tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73779142279156451242024-02-23T10:00:32.692-06:00the happy hausfrau"What fresh hell is this?"
Dorothy Parkerthe_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.comBlogger556125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-13253903322396633912023-07-31T13:09:00.049-05:002023-08-01T10:10:18.903-05:00The Divorce Blogger: Notes from one of the first (edited with an apology)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE64QV2zxm-4lnWzN5WISsYymc8GXbbl6E2Ss82OStgECNHmvE8pqm_DwwbwUWpmNF20f21DomZ-DaZWKK5Qsdj0LAsESQzOJj6lvL8fc6yIguYVq9cPpZsMgxV0NJnXShfuOgHgcJo-ujliW_puF_L3PbTDPYsGWpyvG9W75qS8LfaixKguB-9RtlKTMS/s4032/IMG_7593.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE64QV2zxm-4lnWzN5WISsYymc8GXbbl6E2Ss82OStgECNHmvE8pqm_DwwbwUWpmNF20f21DomZ-DaZWKK5Qsdj0LAsESQzOJj6lvL8fc6yIguYVq9cPpZsMgxV0NJnXShfuOgHgcJo-ujliW_puF_L3PbTDPYsGWpyvG9W75qS8LfaixKguB-9RtlKTMS/w241-h321/IMG_7593.jpeg" width="241" /></a></div><br /><p>***I posted this yesterday and immediately felt something was wrong. Turns out, I was wrong lol. In the original post I made very inaccurate claims regarding a beloved and badass woman and for that I am deeply sorry. Offering up as an explanation, but not an excuse- in therapy we are opening some long-locked doors and my brain, which on the best of days resembles closing night at Coachella, now is more like a packed theater right after someone has yelled out FIRE. Dates and timelines of events are screwed up more than usual and in my haste to get a very impulsive post written I failed to do the right thing and run it by the one sane part of my head, The Fact Checker. So. I apologize profusely and humbly and with a bunch of shame. Truly my bad. ***</p><p><br /></p><p>Back when I first started this blog, in 2010, there wasn’t much out there about divorce. Oh, sure, there was a little. Most of it was centered on reconciliation, getting your man back, etc. There wasn’t a whole lot of honest, upfront writing about how divorce really felt. </p><p>In fact, the only other woman I could find out in that toddler-aged internet was Single Mom Survives. Found her on Twitter and reached out after reading a few of her posts. We had a lot in common: ex husbands who cheated on us, left us for the affair partner (according to literally everyone back then “they never leave” LOL), raising a child on nothing much more than wishes and dreams. Her ex even got remarried on their original wedding date, just like mine! </p><p>When you’re dealing with a life altering blow like divorce, you just want to know you aren’t alone. And when it’s divorce due to betrayal, it’s even more important to find your peers. All divorce is tough but the ones that are born out of lies and fuckery are decidedly jagged little pills (all hail Alanis, please). It makes you become an analytical mofo to the nth degree. It takes your self esteem, makes a thousand little cuts in it, and rolls it around in a bed of salt. That shit hurts. And while you’re out there, bleeding and raw, you’re expected to show up. Like, daily. Show up for your kids, show up to work, show up in court. Show up and suck it up and be a good little lady who is “so strong” and “so brave”. </p><p>So I started writing. It felt weird at first, exposing myself and my shitacular life to dozens of people. But then it started feeling GOOD. Like, it helped. It became a release that I didn’t know I needed. It was like sitting in a living room with a bevy of friends, only the living room was massive and had no walls, no ceiling. The friends came and went, some stayed longer than others and some barely had time to find a spot on the couch. But for me, it was life changing, this blog. Even though Melissa McCarthy never read it and called her agent to play me in the HBO limited series, even though Nora Ephron never sent an email saying “nailed it, queen”, even though Reese Witherspoon hasn’t called Jennifer Aniston and said “girl check this out, she got divorced at the same time you and Brad did”. Even though none of that happened, so much did happen.</p><p>It was kind of lonely out there in the blog world. In a dizzying, crowded web full of messy bunned, stay at home mommies hiding in their pantries while eating Ben and Jerry’s and bitching about their hapless husbands, we divorce ladies were relegated to our own little category. Literally, The Divorce Bloggers. </p><p>The world doesn’t exactly welcome women who don’t have an uplifting tale to tell. The world doesn’t want to know, intimately, how it feels to be gutted and left for dead by the person you trusted the most in this world. Ugh, right? It’s just so messy. </p><p>And so we kind of kept to ourselves. Sometimes, our essays and posts got attention and that was great! I was featured on Scary Mommy a bunch of times, which was an absolute trip. It felt like the big time, baby! There were only a couple of us in the SM stable who wrote about divorce. It was me and another woman. She had one of those glossy divorces, the kind where you end up with killer alimony and the luxe marital home. I was the poor one, lol. </p><p>If you think the world is not kind to women who are angry, let me tell you this: it’s even unkinder to women who are angry and broke. </p><p>So there I was, a poverty stricken, pissed off blogger. I wasn’t Dooce, I wasn’t The Blogess, I wasn’t any of the cute, smooth and witty writers who filled auditoriums for bloggy awards and conferences. Like the real world, the blogging world wasn’t super kind nor was it particularly welcoming. People didn’t want to peek behind that ugly curtain, the one where life tastes less like premium ice cream and a lot more like a big ol shit sandwich. We divorced ladies were like distasteful reminders of what could be, we cast light into dark corners which most of the world wanted to be kept in the shadows. </p><p>We represented the worst case scenario. </p><p>I fumbled a few times, and a couple other times, hit it out of the park. Going viral was not on my to-do list, but it happened a few times. I deeply regret one of those- the tongue in cheek yet supremely gross post about what women need to stop saying after a certain age. I meant it as satire and it came out as an ageist piece of shit. The other ones, zero regrets. Pleading with mothers to not let their daughters be stay at home moms, recalling my first trip to the food shelf, and telling my ex husband exactly what he missed- those are all keepers and so far, I’m not embarrassed by them. </p><p>As time wore on, more of us began emerging. One woman in particular stands out- Tracy, aka <a href="https://www.chumplady.com/" target="_blank">The Chump Lady.</a> If you’re a divorced, cheated on woman, you have probably heard of her. If you haven’t, you should. She has made a huge difference in the lives of so many people. Her loud and funny voice, and her well written and powerful book, have helped countless people who previously felt unheard and alone. Brava, my friend. Thank you for being you. </p><p>Remember when all the bloggers started talking about how sometimes they hated being moms? That was considered groundbreaking- startling too! And then all of a sudden it started becoming a thing to talk about mental health. Again, groundbreaking. Everyone was depressed! Anxiety became famous! Everyone, this divorce blogger included, had at least one facebook post featuring a sad faced selfie and words about not feeling happy. FINALLY. We were putting down the ice cream and picking up some real life. </p><p>The same thing is happening with divorce now, too. In my little private Hausfrau group, someone mentioned yet another former Mommy Blogger getting divorced. And it got me thinking about the old days and not being able to find other voices that kind of matched mine. </p><p>While it still chaps my hide, just a little, knowing that less than a decade ago writing about divorce wasn’t considered cool or significant…I’m glad to see it’s not so taboo now. </p><p>Because divorce is that club, man. It’s a club that’s existed for an eternity and one that will forever be welcoming new members.</p><p>I’m not happy to hear of yet another marriage biting the dust but you know what? </p><p>Imma scoot over here on the couch and make some room. Someone new needs a place to sit.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>*photo is the crappy little Chromebook that helped me survive. Thank you, crappy little Chromebook ❤</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-87607597278036087932023-06-12T17:58:00.002-05:002023-06-13T07:53:11.423-05:00Smells Like Broken Teen Spirit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB_vFk0DC07pnQawToYI6_eA-mXyrX8cuzQehD928hquvxYM3d2v7nGXsRcpJ7ElPU2qNjncbs8FVSEY6cb_dopwEUcFM8F-rBFLG_Enz4ct4Q2C8b8EshJ3Fv3EE0DAKQ0TIZHPytEqGzPz0BtUN3wkhmRYCRBGE3lF3VwQk6PsMOg3yGVMuwBP_cRg/s3264/file6051274906245.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB_vFk0DC07pnQawToYI6_eA-mXyrX8cuzQehD928hquvxYM3d2v7nGXsRcpJ7ElPU2qNjncbs8FVSEY6cb_dopwEUcFM8F-rBFLG_Enz4ct4Q2C8b8EshJ3Fv3EE0DAKQ0TIZHPytEqGzPz0BtUN3wkhmRYCRBGE3lF3VwQk6PsMOg3yGVMuwBP_cRg/s320/file6051274906245.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>This is another post prompted by my dear friend Beth. Apparently she’s not only my Tuesday night movie partner, she’s also a muse of sorts. Lol sorry Beth.</p><p>Anyway. After a long break followed by a shorter one (winter and then I had the weirdest virus for a couple weeks) we finally got back to the theater last week. We saw the Julia Louis-Dreyfus film “You Hurt my Feelings”. I braced myself to be annoyed by privileged white people with made up problems but in the end, we both enjoyed it. Beth was mildly horrified to see the bad guy from Outlander as the main character’s husband. I have not yet watched Outlander (hey now remember I finally watched the Sopranos just a couple years back) so the only thing I thought about him was how he looked kind of like how I imagine Heath Ledger would look if he was still around. </p><p>So we chatted a bit after the lights came up and Beth asked me a few questions about writing (Julia L-D’s character was a writer). Like, how did I start. And of course, that got me thinking. </p><p>This is where we play the Wayne’s World Dream Weaver music…as I float back through time.</p><p>This post is a warning, or maybe more like some advice, to all adults who are in any sort of educator/supervisory role in the lives of teens. Maybe this applies to kids of all ages, but this is about something that happened to me when I was in high school. Something that might have completely altered the course of my life. Feel free to share it with friends or acquaintances who may benefit from reading it. </p><p>I was a troubled student. Not so much in elementary and middle school, definitely in high school. A combination of a spectacularly shitty home life, mind-numbing depression and anxiety and just being a teenager turned me into an angry clown, always making jokes to try and desperately hide the despair and rage in my heart. </p><p>One thing that brought me comfort was writing. It started pretty early on, I had piles of notebooks in my room filled with short stories, poems, skits, etc. There was a brief stint as a reporter for the Minneapolis newspaper’s weekly pull out kid-centric magazine, The Smile Factory. There was always a story being told by the narrator in my head. Still is!</p><p>Before I discovered booze and pot, writing was my escape hatch from a brutal life. It led to a place where parents weren’t divorced, moms didn’t marry monsters and nobody was punching me. I wrote science fiction stories, cringy poems about boys, opinion pieces, concert reviews, letters to the editors. Writing was the one and only thing, besides jokes, that came to me without much effort. Like a secret wordy wellspring hidden deep within that angst ridden brain of mine. </p><p>High school was awful. I tried really hard to do it right, but always missed the mark. I was a cheerleader for a couple years, but not one of the cute/pretty rah rah girls. I was the smoking one. The one with a six pack of 3.2 beer from the gas station tucked away in the trunk of my car. The one who had Sex Pistols buttons on my sweater alongside the HOMECOMING 84!! pins. </p><p>My grades sucked. In every subject except English-related ones. I hated school. But I loved writing.</p><p>Back then there wasn’t the cutthroat pressure to know exactly what you wanted to do with your life. There wasn’t a whole lot of college prep stuff happening, at least in my world. But I did absorb a thing or two from one of the awkward meetings with my guidance counselor and one of those things was trying to figure out what I liked, and what I was good at. </p><p>There was really only one thing which covered both of those points. Writing. </p><p>We took these inane aptitude tests, I think in our junior year. Mine came back with two possible career choices: journalist or flower arranging. </p><p>So in my very hazy and half assed way, I tried figuring out how best to get some more writing experience that would also maybe prop up my saggy GPA. </p><p>This was the eighties. There were basically three methods to get your words out into the universe: books, newspapers, and magazines. In high school, there were two ways.</p><p>The yearbook, and our adolescent version of the literary magazine that was produced a few times a year (my memory is foggy, haha. So some of these details may be off. That’s okay, you get the gist).</p><p>I went ahead and decided to try to make it onto the yearbook staff. </p><p>The staff advisor for the yearbook was a woman named Sharon Something. Wish I could say last name withheld due to privacy and decency but truth is, I can’t remember it. </p><p>Sharon did not like me. Not one bit. Having worked in a school myself, I know it’s impossible to truly like every kid. But it’s not super hard to pretend you do. It’s part of being an adult amongst children. Not every kid is likable but they all deserve some good acting from you. </p><p>Not Sharon. I’d taken one of her lit classes and that’s when she seemed to have decided that I was not worth her efforts. In her defense, I was an asshole. Remember, I was a joker (and a smoker and also a midnight toker). Just the joker at school though, and Sharon did not approve. She gave me my lowest grade ever in an English class, and made it abundantly clear that I was a waste of resources. My mom cried at that conference. </p><p>So of course she was the yearbook advisor. And of course my interest in joining the staff was met with a quick and resounding NO. I knew she didn’t like me, but at that time I still thought the majority of the adults in the world were good, so I figured it was a capacity thing or maybe I just wasn’t good enough.</p><p>No worries. There was the literary magazine. That was probably a better fit, I told myself. Because I was all literal and shit. Do you want to guess who the staff advisor was? Here’s a hint:</p><p>IT WAS SHARON.</p><p>Once again, rejection. This time I had a feeling the dismissal wasn’t because of too many applicants for too few spots. I had a feeling Sharon was giving me some sort of hint. </p><p>Oh well, I thought. Maybe I’m just meant to be a contributor, that’s all. </p><p>So I gathered up several of my best written pieces, and even wrote a special new poem and handed them in as submissions for the magazine. This time the spurning came with a handwritten note.</p><p>Across the front of one returned submission was a sloping, cursive message:</p><p><span style="font-family: Dancing Script; font-size: medium;">Jeni: Your writing is not good enough for publication. Mrs XXX.</span></p><p>That was the day I quit writing. </p><p>My best friend at the time, Anne, was also a jokester and we had a fantasy about becoming writers for television. Like Saturday Night Live! We’re still in touch and have talked about how we should have taken that big huge risk after graduation and gone to New York. Yes, it was naive and we most likely would have ended up not as Tina Fey and Amy Pohler. More likely, as tragic characters in a Jay McInerney novel but still. We were young and hopeful and the world was supposedly our oyster. </p><p>Unfortunately a massive chunk of my hopes and most of my confidence died on that piece of paper next to the pithy note from ol’ Sharon. </p><p>I don’t think Sharon’s treatment of me, as gross as it was, led directly to any particular failure or bumble in my life. But it stomped out that precious spark of magic that just might have become something good. Something better. </p><p>When my mom died, among the few belongings of hers that I was allowed to have was a large manila envelope. She had saved all of the little newspaper stories I’d written, along with some other pieces of my writing. It wasn’t something that will be published and loved after I’m gone but it was pretty damn good for a kid. With the right guidance, with the encouragement and support of a trusted adult…ugh. Who knows what could have been? </p><p>The hibernating writer in me woke up, crabby and rarin’ to go, in 2006. No longer a scared and insecure teen, in 2006 I was a scared and insecure 40 year old mother to four who had just been left by her husband. The words demanded to be written. They pounded on the walls of my head and poured out of me- not into stacks of spiral notebooks but into a computer and they filled up the screen and one day, I hit that little icon that said <span style="font-family: courier;">PUBLISH</span>. </p><p>This time, there was no Sharon. </p><p>No, Lorne Michaels didn’t read my blog and hire me on the spot. No agent called. No books with my face on the back cover have been published. </p><p>But through writing, I have met hundreds of incredible people. My words were in magazines, they were in an actual book, they went viral. To this day, I receive emails and dms from women who found comfort and sometimes a few giggles here in this blog or in a post or an essay. My writing has made a small difference in this world. </p><p>Sharon was wrong. Turns out, my writing was good enough. Good enough for me. </p><p>So- this is the advice I want to give to anyone who might be a Sharon to some Jeni out there (yes I spelled it that way in high school but people always got it wrong so I caved):</p><p>I don’t care if you hate that kid. Yep, I know. They are zero fun to be around. They are sullen. They are combative. They waste your time and the time of the other kids in the class. They might push every button you have. </p><p>But I beg of you. Don’t kill their spark. Read their stuff. If it’s even halfway decent, LET THEM KNOW. Try to see beyond your frustration and through their armor. Push them, challenge them, accept them exactly as they are. See their potential even if it means holding your eyeballs with your hands to keep them from rolling back inside your head. </p><p>I know you are not paid enough, you’re most likely dealing with a clueless and inept administration, and that behavior is at an all time atmospheric level of cuckoo. But I guarantee that at least one of those kids needs just a taste of your approval. A smidgen. It might be the nudge they need to take a chance, that really big one. </p><p>Or it may just make them feel seen. Win/win.</p><p>And on the very off chance that there is a young Jeni out there reading this:</p><p>Your writing is good, kid. Good enough for publication even. </p><p><br /></p><p>❤</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-37767304377015940692023-06-07T09:22:00.004-05:002023-06-07T22:37:25.280-05:00Hittin the Pause<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6lzOJBPtd5tZUP7WQr6Izrlnq0FrNVzWZvOoKS-y2M6yteer3yQJMB3W-J6vJ7ZfZxCFBTZOiFcVXTrUj-eTBRmuFP6vLonqk5i5Bkz6Nl0RcTDw0N285iivjzpo8BLMh1vUBEhgp64oiRsgubyyIVw54t5l5S7e-R6Sx6kuGwiVK3xf7XGhI3CYjKg/s1080/D32E45A0-646F-45A4-936D-D50E5F9C6114.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6lzOJBPtd5tZUP7WQr6Izrlnq0FrNVzWZvOoKS-y2M6yteer3yQJMB3W-J6vJ7ZfZxCFBTZOiFcVXTrUj-eTBRmuFP6vLonqk5i5Bkz6Nl0RcTDw0N285iivjzpo8BLMh1vUBEhgp64oiRsgubyyIVw54t5l5S7e-R6Sx6kuGwiVK3xf7XGhI3CYjKg/s320/D32E45A0-646F-45A4-936D-D50E5F9C6114.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>It would seem that I did hit pause on my valiant effort to make blogging part of my daily (monthly? YEARLY?) routine, yeah? I’m going to keep pecking away at this, though. </p><p>Pause. Of course it’s about menopause. That was always a subject I avoided in these pages. Which is weird because there was no hesitation on my part to wax on about my iconic Elevator Doors From The Shining Periods. You’d think someone who spent a good chunk of every month reeking of pennies and constantly checking chairs after getting up would embrace the pause of the menses like a 56 year old reseller embraces senior day at the thrift store. </p><p>The truth is, for a long long time I worried about how others saw me. Specifically, I worried a lot about how men saw me. Even though it’s doubtful that any men read this, especially now, but even in the Hausfrau Heyday there certainly weren’t throngs of dudes eagerly awaiting new posts. </p><p>Thanks to therapy and the passage of time, men and how they see me (if they see me is still up for debate) is slowly becoming inconsequential. Oh, don’t let me get too haughty about this, lol. I still do worry about it at times. Dare you to tag a picture of me on Facebook. A bitch will break her ankle running to remedy that. </p><p>I stopped coloring my hair a little over a year ago. That was the very first step I took in my effort to begin living for me and not for anyone else. Trust when I say this: I still wrestle with it. Not a day goes by where I don’t see the greys in the mirror and hear at least one little voice squeak <i>I miss how we used to look. </i></p><p>I would LOVE to blame my insecurities on being left for a younger woman. And I do, ha! But when doing a deep dive into my entire life and how men fit into it, I see that it’s a pretty big onion with oh so many layers. </p><p>Most of my life has been spent trying to be someone who attracts and pleases men. I was never pretty enough or skinny enough or smart enough and eventually, young enough. As women age, it’s like we turn into vapors to society. I used to call it The Invisibling and it is 100% truth. Yeah yeah, women are finally being celebrated, right? Look at Martha Stewart on the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. But she’s being lauded because she still LOOKS YOUNG. Or knows a lot of special ways to make it look that way. No shade at all to Martha! But we have miles and miles to go until there’s truly a woman version of Sam Elliott or Sean Connery. Sigh. </p><p>But that’s what therapy is for. This blog is to let off some steam and also get these words out of my head.</p><p>Where was I? Ahh. Yes. </p><p>Menopause. </p><p>Women are finally talking about it, and not just in whispered conversations or making jokes about aging. Like there are podcasts and TikToks and everything. </p><p>I was always kind of afraid of it. The only intel I had regarding this rite of womanly passage were images of my mom and stepmom fanning themselves and the episode of Golden Girls where Blanche thought she was pregnant but whoops it was that dang change of life.</p><p>(Quick aside- I actually did have one of those Blanche moments myself, post-divorce. Never been so happy to see a negative pregnancy test because that guy and I would have made the ugliest babies. Like Ron Perlman mixed with a cabbage patch doll. SHUDDER.)</p><p>I can’t tell you when my last period happened. Hi! Literally a gynecologist’s nightmare patient right here! I think it was either right before or early on in the 2020 lockdown. I remember having cramps and sharing this momentous event in the group chat with my two best friends. We liked to joke about getting that “wood tick about to pop” feeling every month. </p><p>Anyway. It was obviously not a memorable thing, and to be honest, there weren’t any of the classic symptoms. It was just like someone turning off a faucet. </p><p>The one thing I feared the most was having thinning vaginal walls. For some reason that gave me such a horrific mental image of a vag lined with crinkled reused tissue paper. </p><p>Happy to report that the only thing thinning on me is my patience. And the hair on my left temple but that’s because the readers I keep there love eating it.</p><p>There were some weird little hot flashes, but not the rip off your clothes type. I remember a couple times at work my head got hot. Yes, just my head lol. </p><p>And that was it. </p><p>Oh! One other thing was b.o. I’ve always been a sweaty gal, come by that naturally via my sweet dad and his southern Minnesota farm boy genes. But it was never a stinky thing. Until the past few years. It hit me, like truly hit me, one day when I was taking pics of clothes for reselling. A horrible onion smell. The last time I smelled something like that was when one of my kids, in the throes of early puberty, stood in the kitchen next to me and I immediately began searching for a rotten potato or onion in the cupboard until it dawned on me that it was the precious baby before me stinking up the joint.</p><p>Well, I don’t do photo sessions in the kitchen so it wasn’t decomposing produce. It was me. </p><p>That one is easy to fix with a shower and some extra Native in your pits but hoooo boy that was rank.