Note to Self

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Back in Black(and white)
Ya know I had to use that title, because I am just that geeky. Well, well, well, fancy finding myself here after all of this time.
I've spent the past year or so blogging incognito. I needed that space, that aninimity to work things out in my mind, with myself, with other people to get to where I am now. I closed that space today. I no longer needed it. It has been months since I posted regularly and weeks since I had even logged on.
I found myself thinking that I should wonder back into my old stomping ground to see if blogger had closed it down to inactivity or whatnot, and lo and behold here I am.
It feels good to be putting my own name to my words again.
Had a few momentous happenings since I've been here last. Some good, some not so good. I'll give a real quick run-down in a completely impersonal manner, because, well, it's been over a year and I can't go into all of it of course.
-My grandma died
-In-laws became out-laws and all the crap that goes with that(not legal outlaws, just a divorce amongst the family and all the drama)
-Recreation and redefinition of a few personal relationships
-Severing the ties that bind in a few circumstances
-More surgery on one of the littles, all is well
-Last, but not least, a pregnancy, birth and a BABY!
We had an amazing baby girl, Lillian, on July 30th. I am so totally and utterly in love with this babe that I can not begin to explain it. Her birth story will be forthcoming for those who are interested.
It feels good to be back here again.
Note to Self: Home is the best place there is.
postscript: For some annoying reason blogger will not recognize my space between paragraphs. No, I have not lost all ability to compose a well structured piece of text. I also have not lost my OCDness that would allow me just to post this without the disclaimer. Color me anal.

Thursday, June 17, 2004

What a Boob

One would surmise, that with all my lactating experience, that I would not be stranger to finding myself at least somewhat identified by my breasts. After all, a breastfeeding mother is not much more than a giant nipple with hair and legs to her nursling for at least the first few months. And even then, the hair and legs may get nary a glance or notice.

Lest we forget the attention that full, supple, gigantic lacatating breasts command from the opposite sex. Within days of giving birth I had breasts that could be described as nothing but porn star tits. These babies were hot. Smoking, I tell you. High, round, firm, perky, give just the right amount of bounce when you screw kinda tits. Not that I felt much like screwing four days postpartum, but if I did, I would have looked hot. Anyhow, I digress....

Here I am, the first time in four and a half years that I haven't been pregnant, nursing, or a combination thereof, and my breasts are mine, all mine. What the heck do I do with them? It isn't nearly as fascinating or as fulfilling to re-own my breasts again as I had imagined that it would be when I was up for the seventh time in as many hours nursing a little back to sleep. I mean, c'mon, a twiddle here, a teasing caress there, maybe a stray tweak or a tickle and that pretty much concludes the repossession of the girls. And of course, being a mother, I multi-tasked and finished it in about 42 seconds.

Last night I went shopping with my mom and sister. Victoria Secrets was having one of their seemingly five or six 'semi-annual' sales where bras and panties were the booty to be had by everyone who was anyone who wanted to get some booty that night. Women of all shapes, sizes, and ages were digging and rumaging through the shiny black bins covering VS-fuschia covered tables in search of the perfect bra. You know the lifts and seperates, divides and conquers, shelves and displays. Me, I'm just tickled pink, VS-pink of course, to just be looking for bras without flaps.

Elbow to elbow, hip to hip, ladies aboundm and suddenly, the music stops, the lights focus, and scantily clad posters of Tyra Banks and her gang begin rejoicing with an angelic hymn.....I had found the bra. Not just any bra...The Bra. It was beautiful. It was a black lace over satin demi cup bra, with the lace continuing about an inch further than the satin, designed to gorgeously highlight the pale fullness of my breasts. Eagerly, I snatched the bra and matching lacey black panties and scurried to the dressing room to worship what I knew would be nothing other than pure perfection. After all, if I'm paying $40 for a bra and panty set it better be perfection.

I barely had the door closed and secured before I was pulling my shirt off over my head and inching my jeans down over my hips(with my panties still on of course...because that would just be nasty otherwise). On goes the lacey black panties....excellent. I unhook my unworthy, ordinary, Wal-Mart bra, and lovingly fasten The Bra around my middle, and twist it around. The satin covered lace enticingly cupped my breasts as I slid the straps over my shoulders. cup runneth over. Well, crap. I had a 38DD wrapped around my torso and still to small. After all the years of nursing I was told that I would definately experience some shrinkage after I was finished. This. Was. Not. The. Case. I was so mad. Try as I may, I just could not tuck enough breast tissue inside the cups of that bra to make it fit. So off with The Bra, and on with my Wal-Mart lavendar, kinda cute, but so not a do-me bra. *sigh*

This whole reclaming of my breasts is just not going how I imagined it would. I wanted the ridulously high receipt to verify the proper enhancing and display of my decollette. I wanted the little tag at the back, that no one sees but me, to read Victoria Secret, or Fredricks of Hollywood when I'm feeling a little on the slutty side. I wanted The Bra and The Panties. I wanted the macthing set, damnit! I did get the panties though. ;)

Note to Self: Having one's cup runneth over is generally a good thing, unless it precludes you from buying a kick-ass bra.

