April Snow

I’m not one to wallow in the singleness. Really- it’s not something I obsess about or spend huge chunks of time turning over in my mind. It is what it is, as they say. I enjoy my kids, my friends, my dog and for the most part, my life. 

But sometimes, that singleness, it comes out of left field and blindsides you with a hard, open-hand smack to the head. 

Like when it snows in April. 

We got hit with a pretty impressive spring snowstorm here in Minneapolis. It started yesterday, and then kicked it up a notch overnight and all day today. 

We are a hardy bunch, us Minnesotans. Grin and bear it, ya you betcha, dontcha know. 

As we are wont to say in a late-season snowstorm, “what can ya do?”. You drive slow(er). You do the penguin shuffle on the icy pavement. And you shovel.

Being Minnesotan trained me well for life post-divorce. After all, isn’t it a lot like a weird April blizzard? Not entirely expected and it leaves a mess but you know the end is in sight. You know the slippery, blowing white crap will soon succumb to the slowly warming sunshine. 

Tonight, though, it snuck up on me. No, not the snow. I worked in the office all day and watched it come down and commisserated with everyone grumbling about it. Heard the swish of snowpants and the unmistakable clomp of winter boots in a school hallway. The snow wasn't sneaky.

Tonight, the aloneness hit. 

My janky car is a good and faithful runner despite the battered exterior. Like me, it’s tougher than it looks and doesn’t require much attention or maintenance. But it’s no match for several inches of snow combined with our long narrow driveway.

After work, I drove home, carefully and hopefully. Careful of the rutted, slippery streets and hopeful that the guy my landlord gets to plow for us had beat me home. 

He hadn’t. Tucked in next to a busy street, the only option we have on these inclement weather days is to say a little prayer and drive as fast and as far up the drive as we (and our cars) are able. 

I almost made it! Used the clicker to open the garage door and aimed the old Ford Focus and let it rip. We got so close. The nose of the car almost passed the threshold of the garage when gravity and nature laughed and said “not today, sucka!” and my decrepit silver bullet slid, helplessly, down the driveway and into a drift. 

I didn’t have it in me to start the arduous excavation process. I left the car there, knowing the plow guy would soon appear and because of the marooned vehicle, be unable to get much plowing done. 

It’s April, for Pete’s sake. I’m done.

The plow guy came, not much later, and did what he could. I sighed and zipped up my parka and put on the woolen hat and the mittens and the boots and grabbed a shovel and headed out. What can ya do, right? 

I scooped and threw and scraped and shoved and moved snow for about an hour. It was light snow, so I didn’t spend too much time imagining who would find me out there, partially obscured by the piles of accumulation after succumbing to a heart attack. 

My arms ached and my cheeks were warm. I got a lot of it taken care of. It was time to try and get the car out.

The sun was almost completely set and the wind had picked up a bit. The last desperate throes of our springtime storm swirled in the air, through the boughs of trees already heavy with the weight of a billion snowflakes. I entered the challenged chariot, turned the key and slowly made my way out of the stuck. 

That was when it hit me. Sitting in my car, sweaty inside the heavy coat, melting ice crystals clinging to my eyelashes. The singleness, the aloneness, all of it. Just for a moment-

I felt it. All of it. The depth and the breadth of it. I felt it as I backed out of the now-clear driveway, slowly at first and then speeding up, I felt it. 

I was tired and could feel my arm muscles curling up into sore T-Rex configurations and I was so very alone. 

For a minute I thought of the old timey snowstorms, back when I was a young mom and the kids were little and we’d play inside the warm coziness while the man of our house, the man in our lives, shoveled and moved cars and got red-cheeked and sore. 

We’d make hot chocolate for him. We’d watch and wave from the big picture window as the driveway was cleared and the man of our house, the man in our lives, cleared the way as he cleared the snow.

For a minute I sat there, the last of the day fading behind me and the darkness and stillness dimming the settling snow globe outside. I felt the aloneness. 

But I was okay. I maneuvered the car just right and made my way to the other side of the drive, clearing the way for the plow guy should he happen to come by a second time.

I walked towards the house, laughing at the ecstatic stupid/sweet dog watching from the big picture window and I felt the aloneness slowly melting away. Like April snow, it won't last long.


The Meal

Uptown Minneapolis. Early May in 1993, approx. 2 a.m.: two female roommates in a third-floor walk up apartment are squatted in front of the the fridge, scavenging for post-bar munchies. The women, both in their mid-twenties and cosmetic counter ladies at the flagship store of the iconic Minnesota Dayton's chain, were starving. They were also retail workers so the contents of the refrigerator were sparse and eclectic. Beer, bagels, cheese, condiments. One of the women, a reed-thin brunette named Amy (she worked for Origins) took out the bagels, the sliced Muenster cheese and a bottle of French's mustard. The other woman, a not-reed thin brunette named Jenny (her counter was Prescriptives) watched in tipsy anticipation as Amy placed the foodstuffs on a plate and then placed them in the microwave.

