Category Archives: happiness

The End of 2012…Thank God.

This year has been a tough one.  A really tough one.

I could sit here and rehash it all, but I am not going to.  There’s been a lot of loss this year, both in the physical and emotional sense.  It’s been a tough one, I’m not going to lie.  It seems to happen every other year or so, which still makes me more fortunate than most, but definitely not as good as others.

But yes, this was a hard one.  I could barely catch my breath from one tragedy before there was another.  It just seemed to run, non stop, in waves.  My stress and frustration levels were at all time highs for most of this year, especially the latter portion, from July forward til now.

Things aren’t perfect.  They never will be, nor do I expect them to be.  I just want it to slow down some. Allow me to breathe a bit.  Throw the curve balls a bit more slowly this year.  Give me a chance to recover from one thing before you hit me with the next.  I am only human and while my shoulders are broad and my back is strong, there is only so much pain one person can take at a time. 

Yet, I always feel that the new year should not necessarily be a time to reflect back. I am a firm believe that old acquaintance SHOULD be forgotten and never brought to mind.  It’s the past.  There’s nothing you can do about it save to learn from it and move forward.  I am not the same woman I was five years ago, five months ago or even five minutes ago.  We are all works in progress, constantly evolving, growing and changing. 

I was trying to think of what my key word for 2013 would be; the word that I would think to when trying to plan my life course for this year.  Last year, it was “promise”.  I made some promises to myself and for the most part, I kept them.  These are not the same as resolutions, which I feel are silly contracts we make with ourselves and usually, they are preordained to fail.  My key word is just a reminder to hold certain things dear to me.  The promise of happiness.  The promise of extracting the negativity from my life path.  The promise to remember that tomorrow is another day and all the disasters of one day don’t necessarily carry over into the next. 

This years word is “transform”.  There are a few things that I would like to transform about myself, but I would not be so bold as to make myself promises I don’t intend to keep in the form of those horrible resolutions.  The root word of resolution is resolve and let’s face it, sometimes the resolve just isn’t there.  We are stronger some days than others.  It is widely believed that if you make a resolution and then, fall prey to the opposite of whatever it is you resolved to do, you have failed.

I, for one, am not about to set myself up for failure. 

So, transform for me, will be a slow process of change.  Changing the things that I CAN change while knowing that certain things will always be out of my control.  I can transform how I choose to react to things and not feel as though I have failed if my transformation does not immediately become a learned behavior.  I am going to take it easier on myself this year.  I am not going to cause myself hurt, pain or anxiety.  I have had quite enough of those self destructive passages in previous years.  I have extracted most of the people who cause my mind agony from my life.  While a few still litter the wall of my Facebook page, they are not there in copious amounts any longer…and the “delete” button remains a close few inches away from my fingertips should I need it.

What I won’t transform, however, are the things that others may perceive as my flaws. I will NOT transform my personality.  I am brash, crude, sometimes obnoxious, definitely crass…but it walks hand in hand with something else that I am and that is well intentioned.  I don’t mean harm.  And, when I cause it, I am also versed in the art of apology.  I have discovered long ago that a weak person does not apologize.  An even weaker person will not accept them.  This is not to mean that if I accept your apology, that I still choose to associate with you or keep you in my life.  I have only chosen to forgive your transgression.  Be grateful.

In the days of old, most transgressions of others would have landed you with a five knuckled greeting to your jawbone.  I have “evolved”, which I believe was my word of 2008 or so.  Maybe 2009.

In closing, new year, but not necessarily new me.  Just some “transforming” to do.  A little housecleaning in the spiritual sense.   Some adjustments to make as I get closer and closer to the person that I want to be.  Baby steps have gotten me through the first 46 years of my life, so I don’t suppose I will be making any giant leaps any time soon.  Change should come slowly…not like a huge 20 foot wave crashing in on you, but rather, a little trickling of water through the rocks and stones of a constantly running stream.  It should come slowly, gently, softly.  Resolutions, to me, are those 20 foot crashing waves.  Some survive them.  Some don’t. 

I’m not willing to find out the hard way.

Happy New Year to all of you.  May lucky number 2013 bring you all the joy and peace that you could possibly handle…and then some.

And, in keeping with tradition of blog posts gone by, I leave you with this:

Tradition started the first year I blogged, December 2005.  Why stop now?

Peace.