</p><p>And now, that was it. </p><p>OH WAIT. Forgot about weight. I guess maybe there was some weight gain? But pretty sure that was from Pandemic Nightly Happy Hour or maybe Pandemic Daily Gorging. My body has changed (no shit) and I’m probably shaped more like a snowman wearing pale peach freckled nylons filled with marbles as arms buuuuut, nothing super abnormal. I’ve always had a belly, even when my hip bones and collarbones and xyphoid process stuck out. A lot of women do mention gettin a little thick around the middle but that’s not something new in these here parts. I suggest stretchy pants. My go-to summer uniform is a pair of stretchy joggers and some random tee. Last week I wore a Neil Diamond t-shirt to senior day at the thrift store and had no less than 3 chatty old dudes strike up a conversation with me, all of which ended with the riff from Sweet Caroline. </p><p>That about wraps it up.</p><p>Oh, I guess there is some moodiness. But again, nothing new here. Moods are my thing.</p><p>I did Dry January this year, which bled into (lmao pun time) Dry February and also March and April. Go figure, when you stop putting a known depressant into your body you tend to get less depressed. SCIENCE! Since April, I have had a couple drinks…one martini, a few glasses of wine and two margaritas. Which, back in the day was a Friday night for me so this is progress. </p><p>That makes me wonder if alcohol tolerance might be tied to menopause? Because as the years have marched on, booze has become pretty gross to me. I mean, it still tastes good! Last weekend my daughter’s boyfriend made these amazing margaritas and they hit perfectly since it was as swampy as Satan’s balls in corduroys outside. But in general alcohol was making me feel really sick. So I’m happy to now check the box “occasionally” when asked about how much I drink. Maybe even “rarely” which is so foreign and kind of cool.</p><p>So there’s My Menopause Story © </p><p>It certainly hasn’t been the shitshow I envisioned and I cannot tell you how nice it is to not run to Target for those pool noodle sized tampons anymore. Kind of like how you one day realize it’s been ages since you’ve stood in the toy aisle saying <i>oh that’s cool </i>about every freaking Lego set in stock. </p><p>Only sometimes I do miss those Lego days. </p><p>So to sum it up: periods are gone, hair is gray, deodorant is good. </p><p>And like my fertility, this post is over. </p><p><br /></p><p>❤</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><i><br /></i></p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-57615881925543638702023-04-11T09:00:00.000-05:002023-04-11T09:00:17.604-05:00Spring Hopes: Eternal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc2EMR6wd510liMO_QGAtr0osIWoDIvBSfVDk9pqHD5bmG0UN2B5lfY5Hgmcv0me0tmoCwFeSPq4nStTfmsvasF3uuCYpg8HHuJZ4ujSeVU6MWaKXTU0IgjiahAow5FzzwsFjEts66kc6W9OMjlJx_vM3mknz7EWvAXq36jYzDfysY_mGRmxkQKqGYpg/s4032/9D27E4A8-FD14-4294-8AA1-A597EB2A021F.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc2EMR6wd510liMO_QGAtr0osIWoDIvBSfVDk9pqHD5bmG0UN2B5lfY5Hgmcv0me0tmoCwFeSPq4nStTfmsvasF3uuCYpg8HHuJZ4ujSeVU6MWaKXTU0IgjiahAow5FzzwsFjEts66kc6W9OMjlJx_vM3mknz7EWvAXq36jYzDfysY_mGRmxkQKqGYpg/w219-h291/9D27E4A8-FD14-4294-8AA1-A597EB2A021F.jpeg" width="219" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>Here in Minnesota it’s what we wait for all winter long, it’s the light at the end of the cold, snowy tunnel.</p><p>Spring. </p><p>According to the calendar it officially begins on March 20th, but in Minnesota, it begins on the first day people start wearing shorts. Which was this past week. So much pasty flesh! I even saw my first topless runner. I wanted to stop him and ask “my god, man, it’s 60 degrees. Wtf do you do when it’s 85 and humid? Pull the skin from your bones?”</p><p>Now, there is an unspoken agreement among most who live here: you must love spring. No substitutions, no exceptions. You have to not only love it, but it helps if you celebrate it and also you probably should mention it to every person you interact with throughout your day!</p><p>“WHOOO BOY IT SURE IS NICE OUT! FINALLY LOL”</p><p>“Did ya see it’s gonna be close to 80 later this week?”</p><p>“THIS IS WHY WE LIVE HERE”</p><p>I get it! Really, I do. Winter is a harsh and defeating time for those of us who, for whatever reason, call this chunk of the United States home. </p><p>We staunch the flow of despair and desolation with the holidays but round about the second week of January it really hits us. There is no escaping it. Well, obviously for many there is a way to escape- vacations, winter homes, indoor water parks, etc. But for a good number of us, we are stuck. Physically and mentally embedded in the frozen banks of ice and snow. </p><p>This year I decided to try Dry January and in an effort to not botch that I kind of took my hermit game to a new level. Sub level, you could call it. I just stayed in, except to go sourcing for inventory a few times a week. I holed up and to be totally honest with you, it wasn’t so bad! I missed seeing human faces and sliding into restaurant booths and general socializing but also, I kind of didn’t. </p><p>Taking that month to just reset was one of my better ideas. And I plan on trying it again next January. </p><p><i>PS: the whole dry thing worked, too. Still is in fact. More on that later I guess.</i></p><p>But after January comes February! Which typically has 28 days but this year had approximately 208. </p><p>This was the third snowiest winter in Minnesota, and we have been known to get blizzards in April so it’s not official yet. In fact it’s really supposed to hit 80 here this week but I see snowflakes on next week’s forecast. Again I wonder who lives here intentionally? </p><p>Anyway. Spring hits fast and like the goober next door who is already using his gd leaf blower for an hour every morning, I am trying my best to summon up hope for a new season. A season without snow and windchill. But, it’s hard.</p><p>I know a lot of my hesitation to embrace all things spring can be traced to the whole body image/low self esteem stuff. The thought of coming out from under the layers of clothing and camouflage is daunting to those of us who cringe at the thought of hot sun and sweat. It’s getting better as I get older, it’s true when people say you just don’t give a shit about what others think and for real, it’s kinda glorious. Old habits die hard, though. So fretting about my freckled, spotted batwing arms being seen by others still occupies some brain space. </p><p>It’s not just that, though. If you’ve read stuff here in the past, or had the rare opportunity to sit down and chat with me (LOL for real at that one) you know that I’m a tender hearted animal lover. I brake for squirrels and turtles and leaves that look like animals. It’s how I’ve always been and it seems to be intensifying as time marches on. </p><p>Maybe it’s because of the aforementioned feeding of the backyard critters? I get bags of peanuts, seeds and corn a few times a month and throw them out back for the neighborhood animals. They come up to the patio door now and wait. Sometimes they crawl up the screen looking for the cuckoo human who calls them sweeties and babies. I started naming a few of them, and as insane as that sounds I’m not going to delete that. Batty is my favorite. This squirrel lost most of their tail at some point and they look like a chonky gray wombat running around out there. So that’s how Batty got their name. Regina is the mean one. </p><p>With springtime comes animal activity and so many babies. And also increased sightings of smushed creatures on the roads. Roadkill has always made me sad but over the past couple of years it’s become a source of anxiety for me. I start to go down some morbid tunnels of thought, like <i>“do they suffer” </i>and <i>“what if that one was still alive, maybe I should go see”</i>. And then I get angry at people for hitting them. It’s a weird spiral thing and yes, it’s being discussed in therapy which helps, but it’s still hard. </p><p>Don’t get me started on the turtles, okay? </p><p>So yes, as a Minnesotan, I agree to be happy that spring has sprung. I concur that this winter was brutal and never ending and depressing. </p><p>But I also have the toxic trait of being able to find the dark even in a daylight savings scenario. And so there is dread mixed in with the relief. As I eye up the t-shirts in the drawers, as I think about finding my capri length leggings, as I tromp through my new yard looking for signs of life where the ferns and hosta grow…I also brace myself for this season’s collateral damage. </p><p>It’s a work in progress, folks. Maybe this spring will be different. Maybe I’ll be different! </p><p>Hope really does spring eternal, doesn’t it?</p><p><br /></p><p>Oooh Batty is outside. Gotta go. Until next time, friends ❤</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-31477045797688602792023-04-02T09:50:00.004-05:002023-04-02T12:54:15.960-05:00Not All Divorced Parents Can Be Like Demi and Bruce- here’s why<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSl8HT5jb-2id_aHruwaAJjB4zO1c6SR7Ibcks6jzMlK0jLHfxMBrtmycbMLPvpGI1aPAEpr2BkijL9NYD3xpIlIv-TDBi93UyLOshHKOrlktJRKUU9m0GTVrd1WXuXDwroHjAGy_wOoauNieIrPhaAtnZhiBxm82CoWNOOdiULeixx2kjHDOgOgS_ag/s3222/C0CF2AB3-67FA-43F0-ACF8-60C6366E667E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3222" data-original-width="3222" height="423" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSl8HT5jb-2id_aHruwaAJjB4zO1c6SR7Ibcks6jzMlK0jLHfxMBrtmycbMLPvpGI1aPAEpr2BkijL9NYD3xpIlIv-TDBi93UyLOshHKOrlktJRKUU9m0GTVrd1WXuXDwroHjAGy_wOoauNieIrPhaAtnZhiBxm82CoWNOOdiULeixx2kjHDOgOgS_ag/w423-h423/C0CF2AB3-67FA-43F0-ACF8-60C6366E667E.jpeg" width="423" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Yep, I’m still divorced and I still have big feelings about it!</p><p>One of these days, mayhap in my next life, I will learn to just stay the hell out of the comments. Comment sections are such a weird deep dive into the collective mentality of our fellow humans, aren’t they? Aside from confirming my fear that we are headed into a real world Idiocracy, they give us a glimpse into the minds of strangers. </p><p>If you are familiar with this blog, or have read any of my rants on Facebook or Instagram, you know that the subject of co-parenting is a hot one for me. It’s something that isn’t on my mind 24/7. But when I make the mistake of tiptoeing into the comments on posts or articles about divorced parents who have managed to not only remain amicable but who have gone one step further and become one big blended happy family, it’s trigger time. </p><p>Some would say that I’m super defensive about this topic, and they aren’t wrong. I am really defensive about it. With good reason. </p><p>Take a look at the collage of comments up at the top. This is standard fare on just about any public presentation of a divorced couple who have remained friendly. </p><p>What is the underlying (and not so underlying) message that is being delivered here? I’ll give you a few examples:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>You are not parenting right if you aren’t friends with your ex</li><li>You are not a real family if you aren’t friends with your ex</li><li>You are harming your children if you aren’t friends with your ex</li><li>You are not a good role model if you aren’t friends with your ex</li></ul><div><br /></div><div>And that’s just a few. There are also those who believe anyone who doesn’t co-parent like Bruce and Demi, or any other couple who stay friends, is bitter. Angry. Immature. Grudgy. Unable to “let go”. </div><div><br /></div><div>Honestly I could go on and on, lol. And I have. Over and over, in this blog, of course, and to this day I still make the mistake of jumping in and offering a different perspective, an explanation as to why not all of us can be buddies with the other parent (or steps) of our children. I’m an optimist at heart and sometimes so unbelievably naive that I think people might listen. </div><div><br /></div><div>Even here, I’m preaching to the choir. </div><div><br /></div><div>But you know what? I’m gonna stand here on this rickety pulpit and keep on preaching. </div><div><br /></div><div>Because the Divorce Club is unfortunately always open, and always accepting new members. Every single day, another marriage or relationship disintegrates and leaves two freshly cleaved parents wondering how in the hell they’re going to manage.</div><div><br /></div><div>Imagine that you’re one of these newbies and you’re still reeling and maybe in shock and you are justifiably angry or sad or terrified. And then you see comments like those above and wonder, “What the hell is wrong with me?”</div><div><br /></div><div>Darlings. There is nothing wrong with you. And that’s why I will never shut up about this.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let’s start with the obvious, shall we? What’s the biggest factor in these fairytale co-parenting scenarios? No power imbalance. It’s that simple. </div><div><br /></div><div>Did Bruce and Demi, or Gwyneth and Chris, or Glennon and her ex (sorry G I can’t remember his name) or literally any other rich & famous couple who post their kumbaya moments on social media ever have a moment where one half of the couple feared for their survival? </div><div><br /></div><div>Nope. Not even for a split second did Demi wonder how she was going to care for her girls. Gwyneth didn’t even consider how she was going to afford a home. Glennon’s ex might have been scared for a sec, lol. But I’m sure he was given a very comfortable and fair settlement. Glennon is nice like that.</div><div><br /></div><div>When there is no imbalance of power, when one half of the couple doesn’t have an insanely unfair financial advantage over the other one, it’s easier to accept the dissolution and to put on a happy face for the cameras and for the world at large. </div><div><br /></div><div>We can call it Divorce Privilege maybe? The definition of privilege is “a special right, advantage or immunity granted or available only to a particular person or group”. I know that word has been beaten into the ground lately but hey, if the expensive shoe fits… </div><div><br /></div><div>BUT JENNY THERE ARE REGULAR FOLKS WHO HANG OUT AND GET ALONG AND SIT BY EACH OTHER AT T-BALL GAMES</div><div><br /></div><div>Yep. There are! I know some of them! And I’m so so happy that they are able to make that arrangement work. It’s really nice to see. </div><div><br /></div><div>It’s not possible for everyone, though. For many reasons. And not all of those reasons have dollar signs attached to them.</div><div><br /></div><div>In my situation, which is really the only one I’m qualified to discuss, it was a matter of self respect. </div><div><br /></div><div>My ex, and the mistress he ended up marrying, lied to me. Over and over and over. He abused his power in our relationship. He denied support to our children. He hid money, he played dirty, he cried poor behind the wheel of a shiny new car and while renovating one house and spending nearly a million on another one. They mocked my appearance. They made fun of my attempts to fix things. They broke me. </div><div><br /></div><div>The damage he did to my mental health, and ultimately, to our children, was a classic example of the imbalance of power that I keep referring to here. I had nothing. I was a stay at home mom without a degree or any formal training in a marketable skill. All I had was a spouse and his income and his retirement and his…everything. </div><div><br /></div><div>Even now, a thousand or so years later, the ripples from our split cause some little earthquakes. It’s in no way as obvious or awful as it was in the early years, but they are still around. Shaking things up every once in a while. </div><div><br /></div><div>When we first divorced, we did try to stay friendly. For the kids. When he finally began taking the children for his parenting time, we’d chat in the driveway or by the front door. We would exchange civil emails or texts. </div><div><br /></div><div>That was before all of his shenanigans came to light. And that was before I knew that I was worth more.</div><div><br /></div><div>That was before he quit paying child support, before I lost that front door and that driveway. Before I found out what it felt like to not have the means to feed my kids.</div><div><br /></div><div>That was when I decided to establish and enforce some lines in the sand. BOUNDARIES, baby. Boundaries are so so good and so so healthy. Not only in situations of divorce and coparenting but in literally every other relationship there is. Boundaries can make the difference between giving yourself an ulcer and allowing yourself to heal. </div><div><br /></div><div>I look at it this way: if one of my besties decided to take a massive shit on me one day, and tried to ruin me, and tried to make my survival and the survival of my kids precarious…dude. Our friendship would be over. And not just over, it would be doused in gasoline, lit on fire and then buried in a shallow, unmarked grave.</div><div><br /></div><div>You don’t have to be friends with someone who has hurt you. </div><div><br /></div><div>And I really don’t believe that my boundaries and lack of a buddy relationship with my ex and wife no. 2 did any harm to our kids. </div><div><br /></div><div>I believe that it actually modeled healthy behavior, self respect and empowerment. Especially for my daughter but now that my boys are grown, I can see that they also learned from my example. </div><div><br /></div><div>There are moments when I think about future scenarios, like weddings and grandkids, where our nice little compartmentalized worlds may collide. I’m confident that when these situations present themselves, I’ll do the right thing. Which is panic, worry and sweat. And then the nice mask will be donned and those beautiful boundaries will hold me up. </div><div><br /></div><div>Having boundaries doesn’t mean being an asshole (says the woman who has blogged about her divorce for years lol). It means protecting yourself from harm or distress. Physical and mental, financial and emotional. </div><div><br /></div><div>If Big Daddy and I had Bruce and Demi money, I’m sure things would have turned out differently. I have no idea if one or both of them cheated on the other, or if there was massive betrayal, or if one of them made the other one feel like a worthless piece of dung. Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. But I am absolutely sure that neither one ever worried about the survival and care of their babies. </div><div><br /></div><div>As I’ve said repeatedly and on many different platforms: If you are able to do the blended family co-parenting one-big-happy thing, that’s WONDERFUL. It’s admirable and it’s certainly good for your kids.</div><div><br /></div><div>It’s just not the only way to do it. And the fact that some folks can do it doesn’t mean folks who can’t are doing it wrong. It’s just a different way.</div><div><br /></div><div>Different does not equal wrong. It’s just another way to be.</div><div><br /></div><div>And now I’m going to be working on a new boundary. Involving comment sections. </div><div><br /></div><div>I wish you all peace, in whatever way you can find it. I finally have mine and it’s good.</div><div><br /></div><div>❤ </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><p></p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-56525655391601006822023-03-27T12:29:00.003-05:002023-03-27T21:01:48.768-05:00How I Became a Full Time Reseller<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjaQsKnCS8ZtmhOVcpVwPQkB8u2YFQA9yrsw7AZMLs9Fdh-nsjpt3tmaSYa37CZQ1dVzEs8zMh6qbIsYavhI9ieBTS0rhL3OiBvjskWqB5lfT333eO2384_4R7t1e8vUBw39SN5Vl1eVnKXorkx4U9CB7BHHwCkl8h9P4WchbPC6ZtyLDOemO9lhuIqA/s4032/81F7C067-513B-48E6-B60E-5A58AC97B99A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjaQsKnCS8ZtmhOVcpVwPQkB8u2YFQA9yrsw7AZMLs9Fdh-nsjpt3tmaSYa37CZQ1dVzEs8zMh6qbIsYavhI9ieBTS0rhL3OiBvjskWqB5lfT333eO2384_4R7t1e8vUBw39SN5Vl1eVnKXorkx4U9CB7BHHwCkl8h9P4WchbPC6ZtyLDOemO9lhuIqA/w223-h297/81F7C067-513B-48E6-B60E-5A58AC97B99A.jpeg" width="223" /></a></div><br />Quick recap for those just joining us, or for those who may enjoy hearing about my bumpy life journey: For several years I made my living working for a public school district here in Minnesota. Started out as a playground lady when my kids were all attending elementary school, and along the way added many different job titles. I subbed for Special Education paras, supervised the loud circle of hell known as the lunchroom, taught preschool, was a glorified door opener and eventually ended up as one of the secretaries in the very school where I began my own elementary school journey way back in the seventies. Talk about life coming full circle!<p></p><p>I was, and am, grateful for all that the various positions gave me. A regular paycheck. Hours that mostly coincided with those of my children. Holidays and vacations that also matched my kids. Health insurance!</p><p>It was good until it wasn’t. And when it got bad, it went full scale rotten in a hurry.</p><p>I found myself having to decide between my mental health and a paycheck. The fact that the paychecks were small, and I was working for an administration that said one thing but practiced quite another made the decision relatively simple. </p><p>Know your worth. That phrase is kind of tired but still remains very true. I tell it to women who are struggling with lousy partners, and when I realized that being stuck in a crappy job is a lot like being stuck in a crappy relationship I practiced what I preach.</p><p>The important thing to keep in mind here is that I had a backup plan. Without it, I’d still be dealing with the whole OVERWORKED UNDERPAID drama. Or, maybe I would have eventually stood up for myself. Who knows? </p><p>But now, I am doing something that I love. I make a living selling clothing, shoes, accessories and pretty much everything else, online. </p><p>This was not a new venture for me. I began my reseller journey way back in the year of our lord 2000. The woman who taught one of my kids in preschool had pulled me aside one day and mentioned his vast and adorable wardrobe. “You could make a lot of money selling his outgrown clothing on eBay” she said. </p><p>Now, keep in mind- at that time I was (supposedly) happily married and doing the whole stay at home mom thing. But my husband was working a lowly insurance job and was in graduate school at night. He also had a short lived temp gig delivering pizza for a little extra cash. When this teacher told me about a potential money making venture, I ran with it.</p><p>For many years I had worked part time for The Gap. And as anyone who was employed there in the nineties can tell you, it was the shit. We scored clearance and marked down items for pennies, all day long. At Gap Kids, too. So when I say that my kids had a lot of clothes, lady, I mean they had A LOT OF CLOTHES. I realized that I was sitting on a goldmine and also, a way to help out with the family finances.</p><p>We didn’t even have a computer at the time (oh hi, I’m old!) but we finally got one and within days I had created an eBay account and almost immediately began pulling in a nice profit every month. Big Daddy was thrilled, at first. He quit delivering pizza and focused on getting his career path paved and smooth. </p><p>And I sold. I have always been an avid thrifter and garage saler, like from childhood. Secondhand shopping was in my blood and when I realized the veritable mountains of clothing to be found and sold, I began thrifting with gusto. </p><p>I’d drop the bigger kids off at kindergarten or preschool, give the little ones a snack and a sippy cup and off we’d go. I began participating in the eBay chat boards, and not only did I find a bunch of new friends (including my current bestie), I learned. </p><p>I discovered fashion and textiles and vintage and measurements. I picked up photography tips, selling techniques and an encyclopedic knowledge of style names, fabric contents, patterns and designers. On weekends, when that wonderful husband of mine wasn’t “golfing”, I’d get the newspaper and the map book and hit rummage sales. </p><p>And I was very successful. I think at the height of it, before my marriage imploded, I was bringing in at least $2500.00 a month in profit. Which doesn’t sound super exciting now, but back then, it was a huge help. Especially considering the four little kids I was raising at the same time. </p><p>All of this came in real handy when the husband walked out. And came in even handier when he decided to quit paying child support.</p><p>I like to say that used clothing kept my kids fed, and it’s the truth. </p><p>When the shit hit the fan, I hit Goodwill. </p><p>I ramped up my business and kept our little family afloat for a long time. Of course I lost the house, but that was because of the three loans that had been taken out on it. A nearly $4,000.00 house payment would have been a hard reach for most people. For a stay at home mom slinging gently worn Chico’s, it was impossible.</p><p>That was when I started working part time at the school. I still did eBay, right up until my account was suspended and then banned, when I had to file for bankruptcy. I will never forget receiving that email- I was on a 15 minute break at the preschool and cried like a baby for approximately 10 minutes. Probably ate my lunch simultaneously, because even when life throws a gut punch a bitch has to eat.