The Meal was born.

The list of things I won't eat isn't very long:

Raw tomatoes
Polish sausage
Walnuts (okay, technically they'll kill me but still)

Also circus peanut candy and raisins either solo or embedded like sneaky moist landmines in otherwise delicious food.

But the things I will eat? That list is long and varied and thanks to how my strange brain is wired, inexorably braided with emotions. Certain foods evoke old, familiar feelings: mom's wild rice casserole. Stale Red Vines. Curry chicken. And, oddly enough, The Meal.

The Meal never changes. It's always white bagels, sliced Muenster cheese, and yellow mustard. No substitutions can be made. The cheese is cut or torn to fit on the bagels, the mustard is squirted on top in a swirly pattern and then it's microwaved until the cheese is slightly melted.

My kids have seen The Meal being prepped and are always repulsed. "Really, Mom? The Meal?" They know it by name but have never partaken of it. They will, however, eat the cheese without hesitation.

It's comfort food, no matter how gross the combination. I don't know exactly why it comforts me, though. I do know it's a rare thing, for a few reasons. Number one reason is there's no way in hell I'd eat this in front of anyone besides my captive audience (aka, children). Number two is the gluten thing. Thank God and the amber waves of grain, I do not have Celiac Disease but I do have gluten issues. Namely stomach aches, brain fog and inflammation stuff, but nothing incapacitating. So I go through phases where I'll happily put up with agonizing reflux and headaches in order to enjoy stuffing all things wheaty into my piehole. Until I stop and remember how nice it is to not be sick all the time. (I'm not real bright)

I made the meal today, the first day of 2018. Not sure why, but the ingredients were all there in the fridge, the house was silent and one minute I was standing in the kitchen, the next I was back in that Uptown apartment with Amy, dissecting the evening spent at Urban Wildlife and devouring The Meal.

1993...we were young and oh so free and had no idea what the future would hold for us. We did know a few things: the song "Connected" by Stero MCs was hella sexy, Andy and Ethan, the guys in the apartment across the way, were definitely hitting on us and The Meal was just what we needed to soak up the last of the tequila in our systems.

I'm no longer young, my freedom is very subjective and the only thing in my system this morning is coffee. But The Meal, man. Sometimes it's still just what I need.


Christmas Hookies

So much for meh.

In the wise and blunt words of my friend and fellow divorce writer, Chump Lady, the mecca for all of us who have been through the nightmare of infidelity is called "MEH". It's the magical land of not giving a shit. The place where we really need to be, after enduring the psychological warfare and injurious degradation of being cheated on, lied to, and for some of us, left.

It's the place we really need to be after having our lives not only turned upside down, but also turned inside out and set on fire and then left to burn while the ones who did the turning and burning walk away, unscathed and unbothered.

I've been there! I swear! In fact, probably 89% of my time is spent in Meh. It's lovely. All of my friends live there and yes, the grass really is greener.

Sometimes, though, I take a wrong turn and find myself standing on the outskirts of town. On the other side of the tracks. In that painful place where past indignities have left muddy ruts in the road.

Thankfully my trips to that land are few and far between. And when I do slip up and go there, my heart and what's left of my brain know exactly how to put it in reverse and get the hell out.

But not before I take a look around. Breathe in that old air and the old smells. No matter how long between visits, it all comes rushing back.

I left MEH for a bit. On Christmas, of all days.

I know, I know. "Come on Jenny! Seriously? GET OVER IT." I hear ya, and if it's any consolation the one screaming those words the loudest is me. Every single time I feel the tug of the old anger, of the resentment and the pain, I put those words on autoplay and try my damnedest to heed them.

Count your blessings. Be glad you're free. He did you a favor. Look at your kids. Pet your dog. 

All of these things. They're the truth, and my rational self knows that. But there's another part of me that can't help but go back every now and then. Despite the healing, despite the love, despite the growth and the time spent in Meh, part of me shrugs off the hands holding me in this good and peaceful place and heads back down that dark lane.

It looked as though I'd avoid it this time, at first. The kids and I had a glorious and quiet and calm Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. I had a surprise visit from the Barf Fairy on Saturday...no huge surprise since I work in a school where she practically has an office, but still. Gross. According to my Fitbit, I was for all intents and purposes dead on that Saturday before Christmas. Eighteen hours spent prone and lifeless, the other six spent either running to the bathroom or hunched over the commode, trying really hard to not pee my pants while barfing and just between you and me, failing spectacularly (cleaning up after a kid with the pukes is bad enough, let's not discuss cleaning up after a middle aged lady who has had four giant fetuses tap-dancing on her pelvic floor, mmkay?).

As is tradition, there were no real solid plans made between the children (okay, the young adults who are my kids) and their father. He and the missus were having a holiday open house, which I guess is something you do when you're still getting situated in your million dollar house. Easy now, girl. Steady.

