Happy Birthday, Guy

Happy Birthday. To this blog. That's all the fanfare the blog gets because the important birthday is Guy's. He is no longer 42, or as we liked to call is, forty-tute. Now, he is forty-three-rific. Yes, we really are that dorky.

Poor Guy. His birthday was a bit of a bust. This morning, I had to get up and take the dogs to the vet. That meant he was left in the bed all by his lonesome with no Schmoopie to snuggle.

When I got home, we decided to kick our diet to the curb and go to Big Ed's for breakfast. We had big ole fluffy carb filled biscuits. He had an omelet, and I had country ham. After that, we went around the corner and picked out a new Anna Podris painting for our living room.

I know. It's his birthday, and we are buying paintings that I have wanted. Don't feel too sorry for him (yet). This weekend is Artsplosure, and he will pick out something from one of the artists showing there.

After the gallery, we came home, and he decided that he would go play golf while I taught. He picked out a golf course, loaded up his clubs, and headed out to whack some little white balls. In about an hour, he was home again. It had started raining. The course was closed. He played no golf. This is where you start feeling sorry for him.

He came inside the house and checked the answering machine. Papa had called. His truck was broken again, so he couldn't pick Lovely up from school and get the birthday cake from Carvel. Guy went up to get Lovely. When he and Lovely tried to pick up his cake, it wasn't ready. There were plain Fudgie the Whale cakes, but not the one that I ordered to have his name on it.

Dejected and disappointed, Guy arrived home and proceeded to play golf on the xbox. It seemed to placate him somewhat. Not even the endless stream of presents I gave him seemed to cheer him up. Of course, the endless stream of presents was all stuff from the dollar store, since we are going to shop for his real present this weekend. . .

I'm sidetracked. Here are some party shots:


Did you know that Martha Stewart has written a book about running your own successful company? Is it any surprise that since her advice includes a prison sentence, that I purchased this book in the dollar store?












Speaking of Martha, and I do so want to be like Martha, I cannot. decorate. cakes. I did try to spell out the words here, since Guy was so disappointed that they didn't have his cake especially for him. As you can see, poor Fudgie has been desecrated and harpooned at that.

I also added some spray coming out of the whale hole. It turned out quite nicely. Guy's favorite touch though, were the whale pellets I added coming out of the back end. I'm classy like that. Whale dookey. That's funny.

I took entirely too much pleasure in dissecting poor Fudgie. Might I add, that I didn't grow up with Carvel ice cream stores, and I find "Fudgie the Whale" to be a really really really weird thing to name a cake. Really.

So all in all, I guess Guy had a pretty good birthday. His dad didn't get to come to dinner because of his stupid truck, but Boo and Pilot were here, and that always makes things brighter. We had some jambalaya and cornbread, watched Grey's Anatomy, and then made our brains hurt while helping Lovely with her math homework.

The End.

Kidding. Here's where the celebration started. Last night I gave him an early present.

I think he likes it!

Pink is a good color for him

In case we weren't sure about the two pink lines

And the most perfect card I've ever found in my life.

I'm leaving it at that for tonight. I mean really. What more can I say after that fantastic card?

Excuses, excuses

I have no good excuses as to my silence. I could make some up though.

1. I was giving you all time to read the 50 million posts I reposted on Monday.
2. We bought an xbox 360 elite. Yummmmm.
3. Guy bought golf for the 360. Not so yummmmm, so not really an excuse.
4. I bought Viva Pinata. It's like simcity except you are a farmer and pinatas come and live in your garden.
5. We close on my old house tomorrow, and I've been trying to clean out the shed. Except that I really just took what I could from the shed and left the rest of the crap in there for the next owner. Including 2 filing cabinets full of keyboard manuals that my ex collected. Why??????
6. I've been painting in the new house. Not what you think though. Right now, the hallway has 8 different colors on it. Yes, I have that much trouble picking out paint. For a hallway.
7. I've been dieting, so I'm too weak to type.

See? No good reason. I also have no tune for you this Thursday. You can all thank me for not making your ears bleed this week.

But tonight, I am going to give you a very special birthday post. Do come back, okay?

Nifty for me, maybe not for you

I just discovered that you can edit the day and time of your post. I'm so smart. This is something that everyone and their sister probably already knew. Ah, blogging by the seat of my pants. It's the way I go.

For those of you who have been around for the long haul (you poor dears), you probably remember the "de-blogging" incident. Because of more things I didn't know (like how linking to things actually links your blog to other blogs, and to search engines), someone found my blog who I didn't want to have found it.

I took it all down, saving each entry in a Word document, and pouted. Then I decided to put it back up under new pseudonyms. I went through stages of how anonymous it would be, finally deciding on using no real names, but that pictures would be okay. I try to be careful what I link to and what I name files and pictures, but hey. It's the internet. People are going to find you. I had nothing to hide, I just didn't want said individual lurking around if at all possible. Internet stalkers suck.

The biggest change was that I decided not to blog anything about people that I wouldn't want blogged about myself. I have followed that rule mostly I think. That has left me due a trip into HBM's basement to let off some steam probably, but that's alright.

Anyway, as I ramble on into eternity . . . the point is, when I put back up my old blog, I didn't know that I could put in the real dates of the entries.

This Thursday marks one year of blogging for me. I don't know why I find this important, but I do. So, I wanted to make all the posts fall under their real dates.

This means that if you are using a reader, I owe you a big apology here. Nothing to see. Just me editing. Sorry about that.

Mother's Day, Part III

One more recycled post. I have to say though, today has been easier than I thought it would be. Guy did in fact follow Lovely's advice and buy me roses, and they are beautiful. Also, I attended a couple of the recitals from my old job and saw a bunch of old friends. Twice, I was asked about the baby, and twice, I was able to talk about it without crying. In fact, one of them asked me (when we were away from the crowds) if I was pregnant, with a very tentative question mark. I told him that I was, but am not now. He started to tell me how sorry he was, and I said something that later I thought was very interesting.

I said, "We made it 12 weeks."

That is the first time I have answered that question without a negative in the statement. The anger is waning. The sadness has begun to find its way in beside the happiness I had at being pregnant. They are starting to be able to coexist. I am thankful for the the time we had, and I have been waiting a long time to say that.

This week, I've been thinking a lot about Bon's post on Real Moms. If I never get to read another blog post, this one will have made the all the difference to me. I find comfort in it, yet it touches something so deep in me that I still can't talk about it to anyone.

Happy Mother's Day to all the moms reading. Especially the ones who have children that we cannot see. Thank you for those words, Bon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

January 4, 2007

Dear Cleatus,

Yes, I am aware that you have a ridiculous name. For that, you can blame your uncle. We were working on a name that you would be called throughout your life, but as you can see, I'm still calling you Cleatus. Now, it reminds me of how silly-happy-giddy we were about you being created. Your whole family was excited, right down to your cousins. I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to keep calling you Cleatus. It makes me smile and reminds me of how much I laughed while we were together.

Your family is home now. While we were away, cards came in the mail telling us how happy people were about you. I told lots of our friends about you in our Christmas cards. They were so glad for us. I also got your baby book in the mail. It is really nice. I won it in a raffle for Her Bad Mother's nephew and Muscular Dystrophy research. In the spirit of my often untimely and slightly inappropriate laughter, I thought to myself when I opened it, "Well this is going to be a short book."