</p><p>So reselling was paused. And it stayed paused until a happy hour with my two best friends, in 2017. Our girl Joyce said something about Poshmark. I had heard of it in passing, but hadn’t given it much thought. How could you do reselling on an app? Oh lord. Sometimes it’s fun to look back on those old timer moments, isn’t it?</p><p>Anyway. I did figure it out, and before long my sales on Poshmark outpaced my secretary paychecks. The extra money was a godsend, and the adventures my friends and I went on in search of thrifted bargains are some of the best memories I’ll ever have. </p><p>It ended up being not only a safety net, but a new career. When the school district placed that last straw on this old camel’s back, I knew it was time to take the leap. </p><p>And now I am a full time reseller. I pay my mortgage with this income. A car payment. All the other bills that grownups have, too. </p><p>I would not recommend this job to anyone, though. At least not to 99% of the population. It takes a very particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over a very long career <i>(do you know how long I’ve been trying to work a Liam Neeson quote into this blog?)</i>. </p><p>It’s hard work. It’s stressful. Bookkeeping, and doing my own taxes, is a panicky organizational nightmare. My employment hinges on a few apps staying in business. It can get lonely at times. There are no sick days, vacation days, or paid holidays. I know that I could wake up tomorrow and find out Poshmark has gone poof into that good night. Or that Depop has become like most of its users and ghosted me. </p><p>But for now, it’s working. I can work a 15 hour day or a zero hour day. My coworkers are cats. I get to shop for a living. My work wardrobe consists of leggings, sports bras and sweatshirts. If I’m having an awful mental health day, I don’t have to suck it up and pretend everything is fine. I can work while watching Ted Lasso or listening to Beyoncé. I have incredible flexibility. I work my ass off on my own terms and without having to put up with hypocrisy and toxic personalities.</p><p>I remind myself that even while having a reliable income and the support of a union I somehow managed to get screwed. I remind myself of how it felt when people who supposedly had my back stayed silent when there was a knife sticking out it. I remind myself that I have done some really scary shit and survived.</p><p>Life is never predictable and now, more than ever, I know that. Thankfully I also know that you may find my picture in the dictionary under the word <b>resourceful</b>. The bumps and roadblocks along the way have taught me to not only roll with the punches, but to turn that punch into a paycheck. </p><p>This is so not the life I pictured for myself all those years ago, when the future was vast and wide and I had a faster metabolism and plenty of collagen. But it’s my life, and for now, I’m loving it.</p><p>Gotta go- while writing this I sold a sweet pair of overalls from Anthropologie for $85. That’s what I used to make in one day as the person who enrolled children in school. Go hug a school secretary, my friends.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-15804608716152796412023-03-12T10:57:00.006-05:002023-03-13T08:33:50.143-05:00The Dog Shaped Hole in my Heart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiklpY7nFZoTCCqBUAtNzMafAHcWS6Re7i9ACbLk3JSSpIZT-P73yWcK4V2Y_ANp1BOjPS-GlE4Ro4E3Fq1cSQHOVGZDiuizVU-tUny805MncytV79B56xJZ1XrnlrbsuxlT-m5kzfmwclTZ0nd-36FrINEubSvxxep4JkQFj9zvrLlVxc1vqHbveviCw/s4032/1568D7EE-9AFF-494B-8E6F-22D142978A85.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiklpY7nFZoTCCqBUAtNzMafAHcWS6Re7i9ACbLk3JSSpIZT-P73yWcK4V2Y_ANp1BOjPS-GlE4Ro4E3Fq1cSQHOVGZDiuizVU-tUny805MncytV79B56xJZ1XrnlrbsuxlT-m5kzfmwclTZ0nd-36FrINEubSvxxep4JkQFj9zvrLlVxc1vqHbveviCw/w193-h257/1568D7EE-9AFF-494B-8E6F-22D142978A85.jpeg" width="193" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>This is the one. This is the story that has been blocking all the other stories, a virtual plug. It’s a cold snowy Sunday in March and this feels like the day to try and yank it out. Bear with me, or not. Like labor, this one may be long and erratic and there will be crying at the end. Also during.</p><p>For those who know me in the real world, and for those who have followed along online, Walter has been one of the main characters in this cuckoo production called My Life. One of the constants. Like sunshine and snow and happiness and sadness, Walter was always there. And if he wasn’t around, he was just outside. Or napping on the porch. </p><p>Fifteen years. That’s what we had with him. It’s so much longer than many people get with a beloved pet. And somehow it feels like such a ripoff. I wanted more time. I wanted him to be around forever and then some. </p><p>For those who don’t know me in the real world, Walter was a dog. The dog, actually. My one and only. I think there’s a search bar in this ancient blog- find it and type in Walter and you will find many posts, mentions, pictures. Walter was as thoroughly interwoven into this story as his fur was into our clothes and furniture. </p><p>We got him at the Humane Society thanks in part to a crusty but sweet old friend who told me, as we stood there in the cold back Big Dog room with the various yaps and barks echoing off the cinder block walls, “every kid needs a dog”. Also thanks in part to an immediate connection. </p><p>I will go to my grave knowing that Walter and I were supposed to find each other. It was destined. I needed him more than anyone could have ever convinced me, and he surely needed me. We were like two bruised and damaged planets that happened upon one another in a vast and desolate galaxy. Which one of us held the other in their little gravity grip? I’d like to think it was equal forces. We held each other down.</p><p>And now I’m floating in that dark black hole again. My gravity is gone.</p><p>Whoa. That’s what you’re thinking, right? This chick is nuts.</p><p>Well yes. Have we met? I am indeed nuts. That’s part of my charm.</p><p>But I’ll argue with you if you feel that grieving a dog classifies someone as crazy. Grief is no stranger in these here parts. It’s a frequent visitor and as I get older I realize that grief comes in all shapes and sizes and intensities. </p><p>Grief is shaped like a dog. It has velvety soft ears that flap happily on walks. It has coarse fur that comes to a downy little swirl on a barrel chest. Grief stands next to me in the kitchen, eagerly awaiting for some chicken to <i>accidentally</i> fall to the floor. Grief is a grimy blue collar that now rests atop a wooden box.</p><p>I’ve lost people and it hurt. I miss my mom with such a deep, primal stab so huge and raw that it still takes my breath away after several years. I miss my dad. The feelings with him aren’t as painful as the mom ones, they are softer and less sharp but just as deep and they poke me with just as much frequency. </p><p>I’ve lost grandparents and aunts and uncles and acquaintances. Favorite musicians and writers and actors. They are all missed and well loved. </p><p>But the loss of Walter has been the one that sticks. It’s the stringy blobs that cling to your fingers while kneading dough. It’s that quote I love about the scent of a violet that’s been crushed by a nonchalant heel.</p><p>It didn’t even occur to me that he was aging. He was a puppy, in my eyes, up until the end. </p><p>He was innocence and purity and forgiveness and unconditional love. </p><p>He was walks. He was hilarity. </p><p>He was the king of finding food literally EVERYWHERE. </p><p>He was patiently impatient. He was a foot warmer and sometimes tried to be a lap dog and a shoulder dog.</p><p>He waited in the front window and he was the first thing you saw when you pulled up to our house. That sweet yellow face, more white than yellow in later years. Those hopeful brown eyes with the ginger lashes. He was always waiting. </p><p>He loved snow. He loved the first warm days of spring and rolling in dewy grass. </p><p>Walter never played fetch. He didn’t give a shit about sticks. </p><p>He had exactly one toy he liked, a stuffed Grinch, and when that toy was destroyed he was finished. I once found the exact same Grinch at a thrift store and when I triumphantly presented it to him, he looked at it and then walked away. Been there, done that. Movin’ on. </p><p>I was not a good dog mom. Far from it. We were poor and there were times I could barely feed my human kids. Walter got what was available. But he survived. We all did.</p><p>When I wrote an essay about having to go to the food shelf, and it went all kinds of viral, there was a comment from someone that said “pretty dumb to have a dog if you can’t feed your kids” and while they were not entirely wrong, it still shook me to think of cutting corners that way. </p><p>As I said earlier, I was blissfully unaware of time stacking up on him. Oh, for sure I saw the fur on his face turning lighter and lighter. I noticed how it took him a while to stand up. I felt his lumps and bumps multiply and grow. </p><p>But it didn’t really sink in until a woman we were passing while on a walk paused and said “he’s getting around great for being such an old man!” </p><p>THE AUDACITY. I was actually offended for him. That was the first time I looked at him through a stranger’s eyes. And I saw his winter white face, his bony back, his lumpy bumpy body. And I loved him even more. But I also started thinking about the things we try really hard to not think about. </p><p>Soon after that he could no longer hop up onto my bed, even with the ottoman I’d brought in from the porch. He slept on the couch, and more often than not, I’d sleep out there with him.</p><p>Walter bore witness to the raising of four feral children. He helped a depressed lonely woman (that’s me!) get outside and exercise. He was a reluctant viewer of a few awkward trysts with shadowy lovers. He loved us all without a shred of judgment or pity or obligation. </p><p>I am not ready to talk publicly or I guess, write publicly, about his last day or his last hour. I still haven’t looked at the pictures that our dear friend Whitney took that evening. Looking at them will cement it. It will be the final goodbye and I cannot do that, not yet. </p><p>I will say that while I am haunted by guilt, even now with 14+ months passed, I know deep down that we sent him off with the dignity and the fanfare that he deserved. Hell, I’d be okay with a last day like that. </p><p>A good walk. So many good treats. And surrounded by those I loved, and who loved me.</p><p>Death was something that I feared greatly. It was the ultimate terror, the worst thing that could happen. But now, it’s a little less scary. </p><p>Because even though I am probably one of the least spiritual or religious people around, the thought of seeing him, waiting there at the window for me, is comforting. </p><p>For now, I wait. I take walks that aren’t as fun. I smile when I see random food on the ground. I sometimes absentmindedly reach down about mid-thigh to scratch a knobby furry head that isn’t there. I feel him sometimes, just like I can tell when my mom is riding shotgun with me or my dad is shaking his head at my high pitched panic over a minor household crisis.</p><p>I wait. And I miss him. </p><p> ***************************</p><p><br /></p><p>We made up a song for Walter back when we were all younger. For the life of me I can’t recall the tune we based it on but the words were:</p><p>Walty McWalterton, prettiest dog I know</p><p>Walty McWalterton, always on the go</p><p>He’s pretty</p><p>He’s yellow</p><p>He’s such a fine fellow (carry that last note with some soprano gusto)</p><p>Walty McWalterton, prettiest dog I know</p><p>We sang this to him as he passed. And sometimes I find myself humming it just because.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-22728224561949785062023-03-08T07:52:00.003-06:002023-03-08T07:56:06.692-06:00Thanks, Trauma! And also, Lint Rollers <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTH2AsuH436NDj-o5G_UD8iNyKueHPc9aBYLi5evzTLzEFrGNOdZM-D3nd2_Csu82ij2ox3702WJDrSJkOVog17mLhIeTriHtYhfP_AS_TiNZP1-8rwshrMKer-_plTOC4phJmFP-V-oMOVREcjQO_QlDCnm4Z-Xn5Xj7GtJSb0nLZiVXASEA6ytu94g/s4032/34F33F3A-7864-471F-B759-97E01B49D3E6.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTH2AsuH436NDj-o5G_UD8iNyKueHPc9aBYLi5evzTLzEFrGNOdZM-D3nd2_Csu82ij2ox3702WJDrSJkOVog17mLhIeTriHtYhfP_AS_TiNZP1-8rwshrMKer-_plTOC4phJmFP-V-oMOVREcjQO_QlDCnm4Z-Xn5Xj7GtJSb0nLZiVXASEA6ytu94g/s320/34F33F3A-7864-471F-B759-97E01B49D3E6.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Hey there! Again with the restart, eh? Yeah. Well, there’s a lot to unpack but today the urge to write absolutely pounced on me and I decided to go with it.</p><p>Trauma. Every one of us has some. Whether your trauma is that time you cut your toenail too short and it hurt to wear shoes for a week, or you witnessed a fatal car crash, or you were relentlessly abused by a trusted family member, trauma is trauma is trauma. Just like strokes, there’s different traumas for different folks. Whatchutalkinbout, Jenny? </p><p>So this morning, I was getting a darling Boden dress ready to package up and ship out, when I started thinking about my odd personality traits. Like, take my reselling habits, for example. </p><p>I am obsessive about sending out perfect items. I will spend way too long on a pair of jeans that someone has paid $25 for…I’ll turn them inside out. Trim little threads. Use the sweater shaver on the LINING of the pockets. Yeah, those of you who have spent time with me in real life are undoubtedly laughing a little right now. Because I may come across as many things, but a perfectionist is probably not one of them.</p><p>It got me thinking what I might have been like if my life had been more “normal”. What if my parents hadn’t divorced? What if there was no evil stepdad who used me as a punching bag? What if I’d had a good marriage to a good man? </p><p>These little quirks that manage to poke out like wispy feathers from a down coat make me think that in the Bizarro Alternate Universe there is a different Jenny, one who can let the tiny things go but who also probably has fewer tiny things to obsess about. </p><p>This BAU Jenny (lol to all my Criminal Minds homies) is most likely an overachiever. She’s surely college educated and maybe even has a successful career in some sort of challenging and lofty profession. Advertising? Writing? I doubt it’s anything in the sciences because trauma free or not, this brain is not wired that way. </p><p>I wonder if she’s fun to be around, though. Does she find the humor in the most unlikely places like I do? Can she make people smile during shitstorms? Because I can. And no matter how I got that skill, it’s one that I appreciate. </p><p>We can’t go back in time. We can’t unscramble an egg. </p><p>But what we can do, is make an omelette with that shit. </p><p>I’ll have extra mushrooms in mine. </p><p>And now back to that Boden dress. I swear I saw some lint in one of the pockets.</p><p>❤️</p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-37244133226535360232022-07-21T17:06:00.000-05:002022-07-21T17:06:21.870-05:00Walking, Reading, Writing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS2F6HkHefQ8kvr8j6ZWqFmtokAxPZVUGBMnyWGjfxVmoYLbCF-7tffmshP7xH15wp6Zg9VEhD_nHKA-CbA0IUHj1t79ivI_IWL3MKtus8FvUMHzQqD3vuSrLyY5w3UPtOKpBQyAju3Csq-KB2jIjHjZ8xO7xPsRWIdaJfUi5fT2fceAkWpNyxiLurUQ/s4032/8C438F88-08D0-4822-99A1-69069C76EEE3.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS2F6HkHefQ8kvr8j6ZWqFmtokAxPZVUGBMnyWGjfxVmoYLbCF-7tffmshP7xH15wp6Zg9VEhD_nHKA-CbA0IUHj1t79ivI_IWL3MKtus8FvUMHzQqD3vuSrLyY5w3UPtOKpBQyAju3Csq-KB2jIjHjZ8xO7xPsRWIdaJfUi5fT2fceAkWpNyxiLurUQ/s320/8C438F88-08D0-4822-99A1-69069C76EEE3.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Are you there, blog world? </p><p>Itsa me, Jenny.</p><p>July 2022 is half over, the last time I sat here with this screen in front of me was approximately 7 months ago. Shoot I remember when this was a daily thing. Sometimes multiple times daily lol. </p><p>A lot has happened in seven months. And that is an understatement. A huge one.</p><p>I’ll start with the reason for the title of this post.</p><p>Almost every Tuesday night, my friend Beth and I go see a movie. It’s the cheap night at Emagine Theaters here in Minnesota, $5.00 and free popcorn. I upgrade to a medium and get the real butter so the evening’s total is more like $8.00 but still, a bargain.</p><p>Beth and I have been doing this for a long time. There was a break during the lockdown stuff and we’ve had a few nights when it just didn’t work but this is a longstanding date and one that we both really enjoy.</p><p>The theater, the same two seats we get every time (always on the right side, always in the first row of the second section and always on the aisle), the popcorn, the comforting pillow of relief that looks a lot like a leather recliner…it’s our safe place. </p><p>Before the lights go down, we take our requisite foot picture (see above) and we chat. </p><p>We give brief synopses of our weeks, we inquire about fun/sad/challenging times, I ask about her puppy, she asks about my cats (oh yeah…see? Shit has changed). We catch up and then the movie starts and we settle into those relief pillows and escape for approximately two hours. </p><p>Some would say it’s a poor excuse for a night together. “You’re literally sitting in silence for two hours, how is that any fun?”</p><p>I don’t care. We love it and it’s become something that I kinda hope continues until movie theaters are a thing of the past, or we are. </p><p>So a couple Tuesdays ago, during our pre-film chat, Beth asked me a question.</p><p>“Are you walking?”</p><p>I replied “Nope.”</p><p>She then asked me, “Are you reading?”</p><p>Again: “No.”</p><p>Third question was </p><p>“Are you writing?”</p><p>And thricely I responded with “No.” (thricely is not a word but it should be)</p><p>I can’t recall the rest of our conversation but man, did that line of questioning stick with me. I kept hearing it in my head, for days afterwards. </p><p>Too much to go into now, but it really hit me. It hit me like a truck. Like a big semi truck too, not like a little UHaul pickup or cargo van.</p><p>It hit me just how much I am not doing for myself these days. I used to walk every single day. Winter, spring summer and fall, rain or shine, in sickness and in health, I walked.</p><p>I used to read all the time. A book was always in progress, and there were always several lined up behind that one, ready to be devoured. </p><p>Writing? Ahem. You know how that one goes. SEVEN MONTHS. </p><p>Yikes. Beth’s inquiries hovered and then settled in my brain until it became almost like a mantra…over and over. Are you walking? Reading? Writing? No, no, no.</p><p>So I told my therapist about it. We had already been discussing how out of whack I’ve been feeling, like all I do is work and how nothing feels even remotely controllable. She helped me figure out a plan. One step at a time, you know? God I absolutely love therapy you guys. It has made change possible and I am learning so much. </p><p>Now I’m learning how to take back some time just for me. </p><p>It started with an early wake up time, followed by a walk. I did it on a Monday, and then the next day, and the whole week. And then started again the next week. </p><p>Now, when Beth asks again, I have a “Yes”.</p><p>Pretty soon, there’ll be thrice yeses. </p><p><br /></p><p>Bet you missed me slaughtering the English language 😂</p><p><br /></p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-51327736628662744762021-12-01T12:17:00.001-06:002021-12-01T12:17:56.611-06:00In This House<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFeuJT5Jj4iEU3SGtLsv1qPbd3zzjVN2VN8HwbeQPHSiZ-vAFcrHjfa-qponloT3iUaXKEyIS7tqWKOfgN0cW0PROWzVqpTaa01LUcEF8-ll7SsrG8_-J8my8y215Fps-npdu8EI7OH10P/s1244/C7D9F09B-FFDD-40C0-A341-955FEC20D6CF.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1244" data-original-width="1242" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFeuJT5Jj4iEU3SGtLsv1qPbd3zzjVN2VN8HwbeQPHSiZ-vAFcrHjfa-qponloT3iUaXKEyIS7tqWKOfgN0cW0PROWzVqpTaa01LUcEF8-ll7SsrG8_-J8my8y215Fps-npdu8EI7OH10P/w312-h236/C7D9F09B-FFDD-40C0-A341-955FEC20D6CF.jpeg" width="312" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>“In this house” LOL. If you’ve spent any time in groups for parents of college aged kids, you’ll see this phrase used a lot. Sometimes in a hokey meme, sometimes used as a sort of creed by a certain brand of Mama Bear. <i>IN THIS HOUSE, WE LOVE/WORK/PLAY/PRAY HARD </i>you get the gist. Like a mission statement. Those groups are better than most reality shows, by the way. I had no idea how many parents use Life360 to track their adult children. </p><p>But that’s beside the point today. </p><p>Today, my point is this: I’m leaving this house. Our house. The ramshackle rental that provided a roof over my head and the heads of my four young kids for just about 12 years. </p><p>I knew this day was coming, knew it from the time my shaky hand signed the lease. Nothing is forever, right? Especially when you’re renting. </p><p>Knowing something is coming is a lot different from having the exact date of when that something is actually arriving. The expiration date on this particular home is April 1, 2022. </p><p>My landlord, who has been written about a few times in this old blog, came over Sunday night and we had a nice talk. He’s no spring chicken (as he’d readily nod and agree, lol) and his health has not been great. He had tears in his eyes when he told me that he and his wife have made the decision to sell. </p><p>Me? I had tears in my eyes, too. Also on my cheeks and down the front of my shirt and surely a few soaked into the rug beneath my feet. I sobbed, of course. As I said, this was a sure thing. This was the end game that we knew was inevitable. But just knowing the timeframe, knowing the exact end date was a wee bit gutting. </p><p>Dave and I talked for a long time. We laughed and cried a little and reminisced. We cackled over the time I wrote him the very first rent check- it’s been $1650.00 a month since day one, and that first check was written for $1600.00. When I handed it to him, he looked at it, then said “Oh, actually it’s 1650.” And my dim ass replied, “Ahh, I bet I have a couple quarters in my purse.” Seriously. Poster child for naïveté, folks.</p><p>After Dave left, I made a martini. Of course I did. And I wept. Walter had a front row seat to that Sunday night extravaganza, lucky boy. I’ve made the Miss Havisham comparison here before but that night I did some deep role playing, minus the wedding dress (and the riches, of course). It was ugly and raw. I had another martini which means there were two martinis total which also means my mission to numb was successful.</p><p>I gave myself 24 hours to wallow. Wallowed on the couch, wallowed in my bed. Wallowed like a champion! On Tuesday I woke up feeling better. And hungry! Wallowing kills the appetite. </p><p>Here’s my shoutout to a few people: the besties, of course, who once again had to deal with a smaller but still pretty mighty mental crisis from me. Luckily they are experienced in this sort of situation and know how to handle it. They know that my first and most visceral reaction to news of major change is a doozy. It’s panic laced with fear, tinged with sadness. They listened. Which was what I really needed. They tried to calm me, which I also really needed. And last night, there was a quick dinner at the Anchor Bar for fish and chips which is ALWAYS NEEDED. </p><p>Second shoutout is to my babies. My kids. I sent out a group text telling them and in their sweet, individual ways they commiserated. One son replied simply, “Damn.” Another asked if this meant I’d start looking into finally buying a house. Yet another immediately began researching grants and loans for first time home buyers. And the very practical one made a list of To Do’s for his mom. It’s been said before but it always bears repeating: these kids are such gifts. I love them way beyond the moon and back. </p><p>Third shoutout? My therapist. As luck would have it, we had an appointment scheduled for Tuesday and she not only talked me off the ledge, she managed to pull me back and zoom out on the myopic dystopian vision I’d created in my head. </p><p>Because, as I’m learning in therapy (OMG I’m learning so much you guys, it’s incredible) we are made up of many parts. When she first brought this up and had me acknowledge my different parts it was super awkward and I actually thought to myself <i>“what is this woo shit and how can I pretend to go along with it?”</i>. But I’ll be damned. She was right. And this shit, woo or not? It’s working. </p><p>One of my parts is the same chick who, 12 years ago, was penniless and about to be homeless with four grade school aged kids. She (me, lol, it’s still hard for me to do this) ran on pure fear and adrenaline for years. She’s the part who freezes when danger is detected. This is the part of me that instantly decided I was going to be homeless and living in my car with a 16 year old dog. This is the part of me that threw her hands up in the air and said “Enough. I’m done. I cannot do this again.” Because she is stuck back there. Iced in a frozen lake of uncertainty, unable to do much more than pound on that impenetrable, frigid surface with reddened cold fists. She is permanently afraid. And with good reason, you know?