Anyhoo. Where was I? Ah...yes. The kids took a vote and decided to head over mid-afternoon. We'd had our Christmas: presents were opened, ham and roadside potatoes prepared and consumed, many laughs were had. When they bundled up and headed out into the frigid winter's day, that little nudging thing happened, the whispered utterance that I can barely hear these days: there they go. this isn't normal. this isn't what was supposed to be. Listen, as far as the voices go, that one is easy to blow off. An empty house is something I rarely get these days, and so I relish it when it happens. Of course, I didn't do anything wild or crazy, in fact I ended up sitting there eating candy canes and watching The Santa Clause. Seriously. BUT THE HOUSE WAS EMPTY WHILE I DID IT. Also, Tim Allen has always given me the creeps. Anyone else?

The offspring returned approximately one hour later. This reminded me of the olden days when they'd leave with him and not return for a whole day. Or two! Now that was an empty house I most certainly did not relish, friends. Oh, it was okay at first. Kind of how I imagine solitary confinement would be nice for a few hours. But when you've lived with a home filled to the brim with noise and activity and the relative chaos that comes with four growing human beings, their absence is a huge and unnatural void. A void you eventually come to peace with, for the sake of sanity, but a void nonetheless.

One of the advantages of kids growing up is that they begin to call some of their shots, and one shot my kids have claimed is their time with Dad is limited. Not out of malice or dislike, I don't think. It's more a matter of putting in their time with a person who only makes so much time for them. You get what you give, people. It's taken me half a century to figure that one out and seeing it manifest in front of you is a sobering display. You get what you give.

They piled in the front door, cheeks red, hands clutching packs of socks from Costco and Amazon gift cards. One of them also carried a plastic container. The one holding this vessel plopped it down on the hutch in the living room and said, "Here's some Christmas cookies they sent with us."

Now, when I do leave Meh it's usually triggered by something. It's never spontaneous. I can tell you it never happens while I'm out with my lady friends or reading a book or sitting in the office at work. No, it's always brought on by something, big or small, that for some reason opens up the portal and sends me slip-slidin' away.

This time, it was Christmas cookies. Go figure.

Look. I don't even know who made the freaking things. All I know is that they showed up, in my little ramshackle rented home, direct from the formidable manse where the father of my kids now dwells. They were innocuous enough, in the blue-lidded Glad container. They meant no harm, I told myself. In fact, maybe it was a sign of humanness, glad tidings and good cheer and all that festive jazz.

But damn. As I cleaned up the remnants of our celebration; flattened boxes (putting them away to keep for next year because I will not be sitting there at 2:15 a.m. next Christmas Eve turning a tampon box inside out, dammit), putting gifts in separate piles under the tree...my gaze would settle on that container.

How nice. I thought to myself, how nice of them to send some cookies. And then I thought how nice it must be to pack a doggie bag for your kids in your beautiful huge kitchen of your stunning new house and send them back home. This is when I also thought jesus christ Jenny. Stop. THEY'RE JUST COOKIES, NOT A GAUNTLET. 

This is where I leave you, Meh. This is where I bid adieu to rationale and sense and sanity and get swallowed up in the gaping, dripping black maw of everything that is opposite of Meh.

Those cookies were a middle finger flipped right up at me, a defiant eff you from both of them, the man who changed the course of my life and the woman who held the wheel while he did it. The anger I've held back since learning of their sudden prosperity, just a few months before our youngest kid turns 18, bore first one small hole and then another and another in the dam I've worked so hard to build and maintain. I dubbed those cookies "hookies" for a few less-than-mature reasons and despite hating that immature, bitchy junior high girl who resides in my heart, I laughed a little.

I thought of what it must feel like to close on a house worth more than I will make in thirty years, thought of what a sense of stability and security must feel like. Thought of how my dear sweet landlord informed me that he and his wife will be selling this house, our house, our safety net, our home, in the next few years and how every single day, every hour of every day since he told me that I've grieved and mentally prepared myself and in my more delusional moments, fantasized about somehow buying it from them and never having to leave. Never having to uproot again, never having to explain my shitty credit or lack of savings or just how I ended up here to anyone, ever again.

Yes. All of this from cookies, folks. My mind is a many-leveled place, most of it considered "unfinished basement".

So I thought all of that and then I opened up the box and plucked out a cookie, the kind where a mini Reese's peanut butter cup is nested in a crystal-sugared dough. I ate it because it felt like a less defiant middle bird back at them and also because I am powerless over food, especially when my brain is doing an Elaine Benes dance of rehashing the past and stoking the coals of angst.

The cookie tasted like nothing. It was pretty, cookbook-perfect, but had no taste. Like an old timey Christmas window display, it was lovely to look at but empty inside.

I felt the reins loosen. My thoughts stopped churning. I felt the axis of my world reset, head back to Meh.

I picked up the hookies and I dumped them in the garbage. Not to worry, with the full go-ahead from the kids. Thanks to friends and coworkers, we are well-stocked with cookies that taste good. That taste like love. Life is too short to eat bland stuff. Make it count. Make it worth every bite.

