ugh. I sit here. I want to blog, but even my regular word vomit doesn't want to spill out. It's like I have so much to say, but nothing really comes out. Not even my pointless blabber.
I'm feeling a little pointless recently. I want some Taco Bell. My Chaluuupa!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Twenty –three years
This is very personal from Joe, but every time I read it, it moves me. Really makes you think. Thank you Joe for giving me permission to share these personal feelings of yours on my blog.
Twenty –three years: nearly a quarter of a century comes to end with a few scratches of a pen; possibly a question from the judge; maybe the banging of a gavel. It’s over, just like that. A new chapter, perhaps even a new book starts with a new title for the main character: Respondent. Just like that, I cease to be lover, companion, husband and spouse even Joe, Honey or Dear. Well, there is another title but I am not so proud of that one: ex. That carries a connotation of failure and I am a stranger to failure. The one title that doesn’t change, however, is that of parent, father, dad and even daddy when the need arises, although I prefer pops or poppa.
Twenty-three years: over and done with. It’s now you and me. I could humanize you and reveal your name but as long as I refer to you as You, She and Her, it’s not personal. That’s how we ended it you realize: nothing personal just business; negotiations over the phone; taking notes; more compromise during those last few days than the last 5 years.
Twenty-three years; more than half my life with the same someone; there’s no more us or ours; simply yours, mine; mostly yours now. It didn’t just end because my socks were always in the middle of the floor—they weren’t—or because you didn’t cook dinner—you didn’t, I did. Somewhere along the way, the look that could cause my heart to skip a beat turned into one that could crack granite and freeze water. Somewhere along the way the times I couldn’t breathe because you took my breath away with a kiss or entered the room turned into I couldn’t breathe because you made me so angry and I had to hold my tongue because I could only spew hate and venom. Somewhere along the way the lips I longed to kiss and dreamed of whenever I was away ceased to say things that were sweet and charming and began to utter words that were bitter, and angry; that hurt and cut my feelings to the core.
Twenty-three years: over and done with. I can’t pinpoint one moment in time where it went wrong but if I choose, I can divulge several moments where I consciously decided I was done begging for your affection; I was done trying to forgive you; I was done worrying about what made you happy. When I began to care more for not making you angry than making you happy, I knew things had changed. Some line had been crossed and I don’t even know where or when it was crossed. I don’t even have to try to recall moments when I realized you quit trying to make our house a home; moments when I ceased to be your husband and became your indentured servant; moments when I realized I was no longer a partner to fulfill a mutual dream and just a direct deposit so you could maintain your standard of living.
Twenty-three years: brought to a conclusion neither one of us ever envisioned nearly a quarter century ago. We didn’t forgive. We didn’t forget. We chose I and me over Us. We quit. We quit each other. And quitters never win.
Twenty –three years: nearly a quarter of a century comes to end with a few scratches of a pen; possibly a question from the judge; maybe the banging of a gavel. It’s over, just like that. A new chapter, perhaps even a new book starts with a new title for the main character: Respondent. Just like that, I cease to be lover, companion, husband and spouse even Joe, Honey or Dear. Well, there is another title but I am not so proud of that one: ex. That carries a connotation of failure and I am a stranger to failure. The one title that doesn’t change, however, is that of parent, father, dad and even daddy when the need arises, although I prefer pops or poppa.
Twenty-three years: over and done with. It’s now you and me. I could humanize you and reveal your name but as long as I refer to you as You, She and Her, it’s not personal. That’s how we ended it you realize: nothing personal just business; negotiations over the phone; taking notes; more compromise during those last few days than the last 5 years.
Twenty-three years; more than half my life with the same someone; there’s no more us or ours; simply yours, mine; mostly yours now. It didn’t just end because my socks were always in the middle of the floor—they weren’t—or because you didn’t cook dinner—you didn’t, I did. Somewhere along the way, the look that could cause my heart to skip a beat turned into one that could crack granite and freeze water. Somewhere along the way the times I couldn’t breathe because you took my breath away with a kiss or entered the room turned into I couldn’t breathe because you made me so angry and I had to hold my tongue because I could only spew hate and venom. Somewhere along the way the lips I longed to kiss and dreamed of whenever I was away ceased to say things that were sweet and charming and began to utter words that were bitter, and angry; that hurt and cut my feelings to the core.