I am sitting in your room now. In our rocker. And I miss you. I am determined not to be that mother who burdens her children with her pain. I will not ask you or your siblings to shoulder my grief. I just want you to know that I miss you. It is empty here without you.

Today, we stopped in Montreat and took Lovely to the spot where Guy and I were married this summer. It was a place I wanted to take you as well. The creek had risen and drowned out the noise my breathing made as I tried not to cry. You would have gone to kids' camps and youth conferences in Montreat. We would have rock hopped together. I bought a book in the bookstore there that was about helping women deal with grief after miscarriage. The last page said something like this:

The depth of your grief is a measure of the love you have for your child. If there was no love, there would be nothing to grieve.

If that is true than I love you more deeply than I had even thought was possible.

I don't know if I believe in heaven or not. I wish that I did now. I wish that I could imagine you somewhere that we could be together again someday. If it is true, and you are not simply just gone, then I hope you can hear me when I still talk to you. When I still play for you. You can ignore the whole crying thing though. I'm told that will subside with time, and I will be okay.

If I believe that you are not simply just gone though, then it leaves me to worry about if you are alright and if you know how much you are loved. Yes, your mother is a bit loony. Sorry about that.

The walls of your room are missing and there is no light. Part of me wants to shut the door and never open it again, another part of me wants to never leave it. I can sit in here, in the dark, and no one wants to come in. There is only our rocking chair and piles of my junk. This weekend your daddy promised to get the sheet rock up and buy me a treadmill. We are going to put it in your room. If I am going to think about you nonstop, then the least I can do is work off those milkshakes you asked for. By the way, thanks for that. You stinker.

This didn't turn out how I wanted it too. Well, I guess more than one thing applies there. Your life didn't turn out how I wanted it too, but I meant this letter. I wanted to tell you about what I had planned and dreamed for us. I wanted to tell you about what I picked out for your nursery and the Mother's Morning Out programs I had thought about so that you could make friends. I wanted to tell you about the Jeep that Guy bought me and deemed the Mommymobile. I could fit all my gear and a baby seat too. You and I were going to gigs.

Truth is though, those things are not for you now. They will be for your sibling. You did not need those things from me.

There will be a time when I can be thankful for the life we did have together. I am already, but the pain of losing you so before getting to see you and hold you is making it hard to remember how grateful I am to have had you as long as I did. I was already proud of you.

I will always be proud of you. I will always love you. You will always be my first baby. Thank you for showing me that I can love enough to be a mother.

With Love,
Your Mom

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm turning off comments because I'm alright, and I don't want to be that friend who you always have to comfort. You all have done more than your fair share of that, and I appreciate it so very much. Thank you for all the love and care you have shown. It is what has gotten me this far.

Mother's Day, Part II

Here is a recycled post about one of my two very fabulous grandmothers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

August 8, 2006

My mother's mother was called Honey. She moved to Jackson around the time I was born so that my mother could take care of her. From the moment I met her, she lived in a retirement complex called "Madonna Manor." It was a dump by the time she moved out, but pretty nice in the beginning. Of course nothing in Jackson is free from crime, and by the time I was in college, there was a woman a couple of floors down from Honey who got raped in her apartment. If I heard that now, I would be panicking to get my grandmother out of that environment. In Jackson, you just buy an extra lock for your door because you've given up on moving somewhere completely safe.

I digress. Honey was a remarkable woman. She became a single parent in the 1940's when her lovely husband walked out on her, my mother, and her older brother. Realizing quickly that she was going to have to support these children, she decided to become a nurse. With childcare help from her younger sister in Georgia, Honey managed to make it through nursing school (a feat my ex-husband couldn't do with me paying the bills and having no children), establish a home for herself and her children, and even managed to get a grand piano for my mother who somehow never missed a piano lesson no matter what food was or was not in the cupboards.

She did all this without a driver's license. Honey never drove. I don't know why she never learned to drive. It made her seem older and more frail than she was though. I remember my mother always having to drive across town and take Honey somewhere. To the doctor. Shopping. To church. To the library. Wherever Honey needed to go, my mother was there to take her. Until I turned 15 and got my driver's license that is. Then I picked up some of the responsibility. There was this time I had to take her to the podiatrist. It ended badly with me dashing from the room trying to make it to a bathroom before vomiting. From that day forward I vowed to take care of my feet and get pedicures on a regular basis from clean places.

I digress again. There are too many stories to tell about Honey. If I don't tire of typing to myself, I'm sure I'll hit on many more. The point I wanted to make today was that Honey was about my mother's age now when I was born. For all of her complaining, for the million times she said, "I'm blind and I can't see" to anyone she thought was in earshot, for all the hours I had to sit in front of her vanity and have my hair ironed into doodoo curls, I know that she was one of the most remarkable women I could have had in my life.

The endurance of that woman was incredible. She was strong, stubborn, and smart. There was no model back then for single moms. There was no child support or alimony. There was just her sheer will and determination. The things I learned from Honey could spin off into another blog altogether.

The point? My grandchild will not have these things to say about my mother. For all the praise I have for Honey, I think my mother is twice the woman with twice the smarts and twice the determination. I can only imagine what she could teach my children. And what stories will they tell if their family is gone before their memories start?

This is not the way I imagined it would be.

Honey lived to be 97. She did eventually really lose her sight and became quite dependent the last 5 years of her life. However, she also picked up and moved across the country at 92 years old. When my parents decided to move to California, Honey didn't bat an eye. She said, "When do we leave?" She made new friends, experienced new cultures, and loved to tell her stories to anyone who would sit and listen.

Honey and my mother didn't always get along so well. They loved each other dearly, but I think 30 plus years of caretaking to someone as negatively vocal as Honey could be took a toll on my mother. In the days before she died though, Honey told my mother that although she wanted to live to be 100, she was content to know that she had lived long enough to see my mother fulfill God's plan for her life. Isn't that what every child wants to hear? That their parent thinks they done good?

Honey gave that to my mom, and it meant the world to her. Momma has given that to me all along though, and it has made all the difference in my life. I'm grateful she didn't make me wait until the end to let me know that she is proud of me.

Mother's Day, Part I

I started this blog the week my momma's ovarian cancer come out of remission. She is miraculously out of remission at this point. We were told it was impossible, but luckily they were wrong.

This weekend, I'll be recycling words about motherhood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

May 17, 2006

She asked me what I wanted from their house yesterday. Of course I could think of things. The Jackson press. The green and white china. Those crazy pewter mugs that no one in their right mind would buy, but they are so cool. The tea cart that belonged to my grandmother. The watercolor of the pigs in the upstairs hallway. The piano. Her Bible.

I said, "Just you, Momma."

After careful consideration though, I have come up with the real list of things I want from my mom. Here it is:

1. The comfortable way she handles people in distress.
2. Her ability to not just speak in front of crowds, but to captivate them.
3. The gorgeous white her hair turned.
4. Her confidence.
5. The way she can let someone she loves know that she is angry while never letting them doubt that she still loves them.
6. Her faith.
7. Her knack at making pie crust from scratch.
8. Just a fraction of her wisdom.
9. Her amazing speed at completing tasks.

and number 10: I want the 30 years we will more than likely be gipped because of cancer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Maybe I will get those 30 years. Right now, I'm just grateful for today. We are so very lucky.

Throwing words away

This week, I have spent several hours in the shed in the backyard of my old house, digging through boxes and trying to figure out what was musty, what was moisture damaged, and what was *ahem* mouse damaged.