Later that night, I took a picture of the trash can contents and showed them to a far away friend, a comrade in the divorce world. I asked if it was petty, and she said no. She said, and I quote, "Good for you."

Sometimes the detours take us to ugly places. Thankfully, we make it back.

Back to Meh.

I hope your holiday, if you partake in holidays, was a good one. If not, I hope today finds you at peace.


To The Moms Feeling Broke or Tired or Less Than: Don't Ever Forget...You Are Home.

This was a post that appeared on my Facebook page a few years ago. This time of year, many of us are feeling "less than": we have less money, less time, less "stuff". Social media, ads and the shows/movies that saturate our screens around the holidays make is seem as if everyone is living their best life with no worries, no stress and no problems. It's so easy to fall into the tar pit of woe, right? It's almost impossible to look at all of it and not feel as if there's no way we can keep up, or even enter the race. I was feeling this way, too, and then my sweet wise kid and I had this conversation. I try to keep this story close, for those inevitable times I feel less than. I hope it helps you, too. 

I started writing my blog almost exactly 5 years ago. The reason I wrote was twofold: I had to get it out, and I wanted other women who were going through the pain of infidelity, separation and divorce to feel less alone. Five years later, those two reasons are still front and center. And that's why I'm going to share with you what went down tonight.

Just when I think I'm all grown up and healed and HEAR ME ROAR, BITCHES something like this pops up out of the blue while I'm at the grocery store with my son:

We were standing in front of the Fancy Cheese section and William said, "When we were at dad's on Christmas they had this soft cheese that you put on crackers." I picked up a small wheel of Brie and asked, "Was it this?". Affirmative. I handed him the brie, and he said, "They had these big crackers, really crunchy. You broke off a section and put the cheese on it. Can we see if they have those here?" I smiled at him, and nodded. Then my boy, my quiet and kinda awkward 14 year old asks, "Does dad still tell you that he doesn't have much money?" I always hate these types of questions because if I don't say anything they think I'm hiding things, and if I say too much I worry that I'm...well, saying too much. So I just answered, "Your dad and I haven't discussed finances in a while."

The boy was silent for a second, inspecting the brie like a mother inspecting her newborn. Then he said, "Well, if he does tell you that he's broke, I think that's not true. Because they have a new kitchen. With an island and marble counters (god bless this sweet kid who doesn't know it's surely granite, not marble). And they got rid of their carpet and put all new wood floors all over the house!" I was pushing the cart down the cracker aisle now, my knuckles taut and white on the handle, my mind reeling with images of remodeling and memories of the new kitchen I once had. "I wonder if they have a big fridge" I thought to myself. But William wasn't done. "They redid the basement too. And there's a couple of new, massive flat screens."

He finally stopped. His cheeks were a little pink, maybe he was feeling traitorous, maybe he could see the glints of pain and jealousy (yep, jealousy) in my eyes. His voice was soft, more mumbly than usual when he spoke again: "All I'm saying, Mom, is that if he's telling you he is poor it sure doesn't look like it."

I will admit that hearing about all the "newness" hurt. It hurt something fierce. And I absolutely HATE that it hurt. I hate that things like this still have the power to evoke old feelings, feelings that I think are finally, after much wailing and gnashing of teeth, dead and buried. I hate feeling the smooth tendrils of envy creeping up from my heart, entwining my throat and poking at the backs of my eyeballs. I really, really hate that a 14 year old kid sees the disparity between his parent's lifestyles.

A bit later I was driving William to a friend's house for a sleepover. "I'm sorry I got kind of weird after you mentioned your dad's new kitchen" I said. "I know that having you guys with me is worth so much more than new counters and all that. Are you okay with how things are? Even though we don't have cool new things?" I said this to him, in the dark car. 

"Mom" he said. "When I was there, it was nice. But it didn't feel like home. It's never felt like home to me. Home is where we're with you."

Gah. I waited until he was safely inside his friend's house before I let the tears fall. I cried because it killed me to feel those awful things again. I cried because I'm sick of struggling and pinching pennies and renting instead of owning and trying to play Tetris with groceries in my teeny tiny refrigerator. I cried because once upon a time I had a new kitchen in an old house, and it was in that new kitchen my husband told me he was leaving.

Mostly I cried because my son told me that I'm home. Home.

I am home.

I can't afford a new kitchen or new televisions. But there is some room in my budget for little things, like fabulous tequila and a bag of limes and a new candle. I couldn't find any Fresh Linen scented candles at our grocery store, so I settled on one called Soft Cotton Blanket. The candle is burning now and I think it smells nice, although since most of the blankets at my house reek of dog and feet and teenager, I don't have much to compare it to.

So I'm sitting here, enjoying what I think is the scent of soft blankets and my latest obsession, homemade margaritas. The tears have long since dried up and it appears as though I've made it through yet another ambush attack of those awful Divorce Arrows relatively unscathed. 

All is okay, again.