</p><p>So the therapist had me try to get allll the parts together to help that one. And it sort of worked. The scales were lifted from my eyes, so to speak, and I was able to step back and see that all is not lost. I’m still fucking terrified, but not in an “end of times” sort of way. More like “this is going to be a challenge but it’s not impossible and most likely, will not lead to me and Walter sharing the tiny Subaru <i>(what? A Subaru? Yes! All of my parts got a new(er) car. Details later, I promise. Can’t wait to introduce you to Lil Prezzy)</i>. </p><p>So my assignment was to honor and hold this part for all the grief and fright she’s carried for allll the parts allll these years. And to understand why that part is like this. </p><p>Trauma brain is real. And it’s freaking wild. </p><p>Also: I’m not too proud to admit that for a few thankfully brief moments I went back to Divorce Rage. Yep, who knew that I could still muster up some anger towards that dusty monster who put me and the kids into such a precarious situation all those years ago? Okay so we all knew but still. It was weird to have his face pop into my brain again. I thought of his stupid self and his stupid wife sitting in their stupid million dollar home without worrying about packing up and finding shelter and leaving what has become comfortable and secure. But then I remembered that I have a heart. One that works. And I let that shit go. Cue the song, I guess. </p><p>Today I’m okay. Today this news still hurts, still pokes with cold fingers, still whispers “the end is nigh, bitch” but today I’m able to understand and cope better than the day before. That’s what those of us in the therapy world call PROGRESS 😂</p><p>Oh, about the pic at the top of the post: it popped up in my Facebook memories the day after sweet Dave gave me the news about the house. I don’t remember under what context I had saved it, or if I even shared it anywhere. But it came along just when it was needed. </p><p>I am low key dreading the rest of this chapter. Going to keep reading, though. I hope you’ll join me. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-24695075088977358972021-11-17T08:26:00.001-06:002021-11-17T08:26:50.434-06:00Little Ditty ‘Bout My Martini Glass<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3fVDqYvmgwTNPT4OY1ZAtQY4Aclsn6-K2a6W153eXLOW4SbYGYwq-H4eLvC2oSGQYBRTRnfOKRQCBwmsf8yqL3swjpIqYAgFILmoIlbp64nFPHclQiez4_2dgML21hb-cgim3MmX-KOa/s2048/CAB70BD4-D941-4FB3-8602-AF27A9DC7D72.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx3fVDqYvmgwTNPT4OY1ZAtQY4Aclsn6-K2a6W153eXLOW4SbYGYwq-H4eLvC2oSGQYBRTRnfOKRQCBwmsf8yqL3swjpIqYAgFILmoIlbp64nFPHclQiez4_2dgML21hb-cgim3MmX-KOa/w236-h315/CAB70BD4-D941-4FB3-8602-AF27A9DC7D72.jpeg" width="236" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Ahhh. There it is. That’s my martini glass. THE martini glass. It’s a single solitary glass, not part of a set. I found it at a thrift store (SHOCKER) for less than a dollar, a few years back. </p><p>It’s solid. It has heft. Girth 😂. It’s simple and serves a purpose and while it’s not something I’d grab if the house caught fire in the middle of the night, it is something I’d grab if there was a smallish disaster and we had time to go back in.</p><p>You all know me by now, so you are painfully aware that I put a lot of significance in random everyday objects. The bowl! A box of hodgepodge paperwork. An old alarm clock. What can I say? In this whackadoo brain of mine, pretty much everything has a degree of meaning and sometimes, a story. </p><p>Here’s the story of my martini glass.</p><p>Last year, my dad was dying. He was in hospice at his home, and despite a number of years of estrangement, I was welcomed back into the fold to help Dad get through his last task on this planet. I was honored- felt lucky to be there. And those 7 weeks were the hardest and best and saddest and most love-filled days I have been through. </p><p>And I doubt I would have made it through if it weren’t for my two besties. Cringe! Old lady using dated slang! LOL. But, my besties are truly that. My bitches, the three musketeers, whatever you want to call them…they’re the best. They know the absolute worst about me, and still want to hang out. They deal with my incessant texts about the asshole in my neighborhood who cannot stop blowing his leaves. They talk me off the ledge at least once a week. They trust me. I trust them. </p><p>So, these besties and I have a years and years-long tradition of reserving Friday nights for each other. For real, I’m sitting here trying to remember when Fridays became Homie Night but it’s just…always been? </p><p>To quote those feathered foxes of Loverboy on MTV circa 1981, Everybody’s Workin for the Weekend and our little cluster of three is no exception. Sometimes, the only thing that gets me through the week is that sparkly, twinkling, far-away glint called Friday Happy Hour. Whether we’re in my living room or in a cozy booth at Yard House, it is one of the highlights of the week.</p><p>So- back to hospice. Although I didn’t make every Happy Hour during those weeks, I did attend a couple. One night, about halfway through Dad’s ordeal, we decided to go to this amazing Thai place, Lemongrass. It’s been one of our favorites for ages because the food is SO GOOD. Seriously. Locals? They’re takeout only now but may I recommend the Pad Thai, the Lemongrass Special Fried Rice and the Wild Curry (with fried tofu OMG). Ha! It’s currently 6:30 a.m. and I’m longing for it. </p><p>Anyway. There <i>is</i> one thing I don’t like about Lemongrass: they don’t have proper martini glasses. Part of the Friday ritual, for me, is a dirty martini. Extra olives and if they have some blue cheese all up in them, even better. But please, for the purists, have a decent glass. The ones they use are those weird little bowl types, not sure what their official name is but they’re hard to drink out of and the aesthetics are just plain wrong. </p><p>That Friday, I was spent. Emotionally, physically, every-ally. And I wanted a martini out of a normal glass. So, I wrapped my beloved thrift store glass in some tissue and stuck it in a little gift bag (happy Friday from me to me lol). I’m sure it’s against rules and weird archaic Minnesota laws or something, but with everything else in my world doing a slo-mo crash and burn, all I wanted was a good filthy martini sipped out of a passable martini glass. I figured the worst they could say is “Nah”. And I’d still be shoving noodles in my face so that was an acceptable loss. I’m all about the risk-taking, you guys. </p><p>We were seated and were catching up with each other when the server approached our table. The other two gave their orders and then it was my turn. I pulled out the gift bag and withdrew the glass. “Okay” I began, “this is going to sound weird but I have a small favor to ask.” And as I quickly summed up, well, EVERYTHING I of course started to weep. </p><p>This is where many servers would likely roll their eyes or go on autopilot and start questioning their life choices. But our server…she also got misty eyed. She said, and I’m kind of spacing out what exactly took place, but something along the lines of “you can certainly pour your drink into that glass when nobody is looking”. She put her hand on my shoulder, not in a creepy no-boundaries way but in a kind, loving manner.</p><p>And that’s what I did. Super stealthily, I’m sure. But it did happen and out of all the shit that went down during those agonizing weeks, this memory stands out. </p><p>Oh, and that server? She also insisted on buying the martini for me. Yes, I cried some more. The tears are always on call, people. Always ready! </p><p>One thing I’m learning in therapy is how our brains work. Mine, in particular, works differently than most due to the stacks of trauma that are stored in there. I’d like to think that even without having gone through what I’ve gone through, my brain would still be a little quirky. A bit unconventional. </p><p>Attaching emotion and memories to just about every object in one’s life is surely the basis for every episode of Hoarders but I think it’s also a way for people like me to remember when life didn’t hurt. When something as innocuous as a heavy secondhand glass holds not only my beloved cocktail but also a reminder of the kindness that exists in this volatile world.</p><p><br /></p><p>Cheers, friends. </p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">PS yes that’s the fabulous Hannah Waddingham in Ted Lasso on the television. I’m rewatching it. We’ll chat about that later.</span></p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-71623561391501239932021-10-28T09:35:00.001-05:002021-10-28T09:43:43.862-05:00Middle Aged Woman, Interuppted<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPxzqjImFotexPZFKN9V6TgsJrxOFbfwn8dTNGfjYb6HaifarPuYFsMAAXlvMuhMJIYAVT44RjFfjkI8ZR8xTx0TSgsWaKcxuuYnEz7Qf9tul0O9ebT1tSCCbMfXMbJmjnWCJcOHlwF0tq/s300/D17195B3-112A-419F-BC4C-EFD8E8441C19.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="240" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPxzqjImFotexPZFKN9V6TgsJrxOFbfwn8dTNGfjYb6HaifarPuYFsMAAXlvMuhMJIYAVT44RjFfjkI8ZR8xTx0TSgsWaKcxuuYnEz7Qf9tul0O9ebT1tSCCbMfXMbJmjnWCJcOHlwF0tq/w374-h300/D17195B3-112A-419F-BC4C-EFD8E8441C19.jpeg" width="374" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Oh hey there! It’s been a minute, right? I know this is the part where I present the binder full of excuses, and fill you in on everything that’s been happening since…yikes, when was my last post here? Just checked. Since October 22, 2020. </p><p>A year.</p><p>365 days! Actually, 370-ish days. Oof. </p><p>As I was saying, this would be the point in the post where I tell you why I quit writing. Why I suddenly stopped posting on the Hausfrau facebook page (aka Jennifer Ball, Writer)(lol). </p><p>That would be a waste of your time, and quite frankly, mine as well. I’m going to do something very uncharacteristic and just jump in like we’ve been hanging out together here uninterrupted, okay? This has been said before but my god I miss writing and I miss hearing from you five or six dedicated readers and honestly I really miss unloading my never ending brain dialogue here. Are any of you like that? Do you have a constant narration going in your head? Maybe it’s just me. </p><p>Anyway. Hi. </p><p>I’m currently on a long term disability leave from work. And as grifty as that makes me feel (it probably sounds griftier than that) it’s something that has been a long time coming, and something that has been desperately needed for a while. I keep telling myself, “that’s why they have these policies in place, ding dong, stop feeling guilty” but as some of you know, guilt rides shotgun most days. And on the days someone else like anxiety or self loathing is in that spot, she’s in the backseat. </p><p>I didn’t get physically injured. I’m still healthy in body. Mind? Ooooh my friends. </p><p>I am not okay. And probably haven’t been for a very long time. </p><p>Don’t misunderstand; it’s not like I had an obvious breakdown. I wasn’t screaming in the middle of town square, I didn’t strip naked and run down the aisles of Costco (although that would be a hell of a way to get those spanakopita sample gobblers out of the way, right?). I didn’t try to harm myself or anyone else. </p><p>This was a quiet one. It was conceived ages ago and the gestation was finally complete this summer. Let me tell ya, labor was a bitch.</p><p>I am tired of the word TRIGGER for a plethora of reasons but it’s applicable in this case. There was definitely a trigger, a defining moment. If we’re going to continue along with the pregnancy analogy, what happened this past June was the membranes being stripped and me being sent home to see how thing progressed.</p><p>Not sure of the legalities or confidentiality of disclosing the event that pushed me over the edge, but here at the Hausfrau blog it’s always been “my story, my truth, my right to tell it” (remember when my ex found this little confessional? Yeah, I became an armchair attorney after that, ha). And I am a public school employee and as far as I know, our employment contracts are not private. So. Here’s the scoop.</p><p>I’ve written before about how I love my job. That’s the truth. I do. Being a school secretary might sound like a dead end road to a lot of people, like a meaningless and low-end career. It kind of is, but it also isn’t. It is not a way to wealth but it is a way to connection with community, with families, with amazing kids and the best coworkers anyone could want. It provides excellent health insurance and until recently, stability and security. </p><p>Pretty sure I’ve written here before about the challenges of making ends meet on a secretarial income. It’s not always easy. And that was before Covid. </p><p>Our entire work landscape has been mutating and been reinvented since the country came to a slow motion halt in March of 2020. Almost everyone I know has had some significant change in how or where or what they do to earn a living. </p><p>In our school district, we were sent home. And stayed there until the next school year began. It was, as all of you know, surreal and unsettling and more than a little scary. I mean, who could have called this one? A pandemic? Yes, there were scientists and researchers and doctors warning us about this for years but surely I’m not the only one who thought that was a worst-case, dystopian scenario. HAVE YOU WATCHED CONTAGION? 😂</p><p>So, during the lockdown, we stayed home like we were supposed to be. We checked our emails, we texted, the badass teachers learned how to teach virtually overnight. We stumbled along and somehow made it through. During that time our little clerical contract was being negotiated. Communication was spotty. The people in the association let us know, periodically, how it was going. And then it was settled. Boom. End of story.</p><p>Only, there was one very small but very significant change made. We have always received a bonus of sorts, in our last school year paycheck. It’s not Tesla buying money, but for people who are not paid a heck of a lot, it certainly came in handy. Especially for me, since my summer position had been eliminated due to Covid and a restructured summer program. The summer job was one I’d had for years, a full time gig that kept the paychecks coming. And one that, after I had to fight for a couple years, provided me with vacation days and extra sick days. </p><p>During negotiations that bonus was restructured and renamed. No longer a bonus, it became a stipend. A restriction on who was eligible for the <strike>bonus</strike> stipend was written in. It had historically been for <u>all</u> full-time employees. 30 hours a week or more, you are considered full-time. Which I’ve been for years. </p><p>They added a single line in the contract, specifically under the stipend section, that only people working 1300 hours or more would receive the stipend. It stated “full time employees working over 30 hours a week + 1300 hours a year are eligible”. Yes, I probably should have known exactly how many hours I work. But come on. We were under stay-at-home orders, there was a shitshow countrywide division happening, my dad died, menopause hit, I HAD COVID, the world was basically on fire. </p><p>Anyway. I ended up only working around 1260 hours in the 20-21 school year. Yep. I missed it by less than a couple weeks of work. And that was due to my hours being involuntarily cut. So. No stipend, bonus, whatever you want to call it…I didn’t get it.</p><p>For the record, I was okay without it. Thanks to my side hustle, Poshmark, I had been able to survive a second summer of no work (summer of 2020 I did file for unemployment which was another red tape rodeo but we can gab about that later). I was okay but I was concerned and upset. It didn’t feel ethical. It didn’t feel like the “kind, equitable, empathetic” values that our district espouses. </p><p>It felt a lot like the tactics my ex enlisted during our divorce. </p><p>Knock knock!</p><p>Who’s there?</p><p>Trigger.</p><p>Already in a stressed, anxious state of mind, the stipend circus and the gaslighting responses I received not only opened the little trapdoor to the years of well-hidden and not-so-well-hidden trauma and fear and anger and all of the other feelings I’d managed to stuff away, it ripped that goddam door right off its freaking hinges. </p><p>You know the scenes in horror movies when portals to hell or other demonic spaces open wide and a howling, ethereal parade of ghosts and goblins flow out like neon green lava? That was basically my brain in June of 2021. </p><p>It was not a good time. It felt like reliving all of the past shit: the bruises and shattered trust left by my gross stepdad. The gut punch of being left to care for four little kids with no job, no money. The crappy relationships with my parents. Being lied to and shit on by people who were supposed to be on my side, who were supposed to care for, and love me.</p><p>It was a summer of depression. Of nightmares. Flashbacks. Panic. It was a summer where I felt as if life was no longer working for me and I pondered my options. I had a plan, one that thankfully I was either too scared or too brave to follow through with. </p><p>And as the coming school year drew closer, these feelings intensified. My friends and family were becoming increasingly concerned. The two women I’ve been blessed with as besties confessed to me, at a later time, that they had considered finding emergency assistance for me. Sleep was a joke: like a newborn I slept in tiny increments and woke to cry and feed at all hours. Panic attacks sprang up at really fun times, like on my daily walks with Walter, and while driving. </p><p>I decided that it was finally, finally time to deal with me. </p><p>For the past however many years- 40 have passed since I last ducked under my bed to avoid the punches of a monster, 12 or so have slid by since losing everything but my life and my kids in a nightmare divorce- I’ve done a decent job of pretending. Pretending that I’m okay. I’m tough! I’m resilient! I’m Miss Jenny, dammit! Dogs love me, kids love me, I had everyone fooled. Nobody really knew what was always there, just out of sight beneath the masks of Brave Single Mom or Always Happy Secretary. Plucky Survivor, lol. My goodness I had a veritable Halloween store, didn’t I? </p><p>Well. That’s over. No more masks. No more pretending. No more burying feelings like a dog hiding treats in the yard. </p><p>After a false start and a ridiculously long waiting period, I’ve found a therapist who is trained to deal with PTSD and other traumas. I’m abiding by my employment contract and taking advantage of the policies that are in place to assist with situations like mine. </p><p>For the first time, in what feels like a lifetime, I’m taking care of me. </p><p>It feels so weird and so good to be in this little corner of the internet again. </p><p>Thank you for being here with me. </p><p>❤</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-85180088500616894622020-10-22T09:19:00.001-05:002020-10-22T12:07:35.981-05:00I really CAN quit you, Facebook!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16OvJHWpqT7D0G2OfV5dSHLlo1mJOSYYY8cvRd1AYfdRmaBilF5iVlArV9eXd6sNzRoUnzk9RJnO91VKLRKq_7ugO5IYePbTGpluibBAbplSkaz5XkOjEBGakSj-ckAoQZP5YmDTGMDBe/s1280/maxresdefault.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg16OvJHWpqT7D0G2OfV5dSHLlo1mJOSYYY8cvRd1AYfdRmaBilF5iVlArV9eXd6sNzRoUnzk9RJnO91VKLRKq_7ugO5IYePbTGpluibBAbplSkaz5XkOjEBGakSj-ckAoQZP5YmDTGMDBe/s320/maxresdefault.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p>Come sit next to me, little ones, while I regale you with the tale of Facebook.</p><p>Oh! The days of yore when it was a seemingly benign place for people to gather. We tended our make-believe farms, posted lengthy "10 Things You Probably Didn't Know About Me" notes, friended that guy we drank chocolate milk with in kindergarten and answered promptly when Facebook asked us <i>what's on your mind?</i> even if what was on our mind was something as banal as how tired/hungry we were or "watching CSI".<br /></p><p>My babies, it was FUN. It was bonding and millions of us reconnected with long-ago friends, shared pics and updates with Aunts and Uncles and followed our favorite celebs. Personally, it helped me through the dark post-divorce times. As cringey as my vintage status updates are, reading them now is a not-so-gentle reminder of the hell that my life was for a long time and how much love friends gave. </p><p>Facebook grew. And like a baby who once elicited gentle oohs and ahhs, it became a tantrum-prone toddler: still cute but my gosh super annoying at times. The toddler stage came and went, and we hung on for the ride. It became less about staying in touch with everyone and more about taking stances, advertising and living that Fakebook life. We joked and collectively yiked when our conversations off of the internet spurred suggestions and ads about the very things we had mentioned in supposed-privacy. </p><p>Facebook became less fun and more stressful. At least, that's how it was for me. </p><p>It was also addicting. It was often the very first app I checked in the mornings, and it wasn't uncommon for scarily large chunks of time to slip away while I scrolled, commented and liked. It was almost ritualistic, the initial check of notifications, answering (or sometimes not answering, lol) the messages, checking up on people we were worried about or crushing on or disagreeing with. I found myself turning to Facebook when I was feeling cagey or ragey or bitchy. </p><p>Do you remember the first time someone you thought you knew, someone you thought you liked unconditionally, posted something that shocked you? I'm not talking about someone who admitted they loved Hallmark Christmas movies or preferred black licorice over red. I mean something that at the time seemed uncharacteristic, like another personality had taken over their profile.</p><p>I'm trying to recall the first time I did one of those cartoon gasps, when a "friend" publicized something that took me by surprise. I can't think of the original OMG moment but whoa- there were many more to follow. </p><p>Politics. It started with the politics, naturally. It was one thing when someone declared their hatred for the Green Bay Packers, something entirely different when that ire was directed at a group of people based on their political leanings. And when it turned towards race/religion? Ugh. </p><p>We learned how to unfollow, how to mute chats, how to block and sometimes, how to unfriend. I have always prided myself on being Little Miss Sunshine, the uniter, the glass-half-full person. Switzerland! Why can't we all just get along? But it became increasingly harder to be that person. I found myself fighting with friends and strangers, pretending to be a hardass when inside I'm the softest ass you'll ever meet. </p><p>I was judged, and I judged right back. Facebook became a boxing ring instead of the inviting front porch it had always been. </p><p>There was still fun to be had, though. I started a private group, The Porch, which quickly filled up with fellow divorce survivors and supporters (hey porchers!!! I miss you all!!). The public Happy Hausfrau page was a little oasis from the pettish din. I started a weekly Meme Roundup and Friday mornings quickly became my favorites as I posted meme after meme. People commented and liked and shared and we LOLOLOLed together and it was a blast. </p><p>But even the meme roundup became stained with acrimony. And when the meme roundup became more of a chore than anything else, I realized it was time to step back.</p><p>When clicking on that innocent little blue and white icon filled me with trepidation over what I'd find in the notifications rather than that old timey excitement, I knew a choice had to be made. And it wasn't because I wanted to bury my head in the sand and pretend that life is a gd walk in the park. It was self-protection. </p><p>Some of us are able to scroll past the stinky stuff. To ignore the baiting and the lying and the downright awfulness. I'm not one of those people. I'm a sponge, you guys. Whatever I'm around gets soaked up, absorbed. Both good and bad. It's not the worst trait but it's a doozy. Especially when our world is such a raging cluster of vein-popping scream-fests and hills that are so NOT worth dying on. </p><p>And so, a day after my birthday, I removed the app from my phone. Yes I'm laughing about how dumb that sounds but it was harder than you might think. The worst of it was my writing stuff. Even though writing has become more of "used to" thing with me, it was good to be in touch with fellow bloggers and editors and fans. I've been threatening to write a book for what feels like centuries now, and it sucks that unless you have a preformed fan-base, an influential platform, you are almost certainly doomed to fail. For that reason I didn't delete my pages. <i>(okay also because it's a hell of a time capsule, right?)