Wednesday, May 05, 2004

Creature of Habit

As I was sifting through the yet to be washed dishes in the dishwasher looking for a specific spoon it dawned on me that I may be a wee bit particular. Mind you, there was an entire drawer full of perfectly usable, clean spoons at my disposal not 5 feet away, but, alas, I had to have my spoon. After retreiving my spoon from the midst of the common spoons, I promptly washed and dried it all the while trying to ignore the little voice in my head that was mocking my peculiarity in having to have a certain utensil.

Having the found and secured my special spoon, I set out to prepare my breakfast. I put yogurt, half vanilla, half black cherry, in a bowl, then frozen blueberries, then added about a quarter cup of grape nut cereal. I stirred it all together with my special spoon and set it aside to "chill". I let the mixed concoction to sit for about 10 minutes. This allows the blueberries to soften and juice, but the really yummy part is that they semi-freeze the yogurt around them. And the grape nuts get a little softer, not mushy mind you, but not crunchy per se either. After this process has run it's course my yogurt is ready to eat. With my special spoon of course. Only that spoon. This particular spoon is different than all of my other sppons. It is one of a kind. It is mine See, as you may or may not have noticed, I have a certain way of going about things, (or as I like to say, 'the right way' ) and I'm not too keen about deviating from my routine regarding certain happenings. So, much to my chagrin, I have become a creature of habit. Oh, the shame and horror! At my age I should be foot loose and fancy free, not a set your watch by her actions kinda gal. *sigh*

If my predictability were limited to my food routines it wouldn't be so terrible. However, lately, I seem to do whatever it is that I have been doing just because that's what I do, ya know. I got some very sage advice from a good friend recently telling me to let loose a little bit and go a little crazy. So I'm going to do just that. But, I am so keeping my spoon.

Note to Self: Let loose and live a little.

Tuesday, April 13, 2004

Don't Shit Where you Sleep

When trying to housebreak a puppy, many people employ the 'crate method'. The basic jist of this novel idea is that the puppy won't want to void itself where it sleeps. Sound and effective method, really. Even more intriguing than the pottying habits of puppies, is the phrase that has evolved from this particular process, "Don't Shit Where you Sleep." No mistaking the meaning of this one. No explanation neccessary. One problem is bloody hard to train people.

I'll admit, I have a multi-faceted personality. Doesn't everyone? What I display and emphasize in one situation may be drastically different than the one that was hamming up the room just an hour before. It's not that I am presenting myself under false pretenses, or acting fake. Different scenarios and different people bring out different parts of my personality. Some I prefer more than others, but they are all me.

I'm the mini-van driving, country music grooving, gold hoop earring wearing, multiple kid toting, suburban living, name brand wearing, mom of three by day. At night, my sultry eye make-up wearing, whiskey skulling, wine sipping, silver, not gold, jewelry wearing, wanting to get my nose pierced fantasizing, head turning, flirty, staying up all night with my girlfriend dishing, wants to be 17 again self emerges. Gods, I missed that girl! I'll be damned if I still don't groove to country music by night though. I enjoy and listen to all kinds of music, but, my finger always wanders back to the button to switch the station back to ole K105. Don't worry, I'm suitably embarrassed.

How does one balance different sides of their personality? How do you stay up all night, laughing and living it up, throwing back the whiskey, and grooving to K105 and still get up with enough bubbly energy to paint on a happy face and taxi three or more kids around to various activities where you will undoubtedly be forced to discuss the state of the local Y's soccer league, the Boy Scouts new uniforms that need to be ordered and picked up(which of course you will volunteer to do), the elementary school's fundraiser, and the diaper contents of at least one child that does not belong to you? By the way, it's quality, not quantity. No, I am not referring to sex. It's my standard answer to every mother that feels the need to discuss her child's bowel movements with me. No, just because he hasn't pooed in two days doesn't mean he is constipated. Is it hard, dry, or painful? No? Well, then quit sticking things up his butt trying to force him to poop...he's not constipated. Was that too much information for my more sensitive readers? Yes? Welcome to my life. :P Oh, by the way Kassy(Corrie's slightly smarter than her next door neighbor, who is ready to give birth to a long awaited baby at any point now), I don't mean any of this directed at you. Of course I want to here about your little one's diaper contents and spit up patterns. :) If you can't gross your friends out, what has this world come to?! ;)