There are things I used to save. They fit neatly into two categories: words and pictures.

Amongst the millions of photos I have kept and never organized, I found boxes of cards, some from birthdays 20+ years ago. There were letters from old friends. There was a box of journals that could cinch my inclusion in the cringe book.

It pained me to toss journal after journal into the trash, but the mice had made that particular box their little cozy den. The journals were chewed on the edges and I could just see the invisible germs that crawled all over them. The mouse poop was almost enough to make me toss the whole box without even gingerly trying to peek at what was inside.

When I saw the red and yellow flowered journal, I couldn't help but clutch in my hands and close my eyes, trying to remember to how to pray before I opened it. It was a journal I shared with a girl from my youth group. Yes, I had an ill fated stint as a Presbyterian youth director. It was a bad idea, except that the kids talked to me. A lot.

This girl was so broken, and I never knew why exactly. At 15, she was depressed, suffered from anorexia, was completely anxious about her grades - she was in so much pain. That is what she was. What she showed was a very put together, lovely young lady.

I gave her a journal. A blank book either to keep to herself or to share. She decided to share, so for several months, she and I passed this book back and forth to each other. She would cry out in her writing, and I would try and ease the pain in mine. I would confess things to her, my own flaws, my own demons, in the hope that these confessions would help her feel more normal and feel better about herself.

In the end, she flipped when I told her it was time for us to go to her parents and find her some professional help - I was just a 24 year old train wreck of my own sharing a journal with her. She never spoke to me again. She never wrote to me in a journal again.

She did write me a letter about 5 years later. It was an apology for the things she said and things she called me when I exposed her need for help. But, I was caught up in my own life and being the ass that I can be, I never wrote her back.

About a year ago, she overdosed on prescription drugs and died. She was 24. She was a nurse. She still went on mission trips with our old church. She told everyone that she had gotten her life together and was happy.

Just like when she was 15.

I sat for a little while with our words, and I wondered something strange. I wondered how things might have been different if Leigh had blogged instead of just written in a journal. I wondered if those words, the ones that I had to toss in the garbage can today, would have helped her anymore had they been read by many instead of just one.

I have had this post open for hours now. I know there is some great point I could make, and I'm just not finding it. "Throwing words away" like I did, quite literally, has just left me thinking. About Leigh. About my own writing. About blogging versus journaling. No points here, just thoughts.

More discoveries

In my first marriage, it was no secret that we would not have any children. I guess it is for this reason that I never considered myself part of the group of infertile women. It wasn't me who was infertile, it was us. It was my choice to try and adopt before going through infertility treatments. I coped by telling myself that I didn't really want to be pregnant anyway. I coped by telling myself that I knew this going into the marriage and had made my peace with it.

There was some truth to the second statement. I had made my peace with it going in. It was not my fault that my first husband couldn't have children naturally and then didn't have enough follow through to have children any other way either.

As I have connected with other women here in the blogosphere, I have met several who are going through fertility treatments. It has only recently occurred to me why I feel so deeply for them and connected to them. It has only recently occurred to me that even though the circumstances in my life have changed drastically, one thing has remained constant. I have been trying to have a baby for a very long time.

Another song from the vault today. This one was written in 1998. I was several days late. My first husband had something like a .05% chance of ever getting a woman pregnant. I had certainly not had sex with anyone else. So I thought, "Maybe." And I took the only pregnancy test of my life until last October.

And then I wrote this.

You people are awesome

From Yesterday's comments . . .

"And you, you should remember that you can be sad AND celebratory. Your loss was great. What you have is really great. Those truths can live together in your heart." HBM

I still haven't figured out why I can't respond via email to comments that are left here. Must be a Blogger thing. Or a me thing. Probably me.

This had to be answered though, and I guess I can just do it here.

So much advice, caring, and laughter has come my way because of blogging. I try not to take it for granted, and I do tuck it all into my little box of positive energy.

Every once and awhile, there is a comment though that comes my way and I have to sit down. I have to sit down and chew on it, swallow it, let it get into my system, and hope that it never goes away.

HBM's comment is that kind of comment.

The kind of comment that reminds me that this can be even more than just community. Most days it feels like friends.

Thank you. I can't stinkin' wait until BlogHer.

There are so many more links I should make in this gushy gush gush post. I apologize. I'm so tired. Fifth grade math is hard. Lovely now knows that piano I can help with, but math? Not so much.

Opinions are like . . .

Since I'm sure you don't get enough of my opinions here, I wanted to make sure that you could fill the void in your life. The latest reviews by a certain know-it-all can be found here and here. At least stop by and see the newly designed Props and Pans website. Izzy done good.

Yesterday

Yesterday afternoon, Guy, Lovely, and I attended a garden party at a friend's home. They have just completed the installation of a beautiful new fountain in front of their home and had a party to celebrate. We are thinking of having a similar party to celebrate our new toilets and flooring but don't want to come across as copycats.

This couple tends to have a party per season, so we have gotten to know enough of the attendees that now there are people for us to talk to and catch up with each time.

The previous party was in December. The previous party I was pregnant. Not as pregnant as the girl who was due in January, but about 9 weeks. As I passed on the wine and brie, Guy took great delight in telling the other pregnant couple that we were expecting too. She and I talked about the first trimester, finding out, telling our parents, and strange food aversions. The men talked about rubbing our feet and fetching snacks late at night. We had a good time.

What is strange to me is that while I finally have a day here and there where I don't think, "If I were still pregnant, I would be . . ." it doesn't take much to bring it all right back to the forefront.

Admittedly, I was already a little squirmy from reading all the Mother's Day ads in the Sunday paper that morning. I remember reading that Mother's Day would be hard and thinking that was silly. I've lived through 34 Mother's Days without a problem. Pah.

When the couple walked in with their baby yesterday, it was - I don't know what it was. I cooed and awed over their son because he was a tasty little cutie. And she stared at me with my non pregnant belly and glass of champagne and said, "I like your skirt."

What else are you going to say after a good long stare at another woman's lower half?

She asked how we were and I just said, "Fine, thanks." I don't know why I didn't just say that we had lost the baby and were trying again. It ran through my head about 2 dozen times, and I know it would have been less awkward for her if I had just said it.

But I couldn't.

I think maybe I still hate hearing those words out loud. It's obviously not a secret. I would be in my third trimester now, so there is no mistaking me for a woman who just isn't showing yet.


Yesterday, before the paper, before the party, before I knew what was going to happen that day, I said to Guy, "I need you to know that I've been sad this week. I don't know what is different, and it's not a stay in the bed kind of sad, but I've been sad." I tell him this because I'm pretty sure it makes me act differently, and I want him to know that it isn't him.


Yesterday, after the paper, after the party, and after I knew I was sad, Lovely says to me, "Maybe Daddy will get you the roses that you like for Mother's Day." I open my mouth to tell her I don't really get to celebrate Mother's Day, and she continues, "Because you're my stepmom and that counts. But don't tell my mom I said that."


Yesterday, in spite of the paper, in spite of the party, and in spite of all of the sad, there was an 11 year old to remind me that I have a wonderful family. She makes it so simple some days.

The year of the peanut M'n'M's

The Year of the Dog.

Guy told me that all Molly Shannon movies are bad. I told Guy that this one would be different. It had come highly recommended by someone who knew my love of dogs. Someone who really doesn't know me very well as it turns out.