I'm telling you this, my sisters, my fellow members of this insane First Wives Club, because I know that we are all in different stages of repair. And although sometimes it seems like some of us have cleared the big hurdles and are all moved on and grown up and are HEALED, we still find ourselves back in that place again. That hurty, sore place where everything is fresh and sharp.

But you guys, guess what? We are okay. We can be sad and mournful when we need to be, but then we get over it and light candles and squeeze limes and have our kids tell us that we feel like home to them.

I still wish I had a bigger fridge, though.


No More Yanky My Words. The Blogger Needs SLEEP: That Time I failed NaBloPoMo. Hard.

The title of this post is paraphrasing the character Long Duk Dong from Sixteen Candles and I hesitated to use it because of the negative stereotype that character reinforced. My brother is Korean-American and I try to be hyper aware of these things. That said, it's the feeling behind these words that resonate with me today, not the tone. I NEEDED SLEEP LIKE LONG DUK DONG NEEDED FOOD.

If the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, I think there should be a section of pavement down there named "Jenny Avenue" or "Hausfrau Lane" because my intentions are almost always good and quite often end in failure. I'm picturing a cool, old-London-town cobblestone.

I tried. In an attempt to redeem myself there may be two posts today and then I'll pick up where I left off, tomorrow. I'm thinking my Tinder tale really needs to be told and I'm hoping to overcome my embarrassment long enough to get a good story out of it. Because it's weird for me to expose anything less than classy here, right? Sigh.

I set out with nothing but noble ideas yesterday. I worked a full day, and throughout the day made my mental list of what was going to go down Friday night:

  • dinner (nothing fancy, probably a mishmash of leftovers since we have pesto pasta and taco ring remainders in the fridge)(yes I said taco ring, God help me)
  • the gym
  • a martini
  • washing of the bedding
  • catch up on my tv shows
  • write a post or two here

Here's what happened:

  • ate some cauliflower with dill dip
  • fell asleep on the couch at 7:15 while watching Seinfeld

I have a few hazy memories of this Rip Van Winkle evening: a young person, hopefully one of my kids, gently removing the Roku remote from my hands and turning everything off. Walter crying at my side and another young person (this time I know it was my daughter because I was mentally willing her to hear him and let him out and she responded) helping him. Waking up in that weird confused state, not knowing if I was supposed to be getting ready for work or what and then stumbling down the hallway to my bedroom, removing the accouterments of the day (basically: taking off my bra and my pants) and falling into the cold bliss that is my bednest. At some point I did regain consciousness long enough to exchange some messages with a sweet friend, the topic was Tinder and as I fell back asleep I started writing about it in my head, so there's hope for a post later.  

According to the old Fitbit this was the longest stretch of shut-eye I've had in weeks. I doubt the validity of the "1 hr and 43" awake minutes but there's no questioning the rest of it. I woke up ready to seize the day and so here I am, clickety clacking on the old laptop, going back and rewatching the Seinfeld episodes I slept through and chugging coffee. Also there may be taco ring for breakfast. I will neither confirm nor deny this. 

To those of you who have been following my NaBloPoMo journey, I'm sorry to have failed you. I hope you forgive me and accept the offerings I will shove your way today. 

Yours in restfulness,



Et Tu, Louis?

It's also too short for sexual misconduct, buddy.

At this point, I can't be the only one wondering if there's ANY decent men left in the entertainment industry. The avalanche of accusations that began with that garbage human Harvey Weinstein and shows no sign of stopping revealed my longtime pretend boyfriend Louis CK to be one of the bad guys. According to several different women, he had has a habit of locking women in rooms with him, removing his clothes and then masturbating in front of them.

It sounds like a set up for one of his jokes, right? Only it's real life and it's gross. Apparently, it's not new behavior. A friend who has worked in the comedy world for a long stretch of time confirms that there have been rumors swirling through the industry for years about creepy, predatory behavior from Louis. Now, the rumors seem to be true.

The minute I read about what he'd done, my perception of him changed completely. No longer was he the sardonic, insightful, female-supporting ginger of my dreams. In that moment he became the disgusting pig who exposed himself to me when I was an innocent kid riding my bike down the sidewalk. He became the two teens who tried to rape me at a kegger in high school. He became the guy who pushed things a little too far when it was blatantly obvious I'd had too much to drink at a party in college. He became the passenger who "accidentally" pressed up against me when I was a young flight attendant trying to cram carry-ons into overhead bins.

In short, he became every man who has forced a woman to see, hear, feel or do something against her will.

How many more of our idols will fall? I mean, we haven't even really begun to hear from the music industry yet. This is just the movie and t.v. sexual assault crew!

I am beyond proud of the women and men who are coming forward and speaking out. And I'm beyond ashamed at those who toss around the standard victim-blaming reactions: why did you wait so long? Why didn't you just leave when he got weird? Why did you drink so much? Why did you continue to see him/go to meetings with him/date him/work with him? Why did you wear a low-cut shirt? Why did you leave your house? Why were you born?