Is there a point in one's life when the rules imposed by society can be thrown out the window? Is it ever okay for me to drive my son to school in my pajamas because I am going to go back to bed when I get home because I had one too many last night? If the answer is yes, should I still be ashamed if someone sees the floral satin of my nighty peek out of my coat, or can I just shrug and blame it on old Johnny Walker? If I am out with friends playing darts and living it up(sha, as if *rolls eyes* like that ever happens) and my milk lets down at the thought of my sweet adorable little at home sleeping peacefully, can I just shrug it off and not have be embarrassed?

I don't think so. I think you have to toe the line all the freakin time, and it is exhausting. It's as if a person can't have multiple interests around these parts the rest of y'all refer to as Ohio. Everyone is so clearly defined by their roles, and if one should dare to step outside of the box, gossip will be had. This goes for online relationships too. The freeing thing about that is, that by far and large I don't give a rat's ass what some lady 2000 miles away might think of me. I've seen it said before, and I'll say it again, if I don't like what I'm reading, this computer of mine came with an off button, I'll utilize it.

Note to Self: Please yourself. Those who matter don't mind, and those who mind don't matter.

Saturday, April 10, 2004

Pull me, Tug me, Tear me Apart

It's the most intense struggle. Both sides fighting fervently for their cause, unrelentlenting in their quest for dominence. Everything goes, nothing is sacred, there are no holds barred. A call for peace, a compromise, or even a surrender is impossible at this point. It's a fight-to-the-death, winner takes all battle. It rages inside of me.

I feel like I am being torn in two, three, four, a million pieces. It doesn't matter which way I am being pulled really, because I have no sense of direction at this point. I just wish someone, anyone, would blindfold me, spin me around, and point me in a general direction. At least then, I'd have a direction, albeit an uncertain one. Could I possibly use the word direction anymore in a single paragraph? Always wanting what I can't have....

"Always wanting what I can't have...." Now isn't that telling. That seems to be the source of all my angst. Why, oh why am I always attracted to what I can't have? To everyone else, limitations and boundaries are seemingly obvious. To me, they are a challenge. A sign reads 'DO NOT ENTER' and most people don't enter. Nooooooooo, not me, I feel the need to investigate, to find out what forbidden fruit is behind that door that I am so unfairly being denied. Well, this time what was behind that door is some radioactive, shoulda listened to the sign and stayed the hell outta there shit.

Alas, I entered and am now deep in the throes of it all, sporting a very apparent radioactive glow. What's even worse is that I like what I found behind the forbidden door. I want what I found behind this door. For my happiness and sanity, I need what is behind this door. So why am I frantically jerking at the handle and clawing at the door trying to find a way out? Why do I want to deny myself the satisfaction and contentment of having what I have always wanted? Is this a classic case of "Be careful what you ask for, you just may get it."? Now that I have it, what the hell am I going to do with it?!

I feel torn, confused, and uncertain about what I have discoverd. Not the discovery of my long-fated destiny that is the radioactive mess behind door number one, but the discoveries I am making about myself. I'm not the person I thought I was. I can't say whether I am better or worse yet, but I can say that I am different. I am sorely tempted to slam that door shut, bolt it tight, run for my life, and try my damnedest to forget what I found behind that door. The lovely, enchanting glow of my discovery, and the inner glow of self-discovery.

To pursue my exploration, I most certainly will be forced to abandon everything that I thought I was to do so. However, in my journey to find my buried treasure, I seem to have found more of my true self than I have ever known before. That's damn scary. I liked having myself defined in certain ways; mother, daugher, sister, confidant, wife, volunteer. The seemed so, so...nice. They seemed to fit in the nice little box that I called life. Now, they seem like a cop out, an excuse to not have to see me for me. I defined myself by other people. In the midst of my exploration I can confidently form a new, if yet incomplete, definition of myself: sensual, loving, conflicted, nurturing, curious, intrigued, lonely, inquisitive, loyal to myself, friendly, funny(at least I think so hehe), magnetic, insecure at times, and frightenly enough, dependent. All that, and I can still say I'm nice. How's that for the complete package? Oh, I forgot to add modest to that list. ;)

Note to Self: Be careful what you ask for, you just might get it.