</i></p><p>Breaking up with Facebook was easier than I thought it would be. Also harder in ways I hadn't anticipated. I worry that people who only knew me through that particular realm would think I just fell off the face of the earth or worse, cut ties. The temptation to log back in has been real. But I've resisted. My rebounds have been twitter and Instagram. Twitter for the bitchy days and Instagram for the warm fuzzy ones. </p><p>Some days, I miss it. But in this case, absence isn't making the heart grow fonder. It's making my heart happier. </p><p>Maybe, juuuust maybe, after the election and if we get a handle on the 'rona, I'll check back in. I'm sure my beloved aunt has tagged me in countless wine memes, Scary Mommy comment sections are still rife with combat and high school friends are still posting scary/hilarious conspiracy theories. That FOMO feeling is fading with each passing day, though. It's refreshing to not have that weird compulsion to check in on the Facebook and see what's happening. </p><p>I miss it, but I don't. </p><p>It's also really nice to be back here again ❤</p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-91277738191002324172020-10-18T11:20:00.001-05:002020-10-22T12:28:13.558-05:00Hospice Post Follow Up: yeah there was some wine involved<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzWg3nqD1aNWA8OWgBAZs0MArZ8yRJQriU0aWFM4VVO2KGD_PpDJgtjW6nikJlljHEUzRbcK3PzC60bmFQ4EfY1ftubnhiSbKXVO8EXDCOCXTAUYO_AZaPmy7zClqlfZsJP9yCUq6ialRq/s2048/3e1555b5097e2ed1134d9fa6315ae19a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzWg3nqD1aNWA8OWgBAZs0MArZ8yRJQriU0aWFM4VVO2KGD_PpDJgtjW6nikJlljHEUzRbcK3PzC60bmFQ4EfY1ftubnhiSbKXVO8EXDCOCXTAUYO_AZaPmy7zClqlfZsJP9yCUq6ialRq/s320/3e1555b5097e2ed1134d9fa6315ae19a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p>You know how it goes, after a night of grief-wining, you check to make sure you didn't leave any messes...physical and/or otherwise. </p><p>Texts: all good, no regrets there!</p><p>Social media: phew. One twitter post that thankfully didn't get past the draft stage.</p><p>Kitchen: as clean as it gets, LOL. </p><p>Dog: still alive and flatulent.</p><p>Ooh but wait...</p><p>Blog: Ahh. There it is. My first post in eons and it was the love child of chilled rose and the always-fun Saturday night sobs.</p><p>I mean, I've posted worse completely sober so I'll let it stay but I do have to offer apologies for several things: my redundant use of the phrase "here we are", for one. And a huge apology for any visuals you may have had when I mentioned a sex dream about Tucker Carlson. I'm not proud of that one.</p><p>I guess I should explain the politics thing a little better, now that I am upright, fed and able to string a few words together coherently.</p><p>Obviously I am still your favorite bleeding heart liberal divorced mommy blogger. I hope so, anyway. If anything about me has stayed the same, it's that I am unashamed to express my support for all things left-leaning. We've discussed it here before, I think, and we've all remained buddies (again, I hope so). </p><p>It's been argued that we, as liberals, should cut out any and all relationships with people who are trump supporters. I'm no longer on Facebook but it wasn't uncommon to read that someone had disowned family members because of who they voted for. I don't remember it being that way prior to 2016, at least in the bubble I live in currently. Friends and family didn't like Obama but aside from one particularly loathsome high school acquaintance I don't recall a whole lot of animosity. And from the racist assholes but those types are always around no matter who is running the country. They just had a much bigger target with Obama. </p><p>Trump has changed all of that. I'm not gonna get into the pointing of fingers over who has been the loudest and most divisive, but I will say that it still blows my mind that we're here in 2020. I find him to be a bad person and in general I don't like bad people. For me it was all the cheating he did on all of his wives. That was bad enough for me, let's not even start with allll the other stuff. </p><p>So it turns out my dad is not in the same political boat as me. I've spent days and nights at my dad's house and he watches Fox News. At first I was afraid. I was petrified. Oh wait that was Gloria Gaynor. Anyway. I really was uncomfortable hearing that in the background 24/7 but guess what: <b>my dad is literally on his deathbed.</b> If you think I'm going to try and get him all woke before he goes, nope. I disagree with all of it, every last bit of this current administration and their policies and all of the garbage they spew out by the second but I will not go down that road with my dad. I can and I will love him, love my new/old family and hope that they love me back despite our differing beliefs. </p><p>I will say this: holy propaganda. It's not a stretch to see how people have been brainwashed by this "news" outlet. Every single issue is BREAKING NEWS and ALERT!!! and nothing but high praise for 45 and his cronies. It's easy to see how people get sucked into it and start believing it. Raise your hand if you've ever considered buying something simply based on an advertisement...let's be real you most likely haven't pondered purchasing a Klan hat or a story about a wealthy guy in California dropping off not one but three macbook pros to a monocle-wearing computer repair guy in Delaware but still. It's marketing, baby, and sometimes it works. </p><p>Trump has destroyed so much. I can't let him destroy what's left of my time with dad.</p><p>Some clarification re: Tucker Carlson. So one night, we were all gathered in the living room where dad's hospital bed is set up. Fox News was on, and it happened to be Tucker's turn on the mic. Because I am me I said, "You know, he's not super awful looking. I mean, if you're into that kind of thing." And a Tucker conversation began. Henry, my 23 year old, mentioned that one of his friends went to school in DC and would see Tucker out and about sometimes. "He's short and round, ma. Not your type." (gosh I love my kids 😂). This led to an intense Google search to find out more about this thin-lipped talking head. We found out he is a trust fund baby, married to a walking J Crew ad and the father to four astoundingly good looking children. </p><p>My taste in men is legendarily awful. Not every time, but the majority of it for sure. I like 'em tall and funny and for some reason, Republican. It's not like that's what I seek, because if you know me I'm not out there seeking. It's what falls into my lap on occasion. I pictured Tucker Carlson, with floppy hair and a bow tie, on a taller, more athletic frame and I guess one of the exhausted neurons in my brain sent it down to the dream factory because there I was a few hours later, engaged in lustful acts with him. Hey, it's been a doozy of a few weeks, friends. I'm not myself. Or am I? </p><p>There ya go. Some explanation for a sloppy return to blogging. Thank you for being here. I promise to do more writing and less tippling in the future ❤</p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-64240207039091897022020-10-17T22:22:00.002-05:002020-10-22T12:23:14.076-05:00Hospice Notes: Chapter 1<p>Wow. Hello, friends.</p><p>Quick update to keep everyone up to speed.</p><p>I've quit Facebook. My dad is dying. I promised to write more so here we are.</p><p>Hospice, man. It's a trip. Especially when the dying person is your dad with whom you've had a very estranged, very strange, relationship. </p><p>My dad is a good man. He really is. Our estrangement was over something so stupid and so petty that I'm uncomfortable discussing it but here we are. I've come to find out that the silent treatment is nothing new for this branch of my family tree. My grandpa didn't speak to his brother for years following the death of their mom (my great-grandma Ruth). My dad and his brothers didn't speak for years following the death of their mom (my grandma Grace). This newfound knowledge made me both sad and happy. Sad because what a fucking legacy, ya know? Silent treatment. Grudges. A legacy that is a bit different from freckles or stubbornness. Happy because it's good to know you're not an anomaly. Happy because I know this is not some weird out-of-the-blue characteristic that landed on my lap.</p><p>The history with my dad is like this: we had a great, normal, healthy thing happening for a long time. He was my hero. He was the quintessential daddy, the man we hope to have in our lives. The strong silent type who did the yardwork and who had a shop in the basement. The man who comforted my pathetic ass as I cried on the shag carpet over gazelles getting eaten on Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. The man who came down to my bedroom, sat on that pilly blue and white flowered blanket and held me while I wept after hearing that mom and dad were getting a divorce. That was the first time I saw my dad cry.</p><p>After the divorce things got weird and they got ugly. My mom had left him for her first cousin. Yep. Here we go, friends, curtains are being pulled back. I'm dragging out skeletons that haven't seen the light of day or internet. My mom had an affair with her cousin and she decided to leave my dad for him. In a perfect world, my brother and I would have ended up with my dad. In a perfect world, an abusive young man who had no business raising children wouldn't have ended up with two impressionable, sad kids who needed a dad. </p><p>In a perfect world, none of this would have happened. But we live in a beautifully imperfect world. </p><p>My mom raised us, my brother and I. And so did that monster. My dad tried, he tried really hard, to get custody of us but it was the 70's and back then unless the mother had been caught eating babies or whatever she got custody. My dad gave up and settled for whatever he could get. Which wasn't much, considering that my brother and I were being told over and over again what a horrible person our dad was. This is why, despite all I've been through, I will always give the dads the benefit of the doubt when hearing stories from women about divorce and exes and acrimonious relationships. I give them the benefit of the doubt until I hear all of the facts. I know that in most cases, these dads are truly shits and they don't want to be part of their children's lives but there is always the chance that they want to be there but they can't. </p><p>I know this is not always the case. I know that there are men who don't want to be there, who believe that kids are like razor blades or diapers and are truly disposable. Ask me how I know (LOL). But my dad did try. </p><p>Anyhoo. Here we are, dad and me. It's 2020. The world is a fiery dumpster shitshow and I got a call a couple months ago that he wasn't doing great and it would mean the world to him if my kids and I showed up to offer him support and love. We did. And he was happy.</p><p>Then I got a call, on my birthday of all days, that dad was dying. It was my stepsister and we sobbed together on the phone. Sobbed to the point of not being able to breathe. We took the first shaky steps to repair a lifetime of grudges and silent treatments and withholding of love and attention and just being there. </p><p>It was then that I decided to drop all of the shackles that had been constant companions for so many years. It was then that I cast my pride and my anxiety and my grudges aside and decided to be a daughter. </p><p>Nothing more. Nothing less. Just a daughter. A daughter whose dad was dying.</p><p>In the days since then, I've tried my hardest to be there for him. I've held his hand. I've slept on a loveseat just inches from his head, waking up when I hear a hiccup or a weird breath or anything that sounds like a distress call. I've helped him drink water. I've rubbed his back. I've talked with him in a dark quiet house and I've laid my head on his chest and begged for forgiveness and I've listened while he cried about our tattered relationship and how happy it's made him to have me there. </p><p>These minutes, these moments, they are priceless. They are gorgeous slivers of seconds in a timeline that is dotted with silence and blank spaces. We have joined forces, my dad and I. Together we have taken broken strands and rewoven them into a new and improved quilt of life and love. "You and me- we're back together and it makes me so happy" is what he said one night, tiny tears rolling down his gaunt cheeks while I gripped his hand, sobbing. Dad. My dad. Daddy.</p><p>I'm trying my best to reconnect with the family that was always there but also, never there. I'm hearing stories of what a good dad he has been, the memories of him being THAT GUY. The crusty dude who rarely cracked a smile but who was there nonetheless, the one who answered the phone late at night and who taught life lessons and who was always, always there. I didn't have that guy and it's hard for me to sit there and hear these stories. It's hard but I do it and love them for loving him. I love them for being lucky enough to be the recipients of this man's special brand of caring. Of his love. </p><p>It's hard. Oh shit you guys, it's SO HARD. My stepmom keeps telling me, "God put him in our lives for a reason" and it's so fucking hard to not cry out, "WHAT DID GOD HAVE AGAINST ME", ya know? Why would a good and loving God take him from us and give him to someone else? Does this mean my stepmom and her kids were more deserving of him? My brother and I were somehow not good enough, not special enough, not deserving? This is a long, crooked, winding road you guys. The thoughts in my head are so convoluted under the best of circumstances...this has been like a massive data dump and trying to process everything has been challenging. To say the least. </p><p>*<i>disclaimer: </i>I adore my stepmom and my stepsister/stepbrother. ADORE. They have welcomed me back without a second's hesitation and have been nothing but supportive. I am grateful to them for accepting the black sheep back into the fold ❤ I just have a lot of baggage to unpack and put away, ya know?</p><p>But I am not someone who takes shit. I'm not someone who rolls over, who turns the other cheek. I am me. I am that woman who has been through some tough stuff and who wants to make things right. </p><p>I. Am. Me. </p><p>I am his daughter. He is my dad. We have been given this awful opportunity, this rare gift of time. </p><p>Time to repair. Time to forgive. </p><p>Time to love.</p><p>I'm heartbroken. I'm grieving. I'm the saddest I've been in a long time.</p><p><br /></p><p>But I'm grateful. And I'm appreciating every second I get with my dad. Every laugh we have. Every tear shed. Every hand squeeze, every eye contact. Every word. I'm appreciating it and loving it and embracing it.</p><p>We've lost years. We've lost countless memories, pictures, snippets of time together. We'll never get those back, for sure, but oh my gosh. We've gained so much in the past few weeks. It's not the same as the filmstrip of memories my stepsister and stepbrother and all of the grandchildren have, not even close.</p><p>It's what we have. It's golden chunks of time. It's a chance to make things right. </p><p><br /></p><p>It's a gift. And I'm unwrapping this gift slowly, trying to encapsulate every single second of it. I know that this will not end perfectly. It will not end happily. But I am determined to make the best of it. </p><p>It's also been a learning experience, my friends. I'm learning as this experience unfolds. Learning about differences and tolerance and understanding.</p><p>I've watched Fox News for the first time. I've had a sex dream about Tucker Carlson. </p><p>Shit has gotten weird, friends. </p><p>Stay tuned. Promise there's more to come.</p><p><br /></p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-53027533467959343692020-08-16T17:56:00.000-05:002020-08-16T17:56:06.238-05:00The Tears of a (white) Clown<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpVX6k53oC6ZoTTTdE4Ra44B2SlLpMNFGmun1iY19XROkVRePMUYThuMwZ_3j2-SQJnLiezw3t1LFaVdjRlZdipTVkUvxX9I7mCRB2WvS5aN8c14hNu2eBZyLCrv34Xk7g2jFBX14t3mOz/s2856/file5461278456243.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1793" data-original-width="2856" height="258" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpVX6k53oC6ZoTTTdE4Ra44B2SlLpMNFGmun1iY19XROkVRePMUYThuMwZ_3j2-SQJnLiezw3t1LFaVdjRlZdipTVkUvxX9I7mCRB2WvS5aN8c14hNu2eBZyLCrv34Xk7g2jFBX14t3mOz/w410-h258/file5461278456243.jpg" width="410" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Wow. So the last time we chatted, I had run into a colleague from the past who nudged me about this blog. About writing in general. As we parted ways I had a spring in my step, a fire in my belly, a bag of poop in my hand...dog poop, remember I was walking Walter.</p><p>And you guys, I did feel inspired. That old tickle came back, the one that I imagine is caused by the words and the stories that are dying to get out of my head. "Dammit" I thought to myself. "I do want to get back at it. Okay, let's do this." </p><p>I had a draft or two started, and was gearing up to go full blown blogger again, when tragedy struck.</p><p>George Floyd. </p><p>He was murdered about 8 miles from the very spot where I sit here with the ancient laptop and play writer. Eight miles. The outrage and the grief turned Minneapolis into a burning epicenter of protests, demonstrations and yep, riots. </p><p>I closed the laptop because at that chunk of time, the last thing anyone wanted to hear was a middle aged white woman babbling on about tv shows and quarantine weight. </p><p>It wasn't time for me to write or speak. It was time for me to listen and try to help. And so I did. </p><p>George has been laid to rest, his killer(s) are in custody. Racism is still going strong but I am hopeful that some eyes have been opened, including mine. A lot of us white people think we're pretty freaking woke but I'll tell ya what: we're still snoozing, my friends. There is a lot to do, so much to learn and omg so much to unlearn. </p><p>I had a little wake up call when I posted something on this blog's <a href="https://www.facebook.com/TheHappyHausfrau" target="_blank">Facebook page</a>. Every Friday I post a meme roundup. At this point I don't remember how it started but honestly it was the only real way I had to mark time during the quarantine for a while. "Oh shit it's Friday isn't it? I have to do the memes." I was like the Dunkin' Donuts guy from the old timey commercials except instead of "time to make the donuts" it was "time to post the memes". </p><p>Anyway. So obviously it wasn't the right time to post memes, you know? Instead I posted a pic of Minneapolis in flames and said something like "no memes today, our city is burning". Well. A follower on the page, who happened to be a Black woman, called me out. And did so with great gusto and ferocity. Her grief and her rage were tangible in her words as she took my ass to task for not addressing WHY the city was on fire. She let me have it and I was defensive, so defensive. I think I swore at her in my reply. I cried- tears of a white clown. Because SHE WAS RIGHT. I sat with her scathing criticism for a bit and let it sink in. SHE WAS RIGHT. Why didn't I say why Minneapolis looked like Dante's Inferno? Why didn't I use my platform, my admittedly tiny platform, to call attention to the atrocity that had taken place 8 miles from where my big ass sits and scrolls through the Netflix menu and where I complain about the toxic farts my ancient dog lets rip 24/7?</p><p>I'll tell you why: because I was, and honestly still am, scared. Scared to rock the boat, scared to speak up, scared to stir the pot, scared to offend people. Chicken. Cowardly. </p><p>But I'm trying to change. I am speaking up, I'm trying to use my voice to help open up some more eyes.</p><p>If you've been here for a while, you know this about me: I'm a people pleaser. I'm Switzerland, I'm the one who likes to smooth feathers, not ruffle them up. Okay, yeah, I've given my ex and his lady friend some shit, along with a few unfortunate dudes. But in general? My Minnesota Nice is almost as thick as my Minnesota accent. </p><p>I joke about it, about the Lutheran Libra who will say something funny and then offer up a drink or snack. The one who tries to diffuse tension vs acknowledging the bleeding and screaming elephant in the room. We can blame my upbringing for this, we can blame centuries of white DNA, we can blame it on the rain. </p><p>I'm changing. There's not much I can do about being Minnesotan, there's nothing I can do about being white or a Libra. But there is so much I can do about everything else. </p><p>That woman, the one who let me have it on Facebook? I reached out to her, privately, and apologized. And thanked her, profusely, for taking the time to school me. In the middle of one of the most important civil rights movements in our history, she stopped grieving and fighting and tried to pry open my stupid eyes. I think we ended on good terms. I sure hope we did. </p><p>And so, now you know why I didn't check back in here for a while. It was learning time. And it will be, for a lot longer. </p><p>Don't worry, if things work out and that tickle is still tickling and the laptop holds up and I keep running into Ellen, there will be more action on this page. I'll still talk about life after divorce and what it's like to be alone during a fucking pandemic (oh yes we are so totally going to talk about the "hahah omg i want to smother my husband" stuff, I promise). We will talk about how I'm pre-mourning the loss of my beloved dog and how my unemployment hasn't kicked in yet (no paycheck since June...oh honey we will totes talk about that). For sure we'll talk about my angel landlord, the 12 pounds I've gained and what skills I hope to hone before the Civil War starts. I'd love to talk about the anxiety I have about my orchids. And how my friends and I have become Poshmark obsessed (and maybe how it kept a roof over my head this summer). Ooh and we can talk about kids growing up and being ADULTS and tv shows and how much I miss going to movies. </p><p>But we're also gonna talk about Black lives. About how they matter and about the racism we white people have to drag out into the daylight and stomp to death. </p><p>I owe it to that beautiful woman who kicked my ass, virtually. I owe it to the Black people I know and love. I owe. And so that's where we're at here on this dusty old blog. </p><p>Black lives matter. I'm trying to be a better person. I'm trying to be an ally. </p><p>I'm trying. </p><p>I also really can't stand trump. But we can talk about that later, too. 😉</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-7017042004036618092020-05-24T21:12:00.000-05:002020-05-24T21:12:18.156-05:00Sidewalk Nuggets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-d8SbNJrppQ20jdgO_10fC8-G2i9SpT-ruHIM90sOzmzEjDPUS1S8kGtj55d259nlnL_yg3jnqsRob8ywdgr5FHH3bOSgAvXVXPM5On-dqAz7fQvXRhW3TKh1PezYkBC8STEpsEnTCFxC/s1600/waltersidewalk.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-d8SbNJrppQ20jdgO_10fC8-G2i9SpT-ruHIM90sOzmzEjDPUS1S8kGtj55d259nlnL_yg3jnqsRob8ywdgr5FHH3bOSgAvXVXPM5On-dqAz7fQvXRhW3TKh1PezYkBC8STEpsEnTCFxC/s1600/waltersidewalk.jpeg" /></a></div>
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A few days ago, I was out on my daily quarantine walk with Walter. Back in the PC days (pre Covid, ya know), I used to feel anxious when the tiny outline of an oncoming person would appear on the horizon. The whole eye-contact thing: <i>do I look them in the eye as we approach each other? no that's fucking creepy, Jenny. A small sideways glance as we pass? Ugh. LOOK DOWN. No that's rude. </i>By the time the person was actually within eye-contact distance I'd already worked myself into a small, silent frenzy and would usually end up giving them that weird muppet mouth grimace/smile.<br />
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Ahh. But these are the Covid days. The anxiousness is now a constant sidekick, the moment we step foot off our driveway and onto the gray cement sidewalk. Because now I worry about so much more than eye contact. <i>jesus they're awfully close, neither of us are masked up oh my gawd JUMP </i>and off I go into a tangle of tall weeds or into the bike lane (usually with the muppet grimace, some things haven't changed). </div>
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So this particular day, we were about a third of the way through our walk- half a mile from home. I saw another person and did the sane thing which that day was cross the street. I find it easier to do than leaping into thickets. As this person drew nearer, I realized it was someone I knew. Or rather, someone I used to know. A million years ago I worked in the cosmetic department of Dayton's in downtown Minneapolis. This was the early 90's, before I was married and when I still believed babies were abhorrent, noisy nightmares contained in ankle-cracking strollers. </div>
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We had a fun crew there at the ol' Prescriptives counter. There were four of us: me, the 20-something party girl; Kim, another 20-something but with a live-in boyfriend and more sense; April, yet another 20-something who modeled and dated older, wealthy men; and Ellen. Ellen was our resident makeup artist and unbeknownst to her, one of the wisest people I'd ever met. She was willowy, with a gorgeous thick, stick-straight shock of black hair that was streaked with silver. I remember so much about her, from the way she'd stand there, one hip leaning against the counter, arms folded with one slender hand curled under her chin, to the hypnotically rhythmic way she'd smash up the pigments we used to custom blend powder. </div>