Just in case you thought you might go see this movie, I'm going to spoil it here. Fair warning.

It wasn't an awful movie. It was a pretty typical Mike White film. Slow dialogue. Long pauses. Camera shots straight on the person talking. It was an okay film. However, dogs die and they have a shelter scene that while very inaccurate, still got to me. It didn't matter that all the pretty purebred and clean dogs were in clean spacious kennels, they were still behind bars and I couldn't stomach it very well.

For me though, it was the first dog death that was absolute torture. Molly Shannon's dog dies from poisoning. An adorable beagle named Pencil. Dies. In the first part of the movie. I began to sob. Loud audible sobbing. In a movie theater with only 6 other people in it. Needless to say, I was a little obvious.

Obvious, until I dropped my peanut M'nM's on the ground. You know what the main difference is in plain and peanut (besides the peanut, smartass)? The shape. Peanut M'nM's roll better.

Dropping dozens of peanut M'nM's on the concrete downward sloping floor of a more or less empty movie theater is a great distraction from your crying. It sounded like an old fashioned pinball machine as the M'nM's bounced off of chair legs and possibly peoples' feet and rolled all the way down to the front of the theater. I'm sure it was distracting.

Distracting, until Guy started laughing so hard that it began to sound as if we were both sobbing.

Then we just went back to being the freaks in the back who were far too invested in a film. Don't know fantasy from reality. Animal loving crazies. Or at the very least, clumsy M'n'M eating morons.

What if I just let go?

This song was recorded in 2000. Yes. A full five years before I gave my first husband the boot. The funniest part about this is that my ex was in this band.

Yep. I wrote this song, and sang these words, week after week, with him sitting behind me beating away on things that went "ping."

I couldn't really believe it when I heard it again. The tape was never mixed down to completion, so I hadn't heard it in years. When Guy and I were playing with the 4 track the other day, we found it. I had forgotten how much I liked these songs. The guitar players were noodley but good. The best part about them was how well they played with each other. Their little Taylors were like twins, finishing each other's sentences and sharing each other's thoughts.

The other thing this song reminded me of was this: Throughout my first marriage, I had plenty of guy friends. It was nothing for me to meet a guy for coffee, go out to dinner, hang out at the house, just me and him. My ex was hardly ever around, so what did he care? Looking back, I realize how many of those friends were over the line. One of the guitar players in this band was that type of friend. As you can imagine, drama ensued. I had no intention of ever crossing an actual line, nor would I have ever dreamed of an affair or leaving my ex for another man. So the closeness of the friendship with this other band member? Very confusing to the situation.

It's amazing what I missed as I stood right in the middle of it all. Well, I say I missed it, but then I wrote songs like this one. I couldn't have been missing it then, could I?

Just to add a little more quirkiness to this week's Thursday Tune, Guy went back in and recorded a bass track to this song. So basically, this is me, my first husband, my last husband (five years after the original recording), a guy that does an amazing Curious George impression, and another guy that I had an inappropriate friendship with. Hooray.

Is is me, or should he have clued in when he heard this song?

If you are nekkid in the woods alone, are you really nekkid?

I know it's Thursday. Another Thursday with no tune. Guy promises me though, that the tune will be ready for posting before midnight. We found an old 4-track tape of a band I used to be in, and it is pay dirt. The last of the divorce-trilogy posts will be up complete with tune-age.

For now though, I have a question for you. When I was at Whymommy's house a couple of weeks ago, we had a little disagreement. Quite frankly, I got thrown under the truck! Now, I need some opinions. Even if they keep me right under the proverbial truck.

There are these pants. Some people call them pajama pants. Some people call them lounge pants. Some people, some really ingenious people, wear them to a yoga class and then call them yoga pants.

Do you know these pants?

Guy insists that they are not yoga pants simply because I wear them to yoga. I was hoping for (especially since I showed up at her house wearing a pair of them) that Whymommy would back up my claim that it was perfectly okay to be wearing these out in public. She said that if they had a drawstring, then they were pajama pants.

What?

Drawstring?

I'm being called out for a drawstring? How many other fashion disasters have you let me go through without telling me? Am I surprised now that you didn't stop me from wearing leggings and big tunic tops well into the '90's? Oh the pain.

So what do you think? If you wear a pair of solid colored knit pants that have a drawstring on them, are they always pajama pants? Even if you wear them to yoga?

Why so surprised?

It wasn't only Girl's post that got me thinking about my divorce today. I sold my house. The house that I bought even though my ex said we shouldn't. Couldn't. I knew that we had to. That if I didn't make it possible for us to purchase that property, that I would have nothing. And I was correct. That little house has been the smartest thing I did in my adult life, and I'm proud of the investment and sad to see it go all at the same time.

Upon cleaning out said little house, I found a bag of letters. I used to keep things like that. Now I don't. The bag of letters was from my ex. Not wanting to read them all, I just poked through a few and started tossing them. One that I happened to open though astonished me. It was intended to be a love letter. Reading it today, almost 10 years later, I felt as though I was being pushed under water all over again.

The things he loved about me were the things that were drowning me.

10.13.98

My wife is amazing.
She takes care of her husband beyond the call of duty.
She takes care of her household impeccably.
She takes notice of others' animals in need and seeks to remedy that need.
She expresses her muse for $1 that she pays at the door.
She goes to work to help pay for the household.
She doesn't boast or brag about all of this.
She admits to nothing.
She goes the extra 10 miles.
I am overwhelmed at the amount of love she has bestowed on me.
I am her husband & the most I can offer is this linen paper & a few words to let her know how much I cherish her.
You exceed my every wish I could have had in a soul mate. Thank you for choosing life with me. You have made it very rich.

Okay. So you think this is a sweet letter? To a drowning woman it said this:

My wife is amazing.
She does everything for her husband because he can or will not do it himself.
She pays all the bills for the household because he can or will not do it himself.
She takes in stray dogs to fill the void of love she feels from the person with whom she lives and the children she does not have.
She sings her heart out at an open mic every week hoping that she will find a kindred spirit or at least someone to play music with.
She goes to work because she is the only one with a steady job.
She doesn't boast about all of this because she has no one to talk to and can't admit to the mistake she's made in getting into this marriage.
She admits to nothing because she signed on for this in a marriage ceremony and it's her own damn fault for being a moron.
She goes the extra 10 miles just to catch up from where he drug everything backwards into debt and disaster.
He can't believe she agreed to marry him.
He stole this linen paper out of her stationary drawer. It was the back piece to a monogrammed set that she loved to write her grandfather on.
She exceeds every wish because she hasn't run away yet. Life with her is very rich because she works her ass off at 3 jobs just to make sure they have enough money to get by.

Bitter much? Of course I was. I married a man with great potential. A very kind man. A man that everyone liked (except my parents). As the years moved on, I kept waiting for him to grow up, start meeting that potential, and it never happened.

I'll never forget seeing a former mutual friend of ours about a year after our split. She said, "Brian and I really got Ex straightened out. We have really helped him put together a plan and he is going to go places with his life now."

I just smiled with clenched teeth and replied, "That's great for you. You have accomplished what I couldn't touch in 13 years then. Congratulations and let me know how that works out in about 6 months." Perhaps this is another reason that I'm not still friends with that couple. You think?

What I got tired of hearing the most (read: assvice for any of you with friends going through a divorce) was, "But I thought you guys were doing fine." Well of course you did. Why on God's green earth would I go around talking about how shitty my life was and how I hated my marriage? It wasn't like I had discovered blogging yet. Ha.

