true but unecessary confessions « single with vodka

true but unecessary confessions

Happy Sue Year!

like i said last year, i don’t make new year’s resolutions anymore because i know i’m not gonna keep ‘em. let me give you an idea of how this type of thing has gone in the past:

i resolved to eat better, so i had a yogurt for breakfast, a salad for lunch, and an entire pizza for dinner.

i resolved to exercise more, so i joined a gym, worked out every day for 2 weeks, and then took a break for 6 months.

i resolved to cut back on carbs, so i stopped eating bread and replaced it with pretzels, popcorn, and tortilla chips.

i resolved to drink less, so i replaced the vodka with wine, and later the wine with vodka.

i resolved to do more things with my kids, so i watched tv with them.

i resolved to date men my own age, so i slept with a string of random 20 year olds.

i resolved to be more assertive, so i acted like a huge bitch.

i resolved to communicate better with those i love, so i talked to them less.

i resolved to stay out of the malls, so i shopped online.

i resolved to lose the last 5 pounds, so i gained 10.

i resolved to take better care of myself, so i started going to bed without washing my face or brushing my teeth.

i resolved to give myself more time in the morning by setting my alarm to wake me earlier, so i snoozed until i woke up late.

i resolved to let my hair grow long, so i stopped shaving.

i resolved to read more and watch less tv, so i leafed through catalogs while watching my dvr.

i resolved to be more patient with others, so i tried to convince my gynecologist to give me a prescription for xanax.

i resolved to save money, so i started picking up loose change up off the floor.

i resolved not to settle and to find someone who really gets me, so i got a cat.

i resolved to drink more water, so i added ice cubes to my vodka.

i resolved to floss every day, so i avoided the dentist for 14 months.

i resolved to take up a hobby, so i collected one night stands.

i resolved to get more rest, so i started taking sleeping pills.

i resolved to cook more for my kids, so i got frozen dinners.

i resolved to keep my house clean, so i hired a cleaning service.

i resolved to make some new single friends, so i hung out with my kids on their playdates.

i resolved to be more of a “morning person,” so i started drinking more coffee.

i resolved to be strong, so i cried in the night when no one was looking.

i resolve to make 2011 the year of The Suevolution(tm). so, let’s see how that goes.

like swv on facebook too!

ponderings of a mad woman / rants / seriously, folks / the asshat / the suevolution(tm) / true but unecessary confessions — 3 Comments
12
Nov 10

despite the fact that my period came early & i was utterly unprepared for the ensuing cramps that had me bent over my desk at work, i was in the most spectacular mood on tuesday. since i am normally so cranky, i had no idea why, but then i realized it was november 9th.

15 years ago, on november 9th, i donned a beautiful, borrowed white dress, allowed a “professional” make-up artiste to apply too much make-up to my innocent, young face, wore my hair piled high atop my head in gloriously huge jersey girl curls, ignored all the red flags i had so carefully buried, promised my father i wanted to go through with it despite his numerous assurances it wasn’t too late to back out, swallowed my doubts, and gladly began my walk down The Aisle which, in turn, led me down a path of unfulfilled promises & despair – yes folks, i got married. thanks to disney’s incessant barrage of evil propaganda aimed at young girls, it was all i ever dreamed of as a child & young woman- i never had any real intentions of having a career and actually making my way in life on my own. i was a sweet, but spoiled suburban princess and i just wanted to get hitched, have babies, be a wife, a mommy, & live wealthfully ever after. and i thought i was going to do exactly all that, but early on, perhaps during the cocktail hour that he went to without me, or the reception during which he danced primarily with his mother (i hope they are very happy together now), or maybe it was during the brawling on the honeymoon, it became apparent i had made a huge mistake (oh, and the honeymoon was over, literally, after hitting that poor deer on the way home from the airport. omen, much?). i obviously hadn’t thought it all the way through. clearly, i had married the wrong man for me – sure he looked great on paper – nice jewish boy from a good family, smart, decent enough looking, had the potential to make a lot of clams, and truly seemed liked he would make a good bug handler, occasional diaper changer, burgler beater-upper, light bulb changer (still waiting on that one), & bill payer. sure, his idea of dressing up was the fancy tee shirt. sure, he wore high top velcro reeboks and liked terrible music he demanded i listen to, but i could change him right? and i had already invested 5 of my best firm bodied years on shaping & molding this lump of clay into what i thought was the perfect future. and i had absolutely no idea that what i thought was the truest of love was really just pathetic and desperate co-dependence.