Focus 52: "May Flowers"

No.  Really.  No “May Flowers.” 

Did you all truly think I was kidding last week?

Here’s your “May Flower.”  Deal with it. 

I am too delirious right now to comprise a post.   Do you want suckage…or would you rather have me back, fully rested and raring to go? 

Yes, that’s what I thought.  So um, in the meantime…hope all you Momsicles out there had a Happy Mother’s Day.  I personally got $100 in DSW gift certificates which is the retail equivalent of 5 orgasms.  So, happy shoe shopping for me.  Got PJ’s.  Got jewelry.  Got candles.  Got flowers. (yes, I could have taken a photo of those for “May Flowers” and been perfectly safe in doing so.  So what?  I just thought of that just now…and NOW, I am pressed for time.  Fuck it.)  Got Glee CD’s and DVD’s.  Got gift certificates for Ross.  Got a big damn fat assed cake. 

Most of all, I got laid.  Awesomely, supremely laid.  The Hotband busted out some moves, circa us…1999.  Threw down the PIPE, dudes.  Rocked it out.  Word!  And that is what got me into this whole “Mother’s Day” mess in the first place…so I suppose there is some poetic justice in that. 

Just would have been nice to have had some new shoes up on his shoulders.

Ah well, that’s what next weekend is for.

Overall, a nice weekend that included my baby boy, my big girl, my son in law, and my grandbabies.  Truthfully, what more could a girl want?

Well, shoes…but again, that’s what next weekend is for.  Oh, and another Israeli missile lodged in my bunker of love.  And THAT, is what right now is for…which is why you got this lame ass post.

I do have priorities you know.

Peace, Bitches.  xoxo

Focus 52: "Love, Baby"

“Stay there. Just like that. I have my camera under the pillow.”

“What?”

“Sh.  Don’t move.  Don’t smile. Just stay…like that.”

*click*

Yes, People. I went “there”.  I always wanted a photo of us literally seconds after the the “big finish”.  I love the glazed over look on his face.  I love how soft his eyes are.  I love that I can’t help from biting my bottom lip like a schoolgirl with a big secret.  What you can’t feel in this photo is the warmth between our two bodies.  What you cannot see in this photo is how our legs are intertwined under our big down comforter.  How his right foot is playing with the bottom of my left foot, tickling me.  How the tips of his fingers are swirling soft, concentric circles just above the top of my ass, in that small indentation we women have in our lower backs.  What you cannot hear are the banging of two over taxed hearts and the huff and puff of the aftermath of the aerobic exercise we just completed.  Neither of us are particularly active people…except in this arena.  It is here that we can run the mile, vault the horse, stick the landing and end with a perfect dismount that even the harshest of Russian judges would have to give a “10” to.

This picture is not about two people who just had sex, bumped uglies, did the nasty, made the four armed machine, etc.  This photo is this weeks title:  Love, Baby.  After 11 long years together, this man still captivates me.  Every line, every dent, every nook and cranny.  His scent intoxicates me.  His eyes draw me in like magnets.  His breath on my face is like warm apple pie.  His hands feel like butterflies, flickering all up and down this expansive mountain of flesh that makes up my ample body.

And me?  What you are seeing there is a rare moment…only vaguely seen by previous lovers, but never quite the way my husband sees it.  It is vulnerability.  It is the taming of the shrew.  It is the moment that I become not just his wife or lover, but rather, his mistress.  His virgin.  His whore.  His Goddess.  His first time.  My first time. And what will be, for both of us, our last time…until the next time.

Each experience of making love to my husband is more intense than the last.  Orgasms be damned, for it is SO no longer about that.  It is about what I bring to the game, on bended knee if you will, for him.  He is not a selfish lover, by any means…but never in my entire sexually active life have I yearned to be more of the pleasurer than the pleasured.  Together we are a force to be reckoned with.  While we are working with the broken down bodies of what a man in his late thirties and a woman in her mid forties can offer, when it is time for game on, we are two eighteen year olds bringing 38 years worth of combined experience to the table. We are passionate, feverish, combining sweetness with the tart and tangy and softness with the heavy handed and hardened.  He is the yin to my yang and every move is done in perfect sympatico.