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Ellen was married, with two young children. I'm sure she listened to the rest of us, with our tender Gen X tales of woe and joy, and internally shake her head. She dispensed wisdom, but not in a condescending, wise-old-owl way. No, her nuggets of worldly enlightenment often came at us stealthily, buried in the layers of small talk that we makeup ladies partook in during the slow moments of the day.</div>
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There was the time one of the girls from the Origins counter was fired after only two week's employment. Ellen and I were working, and as we observed the unfortunate employee being given the bad news (the cosmetics department was a cold place), Ellen leaned her hip against the counter and sighed, "Some people are just too soft for this world." Those words would pop into my head for years, in fact they still do. Oftentimes they pop into my head when I find myself crying over something like baby geese or the thought of my dog dying and I think <i>well I'll be damned! Ellen was right, some of us really are too soft for this awful world.</i></div>
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My time at the counter ended when my whirlwind relationship with Big Daddy got serious and we decided to move to the suburbs, together. I traded the makeup brushes for a folding board at The Gap, inside a bland mall across the street from our new apartment. After we had one kid and were expecting a second, we moved into my old childhood house that my dad still owned. Rented at first and then bought it from him. It was in a charming postwar neighborhood, and one night as we were pushing little Charlie around in our very own ankle-cracking stroller, I saw Ellen standing out in a yard. Yes, we were neighbors around-the-block, and after we caught up we'd say "hi" now and then but never much more than that. She was busy with her pre-teen kids and I, of course, was afloat in a sea of babies and toddlers and preschoolers. </div>
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After all the shit hit the fan with my marriage, and especially after losing that damn house, I never really saw Ellen anymore. </div>
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Until last week. </div>
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As Walter and I made our way up Glenwood Avenue, there was Ellen, making her way down. In the days of old, I most likely would have not even noticed it was her, what with the cuckoo inner monologue and all. But these are different days. These are the Covid days and I miss talking to people so damn much that I manage eye contact sometimes and that day I was feeling positive and kind of happy so as we passed on opposite sides of the street I exclaimed, "ELLEN!". She looked over, and I thumped my chest like mother effing Tarzan and said "Jenny!" (yes I'm laughing too because could I be any more awkward?). She smiled and we stood there, on our respective sides of the road and caught up a tiny bit. </div>
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Her gorgeous hair was still thick and straight but now it was completely silver, with a swoop of lavender. Other than that, she was the same. The same as she had been almost 30 years ago, one hip on the counter and her elegant hand perched under her chin. </div>
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Before we parted she said one more thing, and over the past few days I've come to realize that she is still a dispenser of wisdom, even in a setting as casual as a mid-morning sidewalk encounter. </div>
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She said:</div>
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"I really enjoy reading your blog."</div>
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Now, this isn't the first time someone has brought up this blog, or my writing, in casual conversation. It happens now and then. Not as frequently as it did when I was, you know, actually WRITING, but it does come up. My reactions vary a bit but are usually along the lines of "<i>oh that old thing? I never write anymore. I should do that more often..." </i>And then life goes on and I shove all thoughts of blogging and writing back into the dark dank corner of my heart where they've lived for a while now.</div>
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But something different happened when Ellen said those words to me. I don't know what it was, if it was her voice, or just that momentary clutch of time and air and sidewalk and plague or what...but something different happened. Oh, yes, of course I still mumbled something about <i>"oh yikes yeah I haven't written there in ages"</i> but more than that. Her words stuck, just like they did decades ago in that long-gone department store. This time it wasn't me, half listening while thinking about what I was going to wear to the bars that night, this time is was me, struggling to feel something...<b>anything</b>, out for a walk with my geriatric dog.</div>
<div>
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<div>
Ellen's words reminded me that once upon a time, I wrote. And that I loved doing it. </div>
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And so, reader(s?), here we are. That little sentence spoken by a long-ago colleague was the nudge I needed to do this. </div>
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You'd think two and half months of quarantine would have been enough of a nudge, huh? Turns out I just needed to hear someone say it.</div>
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So. Thank you, Ellen. For everything. </div>
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Buckle up, friends. We have a lot of catching up to do.</div>
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the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-67667218495561770872019-09-29T15:23:00.000-05:002019-09-29T19:57:58.307-05:00A Love Letter to Crappy Cars and the People who drive them<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Isn't it strange how some snatches of conversation, words another person have uttered somehow stay firm and fresh in your mind? Like our brains have a weird crisper drawer that houses seemingly random clips from years past?<br />
<br />
There's one bundle of words in my brain crisper that come out every once in a while despite several years passing. Not only do I recall the sentences, I can also remember the lighting of the room, where I was sitting and the face of the friend who produced them.<br />
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We were in my friend's living room, it was early evening and dusk was just lurking. My friend and I were perched on her couch, bodies turned towards each other and eyes facing out the large picture window which faced the street.<br />
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Another friend of mine was pulling up out there, in her old car. I am not a motorhead so forgive me for not knowing things like makes and models. The car was old, no question about it. Tiaras of rust adorned the wheel wells, various dents and dings on the teal blue paint job cast a pebbled texture over the hood and the door panels. We could hear her before we saw her, the trademark sound of an overtaxed muffler announcing her arrival.<br />
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My couch friend turned away from the window, looked at me and said:<br />
<br />
"That's her car?"<br />
<br />
She said this with a look of shock, almost horror, on her face. Looking back now, it's almost comical. Almost. I shrugged in response, as I mentioned above, cars are not my jam so I didn't really notice or care what my friends drove. "I guess?" I question/answered. She grimaced. I smiled and said, "What? It works, right?"<br />
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This friend pursed her lips, raised a brow and spoke again, the words going directly from her mouth into my head drawer:<br />
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"I judge people by their cars. Sorry."<br />
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I guess it didn't matter that our mutual friend had just gone through a gross divorce from a rough guy. I guess it didn't matter that our mutual friend was just now getting back on her feet and also trying to get two small kids on solid ground, either. I guess it didn't matter that given the choice between no transportation and transportation that isn't pretty, most women in that situation would say "HAND ME THE KEYS, HOMIE. I GOT A LIFE TO REBUILD."<br />
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At that moment in time, I was also rebuilding a life post-divorce. The shitshow part of my divorce hadn't happened yet, I was still floating on CEO alimony and clinging to the vestiges of a marriage to someone who had annual bonuses and who also loved keeping up with the Joneses.<br />
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My ride at that time was <a href="https://happyhausfrau.blogspot.com/2010/05/take-my-truckplease.html" target="_blank">the newest vehicle I'd ever driven</a>. A 2000 Ford Excursion my ex had picked up one night after work, on a whim. A whim and a loan of 25k. It had all the bells and whistles and also a gas tank the size of a hot tub. Which was all well and good whilst riding the wave of spousal maintenance and the last bits of guilt from a husband who left.<br />
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When both the guilt and the support disappeared (at the same time, imagine that), things became a bit more challenging. Maintaining a vehicle took a backseat to maintaining five lives and before I knew it, that sweet Excursion with the all-leather interior and butt-warmers and spacious third row seating began deteriorating. It was too big for the garages at both our family home and the new rental home the kids and I ended up in after the foreclosure, so the Minnesota winters took their toll. I put off oil changes in lieu of feeding my brood and extravagances such as new brake pads and tuneups were delayed until rent was paid.<br />
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That truck was a beast in the snow, though, and it held all my kids plus a few extra. It had a cargo hold that was the size of a small powder room. It was the vehicle that carried our dog home from the Humane Society and the one I had a legit backseat makeout session in with one of my first post-divorce dates.<br />
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And then one day, it died.<br />
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I was freaking out, of course, I mean...here I was, a hustling single parent with sports-playing, job-holding kids, groceries to get and my own patchworked, pieced-together full-time work schedule. My angel landlord offered to buy the dead Excursion for $5,000. I accepted and began the frantic search for new wheels.<br />
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That's when I began my life as the <a href="https://happyhausfrau.blogspot.com/2012/02/my-ex-husband-is-asshole.html" target="_blank">driver of a crappy car</a>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUYodFTNsJTZ8AbCskhG-DyTA-DpVGNN4JuAksFpXSSW7GO4jkiMY_boTOB3wlIBnfvdkWNKp62LQ-TgCWrNX6Y7f1rAJcT5YPKvfR9MH2T5xzfgbRYURKjLOXdEEmwO92eoFe-Xc3DW6-/s1600/focussy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUYodFTNsJTZ8AbCskhG-DyTA-DpVGNN4JuAksFpXSSW7GO4jkiMY_boTOB3wlIBnfvdkWNKp62LQ-TgCWrNX6Y7f1rAJcT5YPKvfR9MH2T5xzfgbRYURKjLOXdEEmwO92eoFe-Xc3DW6-/s1600/focussy.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Door handles are for decorative purposes only.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The glow of having transportation lasted quite a while. Just about as long as the spray paint that had been used to cover the rust on the new-to-me Ford Focus. And even then, I was just happy to have a car that started AND fit into a garage. No air conditioning? No problem.<br />
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The reality of driving a junker hit home on a chilly spring day. I was driving along Hwy 169, my then-15 year old son Henry and his friend, Jack, along for the ride. Henry and Jack have been friends since kindergarten. Jack's dad was my second divorce attorney, the one who helped me get a portion of the income my ex hid during our first go-round. Jack and his parents live a bit larger than my kids and I, so what happened on that April morning was especially embarrassing.<br />
<br />
Henry was in the passenger seat, Jack in back. Me, of course, driving. All of sudden we heard a cracking noise and then a vicious thump on the right side of the car.<br />
<br />
The side mirror had fallen off, you see, and was now furiously banging against the door, attached to the car with a single wire. Poor Henry. He opened the window and grabbed hold of the rogue mirror and held onto that sucker until we got home. A cool spring breeze can turn into a skin mottling arctic blast when you're hanging onto a car part while cruising down a highway. Henry learned that lesson the hard way.<br />
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The mirror falling off was shocking, but not a complete surprise. I'd backed out of the garage a little too quickly a month or so prior to that, wrenching the mirror almost completely off, and had rigged a "temporary" fix with duct tape and grim determination. This was when we were in the thick of poverty. The food shelf days. You think I could afford to get something as non-vital as a mirror fixed? Nah. But I did have a nice big roll of tape. And up until that moment, the repair had held.<br />
<br />
When we got home, I got out the handy dandy roll and fixed it. Again.<br />
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Like everything else in my life, the little silver car that had been the symbol of my new life began falling apart. Bit by bit. The passenger door handle broke. No biggie! I'd reach over from my side and open it for whomever was lucky enough to be riding shotgun.<br />
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Then the driver side handle broke. That was kind of a biggie. But I can do hard things, and that's when my car became the one with the perpetually open window so I could reach in and open the door that way. In super inclement weather I'd leave the window up like a normal human being who drove a normal car and just open up the back door, maneuver my fluffy body through the backseat and up into the front. People at work took to joking with me about it. I took to pretending they were hilarious. Because that's just what the broke-ass person at work loves, you guys. People hardy-har-harring over their piece of shit car they drive because they can't afford anything better.<br />
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Time wore on, and also wore down that car. Last fall, after several months of going to a nearby convenience store on an almost daily basis to fill up the tire that deflated almost daily, I had to suck it up and get all new wheels to the tune of $450. "Safety first!" I screamed in my head as I signed the charge slip at the repair shop. A week or so after that, the steering wheel began vibrating whenever the speedometer hit 50 mph. And not a gentle vibration. So I took it in again and the nice mechanic who had been kindly helping me keep the Focus running as cheaply as possible gave me bad news.<br />
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"Jenny" he said, pre-wincing. "We found a crack in the thingamajig that connects the doodle to the dandy (I don't remember the exact term and as I've explained before I don't speak car). It's fixable, and I found a used part online for you, but it's going to be around $2,000." <i>Side note here: if you can, ladies, find yourself a good car repair place. Preferably one that's run by a guy who understands the single mom struggle*. </i><br />
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Of course my first question was "but is it safe to drive like this?" and of course his response was "no".<br />
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At that point I had about $2000 in savings, the checking account was, as usual, beaten down to vapors. I also hadn't had a credit card since the divorce-inspired bankruptcy in 2010. Rock, meet hard place.<br />
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This is the difference between the haves and the have nots. One of the differences, anyway. And a huge one at that. The haves might sigh over this news. They might think "well there goes that weekend away in November" or maybe even "shoot I guess we don't eat out for a month". The have nots? LOL. We think "what the everloving fuck am I going to do now?" or "shoot I guess we don't eat for a month."<br />
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I told him I'd think about it and get back to him. His parting words? "Listen, I'm not going to lie. You could drive it like this for the next month or so, maybe. But if that thing snaps while you're doing anything over 25 mph, it'll be bad."<br />
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And so I did what I usually do in these situations. Nothing. Nothing, and also vent a little to my friends. I had done just that (the venting) in the private facebook group I run, when I got a text from a sweet young woman I'd befriended through trivia years ago.<br />
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It said this: "Miss Jenny do you still need a hooptie?" She's in the private group, and had seen my comment about having to find a new hooptie sooner rather than later. She also calls me Miss Jenny despite the fact that we don't work together nor have I ever been her teacher or school secretary.<br />
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That, dear readers, is how I came to be the owner of my current ride, The Boo. That sweet young woman had just purchased a new car and GAVE ME her old one. That's right, folks. She not only gave it to me, no charge, she dropped it off and as she was giving me the guided tour of the 2007 Chevrolet Malibu she apologized for things like some dirt on the floor mats and a crack on the bumper and the trunk button that worked intermittently.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjho8ZSfFeR804GuxWRGmDNtf3uJNtsuQMLv9mjZcEZ-c1tG989qggIcTbixo5ZFGFUgjPZV6w6CBhxEtH_pv590IE7noQHfqXwOjI1_ls8TovuSzNPPcFe6lEm-msoSMxIVr2pnMx45IGU/s1600/boo.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="173" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjho8ZSfFeR804GuxWRGmDNtf3uJNtsuQMLv9mjZcEZ-c1tG989qggIcTbixo5ZFGFUgjPZV6w6CBhxEtH_pv590IE7noQHfqXwOjI1_ls8TovuSzNPPcFe6lEm-msoSMxIVr2pnMx45IGU/s1600/boo.jpeg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Isn't she lovely?</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
If you've known me for any length of time you know that I cry a lot. Sad tears, happy tears, oh girl, I weep them all. This incredible woman caused a veritable tsunami of salty eye water. I held it together while she showed me the inner workings of The Boo. It was later that night, as I sat behind the wheel of my new car, that the weeping started. You guys, I felt like Beyonce in a Tesla. The door handles worked. There were cup holders! The stereo sounded dope, the AC blasted out fancy chilled air and there was nary a piece of duct tape to be seen.<br />
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To the untrained eye, The Boo looks like just another beat up old car. To my eyes, it's a cherry red chariot. There may be 200k miles on it, there may be spots of rust and there may be a shaky bumper but this car...it's beautiful to me.<br />
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Being poor has taught me many things. It has left marks that will most likely never leave, even if the fates decide to bestow a more opulent lifestyle upon me someday. But one of the best lessons, the most priceless one, is this: appreciate what you have. Be grateful for kindness, whether it's a soft hearted mechanic or an unbelievable act of generosity.<br />
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And never judge a person by what they drive.<br />
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So. Here's to my fellow hooptie riders. To those who drive crappy coupes, janky junkers, rust buckets and jalopies...ride on, my friends. I see you. I know you. I know your struggles. I know what it feels like to drive the shittiest car in the lot. I know how the cheeks burn a little when the stroller pushing mom jerks her head at the sound of your old timey muffler chugging down the quiet street. I know the courage it takes to ask the car repair guy to just please try to make it drivable, to patch it up enough to get through the next few months.<br />
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I know how you hold your breath while turning the key, praying that today isn't the day that nothing happens. I know the thready strands of panic that shoot through you while idling at a stoplight and that all-too familiar chugging of a dying engine begins. I know how glorious the relief feels when it does start, when your tired tires get you through a snowstorm and when you have a safe, warm way to get your kids to wherever they need to be.<br />
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Ride on, my friends. Ride on.<br />
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Love,<br />
<br />
Jenny and Boo.<br />
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* <i>shout out to the repair shop that has treated me with dignity all these years: Golden Valley Tire & Service. 763-541-0569</i><br />
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<br />the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-80394389771597213352019-09-08T09:53:00.000-05:002019-09-08T10:01:30.429-05:0050, Single & Not Really Feeling the Mingle: Why Dying Alone Doesn't Sound So Bad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm4BUPbD66Uvero1FmaBsNSgzhc1vwuU8DDs98s2tFigDN7fdFO51huVvUVXH9ncqGzUiC0zalhoEZkUNJas7rVGTfRA_5m09TW7DQ5KQp6gS1ip5olEu3P0TJeFVAlKl5H6i6W82WMv-N/s1600/byelol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm4BUPbD66Uvero1FmaBsNSgzhc1vwuU8DDs98s2tFigDN7fdFO51huVvUVXH9ncqGzUiC0zalhoEZkUNJas7rVGTfRA_5m09TW7DQ5KQp6gS1ip5olEu3P0TJeFVAlKl5H6i6W82WMv-N/s320/byelol.jpg" width="229" /></a></div>
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<br />
Time was, the thought of being single forever and ever was the saddest thing I could imagine. Could there be anything worse? Not being part of a couple for an extended length of time was the stuff of cold, lonely spinster nightmares.<br />
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Turns out, there is something worse, my friends. It's called dating in your fifties.<br />
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Also, dating in your late thirties and basically the majority of your forties.<br />
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Hey, I know! Some of you have absolutely ROCKED the post-divorce dating thing and are living proof that love truly is sweeter the second (or third) time around. Some of my oldest and bestest friends are happily coupled up after surviving disastrous and not so disastrous splits. They are truly happy, and I am truly happy for them.<br />
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Also, kind of envious.<br />
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Because it's a jungle out here, folks. And not a fun Lisa Frank jungle full of neon parrots and mellow tigers. No, today's dating jungle is dark and dank and overflowing with ghosting snakes, married cheetahs (lol see what I did there?), dick-pic wielding sloths and commitment-phobic dung beetles.<br />
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I was starting to wonder if it was just me and my anxiety-tinged STAY AWAY vibes I seem to give off combined with my problematic and conflagrant dumpster taste in men, but in my little private hausfrau facebook group, we share our tales from the trenches and guess what? It's not just me. It's a lot of us. It's normal, everyday women who are attractive, kind, employed, smart, funny...and so completely over the dating game.<br />
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We share our experiences in there, complete with screenshots and we collectively wonder, WHAT THE EVERLOVING F*CK. WTF is wrong with these men? And please, people, don't @ me with the #notallmen. No, that's not "no tall men", it's "not all men" because guess what? It might not be all of them but sister, it's a scary number of them.<br />
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When I was first let loose out onto the singles prairie, I did what you're supposed to do. I took some selfies, wrote a poignant yet hilarious profile and began online dating. I dated quite a bit, in the beginning. Yes, almost all of those dates are chronicled here and they are pretty funny in my biased opinion. I met lots of men. Dating? HA. It wasn't so bad! I even met a couple of them organically <i>(lol no, not at Whole Foods)</i> and those were also easy breezy. Girl meets guy, numbers are exchanged, texting/calling happens, then the dating begins. It was simple, really. Because THAT'S HOW DATING SHOULD BE RIGHT?<br />