Your circle of friends and acquaintances don't want for your marriage to end. It screws with their dinner parties, their game nights, their outings, whatever. No matter how unhappy you are, people will always be surprised and disappointed that you are splitting.

This is the guilt that I still carry. The guilt that I let everyone down. The guilt that I put on such a show for so long.

Then again, maybe people just weren't listening. Lord knows I wrote enough songs about it.

It's like inviting myself over for dinner

There is someone I want to suggest that you visit. I don't remember how I found her, but I'm really enjoying her blog. She has some great links for stepfamilies and some great insights on being a stepmom. I love her Bill of Rights for children of divorced parents, and the one for stepmoms is good too.

Those of you who have been here awhile know that I choose not to write about the challenges presented me as a second wife and stepmom. Guy and I do not choose to dwell on them and the way we handle most of them is to ignore them. By giving any of the stories space here, I would be giving them more thought and energy than they deserve.

Wicked Stepmom tells it like it is. We get to peek into the life of someone who is doing the best they can to help parent another woman's child. It is not an easy job. I hope you'll stop by and read a bit. And maybe drop her a "you go girl" or two.

Boot to the ego

Girl has got some raw things to say today about self-esteem. As I read, I understood, and I wondered how many others of us can relate all too well. We come together online, read and write, comment and connect, and share all the way up to our comfort level.

It is relatively safe here. I don't have to worry about the pounds I'm still trying to lose. I don't have to comb my hair. No one expects me to have pulled that flat iron out or to have shaved my legs.

Best of all, no one has ever known me as the wife of my first husband.

Divorce was the second best thing I ever decided to do in my life. Marry Guy was the first, in case you were wondering. And if those two sentences were confusing back to back, Guy is my second husband. My last husband.

As I was saying, divorce was grand. I know I'm not supposed to say that. I'm supposed to be remorseful and full of regrets and sadness at the loss and whatever. As my former best friend told me accusingly one day during the separation, "You just aren't sad enough." That statement of course had nothing to do with me and everything to do with how lovely I made her feel when I was miserable.

I was so scared to tell my parents about the split. They are by the book Presbyterians and take marriage very seriously. What I didn't expect was that they took marriage so seriously that they thought mine was a disaster and had wanted it to either turn around or end for a long time. Daddy was rooting for the end of course. His words were, "I felt like you've been treading water with an anvil around your neck for years. Now you've cut the chains and you are free to swim." God bless Daddy.

Everything about the divorce was right. We should have never been married in the first place, but that is a whole different set of blog entries. I was drowning. I was drowning and dying and it was up to me to save myself. So I did.

What took the biggest blow during all of this though, was my self esteem.

You never know how very little you can think of yourself than when you tell the man you have been with for 13 years to get out - and he does.

He packs a bag. He leaves. He puts up no fight whatsoever. He offers nothing to change your mind. He simply goes.

You might be thinking, "Shut up, crybaby. You got what you wanted," and you would not be all that wrong. I did get what I wanted. I am a lucky lucky woman. I'm just saying that it would have been easier on the ego to think that it mattered that I tried for so very long. It would have been nice to know that the extra 4 years of living hell meant something.

Instead, I learned that I could have quit many years ago, and he wouldn't have cared.

The bonus was that since I did kick him to the curb, he became the victim, and I found myself defending my actions to even the closest of my friends instead of feeling support and validation. Now, a little over two years later, there aren't really any pre-divorce friends left. At least not the ones who were friends with both me and my ex. One. One strong, faithful, and open minded friend that cared enough to let go of the image of my ex as the victim and forgive whatever discomfort our split caused in her life.

So along with the realization that the ex didn't care if we were together or not (although he did miss the house and all the stuff), the people who I thought were my friends were actually just his friends. People I had known for over a decade stopped answering when I called. They didn't return emails or voicemails. They removed me from the Christmas card list. They trashed me and supported the victim's belief that I was just too pushy.

And I was pushy. I demanded that we pay our bills before the ex bought yet another broken piece of crap electronic music gear. I demanded that we have health insurance. I demanded that once he started taking pre-requisites for nursing school on my dime and my labor, that he would finish it.

And then one day I gave up.

I gave up a lot that day. What I'm just now understanding though, is how much of my self esteem I also gave up. Failing at marriage sucks. Failing at seeing through your commitments bites. But failing to see how very little people cared about you is the hardest.

While I don't wish for the attention and *ahem* dedication of Guy's ex there was certainly room for middle ground. I suppose though, if he had been the type of man to want to fight for our marriage, we wouldn't have had the problems we had in the first place.

And if I were the kind of person that didn't get hurt by judgements and feelings of worthlessness, I wouldn't be me. I also wouldn't still be thinking about it and wondering why I wasn't worth even a little struggle. Maybe he was just as tired as I was.

Imperfect Poster

Like I said, this was the first time that I attempted to nominate someone for a Perfect Post. I screwed up. You have to email the nomination days in advance, and I did it this morning. Right after I posted. I was supposed to email them the link to J's post and this blog - I read the instructions to mean that I was supposed to email them the link to the post where I talk about her post. No matter. I'm a tool, and that's that.

At first, as all good tools usually do, I thought that is was not me that had screwed up. I was looking at the list and it said that Oh The Joys had awarded Don't Take the Repeats. Silly people, that's backwards. It's supposed to be the other way around.

Like I said, I'm a tool.

It turns out that while I was busy not really awarding Oh The Joys with a Perfect Post Award for April, she was busy correctly awarding me with one.

I've never been so embarrassed in the blogosphere. And so humbled.


So here's a little button for Oh The Joys.

Edited to add: Okay, so I'm still a tool, but those sweet ladies went back in and added J to the Perfect Post Awards. I'm very grateful and will get it all right the next time!

Perfect Post

I have had the best intentions of participating in the Perfect Post awards for the longest time. Each month I find at least one new blog that makes its way into my Bloglines feed, and I feel like I've found another treasure in the blogosphere.

Until now though, there has never been a post that made me imediately click over and find out how to participate. A post that moved me enough to remember to follow through.

Leave it to J at Oh The Joys.

Legacy is a perfect post. While her trademark humor shines through, there is more to this post than laughter. Her honesty in the challenges of raising two very young children has been rewarded in being able to tell us that it is getting easier. And while sharing a sense of relief with her, she then takes you on a walk with her children.

You get to see what they see, hear what they heard, and smell what they must have been smelling. It was a lovely walk, and just when I felt like we were done, J's Ady joins us. She reminds herself and her readers that it she took the same kind of world discovering walks with her grandfather.

A perfect circle. A perfect post.

For more good reading and perfect posts, go visit Lindsey and MommaK who kindly sponsor the Perfect Post Awards each month.

Dream weekend

So I posted a little sumpin-sumpin at Gratuitous Gratitude this weekend. It all still applies.

Guy and I had a great weekend in Weaverville. He got a new guitar from Dream Guitars which is owned by a super nice guy with a super great ear. We also went back to the Secret Garden Spa and had two hours of exfoliating, soaking, shea buttery, massaging goodness. Bliss.

I had taken for granted the store where we purchased my piano. Here is this piano store in Raleigh, about 5 miles from my house, and I can go in any time I like and play a couple dozen of the finest pianos in the country. No lie. When it came time to buy one, Richard actually let me come to the store after hours and just sit and play. He had tuned and voiced 4 instruments for me to choose from, and then just let me take my time and find the one I loved.