This picture.  It captures “love, baby” because feasibly, you will never meet another couple more in love than he and I.  Other couples aspire higher when they are around us.  I joke to my husband and say “we’re contagious, babe!”  They become better couples in our presence because they yearn to have what we do.  We’ve both heard it before.  “Oh, I wish our marriage was like yours.  You guys always look like you are having so much fun together.”  And, truth be told? We ARE having that much fun together.  We laugh during sex.  We laugh during nervous times.  We laugh in the midst of crisis…one of us usually cracking an inappropriate joke to lighten the mood.

It would sound as if I were bragging if it weren’t just merely the truth.  

It wasn’t always this way.  We had our share of problems in the very beginning.  His baggage came in form of a carry on piece of luggage with rickety wheels and a broken handle.  Mine came in a Louis Vuitton  8 piece steamer trunk set.  Once we learned how to put our clothes away and put the luggage in storage, our life together truly began and we haven’t looked back since.

“Lemme see the picture,” he says.

I show him.

“Aw, Baby…”, he whispers to me.  “You look like a little kid about to burst into laughter.  Was I that bad?”

“No.  You weren’t ‘bad’, goofball.  You were amazing.  You’re always amazing.”

“WE’RE always amazing,” he corrects me and kisses my forehead.

I put the camera to the side.

“Did you really have the camera under the pillow just for that,” he asks.

“Yep.  I always wanted to see what we looked like two seconds later, when we fall backwards in exhaustion.”

“We look pretty damn good,” he says.

Still biting my lip, I nod in agreement.

It’s late and he’s going to be catching a 4am plane to California for work.  It’s nearly 2am at the time the photo is taken.  I roll onto my side, pulling him with me.  My back is pressed into his chest.  I can feel the soft tendrils of his furry chest tickling my sensitive skin on my back.  His arm is raised above my head…our fingers interlaced.  His other hand rests in the dip of my waist, his fingertips grazing my lower abdomen.  I can feel him breathing into my hair, heavier and heavier.  He murmurs something almost inaudible, but I caught the tale end of “I love you”.  I answer him by pressing my hips a bit harder into his.  His breathing slows and hard, heavy breaths give way to light, exhausted snores.  There is music playing in our bedroom, soft piano music playing low.  The piano sounds soft and low as the oboe that is playing over it sounds vaguely like a woman crying.

Until I realize, I am the woman crying.

You see, my heart will be taking to the sky in less than two hours.  The better half of my soul will be 3000 miles away from me.  There will be no one to have a midnight snack with.  No one to giggle with me at America’s Funniest Home Videos.  No one to eat dinner with.  No one to talk to in the middle of the cold dark night.  No one sharing the warmth of my bed.  I will be alone for a week as I am every month for one week a month and as always, it will break my heart yet again.

I miss him already so my heart knows to instinctively cry.  I sob inwardly so not to wake him of his precious hour of sleep before having to board a plane.  The alarm rings forty-five minutes later.  He slips out from under the blankets.  I feign sleep.  He kisses the top of my head and goes in for his shower.  I hear the water running and it hurts so much.  I reach out and grab my camera, still sitting on the edge of the bed, just under my pillow.  I flip through to the picture I took.  Look at that moment.  I can’t help but smile.  That sweet, sexy innocent moment now forever preserved in time.  I bite my lower lip to suppress what could either amount to a giggle or a choked up sob. 

He is packed and leaving.

“I love you baby,” he says.  “It will be a short week.  And, when I get home…we have our special Valentines Day weekend at the beach.  Just you, me, dinner at The Pearl and a balcony view of the ocean.”

“Can’t wait,” I whisper.

He kisses my lips softly.

“All the love in the world, Angel,” he says.

“Nothing but love, Baby,” I reply.  And with that, he’s gone.

Monday comes.  I wait for the Focus 52 prompt, excited to see what the challenge will be for the week.

“Our prompt this week…,” she writes, “why, it is Love, Baby!!”

Love, Baby?  I laugh.  I laugh so deep and hard that it almost hurts my belly.

I grab the picture and run to my blog.  Sometimes, fact is stranger than fiction and the story just writes itself.  Who would have thought that a picture would accompany it as well.  I “frame” the pic with a Polaroid type effect to make it look like an instant moment in time.  Something captured and clandestine.  Something sneaky and sexy…like the Polaroids you have hidden away in the bottom of a drawer somewhere. 

So there you have it.  The story of the photo.  The story of our loves…and nothing but Love, Baby.