Twenty-three years: over and done with. I can’t pinpoint one moment in time where it went wrong but if I choose, I can divulge several moments where I consciously decided I was done begging for your affection; I was done trying to forgive you; I was done worrying about what made you happy. When I began to care more for not making you angry than making you happy, I knew things had changed. Some line had been crossed and I don’t even know where or when it was crossed. I don’t even have to try to recall moments when I realized you quit trying to make our house a home; moments when I ceased to be your husband and became your indentured servant; moments when I realized I was no longer a partner to fulfill a mutual dream and just a direct deposit so you could maintain your standard of living.
Twenty-three years: brought to a conclusion neither one of us ever envisioned nearly a quarter century ago. We didn’t forgive. We didn’t forget. We chose I and me over Us. We quit. We quit each other. And quitters never win.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Be Careful What You Ask For
Before you read this blog, please keep in mind I am not the author. You may be able to tell that by the eloquent writing because you know I just tend to word splatter whatever is on my mind. This is actually written by my very own Uncle. I've read several letters and tid bits that are blog worthy and a couple of his friends and I persisted he write something. With his permission I post this first one for you, from Joe:
You’ve asked me to Blog. Whatever for? The things that I say are my own. I don’t expect you or anyone else for that matter to give so much as inkling that you for at some moment in time really care about what I have to say. I choose to express myself because I have something to say.
I don’t want to convince you of anything; I have nothing to sell; the only thing I offer up is a bit of me. I’m not here for your entertainment. Quite frankly, I’m not so certain that I even care if you are moved to action or indifference. Your acceptance or rejection of what I convey isn’t going to put bread on my table or milk in my refrigerator.
If I choose of my own free will to do this, I will be sacrificing a piece of me with each and every word. I am not capable of putting words to paper or screen as the case may be without pouring myself into the page or onto the screen. In essence, I give birth to these thoughts and ideas that you find so moving. I am giving you a piece of me that I can never take back. I put myself at your mercy and wait for your judgment but I don’t need your approval.
This is all about words; the conveyance of ideas. We’ve all been given the same 26 letters to build, shape and convey our words, thoughts, and even our fears. It’s how we choose to arrange those letters that have the power to move our hearts in sorrow stir our bodies to action or elevate our spirits in thanksgiving or gratitude. Perhaps that is what you seek; someone who can reach out through time and space and slap your brain from its slumber and awaken it to the great possibilities that exist.
You perceive that I have this mastery over 26 insignificant little symbols and the combinations in which I choose to arrange them. You are moved. You find significance in how I have chosen to build my world and convey my thoughts. These ideas exist only in space. There’s really no substance there; nothing tangible to wrap you hands around; nothing to taste, feel or admire. Yet, possibly you find comfort in the thought that you are not alone and another feels the same way as you. Then again perhaps you feel superior because my thoughts are different, they fail to touch you and you are comfortable with the way you currently think and feel,
I understand that words are powerful. They can be used to incite the masses to rebellion or calm a terrified nation in times of crisis. If I could, I would choose to challenge you; arouse you and even awaken you to look within yourself and determine why you are enchanted with the architecture of my ideas and to build your own.
You’ve asked me to Blog. Whatever for? The things that I say are my own. I don’t expect you or anyone else for that matter to give so much as inkling that you for at some moment in time really care about what I have to say. I choose to express myself because I have something to say.
I don’t want to convince you of anything; I have nothing to sell; the only thing I offer up is a bit of me. I’m not here for your entertainment. Quite frankly, I’m not so certain that I even care if you are moved to action or indifference. Your acceptance or rejection of what I convey isn’t going to put bread on my table or milk in my refrigerator.
If I choose of my own free will to do this, I will be sacrificing a piece of me with each and every word. I am not capable of putting words to paper or screen as the case may be without pouring myself into the page or onto the screen. In essence, I give birth to these thoughts and ideas that you find so moving. I am giving you a piece of me that I can never take back. I put myself at your mercy and wait for your judgment but I don’t need your approval.
This is all about words; the conveyance of ideas. We’ve all been given the same 26 letters to build, shape and convey our words, thoughts, and even our fears. It’s how we choose to arrange those letters that have the power to move our hearts in sorrow stir our bodies to action or elevate our spirits in thanksgiving or gratitude. Perhaps that is what you seek; someone who can reach out through time and space and slap your brain from its slumber and awaken it to the great possibilities that exist.
