write it on your blog, but would like to get it up for the world to see, feel free to email me and I’ll post them anonymously here over the next week(or weeks, depending on how popular this is)(or isn’t, you might never see this again!)(or I could make shit up and post it anonymously. but that would sort of go against the essence of this huh?)(ok I won’t make anything up. I’ll leave that to someone funnier. Like Marinka. Hey, Marinka! This is a great idea for your next blog post!)

Write something honest. Post it to your blog. Comments on, comments off, I don’t care, but I want a link to it, dammit. If you don’t have a blog but want to own it, feel free to post it here in the comments. I may end up reposting your comment, so beware.

Hell even if you write it and save it as a draft and tuck it away in a dark, secret folder on your computer never to be opened again, just do it. This is a good exercise. And it’ll help get whatever is on your chest, off your chest.

I have a post started about my struggle with post partum depression that’s been sitting in my drafts folder for months. I am going to finish that post, however long it takes. And I promise you I will post it here as soon as I can.

Meanwhile, I will post 10 honest things about myself:

  • I hate loud chewers, lip smackers and people who swish the spit around in their mouth while eating. It makes me actually cringe. If I am sitting next to you at dinner and I start furiously digging at my ear with my finger, I am probably seriously annoyed by someone around us. If it’s just the two of us, it’s you. Stop eating. (just kidding on that last bit) (sort of)
  • I sing Backyardigan’s songs to myself when the kids aren’t around and I like it. One of my favorites is the Volcano Sister’s song, the one at the end where they almost blow up the volcano. That’s awesome.
  • I joined the Phineas and Ferb Wiki and read all about Dr Doofenshmirtz’s life.
  • I used to play the saxophone in middle school, but the only thing I remember now is Ode to an Orange.
  • I still don’t have my degree in anything, and a lot of the time that makes me feel like a gigantic failure.
  • The scars from my gallbladder surgery really bother me. It’s just three tiny incision points but they still bother me. One more thing about that region of my body that I despise. I even covered them with makeup the last time DaddyGeek and I had sex.
  • Sometimes I sweep the kitchen and then push all the dust and stuff under the stove instead of putting it in a dustbin and throwing it out.
  • I regret how little I remember of my life. I just have a bad memory. It’s depressing.
  • Sometimes I feel like all I do is bitch, and I hate that.
  • I like to take pictures of my feet when I’m in a random place trying to take pictures to “capture” the moment. I don’t know why. DaddyGeek makes fun of me for it and says I have a foot fetish. I do NOT have a foot fetish.

Gauntlet down.

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