Nothing but love.

Barely out of Tuesday…

 

Sometimes, I find a song that touches me in a pretty profound way.  There are days that I listen to it and think “this is a great song” and then, the same song on another day takes on a completely different meaning. Today on Facebook, Adam Duritz of Counting Crows posted up his song “Barely Out of Tuesday”.  This particular song is not new to diehard Crows fans.  It’s a song that never made it onto any of their albums which is a damn shame.  Yesterday, I was under an enormous amount of stress and seeing as it is about 4am right now…and I am barely out of tuesday myself, I thought I would share it. 

Relative to nothing I have said thus far, I think I might have bitten off more than I can chew this semester.  I am taking an algebra course, an intermediate algebra course.  I have managed to get through many years of college and test out of having to take math courses.  This time, I was not so lucky.  As a pre-requisite to getting into the Bachelor’s program I am looking to get into this fall, statistics is required.  I’m not concerned about that because statistics really have very little to do with actual numbers.  However, this algebra course is required to be able to get into the stats class.  So, my suave manipulations of the system will not get me out of this one this time.  I suppose the luck had to run out eventually.  I probably did myself a grave disservice by not taking the intermediate course directly after taking the “pre” and “elementary” courses that preceded it.  Now it is eight years post degree and I have very little recollection of the “order of operations” or “distributive properties”, “associative properties” or “inverse/reciprocal properties”.   I did a lot of research on “Rate My Professor” type websites before settling on this particular teacher.  I knew I was going to need my hand held on this one and by all accounts, she is just that type of professor.  She allows scientific calculators in class.  She allows you to do your homework over and over again online until you max out your score with a perfect grade.  She even allows you to bring a “crib sheet” with notes into her exams.  One page only, handwritten notes.  “You write small enough, you can probably fit everything I teach you onto your study guide,” as she calls it.  “Write too big though and too bad.  You lose.”  Okay.  Fair enough.  Actually, well beyond fair and with a six point font type of handwriting, I can really make this work in my favor. 

However, she did stress that you, the student, will only get out of the class what you put into it.  “Don’t bother to open a book until test day and your grade will reflect that,” she said. “Study for at least one hour every day and you will do just fine.”

By nature, I am a procrastinator.  I am also one of those really cocky students that truly believes she works best under pressure and at the last minute.  Math, I think, will be the end to this notion and probably the end to my perfect GPA as well.  On Thursday, after class, I told the Hotband that I am going to just “relax” for the night and give myself Friday off as well.  Since it’s a long weekend, I will have Saturday, Sunday and Monday to do homework. 

Best. Laid. Plans. 

I do nothing on Friday.  Nothing. Don’t even crack open a book to do some reading in Applied Ethics or my humanities course.  Why bother? I have this nice long three day weekend.  I have all the time in the world.  I have more than an ample window in which to get all my work done.  I have…

food poisoning. 

Friday night, my hubs ordered in from our favorite italian place.  Normally, I just have some pasta and meatballs.  This time I thought it would be nice to try their eggplant.  As I was eating it, I thought it tasted peculiar to me.  My husband tasted it.  He said it didn’t taste strange to him, so I just assumed it was me and continued to eat it.  Halfway through the dish, I decided that I really was not enjoying this meal at all.  It still tasted odd and a bit sour even.  About five hours later…I was vomiting my guts up.  At one point, I vomited so hard that the content of my bladder erupted.  Seeing as my face was occupying the bowl, I could barely swing my fat ass around in time to find the hole on which to set it upon.  My husband walks in to find me covered in puke from trying to twist around in time to pee in the bowl…and sitting in a puddle of my own urine.  I was shivering, felt like my body was ice cold while simultaneously sweating from every pore.  My husband helped me get up, clean myself up, change into fresh pajamas and sent me to bed.  Bed…where I proceeded to stay for the next 32 hours, completely obliterating Saturday as an option for homework and studying. 

I finally awoke on Sunday around 2pm, feeling like utter shit…like I had been hit by a bus.  I had a throbbing headache.  So, the hubs being the angel baby that he is, set me up in style.  A bunch of pillows, fresh t shirt and undies and some warm socks.  A nice cold glass of water on the nightstand.  Remote in my right hand, cellphone in my left.  My laptop plugged in so I could blog, facebook and tweet during the Jets game, the Golden Globes and of course, The Real Housewives of Atlanta.  I was in social networking heaven.  He also bought me a slew of gorgeous gourmet cupcakes for me to devour once I was feeling better.