You perceive that I have this mastery over 26 insignificant little symbols and the combinations in which I choose to arrange them. You are moved. You find significance in how I have chosen to build my world and convey my thoughts. These ideas exist only in space. There’s really no substance there; nothing tangible to wrap you hands around; nothing to taste, feel or admire. Yet, possibly you find comfort in the thought that you are not alone and another feels the same way as you. Then again perhaps you feel superior because my thoughts are different, they fail to touch you and you are comfortable with the way you currently think and feel,
I understand that words are powerful. They can be used to incite the masses to rebellion or calm a terrified nation in times of crisis. If I could, I would choose to challenge you; arouse you and even awaken you to look within yourself and determine why you are enchanted with the architecture of my ideas and to build your own.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Working Mom's VS SAHM
This is probably going to make you mad, but I have a little rant to get off my chest. It is about SAHM vs Working Moms- as per title. Yes, it's a touchy subject. So if you don't agree then don't read it. That and I may be a little unreasonable as I have raging pregnant hormones inside me.
I've been a mom for a while now. I have never had the privelege of being a SAHM (Stay At Home Mother) except for the 5 months I was out of work. With that 5 months I feel I can rightfully pass judgement while my hormones are going wild and I'm feeling irritated.
SOO- What I can't comprehend is how SAHM's think their jobs are so much harder than those that work 40 hours (or more as currently I'm on mandated OT). I've heard though the years how it's so much more exhausting, they have so much more work to do, etc, blah, blah.
Okay I work all day and when I come home I have to do the laundry, dishes, cooking (well Kirby cooks a lot because I'm not very good at it), dusting, vacuuming, and check homework. I take care of owie's, fighting, find missing items children didn't put away. I also have to find time to do my errands, pay bills, clip coupons, feed the pets, go to the bank, ugh- grocery shopping. We get showers done, play taxi for friends, and still manage to find quality time with them, such as games. Oh people that know me, yes my children do chores, but I still have to direct them correctly, help them, teach them how to do stuff.
So yeah that last paragraph was really boring with me rambling blah, blah, blah. The point I'm making is I feel I do just as much as a SAHM, in fact possibly more because on top of my work schedule I have to find time for all that normal, daily stuff (refer to previous boring paragraph). Just because I work doesn't mean the house doesn't get messy. Everything that needs done isn't going to magically work itself out. Plus I have to fine my "me" time, too!
So if you are a SAHM please help me understand why staying home is so much harder than working?
With all that said I would love to drop to part time work or have the opportunity to be SAHM. But I know I can't. So maybe I'm a little jealous. BUT like this past summer I think I would get bored after a while probably.
Okay I'm going to go do something fun and calm myself down. You have a good day.
I've been a mom for a while now. I have never had the privelege of being a SAHM (Stay At Home Mother) except for the 5 months I was out of work. With that 5 months I feel I can rightfully pass judgement while my hormones are going wild and I'm feeling irritated.
SOO- What I can't comprehend is how SAHM's think their jobs are so much harder than those that work 40 hours (or more as currently I'm on mandated OT). I've heard though the years how it's so much more exhausting, they have so much more work to do, etc, blah, blah.
Okay I work all day and when I come home I have to do the laundry, dishes, cooking (well Kirby cooks a lot because I'm not very good at it), dusting, vacuuming, and check homework. I take care of owie's, fighting, find missing items children didn't put away. I also have to find time to do my errands, pay bills, clip coupons, feed the pets, go to the bank, ugh- grocery shopping. We get showers done, play taxi for friends, and still manage to find quality time with them, such as games. Oh people that know me, yes my children do chores, but I still have to direct them correctly, help them, teach them how to do stuff.
So yeah that last paragraph was really boring with me rambling blah, blah, blah. The point I'm making is I feel I do just as much as a SAHM, in fact possibly more because on top of my work schedule I have to find time for all that normal, daily stuff (refer to previous boring paragraph). Just because I work doesn't mean the house doesn't get messy. Everything that needs done isn't going to magically work itself out. Plus I have to fine my "me" time, too!