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After a while, I decided to put the search for true love on hold in order to be more present for my kids. This is what worked for me, I'm not advocating it for anyone else nor am I saying that if you choose to jump headlong into the search for love that you aren't an attentive parent. It's quite possible to focus on yourself AND your kids. I just had a few more fires to put out than most and decided my energies were best spent doing that vs getting my freak on. <i>"i can wait. the men can wait. what difference will a few years make anyway?"</i><br />
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Oh Jenny. Oh you sweet summer child/woman.<br />
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The difference is insane. I feel like Sleeping Beauty (<i>okay Sleeping "Looks Good for Her Age"</i>).<br />
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I woke up and learned that not only is Prince Charming NOT so charming, chances are real good that he's deep into playing games, playing the field and playing dumb.<br />
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What's that? Don't knock it til ya try it? Honey. I did try. Let me regale you with the brief tale of Blizzard 2018...<br />
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It was a dark and stormy night. Actually it was a bright and stormy day. It was December 1st, a Saturday, and a big ol' Minnesota blizzard was descending, fast. I took Walter out for a walk and when we left the house it was unseasonably warm and the skies were clear. An hour or so later, as we rounded the corner towards home, we were both coated in wet snow.<br />
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Now, for those of you unfamiliar with midwestern blizzard mentality, it goes something like this: <i>oh man all the weather people are saying it's gonna be a doozy. But they always say that. Let's wait and see. </i>We'd been warned but it was really nice out, ya know?<br />
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Once it really sinks in that the meteorologists did indeed nail it, the blizzard panic sets in. Most people's blizzard panic is along the lines of "okay we need bread and milk and coffee" but for me it's always "okay I guess I need wine".<br />
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So I set out to get some wine. Blizzard Wine. Listen, I don't even really like wine all that much anymore. It gives me a headache and also, wine-drunk is THE worst kind of drunk there is, at least for me. Wine turns me into a melancholy-tinged Miss Havisham, only instead of wandering around a decaying mansion in a moldering wedding dress, I stumble through our rental home in worn pajama pants and a giant, pilly Netflix sweater.<br />
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Of course wine-drunk Jenny is also the one who decides that it's time to start dating THAT VERY SECOND. It's how I "accidentally" signed up for the Gold Membership on Tinder a couple of years ago (guess what you can absolutely cancel the next morning and they won't charge you)(fist-hand knowledge, LOL). It's also how I found myself navigating Bumble on a Saturday night in December, a box of Bota's finest rose' next to me and a snowstorm howling like a banshee outside.<br />
<br />
I guess I chose Bumble because it's supposed to be the women-empowering-women app. Women call the shots, we get to decide if and when a conversation is initiated. Of course there are a few things that would not make sense to me even if I wasn't two goblets of wine deep, like if someone "hearts" your profile, and they also had some weird time limit after swiping left (or right my god who can keep all of this straight) which is not all that different from that horrible game where you had to get all those plastic pieces arranged before time ran out.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6XYjygaZkaugEeiJNBU20jMONuhNKv21c-okWdhM2td18hitwjk8Z13NFCKbrHU4tixChP7Emcxt5-RgY2KNv4_2_oV0reeBeM0Vxshg-YV8SyctC1o1tPZlK8dmUStYXrUW8mgw7WAP1/s1600/perfection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6XYjygaZkaugEeiJNBU20jMONuhNKv21c-okWdhM2td18hitwjk8Z13NFCKbrHU4tixChP7Emcxt5-RgY2KNv4_2_oV0reeBeM0Vxshg-YV8SyctC1o1tPZlK8dmUStYXrUW8mgw7WAP1/s320/perfection.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>this is that game and I have a stomach ache just looking at it</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Ugh, the Blizzard story is not as brief as I promised.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo. Where was I? Ah yes. Snowbound and wine drunk, squinting at the screen on my phone. Super dignified as usual.<br />
<br />
Surprise, surprise. It was a shitshow. My profile was so cringey I took a screenshot of it because even in my vino-impaired state I knew it would be the most effective deterrent available if I ever found myself attempting to mate online again. Don't you love when Drunk You looks out for Sober You? Sometimes it's cleaning the kitchen, sometimes it's screenshotting the dumbassery.<br />
<br />
Luckily only one poor soul endured the Jenny Experience that night. I mean, it was late and there was a blizzard so it could have been so much worse. The next couple of days, though? Oh honey.<br />
<br />
I lasted less than a week on Bumble.<br />
<br />
It's all the same. I know, yes, believe me I KNOW. I know there are decent humans out there, even on the apps! But for the love of cheese- there's so much bleah, too. And not new, fresh, somewhat intriguing bleah...nope. It was pics of guys semi-naked in beds, in bathroom mirrors and restaurant booths. It was the ones who stated, in their profiles, that they were married and just looking for quickies (yeah, high fives for being upfront and honest but come on). It was guttural, semi-literate caveman messages followed by either a request for a pic of my boobs or, lucky me, a picture of a penis.<br />
<br />
Because this is me, one of the first faces I saw on there was that of the <a href="https://happyhausfrau.blogspot.com/2015/10/diddle-rinse-repeat-monotony-that-is.html" target="_blank">couch-surfing Lothario</a> I'd taken a chance on a few summers ago. Panic set in. <i>oh shit, if I can see him, can he see me?? GAH. </i>Hard pass. Like, James-Franco-in-127 hours hard pass.<br />
<br />
I saw a guy who is one of those local NPR kind of quasi-celebrities. Of course I had swiped whichever way means "interested" and so we had a little conversation wherein I told him I'd followed him on twitter for ages. Which was followed by me deleting the ever loving shit out of my twitter profile.<br />
<br />
The conversations were stilted and forced and goddammit, men, stop with the pretending, okay? Stop acting like you're interested in getting to know someone when all you really want to do is fuck them, please? Life would be so much easier if we all just put it out there, you know?<br />
<br />
Maybe some of us do just want to find someone to screw. In fact, I know some of us women want precisely that kind of deal. That's literally all I've wanted out of "dates" for the past several years.<br />
<br />
And I get that things have changed. This is how it is, according to my kids and coworkers who are single and in their twenties. Some of them will gently remind me that there are age-specific sites/apps, for geriatric hopefuls and middle-aged love seekers. I mean, isn't there a dating app for everyone now? Farmers, furries, the adult-onsie crowd? You got it.<br />
<br />
But what about those of us who are wedged solidly in between the boomers and the millennials? And even more specifically, those of us who have zero interest in these modern day reindeer games, the ones where it's okay to just stop communicating, boom, in the middle of a text/message conversation? The ones where it's the norm for a 50 year old dude to be casting his net downwards in hopes of snagging a 20 or 30 year old woman but a 50 year old woman is lucky to get a hello from a man her own age?<br />
<br />
Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's all of those Meg Ryan movies I absorbed in the 80's and 90's, the movies where a quirky gal who wears turtleneck sweaters and loves to read stumbles across her sweet soulmate while listening to the radio or in an AOL over-30's chat room (this is the point in the post where I for real wonder if I need to translate this shit for the youngsters).<br />
<br />
I realize this post is dragging the menfolk a little. In my defense, I have exactly zero experience dating women so for all I know there is a female equivalent to these guys. Do women do this, too? Are there guys out there somewhere, commiserating over beers at happy hour with tales of woe about the ladies who won't respond after coming on strong or who pepper every conversation with stupid lines like "omg u are srsly so handsome i bet you dont get lonly" or "I can be at your front door in under an hour" 😱<br />
<br />
Someone in that facebook group posted about a guy she'd encountered on Tinder. He seemed okay, except for the fact that he'd been single for 12 years. Someone commented, "I bet there's a reason he's been single that long" and that froze me.<br />
<br />
Because I've been single that long. Yeah yeah, there have been a couple semi-serious relationships and a few not-so-serious, but I have been single since December of 2006. Like, kids who were born then are now in middle school. I have friends who have been divorced, remarried and divorced again in that time and here I sit, repulsed at the thought of submerging myself into the murky dating pool once more but also, content with 99% of my life right now.<br />
<br />
It's that 1% that trips me up. That, and the occasional wine-infused blizzard.<br />
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<br />the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-35056224647926750512019-08-05T08:01:00.001-05:002019-08-05T08:01:10.692-05:00Walter and the chicken wing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
If you're not familiar with this blog or the characters in it, this is Walter. I've written a lot about this good boy: <a href="https://happyhausfrau.blogspot.com/2015/11/10-ways-my-dog-trumps-my-ex-husband.html" target="_blank">how he's better than my ex</a>, <a href="https://happyhausfrau.blogspot.com/2011/03/walter-and-jenny-love-story.html" target="_blank">our "how we met" story</a>, and even <a href="https://happyhausfrau.blogspot.com/2013/07/never-say-never.html" target="_blank">that time I called him an asshole</a>. He's one of the lights in my life and sometimes just looking at him brings me to tears because I love him so much. Although right at this moment, we're both on the porch- I'm on the couch clickety clacking away here, he's on the floor - and he's farting with such horrendous gale force that the tears in my eyes are because they are on fire.<br />
<br />
So. This is my dog. We walk just about every day. During the week we head out at the asscrack of dawn, but on the weekends we get out later...before the heat sets in but after the sun has come up. This picture was taken on a Saturday. I slept in a tiny bit, had some coffee, made myself go to the bathroom not once but three times <i>(dude I have actually wet my pants while walking him, and one particularly awful time almost did more than that)(I wrote about the latter one but never published it because who needs to read about it??). </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I call our walks "Walter's Choice" because think about this: dogs are so amazing and we love them, but what a life! As my son Henry has said, imagine being absolutely dependent on someone else for the simplest of things in life: water, food, exercise. Dogs really don't have much say in <b>anything</b> that impacts their lives so, when I walk this boy I let him choose our route.<br />
<br />
There are many different passages we take, this city we have landed in is wonderful for a myriad of reasons and the sidewalks/trails are one of them. That morning's journey took us to a local park. It's a sprawling chunk of land which boasts a golf course, a few ponds, several picnic shelters and a playground where my very own babies used to frolic.<br />
<br />
Walter loves this place mainly because of the excellent selection of tall grass. He is half cow, I believe, and spends several minutes on each walk eating it. Depending on the time and my mood, I either stand there and let him indulge while swinging my arm to get steps 😂 or else I tell him that we have perfectly good grass at home and mommy has to get to work.<br />
<br />
On the weekends, we have nothin' but time so I let him go to town. Eventually we got going, though, and headed to Walter's second favorite part of the Park Experience. Just beyond the large picnic shelter, there's a shaded and cool grassy area. Once upon a time, Walter found an abandoned chicken wing there, nestled in the grass like a greasy baby Moses in a basket.<br />
<br />
He ate the wing before I could get it from him. That was a while ago, so no harm done. Besides, he's a lab. I'm convinced he could eat a bag of rusty nails and *maybe* get a little extra gassy and that's it.<br />
<br />
But now, Walter pulls hard on the leash to explore this once-bountiful patch of grass. He knows that at one point in the past, it was awesome and he found something wonderful there.<br />
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It makes me smile because here is this magnificent creature who is blessed with a brain the size of a smallish peach and he remembers that ONE time this place made him feel good. That ONE time he happened upon something delicious and satisfying.<br />
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<i>Oh my sweet dumb doggo </i>I think to myself.<br />
<br />
Except, wait. Who am I to stand there and be all superior and big-brained while Walter forages for something good in the grass? Don't I do the exact same thing? Don't we all?<br />
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True, maybe it's more than a chicken wing we're seeking but the more I think about it, the more I can relate with my old dog and his peachy brain.<br />
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I do the same damn thing. Only instead of a cool swath of lawn, I sniff around the places where <i style="font-weight: bold;">I</i> once found <b><i>my</i></b> version of the chicken wing.<br />
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Whether it's the texts from a tired old booty call or a bunch of episodes of Sex and the City that I've seen dozens of times, I go back to the places (and people) who once made me feel good. It's why I will forever be a sucker for a linen tunic and European clogs and poncho sweaters and tall overgrown frat boys with nice big hands and fidelity difficulties. It's why, decades after countless nights of yammering with other drunk 20-somethings in the ladies room, I still yearn for a night out at Gluek's Bar in downtown Minneapolis.<br />
<br />
Because at one time or another, each of those things brought me some joy. A bit of happiness. Comfort, laughter, maybe an orgasm or two (that would be the frat boy, you guys, not the poncho sweaters).<br />
<br />
Like Walter, I remember. And just like Walter, I keep looking.<br />
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<br />the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-13377955868890143542019-08-01T11:53:00.000-05:002019-08-01T11:53:51.713-05:00The (Forgiveness) Struggle is Real<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I recently posted something on the Hausfrau facebook page about why I'm in absolutely no rush to be friendly with my ex husband and his wife. No, I don't think they are either but it's a topic I like to revisit regularly in order to temper the maddening social media trend of glorifying BFF co-parents.<br />
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<i>*read this next paragraph in the same tone of the voice-over in a pharmaceutical commercial, where they say you might experience dry mouth, rectal discomfort and/or grow scales as side effects of the drug* </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Yes, blissful co-parenting situations exist and yes, many people are truly blessed to have a very friendly relationship with their ex. When that happens? Yay! Celebrate! It's working for you! How wonderful for the kids!<br />
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But as I have said, ad nauseam, that is not possible nor is it healthy for all. My gosh sometimes I feel like that might have to be etched on my tombstone. Along with "hey it's not as hot down here as I expected it to be" 😂<br />
<br />
So in that above-mentioned post, I detailed one of the many reasons why I don't feel comfortable with the idea of weaving friendship bracelets with the ex, which is a pretty substantial one: that time he lied about reconciling in order to get me sterilized. Let's be real, friends. Allowing someone to go under the knife in order to ensure there aren't any "loose ends" before you officially leave is pretty shitty, even for him. I prefer to take the high road when I can but as far as that incident is concerned, nope.<br />
<br />
Anyway. Someone in the comment section dropped a quote about forgiveness. The one about setting a prisoner free and discovering it was you. Trust me when I say there isn't a forgiveness quote I haven't heard over the past several years. And they aren't without merit, okay?<br />
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Forgiveness is a very personal, and very touchy subject. For whatever reason, when I read that platitude, I felt bristly. I know, I know! A touched nerve, perhaps?<br />
<br />
Perhaps. But it got me thinking about forgiveness and friendship and past hurts and just plain old pasts. It had me mulling over this mission of mine, to help other women who are going through the same old bullshit that I did all those years ago. And it made me wonder...<br />
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What if forgiveness is fluid? What if it's not a still pond, but instead it's a sea that's always churning and moving? What if it's like a tide that ebbs and flows?<br />
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What if forgiveness and whether or not we feel it is a day by day thing, instead of a permanent state?<br />
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A few years ago, right in this very spot,<a href="https://happyhausfrau.blogspot.com/2013/04/forgiving-your-ex-husband-is-hardwhat.html" target="_blank"> I wrote about forgiveness </a>and I basically said it's something we HAVE to do. Quote: <i>"The only person I think you truly NEED to forgive is your ex." </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Forgive me.<br />
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This blog is almost a decade old and there are a lot of things I wrote that now make me cringe. I described someone as a "a Latino Mike Meyers", you guys. Some of what I wrote back then was how I <b>felt</b> back then. Some of it was so bad I'm embarrassed to go back and read it. But people (and blogs!) evolve over time. We learn, we grow, we experience new things and see the old ones through hopefully wiser eyes.<br />
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I used to be a Republican, too. So there's that.<br />
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My stance on a lot of things has changed, and forgiveness is one of those. I don't believe it's something we should ever feel obligated to do, and I really don't believe anyone has the right to tell you that it's necessary.<br />
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I mean yeah, okay. Your friend backs out of plans at the last minute. In that case, we will probably forgive and forget. Because that's your homie! You love them, they love you and shit happens.<br />
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But there's big stuff that really leaves a mark. And when those things happen, we may need time to process, to feel, to decide if forgiveness feels right. If it feels <b>necessary</b>.<br />
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And one other thing. Just because someone talks about their past experiences doesn't mean they're dwelling. It's perfectly normal to want to hear how others have handled difficult times and it's also perfectly normal to share how we've handled them.<br />
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Don't ever feel bad about airing your laundry, dirty or not. There will always be someone who needs to hear they aren't the only one.<br />
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<br />the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-15071790636721754572019-07-30T14:24:00.000-05:002019-07-30T14:28:31.570-05:00Listening<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Remember the kite eating tree from Peanuts? Every spring, Charlie Brown would launch a new kite into the air and every year, that damn tree would eat it.<br />
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Sometimes I feel like that tree, only instead of kites flown forever-optimistically by ol' Chuck, it's words that get snatched up. Words that have been flung my way via other eternally optimistic people (aka, my friends/coworkers/readers). Yeah, I may look kind of tree-like while they're talking. Just standing there, or more realistically, sitting there, while they speak. I'm not known for being overly animated in person OR online and it's always been a little frustrating for me. I want people to know that I'm feeling things, whether it's gratitude or seething resentment or simple receptiveness to whatever they're dishing out.<br />
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Instead I feel like what they're seeing is Tree Jenny. With a smile on my face and instead of the tail of a kite hanging out of my mouth, it's the tail end of a sentence.<br />
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BUT I AM LISTENING. I swear. The words go in one ear and then they stay there, steeping until I have time to really savor them. To pull them out and inspect them. To devour them.<br />
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That's one of the blessed curses of ADD. We process things differently. We also don't miss much despite having the appearance of someone who misses e v e r y t h i n g 😉 Ask me what I wore yesterday and I will struggle, ask me what a child on the playground once remarked as she touched my arm and I can repeat it not only verbatim but by god I can still hear her saying it just as clear as the day it happened sometime back in 2006: <i>ooh Miss Jenny your arm feels just like my grandma's </i>Okay so maybe the more traumatic, the more memorable but I digress.<br />
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Recently a few people have talked to/at me and I'm not sure they know how much of what they said sunk in. I want them, and therefore you, to know that all of the words made it through and I have been mulling them over.<br />
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First up, my bestie told me that I'm stuck. She was referring to my housing situation and also an unfortunate dude situation. I'll be purposely vague about both because 1: the housing thing will be a blog post soon and B: the dude situation is gross and embarrassing. And even though you all know gross and embarrassing is basically what I should have tattooed on my lower back, this one is not worth writing about.<br />
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My dear homie, I heard you. And you're right: I am stuck. Apparently when one has been flailing just above water for ages, when it's okay to stop flailing you simply float. And that's kind of where I'm at, and have been, for the past couple of years. Enjoying the scenery and enjoying not fighting to survive.<br />
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Being Minnesotan, when the word stuck comes up, the image that pops into my head is that of a car up to its bumper in snow. Funnily enough, when I do get stuck in the snow the first panicky thought I have is ALWAYS this: <i>I'm just going to leave it here until spring.</i><br />
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And that's kind of where I've been.<br />
<br />
So I need to unstuck myself. Time to start digging out, time to get moving. Maybe literally? Which provides such a slick segue into the second part of my listening prose...<br />
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A few weeks back, there was a party to attend. One of my regulars and I were going to be each other's date, and then, another friend asked if she could tag along. Of course! The more the merrier. We stopped for a cocktail en route to the bash and while we were sipping, this other friend regaled us with story after story about how she had used her voice and told the universe exactly what it was she was seeking. Like, she says it OUT LOUD to the universe, not in her head. She showed us exactly how she did it, using hand gestures and everything and then she proudly proclaimed how it had worked. She'd told the universe what kind of house she and her girls needed, and the house showed up.<br />
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"I'm telling you," she said, in a very confident tone, "this shit works."<br />