There are not stores like that for guitarists. They get Guitar Center. Or Sam Ass. And they get to choose from a few different giant guitar companies who are all selling the same crap basically. So when Guy found Dream Guitars and then found that it was in the same town where we honeymooned, it was just too perfect.

Paul has a beautiful collections of guitars. There is a $50 sitting fee to prevent people from just stopping in to play "Stairway to Heaven" on a $10,000 Michael Greenfield guitar. It is applied to the cost of the guitar if you choose to buy from him. He had a 1910 Martin that was the fourth they made, and it sounded amazing. It was really gorgeous, but it didn't and won't be coming home with us.

Guy got to sit and try a dozen or so classical guitars from all different builders. I never realized that the type of wood used greatly changes the color of the sound. The two we narrowed the search down to both ended up having Brazilian rosewood sides and backs and German spruce tops. Both guitars had a deep rich bass, a full mellow midrange, and a clear singing treble. The one he chose was from a Brazilian builder named Moriera. It has a very traditional sound, even tone across each string and up and down the neck, and the G string really rings.

I have already picked a dozen pieces for him to learn. Maybe our Thursday Tunes will get back up and running soon with a little Diabelli for piano and guitar. I hope so.

And my laptop? All better and back from Best Buy. It would be nice, except that I left it at the Inn on Main along with my favorite Birkenstocks. Sigh.

Number 39

This was supposed to be my post for Easter, but list tons of worthless excuses here, and so I didn't. That isn't going to stop me from posting it today. It is my most favorite picture of me and Bro.

Izzy are you watching?

Guy and I love the show Boston Legal. We often forget to watch it because it starts at 10:00 PM and we are either already snuggling or whatever.

However, tonight, we remembered to watch (having already gotten the snuggling out of the way), and Alan Shore is suing a department store for selling dolls. Bratz to be exact, but they are calling them "prostitots."

Izzy, I hope you are seeing this and have some sort of pride. I think you wrote some of Alan Shore's dialogue tonight. If you aren't getting royalties from David Kelley, you might need to send him an email with your blog address. I'm inclined to think he already has it.

Edited to add: You can go read more from Izzy on this subject today. Then you can send that email to Scholastic. Aren't I the bossy one?

Peanut butter and Nilla wafers

My daddy has been on my mind. The transition he and Momma have recently made from California to Tennessee has not been easy on either of them. But Daddy is happier now. He sleeps better. He eats better. The anxiety doesn't overtake him everyday. Saying "better than in California" is hardly saying much, but it's the only comparison to make.

Still though, his life is defined by how well his medications work that day. Forgetting to take something means that it will be a bad day. Waking up at 3:00 AM and thinking it is 6:00 AM, thereby eating breakfast and taking your 7:00 AM medications at 4:00 AM means, that it will be a bad day.

A bad day: A day in which anxiety and nervousness overtake Daddy's ability to function. Eating is out of the question. Dressing himself is out of the question. Sitting down or getting up by himself is out of the question. Sleeping that night will most likely be out of the question.

While in California, my momma consistently told me that I didn't understand what he was really like because I wasn't there from day to day. "You've just caught him on a bad day," she would say when I would call him on the phone and he wouldn't know who I was.

Now that he is in Tennessee, both my mother and my brother give me reports on him. My momma's reports are tempered in hope, or possibly stubbornness. A bad day can possibly be followed by a good day. A bad day can possibly be fixed or prevented with medication. A bad day is just that - a bad day. In my momma's voice you can hear her defiance against the Parkinson's and Alzheimer's. You can hear her missing her husband above all else.

My brother's reports are more to the point. How much weight Dad has lost. How many times Dad got lost in the house. How little Dad is sleeping. How I need to be coming to see Dad soon before too much more of him slips away. In my brother's voice you can hear frustration. I think that I hear resolve some days for being the chosen one to have to deal with it. I know I hear strength.

But me. My firsthand information only comes from too short visits and phone calls. Daddy perks up on the phone with me. I know he is trying to put on his best. I have done the same for him all of my life. Even on a bad day, he will get on the phone with me and tell me that he is making it. His voice cracking and shaking with the Parkinson's induced anxiety, "I'm getting by, Sweetheart. Don't worry about your Daddy," he'll tell me.

Today, Guy and I went to see a lawyer about drafting our wills and other legal documents. As we went through the questionnaire with her about our assets, insurance, and such, we came to the section about "what if we both meet an untimely death or are incapacitated simultaneously?"

Who would we want managing our finances while we laid in the hospital in our comas? In a shared room of course, with mourners, secret twins, and a dramatic soap opera soundtrack in the background.

I opened my mouth to say, "My daddy."

When all that came out was an audible squeak, I looked at Guy, and he said, "Schmoopie, you're crying."

And I was. Right there in the lawyer's office. I started to cry and I had a hard time stopping.

All of the things I used to rely on my Daddy to be, he can't be now, and all of a sudden, I missed him desperately. I wanted his advice on selling my house. I wanted his advice on buying a new car. I want his advice at least once a week, and it is not available anymore. And I saw my mother and how much she misses him in a whole new light.

Asking for his opinion or for help causes his anxiety to go through the roof. There is also the factor that whatever answer he might give you to your question was valid most likely 30 years ago. Or it is to an entirely different question. The main problem though is that it brings on the anxiety that is so bad for him. So I do not ask.

The last time I was with my daddy was in December. We were visiting for Christmas and I lost the baby while we were there. I didn't want my parents to come up to the hospital because I knew that would send Daddy right over the top. The next day though, I wanted him. I wanted him to comfort me, to hug me, and to be my daddy. So I requested a snack. Our snack. Peanut butter and Nilla wafers. He fixed me three little sandwiches and brought them back to the bedroom. He sat clumsily on the edge of the bed and put his stiff bony arm around my shoulders and patted. He patted and said, "I love you, Babe."


Parkinson's and Alzheimer's will never touch Daddy's heart.

Oh the love

Oh the Joys has gone nominating crazy.



Bless her heart. I'm touched. Honored. Flattered. That she would nominate my little corner of the blogosphere for the best writing ability. It's amazing. Especially since 80% of the strings of words that I place a period after are ever complete sentences. I'm just a fan. Of the period. I love that little dot. Grammatically speaking that is. The other kind of period can kiss my ass.

And then, I realized that she had also nominated me here:



OTJ, you are too much.

The beauty of this is that you can vote for as many people you like. In the same category. So I can ask you to go vote for me and follow that up with suggesting that you vote for everyone else you love to read too! I'm going to go on a voting spree right now.

The plague

We have been looking forward to this vacation at Whymommy's house for a long time. Guy, Lovely, and I headed up north on Tuesday for a few days of visiting and sightseeing.

So why then, am I blogging?

Vomit. Extreme vomit. And our good friend extreme diarrhea. Let us not forget 101.2 fever, chills, and during all that fun, forgetting to take our sinus medications. So this morning, we said goodbye to the purging of our system and hello to massive sinus headache and my most favorite ever, severe menstrual cramps and backache. No New Years Eve baby after all. Fair. Life is so very fair.

I have never been so much fun in my life. Last time we traveled, I had a miscarriage. I swear, Lovely may never leave town with me again.

Funny thing is, Whymommy and her crew were all sick before we came. There was this big looming question mark of whether or not we would actually come because of The Plague. However, they all got better, so we came ahead.

