Monthly Archives: October 2013

Blech

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Life continues to vomit on our heads.  I just wonder, will we ever get a break?  It seems like we put out one fire and another one engulfs us in flames.  Last night Adam picked me up from work and we were just pulling into the parking lot when the brake fell off the car.  Just fell off.  Luckily Adam was driving and not me, because I would have probably A.) panicked, and B.) not known what to do.  But he did (use the emergency break, you idiot!) so we were able to arrive safely.  However, we do not have the money to actually fix the brakes.  Do you notice a common theme here?  Adam was supposed to have a job interview this morning and I’m guessing that he didn’t get to go because how would he have gotten there?  I had to ride the bus this morning to work, and I have written previously about how much I love the bus.  There are outstanding bills to be paid, rent is due tomorrow, and there is just no money to pay ANYTHING.  We’ll figure it out, we always do, but I just— I just— sometimes I want to dig a hole and crawl into it for a really long time.  Preferably a hole with reality T.V. pumped into it.

Adam is depressed and I hate it when he’s depressed too; that’s supposed to be MY thing.  I count on him to cheer me up no matter what, which is unfair and I know it but that’s what we do.  I cry, he makes me laugh.  When he’s upset the whole world is off its axis; the balance in our marriage is screwed up.  Like I said, I’m not asking for much, just a little tiny break.  Maybe some good news for once.  Is that too much to ask? 

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A Lot More than You Ever Wanted to Know About Me

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I vividly remember standing in a dressing room with my mom, trying on my first bra. I hated it; I SOBBED in front of the mirror.  I thought I looked stupid, it felt weird… unfortunately, I had skipped right over the “training” part of the bra process and was fully into an adult size.  My breasts never needed any training.  I was in the fifth grade, and my mom had noticed my need for something to keep me in place.  After that fateful trip, which ended in tears and probably some kind of argument with my mom, I would come downstairs for school in the morning and my mom would do a bra check; feel under my shirt to make sure I had it on, because any chance I got I would try and sneak past her radar and not wear it.  I eventually grew used to it, of course, and even sometimes liked my boobs.  I was proud of my figure for like five minutes sometime when I was fifteen or sixteen.  Another memory I have is of standing in yet another fitting room with my best friend, streeeeetching a metallic silver shirt (what? It was the 90’s and it said “Princess” across the chest) down over me.  My friend laughed hysterically, tears running down her face, because the shirt covered like half of a breast.  I didn’t buy the shirt.

In high school I was known as “The Girl with the Big Tits”.  Honestly.  Once I came across a boy I was going to a homecoming dance with in the hallway, and he was making these *motions* with his hands, scooping out the air and shaping…into my boobs.  He did NOT get to see them, or make any scooping motions anywhere close to them, just to let you know. 

On one hand my breasts were a huge (no pun intended) part of my identity.  I didn’t know who I WAS without them, you know?  But I also longed for a conversation I could have when someone actually looked me in the eye, or to run a short distance without giving myself a black eye.  I had to put a washrag under my bra because the skin got so irritated under there.  So one day, I decided to chop the fuckers off.

Then I changed my mind.

I got all the way to the doctor’s office, had the exam, was told I was an excellent candidate for breast reduction surgery, and I just couldn’t do it.  I didn’t know who I WAS without my breasts.  They had always been a part of me, literally.  Would people look at me the same?  Well, no, they wouldn’t, because they would be looking at my face as opposed to my chest.  I guess I just wasn’t ready to give it up.

Cut to a couple years later.  My boobs seemed to only be getting bigger, and I started having skin reactions out the wazoo.  My back hurt all the time, my neck had a permanent knot in it, I felt like I couldn’t even walk without pain.  I was ready, this time I was ready.

And I did it.  And you guys, I would have three hundred C sections before I would have that surgery again.  It hurt so fucking bad.  They took six pounds from each breast and then stitched me back together.  I developed a pocket of fluid and had to go back to the doctor to get it “expressed”, which is a fancy term for squeeze the everlasting shit out of it and have junk come out your nipples.  I bent three fingernails back while he was expressing, and I was expressing with some colorful language of my own.  The first time I took the bandages off, I burst into tears.  “I look like a ten year old boy!” I wailed to my friend and my mom.  I was battered and bruised, and missing a part of myself.

But I think it was worth it.  I got used to the way I looked, and started enjoying buying cute bras for myself.  It made it easier to move, and my back pain reduced dramatically.  I was no longer the Girl with the Big Tits, and that was okay by me!!