<br />
Well. I'm certainly not one to scoff at shit that works. So, in my own tortoisey way, I've been trying to emulate her universe-speak. It's hard for a quiet introvert (<i>shush, I am too one of those, I swear!</i>) to do something so...verbal. And yet, I'm doing it. I listened to my friend, and now I'm hoping the universe is listening to me.<br />
<br />
I walk the dog at an obscenely early hour in the summertime. Work, for me, starts at 6:30 a.m. Monday through Friday so the alarm goes off shortly before 4:00. I chug a cup of coffee, get the running shoes laced up and then Walter leads me on a dark, peaceful tour of our fair city. It's hands down my favorite time of the day (a close second is the splendid cool slide into bed at night) and one that is almost reverent with the silence and nothing but the clicks of the sweet old boy's nails and the soft scuff of my shoes on the sidewalks.<br />
<br />
This morning, I talked. I gabbed with the universe. My words sounded foreign at first, echoing off of darkened houses and bouncing on the small pools of light beneath the street lamps. I'll tell you a little of what I told the universe. Not all of it, because maybe this is like that birthday wish you make while blowing out the candles.<br />
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"Universe!" I wanted to get its attention, you know. "Universe! Here's what I am looking for." And then I began my small but immense wish list.<br />
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I told the universe that more than anything I want a home. I want a place with a yard and with a cute kitchen and with at least two windows in my bedroom so I can get a sweet cool breeze on spring and fall nights. I want room for whichever kid needs a soft place to land and I want a backyard for Walter or whichever good boy comes next. And a porch, universe. Oh man. I want a porch.<br />
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And I'll be really honest with you...I figured as long as I had the ear of the entire universe, it was time to go big or go home.<br />
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I told the universe that I love our house right now. And that if it (the universe) was in a giving sort of mood, maybe some magic planet realignment could make my wildest dreams come true and make that my forever home.<br />
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Yep. Told ya I went big. I went implausible and let's face it, most likely impossible, but what the hell. How often do you get to walk around a city before dawn, barking out wishes like a lunatic carny?<br />
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I don't know if the universe heard me, but I do know for sure that the guy enjoying a cigarette out in his driveway at 5:01 on a Tuesday morning sure did. Let's see if he has any pull.<br />
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Oh and there was one more time I listened recently: when one of you sent me a message. Actually, many of you have reached out over the past couple of years, since I've gone radio silent here on the old blog. Some of you have been subtle, gently inquiring, wondering if there will ever be fresh words here again. But one of you sweet humans were way more direct. Via instagram, a private message that read, in part:<br />
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<i>where are your posts and blogs about the hell that is divorce and life afterwards? I need/miss them.</i><br />
<br />
This one was loud and it was clear as crystal.<br />
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I'm listening.<br />
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And I'm back.<br />
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<br />the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-87839726196470539322019-07-02T10:48:00.000-05:002019-07-02T10:59:51.869-05:00Mad About You?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpY6q82LyYLQ7KsdagZhRD9Dlr_kXMi257rHATjbeHp7prJz2fUw2H6c94WjJ9h73LX8aCeHkqJ2BG7YZHVlf8efLfJk0b2bPG5ObcQodYOl-Zd5phUQFFKRUFHKm4ovCeCHPTCB7DVukd/s1600/incredible-hulk-1710710_1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1064" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpY6q82LyYLQ7KsdagZhRD9Dlr_kXMi257rHATjbeHp7prJz2fUw2H6c94WjJ9h73LX8aCeHkqJ2BG7YZHVlf8efLfJk0b2bPG5ObcQodYOl-Zd5phUQFFKRUFHKm4ovCeCHPTCB7DVukd/s320/incredible-hulk-1710710_1920.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
"Why don't you write on the blog anymore?"<br />
<br />
It comes up now and then. The emails used to show up almost daily, now it's one or two a week.<br />
<br />
"Hey, where'd you go? I miss reading your stuff."<br />
<br />
*sigh* I miss writing my stuff. I know, I know...every few months there's a blip of activity on this old site and the few of you still out there, the few of you still reading blogs, get to hear my tired excuses for not maintaining this space. No time! No energy! No fresh ideas!<br />
<br />
I was talking to a friend this past weekend and she mentioned the blog. Actually, she mentioned writing in general and how I was going to do big things with the words and how she missed perusing the daily/weekly rants and ramblings I used to proffer right here in this very spot. The excuse I gave her was a surprise, even to me:<br />
<br />
"I'm not mad anymore."<br />
<br />
HUH? How's that, Jenny? You're not mad anymore?<br />
<br />
I elaborated. Told her that back in the day, when instead of mentally blogging I actually, you know, BLOGGED, I was pissed.<br />
<br />
Heartbreak and shock still lived and breathed in me but the anger, oh shiiiiiit, the anger was my skeleton, it was the blood and the veins and the nerves. It snapped and crackled like a well-tended fire in a roasting hot hearth and it fueled every aspect of my life. Literally, every.single.aspect.<br />
<br />
The rage woke me up, it tugged the covers and yanked at my feet and shoved me into the shower and it pushed the gas pedal of whatever hooptie I was driving. It parented my kids and steered shopping carts and walked the damn dog. It poured wine and vodka and bummed smokes and chose disastrous mates and stabbed forks and spoons into soft warm bowls and plates of carby comfort foods.<br />
<br />
And it guided my fingers over various keyboards, each one pressing a single letter which would form a word which would build a sentence which would become a paragraph which would forge<br />
<br />
this blog.<br />
<br />
The writing came fast and furious, for a long time it felt like a bottomless pit of woe and wrath. I was so mad at my ex-husband and what his dumbass choices meant for me and our children. It was my own personal Olympic flame, blazing endlessly.<br />
<br />
Until it went out.<br />
<br />
Did it go out all in one fell swoop? Nah. In fact, if you poke at me and hit just the right spot, I'll still take a swipe at ya. There's anger but it's either buried so deep or worn so thin that it couldn't fuel a hamster wheel, let alone a middle aged lady. Now it comes out as indignant protests over long waits at traffic lights or eye-rolling annoyance at the person who's taking too long on the equipment at the gym.<br />
<br />
The anger subsided. And so did the words.<br />
<br />
That sucks. Because I enjoy writing. I enjoy entertaining people, I enjoy helping others. I like doing this. And while I love to pull out a good Hulk reference and say "that's my secret, Cap, I'm always angry" (because who doesn't enjoy a Marvel reference) I am most definitely not always angry. Not anymore.<br />
<br />
(cue Carrie Bradshaw voice) And it makes me wonder...can I write without being mad?<br />
<br />
I mean, let's get real. There is SO MUCH to be mad about, right? Politics and the bigoted sexist politicians who politic, mosquitoes, calories, bodies falling apart, dogs getting old, the high price of feta crumbles (FOR REAL THOUGH!!), people who run over baby geese and turtles and possums, people in general. Hell I could be mad all the live long day, now that I think about it.<br />
<br />
But I don't want to. I do, however, want to write. I want to write and make people laugh and think and cry. I want to write and help women who are where I was all those years ago. I want to write and let someone out there know they aren't alone.<br />
<br />
Also, I'm trapped in a quiet office for 8 hours a day this summer and I can't afford to shop online so, yeah. I could write.<br />
<br />
I'm going to hit publish on this one, right now, before I start the second-guess dance and self doubt sets in.<br />
<br />
Stay tuned for more. Unless I get mad. LOL.the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-31173365272183032392019-04-09T13:36:00.001-05:002019-04-09T13:59:16.860-05:00The Name Game<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi903sHmbo6xQAjRp_J5MBGSkoB8OHMzLxNZkeiGA5TT7cMn_iUXY1LIV0kF63ANN-eXl5z2cfI6kzdR8o6tV0KO3_quzuTcAMJrHDLYApFCjekIQRg6iu5S5aSPVZUOd3pU7BCOy9gD8vv/s1600/name.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="234" data-original-width="640" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi903sHmbo6xQAjRp_J5MBGSkoB8OHMzLxNZkeiGA5TT7cMn_iUXY1LIV0kF63ANN-eXl5z2cfI6kzdR8o6tV0KO3_quzuTcAMJrHDLYApFCjekIQRg6iu5S5aSPVZUOd3pU7BCOy9gD8vv/s400/name.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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What's in a name?<br />
<br />
So, so much. Our names are saturated with history, soaked with stories and steeped in all kinds of identity. They are bestowed upon us at birth and they traipse alongside us for the rest of our days, sometimes staying absolutely the same, sometimes morphing into something kinda/sorta the same and other times, becoming something completely different (Monty Python reference intended).<br />
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I <i>hated</i> my last name as a kid. Absolutely hated it. My full name, back then, was Jennifer Ball and trust me, I've heard every "clever" nickname possible. I was Bouncy Ball, Ball-head, Jenny Ballsalot, Ballface, Jenny Nut, etc. I learned to live with it, obviously, and even learned to make fun of it myself (still kinda wishing my old timey grade-school friend Ann Sachs and I had married and hyphenated our last names)(not too late, my friend, LOL).<br />
<br />
But I remember thinking how awesome it was going to be, to get married and find out what life was like without a cringey surname. Wow, can you imagine making reservations and saying <i>uh yeah that's a party of five, at seven, last name Sloane. </i>Or being able to say, <i>it's Ford, like the car </i>instead of <i>yes, that's Ball like football or basketball. Ball.</i><br />
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Boys and girls, you know what happened. I got married and took his last name and shed that Ball like a snake sheds its skin. I reveled in the glory of a name that couldn't possibly be made fun of. It couldn't in any way shape or form be compared to a part, any part, of the human body.<br />
<br />
It was good.<br />
<br />
Until the person who let me take his name decided to give it to another.<br />
<br />
Even then, I kept it. <i>IT WAS MINE FIRST. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
It was a hill I was prepared to die on, that last name. It mattered to me, quite a bit, at first. I wanted to match my kids. I wanted to cling to the identity that was mine, that I had worn for so long. It sounded cute, too, such a nice ring to it, as opposed to Jenny Ball, which just sort of fell out my mouth and wobbled in the air like a Weeble.<br />
<br />
I will admit that part of my desire to stay with that last name was like my sweet old dog peeing on every utility pole on our walks. THIS IS MINE. CAN YOU SMELL ME HERE, SUCKAS? I WAS HERE. When the new wife, my replacement, began brandishing the same name, like it was some shiny badge of honor, it made me cling to it all the more. Even when I was handed her plastic-wrapped dry-cleaning by mistake, I hung on.<br />
<br />
Life went on. The kids got older and aged out of the time of school directories and yearbooks and it no longer seemed as important to be able to identify the members of our little clan based on half of our names.<br />
<br />
I gradually, hesitatingly, pulled out the old last name and tried it on for size.<br />
<br />
It became my writing name when I discovered that the internet has this search function and people could find out who I was, and therefore, who the other people in my life were. For the sake of my children's privacy and for the avoidance of making the ex and his harpy mad, I became Jennifer Ball again.<br />
<br />
At work and on some social media platforms and to my friends, though, I was still the Other Jenny. It was a somewhat harmonious existence.<br />
<br />
Until I went to get my drivers license renewed.<br />
<br />
Minnesota has a new ID system kicking in, one that requires approximately 906 pieces of identification when you renew. I carefully downloaded and printed and accumulated the information they requested. Passport, old license, bank account statements, W2s, paychecks, the blood of my firstborn, fingernail trimmings and strands of hair with root-bulbs attached.<br />
<br />
The woman at the DMV took my pile of Jenny-ness and began loading it all into her magic computer. It was all going well! Fast, even, by DMV standards. Until her fingers stopped clicking keys and she said, "Hmm. That's weird."<br />
<br />
There are a thousand times in your life you don't want to hear "Hmm. That's weird." Like during a gyno exam or in bed with a new lover or while getting your oil changed. "Hmm. That's weird" is also something you don't want to hear at the DMV.<br />
<br />
"It says here that this social security number doesn't match with your name." She said this to me as she backspaced and tried it again. Nope.<br />
<br />
Here's the deal, you guys: apparently I never got around to changing my last name on my social security number. According to our government, I was still, and always had been, Jennifer Ball. I guess I should have figured it out. All these years of doing my taxes, I used my old last name. We did that when I was married, too, and yes I realize that most people would have thought to themselves at some point <i>yeah I need to figure this out </i>but I'll tell ya what, in my world if it ain't broke YOU DO NOT FIX IT. So it was never addressed.<br />
<br />
The government had absolutely zero trouble taking checks from New Jenny to pay Old Jenny's tax bills, you know? Also my bank never batted an eye when someone named Jennifer Ball deposited a check into that other Jennifer's account. It was all copacetic.<br />
<br />
Until Minnesota had to get all fancy with their IDs. The woman at the DMV was great, she tried different approaches, she even had me go print off one more new and exciting document that had not only my old name on it, but the new one too. None of it worked.<br />
<br />
So, it would appear that I need to go completely Ball again. It's either that, or go to the Social Security Office and bring another stack of papers to another person with another magic computer in front of them. Have you ever sat in a Social Security Office? I have. And I'm never doing that again, if I can help it.<br />
<br />
It's easier to just get everything back to matching what the Social Security number says. Hence, the name change at work. And on my bank account. And alllll my other accounts. It's tedious but it sure beats driving downtown, paying for parking and giving up a personal day from work to sit in a loud and crowded waiting area for hours.<br />
<br />
It it was pretty funny when I told our veterinarian that the dog's name is now Walter Ball. He's not psyched about it.<br />
<br />
One thing I've discovered, on this road back to my roots, is that I don't hate my last name anymore. I kind of love it. It's me. It's short and easy to spell and it doesn't bear the stains of a lousy marriage to a lousy man. It's mine now.<br />
<br />
It's mine, again.<br />
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<br />the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7377914227915645124.post-3355836959640828152019-04-04T08:54:00.000-05:002019-04-04T09:00:56.416-05:00Haunted (by) Houses<div style="background-color: white; margin-bottom: 6px;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgkUoKWftWg6Y0JoXOossIWI6_Zt_BuXuAw4E-Bfrbag6IjklMSezljDOgI4-ewuy17qkSlVLnQsjQpJpAjqAXVXQgJx911KDhVP2V1mSJwZ4Xy5skQf-bETUlQZXHo3nDOuZ42QewCsT1/s1600/keepdreaming.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1201" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgkUoKWftWg6Y0JoXOossIWI6_Zt_BuXuAw4E-Bfrbag6IjklMSezljDOgI4-ewuy17qkSlVLnQsjQpJpAjqAXVXQgJx911KDhVP2V1mSJwZ4Xy5skQf-bETUlQZXHo3nDOuZ42QewCsT1/s320/keepdreaming.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px;"><i>**This was a post I made in a private group. The feedback was notable so I thought I'd put it out here, you know, because it's important to know that we aren't alone in this messy life. For those who are new to this particularly cuckoo corner of the internet, here's a </i></span><span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: 14px;">synopsis for ya: husband/father walked out and divorce was final in 2006. Funny thing, though, is it didn't really end in 2006. He left me with four kids, which was tough, but he also left me with a mountain of debt. Our little house, which was worth less than $100k, had been used to take out a few loans (home equity, second mortgage,golden parachute for him when he retired from our marriage, blah blah). I "got" the house in the divorce because I thought that was all I needed. The loans on the house exceeded $300k. I'd been a stay at home mom for the entirety of the marriage and raised the kids while he worked his way up the ol' corporate ladder. At the time he bolted, he was making decent money and I was awarded generous child support and spousal maintenance, which I had planned on using to pay off debts, finish school and get back to living life. He stopped all payments about a year into it. Cold turkey, all I got was a one-sentence email saying something like "i'm experiencing some difficulties so payments may be slow or stop completely." Turns out the difficulties were deciding which Audi to buy and also getting his pool fixed 😂 Anyway. He found the money for an attorney and somehow managed to get his child support obligation reduced to zero. I found a pro-bono attorney and for almost 6 years tried to get him to help take care of his kids. By the time "justice" was served (justice, it turns out, comes to about 19 cents on the dollar of what he owed), two of the kids were 18 or over, I'd lost our little house, had to file bankruptcy and my credit was shattered. No. Not shattered. It was like Thanos got a hold of it and *poof* it was ashes. Since then I have done what I could to keep things normal for the kids. I work full-time, was there 100% for my kids and now all four have graduated from high school and are either in college or working. Three of them live at home (two in college full-time) because they are trying to save money. They help out as much as they can. I pay almost $2k a month in rent, have paid in full and on time every month for 9 years. That's about as good a price you'll get here in Minneapolis for a rental house in a city that's close to busing, schools and our places of work (for real, you find a three bedroom house or townhome or apt in a first/second ring suburb of Minneapolis for less than $1500 a month that isn't made of cardboard and get back to me) . I'm 52. I'm a good mom, I think I'm a somewhat decent person and </span><b style="font-size: 14px;">I represent a large swath of the United States population: those who are productive citizens, gainfully employed, living paycheck-to-paycheck</b><span style="font-size: 14px;">. Every time I get a little bit tucked away into savings there is something that needs to be taken care of: one of our ancient cars breaks down, a tooth cracks, someone's tuition is due, we need heat in the winter (lol), etc. I am absolutely, 100% blessed to actually have some bootstraps to pull, but my arms are tired and on the day I saw this house and then came home and wrote this post, I was ragey and pms-ing and dammit I just needed to vent. ***EDIT*** since then, the amazing people in my group have rallied and donated and offered credit counseling help and names of realtors and just straight up loved and cheered and commiserated.I will do this, I swear on all that is good and holy- I will get a house and I will plant those gd lilacs. **</span></i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: 14px;"><b>Warning: contains swears, angst, some wailing and minor gnashing of teeth</b></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Ughhh you guys. I want to buy this house but there’s no way in hell I would qualify for any sort of loan because that mother effing bankruptcy and foreclosure are still showing up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is what I want to tell people who insist that I’m bitter. Who tell me to get over it, who shake their heads and say “I can’t believe you still think about this”. Who look at my ex, in his million dollar house, livin’ the dream and then at me, livin’ the nightmare of financial insecurity and terror over things like <i>“where will I live when our sweet landlord gets smart and decides to sell?”</i> and see nothing unfair or unjust.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>“Jenny, he’s moved on. Why can’t you?”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Because <b>every.single.day</b> there is a reminder. Some days I’m SO GOOD at ignoring them. I line up my blessings and kiss them on the forehead as I count them. I laugh and curl up with the good fortune I do have and the reminders slink away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But the houses. Shit. The houses, they won’t be ignored (I wonder if they sound like Glen Close <span class="_5mfr" style="margin: 0px 1px;"><span class="_6qdm" style="background-image: url("https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/td0/1/16/1f602.png"); background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: contain; color: transparent; display: inline-block; font-size: 16px; height: 16px; text-shadow: none; vertical-align: text-bottom; width: 16px;">😂</span></span><span class="_5mfr" style="margin: 0px 1px;"><span class="_6qdm" style="background-image: url("https://static.xx.fbcdn.net/images/emoji.php/v9/td0/1/16/1f602.png"); background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: contain; color: transparent; display: inline-block; font-size: 16px; height: 16px; text-shadow: none; vertical-align: text-bottom; width: 16px;">😂</span></span>). They are structures built of possibilities and dreams. They are carnies calling out to me as I try my hardest to just keep walking, eyes focused on the sidewalk, the sky, anything but these homes. <i>“Step right up! Feast your eyes on this little beaut! Too bad you can’t qualify for a gd thing, Jenny! This coulda been yours if only you’d made some better life choices! If only you’d ignored that tall asshole singing along to REM at the bar that night!” (it was The End of the World As We Know It, hahaha)(cry)</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I lost the home my dad bought and remodeled with his own two hands thanks to my ex husband’s fuckery. A home that welcomed our new babies, that was framed with plants and trees we put into the ground with love, that kept us safe and warm through seasons of cold and rain. A home I had planned on living in for the rest of my life. Gone, because some dude couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">People comfort me and say “aye you don’t want to own a home anyway, too much work and responsibility” but dammit I want that work and that responsibility. I really do. I want grass that’s mine and walls I can paint whatever color I want and a yard that is crying out for some lilacs and a little screened in porch. I want to stand outside at night, not in a creepy stalker way but you know, after hauling the garbage to the curb or something, and look in the windows and see glowing lights in a cozy living room that belongs to ME.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I want it and it’s not going to happen no matter how hard I try. And I know the day will come when my dog and I traipse past this one and the sign in the front yard will say “SOLD” and one more little sprig of excitement and hope will be crushed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">We’ve walked by so many of these houses and each time I’ve thought<i> “augh I should just ask, I should just try”</i> and then I remember that I have the credit of a ghost. A ghost who was so spectacularly screwed over that my credit, like my sense of self and the hope of ever truly, I mean- wholly-recovering, is irretrievably broken.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It’s not even that great, this house. That’s what I’m telling myself.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And I keep walking.</span></div>
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the_happy_hausfrauhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07372773477740551839noreply@blogger.com3