Most likely, I picked it up before leaving Raleigh.

There is the slightest chance that I got it from Little Bear who was ill on Tuesday night. This being an option because he is the yummiest baby in the world and I could not resist nibbling on his little ears and kissing all 10 fingers and toes. Good stuff.

Doubtful though. My body is the type to harbor a good bug and save its release for the most inopportune time.

Which is exactly what it did.

I cannot remember ever being so violently ill. At one point, I came out of the bathroom to find Lovely standing about 5 feet away, staring at the door in horror. I can only imagine what it sounded like from the outside.

I'm just praying now, that she and Guy don't get it.

Today, they are at the Air and Space Museum. I am just sitting here pouting, considering making some jambalya to stock in their freezer. Because when Whymommy says she doesn't cook, she isn't kidding. I always took that statement to mean that she didn't think she cooked well, or she didn't enjoy cooking. Um. No. But Whydaddy does, so no one is starving.

Anyway . . . they are at the Air and Space Museum. Yesterday, Guy and Lovely did the monuments on their own. Wednesday, before the onset of sickness-that-makes-you-wish-you-could-die, we went to the zoo. It was completely cute to watch how Widget took to Lovely. He doesn't know anyone who is 11. He knows people around his age, and he knows adults. It's been fascinating to watch him make a place for her in his world. It was her hand he reached for (as long as Mommy was in sight), and he sat next to her to watch gorillas.

It all makes me think how great of a big sister she would make.

That is if we could ever get freaking pregnant again.

When I crawled back into bed this morning and Guy asked if I was okay I replied, "Well my ass has stopped exploding, but I just started my period."

He pulled me over onto his chest and rubbed my head.

"2008 will be great."

Optimism can be as catching as this plague. Far far more pleasant though.

Cobwebs

Still no Viao. It's just not as much fun to type on Guy's laptop. Things are spaced differently. The key bed is more shallow. The clicking of the keys is a more muffled sound, so I end up hitting them harder just to get the right noise.

I am an odd bird.

And yet, I have finally gotten to that day when I have to write. There is a post brewing about my father, but not one that I'm going to write now. It has been brewing for months, but this past week especially.

Right now though, there are things to get off my mind that normally I would have just tossed into an entry throughout the week. Welcome to the uncluttering of a blogless mind.


Kurt Vonnegut died. I know you know this already. However, I mentablogged about it several times this week. I'm actually glad I didn't have a computer, because as it turns out, I have nothing to add to the death of this amazing man. Just that I'm sad that he is gone. And I love his writing.


I'm jonesing for a new look here. I've been working on designing mastheads and am having a great time doing it. The only problem is that I'm learning code by trial and error. I'm looking at the code for my CSS and other people's CSS' and trying to figure out what means what. It would be so much easier if I just got a book or something. But then, that would signify some sort of grand commitment to this whole thing. . . unlike the plane ticket I purchased to hang with Mamma and the gals in July.


Guy and I finished our 8 sessions of counseling that come in his benefit package. Now we are all cured and done with fixing ourselves. Not really. I do feel much better though. I would like to keep going if the insurance covers any part of it.


I had a great tune to share with you this week, but I missed it. Damn. Thursday came and went without music. I'm very sorry. Next week, I promise.


I sold my house. To an "investor." Damn again. I'm not happy about that, but the moolah will be nice. I had big dreams of some nice young couple moving in with a couple of dogs . . . Now I just have dreams of not paying mortgage on an empty house every month and the new kitchen I'm getting ready to buy for our current house. *big sigh of relief*


Doogal is just fine. HooRah.


As Guy and I were watching "The Price Is Right" on Thursday (I have been feeling really bad lately, and plus, we were just being lazy), he decided that he would name his next band "One Dollar Bob." They can open up for "Aurora Welding" any day.


And now, for our lazy day, we are sitting on the floor with my Yamaha four track, the one he wanted to get rid of, listening to our old four track tapes. We have no shame. Lovely is laughing her little head off. And that is after we sang duets of as many Aaron Spelling theme songs as we could remember during breakfast.


We are off on Tuesday to visit Whymommy and her family. I'm so excited I just peed a little when I typed that. Lovely and I took a virtual tour of the zoo in preparation this morning. She also bathed the dogs so they can be clean for their visit to puppy camp at Boo and Pilot's house. We are ready.


That's about it for now. I miss y'all.

Drowning in unread and unwritten posts

No laptop still. Trying to have computer time when Guy's not having computer time is proving to be more difficult than I thought it would be. I get this time because I'm still in the bed with some nasty no good sinus issues. Blogging through the pain though. Woot.

I glance longingly at my Bloglines, watching the posts pile up, and I brush a tear from my eye.


On a completely random note, Guy and I now hate our Sleep Number bed. I posted a love letter to it over on Props and Pans, and now, 2 weeks later, we are returning it. Should I amend that post? I feel as though I should. "Sleep Number bed was great for the first week. Then developed large trench in the middle where the two air chambers separate and the foam insert crumbles beneath you. Also, bed is not designed for cuddling at all." That's not even to mention how awful it is for other activities.

We are going with a very traditional, boring, standard mattress. I can't wait.


One thing I will be checking today is Doogal. I am waiting anxiously to hear from Girl over at Fertile Mertile. She is having a very important ultrasound today. Say a little prayer for her Doogal if you will.

Get well soon

So sad. My little Viao is in the shop. For about 2 weeks. Guy and I have to figure out how to share a computer.

Unless of course, we buy a new one in the meantime. . .

For now though, I'm having blogging withdrawals, and Guy is talking about this time as though I'm in blogging rehab.

Funny.

GG

I've got a new post over at our gratitude blog. Just a click away.

Music Do Re Meme for Thursday Tunes

Save your ears. Instead of an actual tune today, I'm answering Mamma's tag (and her new template is to die for! I've got to stop just reading off of Bloglines!) for the famous music meme. You know, the one where we list 7 tunes we are really into right now. I thought this would be easy for me, but it wasn't. My problem is that I load the cd changer up with stuff and just let it spin. I have no idea what the names of songs are or even the name of the album often.

It required research. And by research, I mean actually finding the right cd cases for the trail of cd's that I have been listening to and then placing in the case of the next on the playlist. Then it required me trying to decide if these seven songs were going make me look stupid. Then it required me realizing that the previous statement must mean that I'm still 12.

So I give you, the seven songs that make me squirmy right now. And although there is no Wilco on the list, Wilco always makes me squirmy. No matter what the song.

"The Dark Blue," Jack's Mannequin
There is plenty of piano, clever phrasing, and great vocals. I have to admit, I got this one from a 16 year old. But since Ben Folds grew up, I needed another rowdy piano boy to satiate my desires. Thank you, Jack.

"Hundred," The Fray
I came late to The Fray. Even though I heard the "how to save a life" song on Grey's Anatomy at the same time as everyone else, I didn't buy the album. Until a month ago or so. And boy howdy. It is unreal. Again, more piano-y goodness. Words from the early days of me and Guy: "And who's to say it's wrong, And who's to say that it's not right, Where we should be for now."

"Someone Else's Tomorrow," Patty Griffin
I have a list of songs I wish I wrote. At least half of them are by Patty Griffin. "And the memories fade. Send the ghosts on their way. Tell them, They've had their day it's someone else's tomorrow." She makes me feel the same way this blogger did today. Like I wanted to say all of that, but shit. They already said it so much better.