Now I have come to love and respect my boobs.  They are the perfect size for me, the scars are barely noticeable from the surgery.  I’m glad I had the courage to do it, though I don’t know if I would (could) again.  I’ve heard some stories about people having to have the surgery more than once and I hope that doesn’t happen to me.  I’m sure some people have great experiences with the surgery, this is just mine.  And now you all know way more about my boobs than you ever wanted to know, you’re welcome!

Can You Hear Me Now?

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I am a yeller; I come by it honestly, from a long line of yelling people.  When I was younger and my mom and I would get in fights, she would YELL at me not to stomp up the stairs and I would anyway, then slam the door to my room as hard as I could, and I could hear her downstairs muttering to herself and banging pots and pans together.  We yelled at each other at the top of our lungs, always trying to get the last word in.

I have carried this yelling into my marriage and my family, and I am trying so hard to break the cycle.  Cole will cover his ears and say, “I wish people would stop yelling, I wish there was no yelling,” and this just breaks my heart and makes me feel like a horrible mother.  And I’ve noticed that he is starting to follow suite; he screams at me if he is angry or not getting his way, and then of course I yell right back and that’s just not good. 

Over the weekend Adam and I were pick, pick, picking at each other.  Money is tight right now and that always makes us tense.  It all culminated in an epic fight on Monday morning, and I did ask Adam to step into the bedroom before I lost it, but I’m afraid that my voice carries and Cole heard us anyway.  He covered his ears and I felt like I should just punch myself in the face right then.  I have GOT to get this under control.  The only way I can describe it is that the anger builds up and then just comes EXPLODING out of me in the form of the loudest voice I can muster.  But I don’t want to do this anymore, I want to teach Cole that there are other ways to solve a problem.  I’m going to try to walk away, take a deep breath, count to ten.  That’s the plan, and you all are going to have to keep me to it.  I really, really want to get this under control, and I’m going to try my hardest.  I don’t want my son to have to cover his ears anymore.

But Adam has GOT to stop pissing me off.  (Just kidding.  Sort of.)

Why?

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Why do I blog?  As I get a *couple* of readers (Hi everyone!  Love ya!)  I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and why I continued to blog as long as I did when I was just writing to the great expanse of nothing that is the web.  I think that the first thing that attracted me was the sense of community; I love the fact that there are all these women and men out there, just on the other side of their computer screens, who are rooting for me, or judging me, whatever, but CARING about my life and what I have to say about it.  That’s just amazing to me, and makes the world a lot smaller of a place.

I’ve always wanted to be a writer.  When I was in the third grade, I had a wonderful teacher who totally encouraged my flair for writing, and that same year I won a school wide essay contest and was chosen out of the whole school to read at an assembly.  I thought I would burst with pride.  I continued to write as I grew up, always keeping a diary or a journal, and typing out stories on my parent’s old Brother typewriter.  I always wrote all my friend’s English assignments and always got A’s.  In college, everyone told me to major in creative writing, but Hello?  I already KNEW how to do that, and just to prove it I took a class and aced it.  I wish that I would have listened, but I was in COLLEGE, you guys, and I knew everything. 

I continued to keep a journal after college, and would occasionally write a short story or poem.  But no one ever read anything, and it kind of went by the wayside for a while.  Then one day, on a very sloooow day at the office where I worked, I happened to stumble upon a blog.  I can’t remember which one I discovered first, but I have to say that it was Dooce or Amalah, and I was immediately hooked.  I am a voracious reader, and nosy to boot, so blogs were right up my alley.  I loved the fact that it was almost like I was reading someone’s diary, and I discovered so many truly gifted writers out there.  When I had Cole, it was even better because I didn’t feel like I was doing this mom thing alone.  Anything that I felt, someone else had felt before, and made me feel okay about it.  It was comforting to know that I was a part of this pack, this group of mom’s who all made no bones about the fact that they didn’t know what they were doing either but we would muddle through together. 

I started my blog Little Bits of Pixie Dust in 2005, over at Blogger.  I had a couple readers in the very beginning, and then for a long time no one read anything.  Many times I thought about pressing the delete button, but I just knew that SOMEDAY, someone out there might want to read my words, and besides, it was kind of like a baby book of Cole’s infanthood and I didn’t want to lose that.  So I kept writing, but just recently got really into it, trying to promote my blog to others and making comments on lots of blogs that I’ve long admired and read.  I switched to WordPress.  And I have to say, I am just thrilled to be a part of this blogging thing, truly.  I feel like I’ve made some friends, and if I ever go to Australia there is actually someone there that I could have a cup of coffee with!  It still blows my mind.