The thing we need to be asking is why do men do this? And more importantly: can it be stopped? As a mom to three young men, it sickens me to think of them doing anything like this to someone. Did all of these guys grow up in a home where they were taught that just because they were male they were given carte blanche to do whatever they want to whomever is unlucky enough to be within eyeshot of their dicks?

It's so good that victims are speaking out and SO freaking good that finally, they are being heard and believed. It's a start. We need to ensure that there are repercussions, consequences for the crimes and affronts these men are committing. Boycott their movies, don't buy their books and stop watching their shows.

Breaking up with pretend boyfriends, too.

If you need me, I'll be over here praying that Idris Elba is a good guy.

*I've decided to challenge myself and do the NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month, and write a blog post every single day of November. I figure it's the kick in the ass I need to get writing again. I've made this one with about three minutes left of November 9th so you can see how well it's going so far. 

Stay tuned. And thank you for being here.


Abandoned Blog Posts

Oh dear. This one is going to be lame. When I decided to bite the bullet and take the NaBloPoMo challenge I made a little promise to myself that I wouldn't do a Cop Out post. In my mind, the Cop Out post is one of the following:

  • A wordless post. Yes I do understand they have their time and place but as someone who has around 3000 pics on her phone I think I can try harder.
  • A rerun. Again, not dissing the occasional "Best of" or "back by popular demand" thing, but the whole point of this challenge is to actually challenge yourself. (we'll maybe have to revisit this thought towards the end of November and I find myself doing this once again at 11:30 p.m.)
  • A Facebook post copied and pasted here. Now this one, is only kind of a cop out because I think there are a fair amount of you who read stuff here on the blog but not on the Hausfrau facebook page. And we've had some really great conversations on there. BUT. Again, I'm not convinced that's really challenging to me. (also I may flipflop on this one as the month wears on 😂)
  • A listicle. Looking back on this blog, I remembered when posting here was a regular occurrence and I used to do a little something called "Ten on Tuesday". Actually...now that I think about it, those were kind of fun to write. So maybe that's not super cop-outy. But still. 
But. I am so tired. Our school conferences started tonight and I was there much later than usual. I got home around 8:30 and absolutely crashed on the couch. Luckily Walter woke me up just in time to get this done (really he woke me up because someone had left food out on the counter that he couldn't reach and it was killing him). Got the kitchen tidied up and now here I sit with the minutes of November 8th swirling away like dandelion puffs in the wind.

"What in the world can I write about?" I asked myself. For some quick inspiration, I looked through all of the posts stored here...among those that have seen the light of day are dozens that I started and never finished.

So what I'm going to do here are put the titles of these abandoned posts, and perhaps the first couple of lines. Some of them never progressed further than a title...a couple didn't even get a title, they're just a sentence or two.

I'll put those here and then we'll see which ones YOU think are worthy of finishing. Add a comment here or, if I share this one on Facebook, add one there. The one with the most votes (um or even one vote, if I'm being realistic) shall be finished. Ready? Here we go:

1, Double Feature I love going to the movies. Love, love, love. I remember the first movie I saw in the theater: Disney's The Aristocats. My dad took me and I can still recall driving to the theater, in the backseat of his Chevy Vega, babbling excitedly about the kitty movie and watching the blurred world speeding by through the windows.

2. Untitled It was a hot, swampy day. Miserably so. I had run to Costco after work, for dog food and a few other essentials (all of my offspring are living at home this summer...I could go shopping every single day of the week and we'd still be out of something). 

After the dance of the checkout

sure I'll take a box, if you have one handy!
uh...no the cantaloupes aren't mine
aww shoot is it too late to add a yogurt?

I joined the slow, plodding death march towards the exit, receipt clutched tightly in my hand lest I lose it as I've been known to do. Don't ask me to explain how it happens, losing a long white slip of paper in less than a minute. All I know is, it's quite possible.

3. My Eyebrows Are Leaving Me When I was younger, they were thick and full. They looked like dark brown caterpillars arched over my eyes, threatening to adjoin at the tippy top of the bridge of my nose. They were wild and free and I loathed them.

My best friend, in the throes of an angsty teenage girl fight, called them "your hairy rainbows". It was a very apt description.

4. Google is NOT YOUR FRIEND, BITCHES (no text with this one...I think this was a martini fueled idea that lost steam after I came up with the really creative title)

5. What It Was Really Like Having Babies in the 90's Believe it or not, there was more happening in the fabulous 90's than Full House, boy bands, Tamagochi and Beanie Babies. Some of us were having babies and I have proof in the form of actual snapshots that I keep "organized" in shoeboxes somewhere.

I had three babies in that decade and one Y2K baby as well (yay for that kid, it's easy for mom to remember how old he is). I'm so oblivious to the passage of time that when someone mentions the 90's I tend to think it was "just a few years ago" and not "decades ago". Like the old saying goes, time flies when you're having fun...or as I say, being a mom makes you fucking insane.