So if you are a SAHM please help me understand why staying home is so much harder than working?
With all that said I would love to drop to part time work or have the opportunity to be SAHM. But I know I can't. So maybe I'm a little jealous. BUT like this past summer I think I would get bored after a while probably.
Okay I'm going to go do something fun and calm myself down. You have a good day.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Schmuperbowl
That's right. I'm not a football fan. If you've seen one game you've seen them all. BUT with that said I wouldn't be a real American if I wasn't subjected to watching this big thingie once a year (if I'm not at work or otherwise engaged).
So with that said I think the Saints have the prettier uniforms and it would be very cool for them to win their first Superbowl. (There is 1.27 as I write this so we'll know who won by time I'm finished probably). And with that said as much as I'm sick of seeing blue everywhere (it's really not my shade), I think it would be a great boost to our immediate economy if the Colts win.
So at any rate I did enjoy the half time show. The only one that comes to mind is the "artist formally known as" Prince and this giant sheets. I didn't have the privilege of the wardrobe incident with Janet Jackson... but I think The Who were pretty good... For a bunch of grandpas jamming out the light show they had was friggin awesome.
Now with all that rambly I read one of my other blogs and I really think that pickle I mentioned sounds good. So I think I am going to get one. Oh BTW the game still isn't over, but it looks like the Saints have it.
ps, I really hate when people say "toodles" Ugh.
So with that said I think the Saints have the prettier uniforms and it would be very cool for them to win their first Superbowl. (There is 1.27 as I write this so we'll know who won by time I'm finished probably). And with that said as much as I'm sick of seeing blue everywhere (it's really not my shade), I think it would be a great boost to our immediate economy if the Colts win.
So at any rate I did enjoy the half time show. The only one that comes to mind is the "artist formally known as" Prince and this giant sheets. I didn't have the privilege of the wardrobe incident with Janet Jackson... but I think The Who were pretty good... For a bunch of grandpas jamming out the light show they had was friggin awesome.
Now with all that rambly I read one of my other blogs and I really think that pickle I mentioned sounds good. So I think I am going to get one. Oh BTW the game still isn't over, but it looks like the Saints have it.
ps, I really hate when people say "toodles" Ugh.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Ready, set, GROUNDHOG
I'm so ready for spring. I hope that little guy does what ever he's supposed to do so that spring can come early this year!!
-I- have been doing great. I have managed to mostly not deal with the morning nauseousness as much as I was. It really depends if I just ate and if that is what the body wanted. I am at about 9 weeks now so my baby is about an inch and a half big. I used a chap stick to demonstrate to the family how big our baby was.
Gwyn said I was getting fat. I told her it's not fat, it's a baby bump. So she told me I was getting a baby bump. *sigh* Thanks. I'm not ready for the big belly yet.
Also something hilarious with her- She had been pestering me a couple weeks ago how babies come out. I was not ready for this question so I avoided it at all costs and Kirby deflected her answers by distraction. Finally she cornered me. So I went all technical with "birth canal" and she was like- "yah, but where do they come out at?"
So I tell her the birth canal is... kinda where your privates are. She stopped me as soon as I said "privates" and told me I should wait until she is an adult before telling her anything else. She hasn't asked me any other sticky questions since.
At least by now I have time to think of a good answer fit for her. I still haven't thought of any...
-I- have been doing great. I have managed to mostly not deal with the morning nauseousness as much as I was. It really depends if I just ate and if that is what the body wanted. I am at about 9 weeks now so my baby is about an inch and a half big. I used a chap stick to demonstrate to the family how big our baby was.
Gwyn said I was getting fat. I told her it's not fat, it's a baby bump. So she told me I was getting a baby bump. *sigh* Thanks. I'm not ready for the big belly yet.
Also something hilarious with her- She had been pestering me a couple weeks ago how babies come out. I was not ready for this question so I avoided it at all costs and Kirby deflected her answers by distraction. Finally she cornered me. So I went all technical with "birth canal" and she was like- "yah, but where do they come out at?"
So I tell her the birth canal is... kinda where your privates are. She stopped me as soon as I said "privates" and told me I should wait until she is an adult before telling her anything else. She hasn't asked me any other sticky questions since.
At least by now I have time to think of a good answer fit for her. I still haven't thought of any...
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