I’m so glad to be a part of this community, no matter how big or small my readership ever gets.  I hope to continue to blog for a long time coming!   

You’re My Obsession….

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I’m inspired by an old post by Jonniker for this one… Obsessions, over my lifetime. 

PORCELAIN DOLLS– When I was a girl, I had a heavy love for all porcelain dolls.  And these were not dolls to play with, they were dolls to put on a shelf and admire.  Once I made my grandma drive me all the way to a city two hours away to visit a specialty store, to get a certain doll.  I spent my own money on these dolls, mind you.  I would save and save, all my money bunched up in my underwear drawer, and then finally have enough to make a purchase.  My grandma and I found all the doll places within the area and frequented them.  I would watch QVC avidly, because I loved the Marie Osmand doll collection.  (Dork! And I never got one)  At one point I had probably 10 or 12 of those dolls; they all got left behind in a move once, when Adam and I were packing and the landlord thought that we just left all of our stuff in the basement so took it upon himself to take EVERYTHING to the curb. 

THE MONKEES- As in, the band.  When I was in elementary school, Nickelodeon started showing reruns of the Monkee’s show, and I immediately fell head over heels for Davey Jones.  My dad copied his old records(!) onto cassette tapes (!) for me and I listened to them over and over.  Davey Jones was my first real crush, the first man to give me that feeling.  One day, my parent’s said that they were coming for a reunion tour and they were going to take me!  Instead of being excited, I was crushed…. I didn’t want to see OLD Monkee’s, I wanted to see them as they were on the show and on my posters.  I told my parents some lame excuse about how I didn’t “feel I was ready” for a concert (who says that?) and ran to my room, where I sobbed under my Monkee’s poster.  Davey Jones was never the same after I saw him on an episode of “Full House” and he was old and not cute anymore.

NEW KIDS ON THE BLOCK- Like every other prepubescent girl in the late 80’s, I was totally infatuated with the New Kids.  Joe was my favorite, and I had every shirt, poster, button, pin, nightgown, even shoelaces printed with their logo.  I listened to the tapes over and over and over, recorded every T.V. appearance they made.  This was my first true concert, the Magic Summer Tour, with Color Me Badd as the openers.  My mom and her friend camped out in front of the ticket booth to score some tickets.  It was the greatest night of my life.  To this day, I have NKOTB songs on rotation on my music player.

TITANIC, THE MOVIE- I went completely insane over this movie.  I was hopelessly in love with Leonardo DiCaprio, and this movie just was so awesome and such a wonderful love story to me.  I dragged my boyfriend, friend’s, and mom to the movie and ended up seeing it in the theater a record 13 times.  13 times!  For a four hour movie!!  I was seriously dedicated.  I owned the soundtrack and of course purchased the DVD when it came out, so I could watch over and over to my heart’s content.  I could drool over Leo as much as I wanted.  My favorite question to ask my then boyfriend was “If we were in the water, would you let me up on the board or would you hog it to your self?”  He smartly always answered that he would give me the board, though sometimes he would argue that there was room for two on there.  There wasn’t!  Or Rose would have saved Jack!  She will never let go!

EMINEM- Oh God, how I loved me some Marshall Mathers.  I thought he was the hottest person I’d ever seen, and for this little white girl in Ohio his words seemed to just punch you right in the face.  I thought, and still think, that he has this way with words that no one else does, and I could listen to everything he ever wrote.  When he raps there is such power.  I put up every poster that I could find, and in college I even had pictures in my bathroom, which my ever-so-helpful roommates put word bubbles on proclaiming, “I love Devon so much!” and “Those are the biggest goddamned tits I’ve ever seen!” (an inside joke that some boy ACTUALLY SAID TO ME during a make out session, and we thought it was the funniest thing we’d ever heard.)  In 2002, I got to go to the concert and it blew.my.fucking.mind.  He was incredible.  I am still a huge fan, though the posters are a thing of the past since I’m a grown up.  *Sucks.*

BOOKS- This is also an obsession that continues to this day.  I have always loved books, the feel of them, the smell when you crack the spine.  My dad took me to the library faithfully every Saturday and we would check out a stack of books, which I would methodically go through one by one.  One of my earliest memories is of sitting in a patch of sunlight, turning the pages of the Penney’s catalogue.  I still read every chance I get, devouring everything that has the printed word on it.  I go to the library every two weeks and check out at least 7-9 books at a time, and again just plow through the pile.  I love how books can transport you anywhere in the world, and I can leave my life at anytime when I’m reading.