Hello, lovers…nom nom nom.
 
Friday, Saturday, Sunday.  All gone.  No studying done.  Monday arrives.  I feel like ass, but able to get out of bed finally.  When I do, I am greeted by my son who apparently arrived at my house at some point over the weekend.  I was so sick, I scarcely knew he was there.  He was all like “Hey Mom, how are you feeling?  Good?  Great.  Remember you said you would dye my hair for me this weekend?  Remember?  Remember that?  Well, it’s Monday already and…and…and…”
 
“And you would like me to color your hair now.”
 
“Yeah.  Can you?”
 
“Yes.  What do you want done?”
 
“I want my hair blue.”
 
“Blue hair,” I reply.  “All of it blue or just certain spot blue or a blue streak?  What are we talking about here?”
 
“All of it.  Blue!”  
 
I sigh.  But, it is his hair. He is fifteen. If he wants to look like a smurf, who am I to stop that?  I schlep myself out of the house to do some errands I had thought could be done at any time over the weekend, you know, because it was a LONG weekend after all and I had all the time in the world, right?  So, I go to where my daughter works and buy some boobie car covers (also known as bras).  Hey, buy two get two free?  Bras in my size run about $40 a pop, so buying two to get two free is a deal that I would get out of bed for.  Then, of course, since Ross is right next door and they do their shoe/purse restocking on Mondays…well, I can’t let a perfectly good “get out of bed when you’re sick” errand run go to waste right?  Cute Jessica Simpson pumps.  Adorable Guess slingbacks.  Mine.  Productive.  Next.  Over to Office Depot because I need graph paper, a scientific calculator, some pencils and some folders.  All of this for my math class which equates to, in my mind, doing something productive in math for the weekend. There we go.  Guilt of doing nothing, alleviated with one quick trip to Office Depot.  Salvation in the form of a Texas Instrument calculator…oh, and the purchase of a really cute pink stapler.  Because, every princess should have a pink stapler on her desk, right?
 
Final stop? CVS.  After mulling over all the possibilities… we decided on a nice electric blue which, best case scenario, will look like deep blue highlights over his black/brown hair.  Worst case scenario?  The boy will look like Cookie Monster.  
 I know you have some cupcakes too, bitch! I saw them. Now where are they???
 
Well, long story made real short (I’ll make the long story longer in a separate blog post that includes pictures), I ended up stripping my sons hair of its natural color, leaving him with bright. orange. streaks.  all over his pretty, mop top of curls.  Yeah.  There’s a reason I never became a professional hair dresser.  He takes a look at it. He stares at it.  I assure him that when I add the blue, it will cover up all that bright, light orange and…
 
“I LOVE IT!  IT LOOKS SO AWESOME!!!!”
 
“Seriously,” I ask incredulously.
 
“Holy crap, it’s AWESOME,” he exclaims again.  “Forget the blue stuff.  I’m keeping it like this.”
 
“Nick, honey,” I say, “It looks like I dropped a bucket of Clorox on your head from a really high place or something.  It’s just a big…splat…all over your head.”
 
“Dude, it is SO cool.  Thank you, Mommy!”  He gives me a big hug and dashes out of the bathroom, presumably to jump right on Facebook and let the world know that he know looks like a damn tiger.
 
So, how does this all relate to my earlier complaint about not getting to do any of my math homework this entire weekend?  Well, simply…it doesn’t.  While I didn’t enjoy being sick and definitely did not enjoy the uncomfortable feeling that accompanied not being fully prepared for my algebra class this evening, the full out, painful belly laughs that I shared with my son and husband Monday night were entirely worth it.  
 
Here I now sit, a mere 4 hours and 40 minutes into Wednesday or, as the song says, barely out of tuesday.  And I think I am willing to forgive myself this for the lack of drive or effort in completing my schoolwork.  If nothing else, this past Monday night showed me what most of us have known all along.  Family first and foremost, always.  If it means getting one little goose egg for a grade due to lack of homework preparation, so be it.  The moments that I spend with the kid and the hubs made that zero worth while…
 
and if you do the math, Happy Family – Algebra Homework + Digital Camera = Lifetime Memories.
 
I think I made the grade.