"Girl in the War," Josh Ritter
I love this whole album. If you haven't picked up a copy of Paste magazine, you so should. For about four years now, Paste has been my beacon of new music. Each month it comes with a CD sampler and awesome reviews of dozens of artists. Well worth every penny. Oh, and that's where I found Josh Ritter. I love this album down to the artwork. It makes me want to quit just adding to iTunes and keep buying actual cd's. This is the first song off The Animal Years, and it is my favorite today.

"Miss You," David Lamotte
David is from Montreat. Montreat is my favorite place on earth. Montreat is where Guy and I were married. I bought this cd when we stopped in Montreat on our way home from Tennessee in January. After the miscarriage. From the song:

"I've been searching for the right words
I've been straining for the sound
My head is full of voices
I've been trying to write them down
I've been walking 'round in circles
Looking for the perfect way
I make it all so complicated
When all I really want to say is

I miss you."

I'm pretty sure that David didn't write this song about a miscarriage. You know, being a boy and all. But it's funny to me sometimes, how a great song takes on its own life after being written, recording, and released. And you listen. And you relate. And you make it your own. This song, when I listen to it, belongs just to me. Me and Cleatus.

"9 Crimes," Damien Rice
I so wish I was this female singer. Her voice is haunting and the interplay she gets to do with Damien Rice makes me more jealous of her than any other musician currently. This song, with the tennis game of "Is that alright with you?" makes my heart ache. And I don't even really know what its about. Nor do I care. It is a beautiful song.

"Rootless Tree," Damien Rice
Yes, I picked two Damien Rice songs. You are lucky that I picked any that weren't Damien Rice songs. That is how much I love him. I did stick to the newer album. I don't know why. I could still listen to the older album 24/7 and be happy. "Rootless Tree" is a song with a chorus of fuck you. I don't know why I love this song except that the pure angst and 12 feet deep anger is so beautifully done. I don't really care what emotion is shown is music - when an artist makes me believe with all my heart that they are really feeling that emotion as they perform - then I am hooked.

That. Is what I love about Damien Rice. I believe every heart string that he pulls.

And just because I can't stop with just 7, I give you my eighth and ninth songs:

"The Blower's Daughter," Damien Rice
If you have never heard this song, please stop reading and go listen to this little clip. Then buy it. This song was my divorce and remarriage song. I cannot, to this day, listen to it with a dry eye. And again. The female singer - "did I say that I loathe you? did I say that I want to leave it all behind?" My dear word. This might be the most perfect song ever.

Except that he also wrote, "Cannonball." Our love song. "there's still a little piece of your face I haven't kissed." Of course, that's not true anymore. I have kissed every piece of his face at least a dozen times. This. Is the perfect song.

There they are. The seven, rather nine, songs I love now. I am into them. Go and spend your hard earned money on them. Pay for your music just like you pay for your electricity and water. Please.

I tag Girl (more Ben Folds goodness, Dahling), and Jen (because I think she needs a good distraction right about now). Let's here your most hopeful songs, ladies. I'm ready and armed with my iTunes.

Some people don't have way

Some people have a way with words . . . I don't think I did a good job of conveying my news last night. Again, sometimes I don't say things right.

Plus, for the life of me, I can't figure out how to reply by email to comments that are left here. I get a comment in my inbox, and if I hit reply, it always just comes back to me. So I read these great comments that are left by the kindest people, and I end up just talking to the screen here. I know some of you know how to do that - could you clue me in if you do?

Yesterday was good news in my mind. At first, I thought I wanted more definitive answers, but that was when I was assuming there was something wrong. Or rather, assuming that she could make predictions about the future that are impossible to make.

Learning that she simply thought it all looked normal, was good news to me. I am happy about that.

Thank you so much for everyone who sent good thoughts and warm fuzzies. Right back at you.

Now we just keep trying.

When we do our scales

I don't always ask the best questions. I don't always say the right things. I don't always give good first impressions.

I'm a connector. Guy says so. I make connections. Between people. Between stories. Between points.

Today, Bach came to her piano lesson and worked her way through some arpeggios. She wanted for me to fix them so badly. She knew there had to be something she was doing wrong.

The problem for me was, there wasn't anything to fix.

They were normal.

This morning I took my charts and my questions in to my doctor. She sat in front of me baffled as to what she could say. I wanted to know why I wasn't pregnant. Or at least, that is what I asked. It wasn't what I wanted to ask though.

I don't always ask the right questions.

She told me there were no tests to tell me why. She told me we had only been trying for 2 months. Which is inaccurate in my mind. In my mind, we have been trying since October. Not the point though.

When she looked at my charts and said that she really didn't have anything she could tell me, I teared up. I wanted for her to say something so badly.

Then she said, "I don't know what you want from me. This all looks normal."

And then I stopped. I looked up and literally pointed my finger at her.

"That's it. That's my answer. I needed to hear from you that this all looked normal."

So she said it again. It all looks normal. Keep trying.

Do Re Mi Do. Do Re Mi Do.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow morning I go back to the doctor.


I wrote that first sentence about 3 hours ago. Then I walked away. Then I walked back. Checked in on some of my favorites. Karaoke Diva has a new blog design, some great pictures, and a scary story about her son (he is okay now though). Kristen is talking about divooce. Nancy is doing parental madlibs.

I'm just delaying anxiety.


Tomorrow morning I go back to the doctor. Alone.


Since December, I have been doing everything with Guy. He was laid off from work at the absolute worst and best time. Double whammy - lost job and lost baby - but still. He has had all the time in the world to help me along.

We have been together 24/7 ever since. We even go to therapy together. Although our therapist has laid down the, "Guy can't hold Canape's hand and stroke her head when she is getting out a good cry in the 50 minute hour."


Tomorrow morning I go back to the doctor. Alone. With my charts and my questions.


I want some answers. Even if they are multiple choice answers. I want to know what some of the reasons I'm not pregnant yet might be. Could it be related to the miscarriage? Could it be related to our ages? Could it be related to my emotions and this blasted anxiety? I want to know the possibilities.

I'm trying. I'm eating better. I'm exercising. I'm taking my prenatal vitamins. I'm charting. Lord knows I'm having sex. Insert the "oh yeah-Luther Vandross-booty circling dance" here.

So I want to know what the possible answers are. And I'm am going to ask all by myself. Somehow, I know that I'm not conveying the importance of this.

I am a fiercely independent person. Fiercely. People who have known me a long time have their questions about me and Guy and my sudden "lack of independence." They are confusing a lack of independence with a "desire to be together," and a "sincere enjoyment of each other's company." I can see how that could happen.

However.


Tomorrow I go back to the doctor. Alone. With my charts and my questions. And I will be strong.


There is this part of me that doesn't want to try anymore. A defeated part of me. And that is so crazy because it hasn't been long at all. But I don't have any experience to put at the end of a pregnancy except pain. And with each month that the bleeding starts again, I am yanked back into the one moment that the bleeding was such a bad sign. And that is so crazy too. But true. I'm sighing at myself for even typing it, but dare I avoid it?

Then I sit up straight and take a good deep breath. And I quell that part of me because it is the irrational part. The part that lets emotion guide thought instead of thought guiding emotion. I will not do that anymore.


Tomorrow I go back to the doctor. Alone. With my charts and my questions. And I will be strong. I will not give up.