6. The Crappiest Walk Ever (picture of the poop emoji at the top followed by this text:) A fair warning: this post is not for those who can't handle talk of bodily functions. I know, it's gross but we all do it and sometimes we have to write about it. So, heed before you read: there's poop talk ahead. I don't want any pearl-clutching gasps or a-hole comments at the end. Ready? Let's go (LOL PUN TOTALLY NOT INTENDED BUT HILARIOUS AS YOU'LL SOON DISCOVER)

7. Underwear Selfies: Please Stop No text with this one either. Yeah, probably another martini one.

That's all for now, friends. I'm kind of embarrassed by how many of these I have.

See? I told you this one was lame. BUT I DID IT.

*I've decided to challenge myself and do the NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month, and write a blog post every single day of November. I figure it's the kick in the ass I need to get writing again. I've made this one with about one minute left of November 8th so you can see how well it's going so far. 

Stay tuned. And thank you for being here.


Happily Ever...Single?

Girl gets married.
Girl gets divorced.
Girl rallies.
Girl finds new guy and lives happily ever after.

That's how it seems as though it's supposed to go, right? For many of us, our divorce story wraps up with the great new guy and the happy ending.

For some of us, though, we don't get the great new guy. Can we still have our happy ending?

I really thought I'd have been remarried by now. If you'd have told me, when I was a freshly-minted divorcee, that I'd still be single at this stage in the game it would have made me sad. It would have made me wonder what the hell was wrong with me, what I'd done to screw up this time.

It wouldn't have occurred to me that I'd be happy. From my tender years all the way up until I found myself saying "I do", it was ingrained in me that the end goal in this life was to be in love. To find Mr. Right and have his babies and be a good wife and mom and maybe do something for a living too.

And then everything changed. My Mr. Right went away and left me with the babies. It felt as if I had failed, spectacularly, at being the good wife. My first instinct, once the pain abated enough for me to think about the future, was to find the second Mr. Right, and do it as quickly as possible.

I think that was when I began to understand that perhaps my original end goal wasn't all it had been built up to be. After dating several men, and having a couple serious relationships, I decided that I wasn't going to settle just for the sake of meeting some imaginary stipulation. Oh, I came really close, with John McCain **. Super duper close. I knew he wasn't truly the one for me but I considered sucking it up because life with him would have been comfortable and safe.

And then I decided that I'd try to have a comfortable and safe life on my terms.

Society tends to paint women like me, those who stay solo for an extended period of time, as odd or defective. We are either fire-breathing career women or anti-social spinsters or wizened party girls out on permanent prowl. There's a person I work with who asks me, every few months, if I'm dating anyone. She means well, I know, but the sad/hopeful eyes that accompany this question kind of freak me out. Like, am I a project to be taken on? An incomplete person, in need of my missing half?

I always tell her the same thing: I'm fine! I talk to guys here and there, I see one or two once in a while, I exchange smiles and what might pass for flirtatious banter in some circles with fellas now and again. She sweetly reminds me, then, that "it's never too late" and that "the right guy is out there". And I mumble something like "yeah I suppose" and then spend the rest of the day wondering if I reek of desperation.

We've discussed this here before, the whole "not dating" thing. But I think it's good to revisit it now and again. Not only for those who are newbies to this club, but also for those of us who need a reminder now and again that we are the ones who get to decide what's right for us.

Not dating isn't giving up on love. It's not closing off our hearts or man-hating or anything like that. I do sometimes wish for a more regular, permanent relationship. And then I'll have a weekend with my kids, or time with my dear friends, and I realize that I do have regular, permanent relationships already. Just not with a dude.

I choose to see this time as my happily ever during. I'll worry about the after, later.


*I've decided to challenge myself and do the NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month, and write a blog post every single day of November. I figure it's the kick in the ass I need to get writing again. I've made this one with about 30 seconds left of November 7th so you can see how well it's going so far. 

Stay tuned. And thank you for being here.

** I heard it through the grapevine that McCain found himself Mrs. Right and got hitched. I am beyond happy for him, and for her. Truly. 


Bang Bang

"Did you hear about the church in Texas?"

That's what my 17 year old asked me tonight. I replied yes, and also remarked at how sad it is. "A one year old was killed" I said. "And a pregnant lady. One family lost someone from three generations."

He agreed it's awful. We both shook our heads and I said "Something needs to be done" and he said "Yeah."

And that was it.

That's where we are, America. It's happened again. And it will keep happening. I'm not going to go too deep on this right now, for a few reasons.

  1. I am nobody in this situation. This tragedy, this crime, didn't affect me or my family or anyone I loved. My opinions on the subject aren't at all important or relevant. After heinous things like this happen, the Bloggers of America tend to voice their feelings via long Facebook posts, open letters to their kids and little jottings just like this. This isn't about how I feel or how I'm supposed to talk to my kids about it. It's about the people who died in a church and the asshole who killed them. 
  2. It's late. I've been looking at pictures of the victims and reading about their lives and it's overwhelming (again) when you picture each of them, how they lived and how they died and the wanton waste of it all is too much.
  3. We are at a place in this country that is so bad and so divided and so quick to boil over that discussing what happened and why it happened leads to fighting and meanness and I don't want to make these people's deaths a mockery by using them to make a point. Not now. Not here.
  4. Honestly, how deep can we go with it? A bunch of innocent folks were killed by a person who shouldn't have had guns. But, he did. 
I am in Minnesota. Hunting and guns are pretty common around here. I, personally, have never even held a gun...I guess there were BB guns at my grandparents' farm when I was little, but I never went out with the cousins and uncles and grandpa to shoot things with them. 

Guns scare me but I have friends who own them and use them responsibly. I don't believe they should be taken away. I think if you go through training and gun safety classes and are of sound mind, go for it. When the kids and I were going through some pretty terrible times, kind people gave us some of their hunting bounty. That venison jerky was a hit with the kids and so was everything else. The people who used their guns to get those deer are good people. Kind people. This isn't about them.

My friend, my bestie, was robbed at gunpoint not once, but twice. She was terrified and rightly so. The persons who pointed a gun at my homie were neither kind nor nice. This is kind of about them. 

Over a million and half people have died by gun-related incidents since 1968. That's more than the number of service people killed in all of the U.S. wars combined. Of course not all of those are mass shootings. Some are accidents. Some are suicides. Some are justified shootings (there's another topic for another day, right?). But some of them are people who were killed by someone who shouldn't have had access to a gun. This is all about them.

I don't know what the answer is. We need to do something, though. Because this is just going to keep happening. And the really horrible thing is, we're getting used to it.

*I've decided to challenge myself and do the NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month, and write a blog post every single day of November. I figure it's the kick in the ass I need to get writing again. I've made this one with about 5 seconds left of November 6th so you can see how well it's going so far. 

Stay tuned. And thank you for being here.


Gym Nauseam

Last January, I think it was about two weeks into 2017, I took several deep breaths, sucked in my gut and walked into the gym:

Looking back at this picture, I am cringing over all the dog hair on the pants. I'm kinda cringing at the pants themselves (mesh panels aren't typically my thing but clearance racks are so, yeah). Cringing one more time over the dog hair.

I'm also proud. Proud of myself and proud of my son the gym rat who never, ever gave up asking me if I wanted to come with him.

Ten months later and it's a regular thing. Four or five nights a week, sometimes six, I'm there. Usually with my youngest kid, the aforementioned gym enthusiast, quite often with my daughter, and occasionally all alone. We go later in the evening, after dinner. We all like it when it's less crowded. We usually close it down, the last ones to leave (having worked retail for years, I take pains to ensure we are out promptly at closing time...I don't want to be "those customers" who overstay their welcome).

Ten months...in my mind I'd envisioned a whole new me after ten months of regular, moderate-to-strenuous exercise. I thought the weight would simply fall off, revealing the old Jenny, the taut and toned and lean version.

I guess it did, to some extent. I have lost some weight. Of course the boobs went first, and then the paunch began to dwindle. Pretty sure I lost a chin! I still have an ass the size of a Volkswagen but it is definitely less shelf-like.

But there hasn't been a magical transformation. Nobody has said "Wow! You look like you've lost weight!" The clothes I wore last winter have been dragged out again and they all still fit (roomier than before, for sure, but they are definitely not way too big).

A few years ago, this lack of physical evidence would have been discouraging to the point of giving up. Heck, a year ago even. For some reason, though, this time I don't care. I mean, yeah I am a little disappointed that I'm not a size 4, but it hasn't bummed me out to the point of giving up.

You know why? Because despite the still-bountiful butt, despite the fact that I still have beefy arms, I feel good. I feel better than I did ten months ago. I'm sleeping like a baby, my mood is a thousand times better and I think (hope??) it's easier being around me now.

We had our wellness checkup at work a month ago and while I'm still fat, my other numbers were fantastic. Cholesterol, glucose, blood pressure...all in the super healthy range. My resting heart rate is 59 bpm.

I know what I could do to really see a change in the weight. This ain't my first rodeo. I know that I could reduce my daily caloric intake to something drastic and cut out everything delicious. I also know that life is short and if I die tomorrow I'm going to be happy I had a piece of pumpkin pie last week, a martini on Friday night and some popcorn at the movies with my kids on Saturday afternoon.

I'm at the age where the metabolism slows down. I'm also at the age where I give less of a crap about stuff that bugged me a few years ago.

When I look at that picture, I can recall exactly how I was feeling that night: weighed down with insecurity, self-loathing and oh my gosh so much sadness. I don't feel that way anymore.

The weight may not be falling off, but I've already lost a ton.

*I've decided to challenge myself and do the NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month, and write a blog post every single day of November. I figure it's the kick in the ass I need to get writing again. I've made this one with about 1 hours left of November 5th, so you can see how well it's going so far. 

Stay tuned. And thank you for being here.

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