fast forward through 12 lonely years of a marriage to an addict in which there was constant oppression, neglect, emotional abuse, physical intimidation, and general assholishness. it was a devastating death of my dreams & hopes for the future in which i learned i was considered merely a possession to be owned & controlled, bought & sold, and placed in a corner when not needed. then add another 2 years of a nasty, messy divorce (which is exactly how i always knew it would go down when the time came) and the birth of what my mother claims is an alcohol problem (mr. schmirnoff & i disagree). the weight of my misery rendered me unrecognizable: i had become isolated and cut myself off from family & friends. i tried to throw myself into motherhood and running my home but it just wasn’t enough. i hated holidays and reunions and felt ragefully jealous of those around me whom i perceived to be happy. i refused to travel & go on vacations because it was all just such an unpleasant endeavor with an eternally miserable person. and i was soooooo wasteful during my marriage- because i could be – money was all he gave me, because he wasn’t capable of love. so i would shop to fill the raw emptiness in my gut and then i would get rid of things on a whim without a thought as to future need (god, i wish i had half the stuff i gave away over the years or sold for 99 cents on ebay). i would knowingly spend way too much on one item thinking, “so there! take that, you asshole,” as i handed over the credit card. i led a desolate existence even thought there was so much abundance. but the thing is, i won’t miss any of it. of course, that’s not hard for me because i do have plenty of things from the marriage & i thank god i can tell you i won’t go hungry, but i just don’t care about any of the material possessions anymore. not the lexus, the 3500 square foot house, the vacations, the expensive meals (my mother used to insist i go out with him for Date Night & i would ask her why she wanted to punish me), the $200 pairs of jeans, diamonds, gold, or the money. because without a loving partner & happy family, none of it meant a damn thing to me – it all just became items with a resale value on ebay. i finally realized i did not have a price, i could not be bought! it was a feeling of empowerment i never had. and then The Asshat’s worst fear was realized - he no longer had any control over me. and let’s face it, no one can control you unless you allow it.

you know, many single people think being with anyone is better than being alone, but there is nothing more lonely than being tethered to someone who could care less about you. who pays no attention to you, nor acknowledges you when you speak, or doesn’t even look up from what he is doing when you enter a room. someone who can’t even muster the effort to say hello or goodbye, pretend to laugh at a joke, give you one compliment, or show you a morsel of gratitude, or won’t even touch you. to be with someone who goes to concerts instead of spending holidays or your birthday with you and can’t be bothered to plan one evening out together to do somehting you like. someone who makes his disdain for your family clear to you and them, while also systematically alienating every friendship you ever had as a couple. i used to mark off each year that my anniversary passed as one more year of my life wasted in misery with a man who never truly loved me, but now i mark it as a day of freedom. beautiful, glorious, peaceful freedom. i can now celebrate is as the un-doing of a mistake, the un-niversary of a poor choice.

a bad marriage is carried around like a terrible secret, a huge burden that is ultimately shouldered alone. the shame of the realization i was married to an addict and i was the enabler combined with the disappointment of the way my marriage turned out was unbearable. and while i was mired in that humiliation, my oppressor came very close to breaking me. nearly convincing me, i was the problem, i was crazy and i needed help. and i tried so hard to make it work, to suck it up until the girls went to college, but one day i realized i couldn’t do it anymore – i would just end up empty & used up, a mere shell of myself like the military wife in american beauty who sat at the table staring straight ahead at nothing, dead inside from a life of oppression at the hands of a dictator husband. worst of all, what if my girls followed in my footsteps and ended up in the same kind of marriage? that was my greatest fear & the ultimate motivating factor to leave. but even near the end of the marriage, i still made insane attempts to stay & make myself happy. while clinging to the edge of the precipice desperately with only my fingernails, i did things i never thought i would to keep hanging on any way i could. i did fall into a chasm of delirium temporarily but, that “insanity” is what finally got me out and i haven’t regretted a single thing, not even for a moment. and when i finally did reach my breaking point where i just knew it was never going to change and i just didn’t care anymore and i was done talking about it and working on it, i finally was just over it and i knew i was finished, i somehow gathered the strength to say out loud that it was over. (i actually remember during the third & last round of marriage counseling, which is a big fucking joke, because once you are there it’s essentially too late, the utterly useless therapist asked me in a private session if i even wanted to save the marriage and without a moment’s hesitation, i answered with a resounding no). ultimately though, he was the one to file first – i think he wanted to beat me to the punch. i was served with divorce papers at my home, in front of my children, within 48 hours of telling him i wanted a separation. and while marveling at the speed at which it happened, i couldn’t help but wonder if he had an attorney on retainer because he knew too, that i was finally done and the day was coming soon when i would tell him so. i walked upstairs to my bedroom, read the papers and the scathing accusations they contained in utter disbelief, cried for about 20 minutes and then felt glorious relief. it was finally over. i had struggled with the decision to leave for over 10 years and he had set me free! he did it for me! i felt gratitude wash over me as i prepared to walk away willingly from the comfort of a life with the only man i had been with for 15 years . i was ready to leave it all just for the mere chance at happiness.

last year at this time, i was holed up in my guest room with my 2 girls at my side like a family of immigrants in some dysfunctional dorm room watching full house reruns. as we slept 3 across in my trundle bed (mommy in the crack, of course) behind a closed door, 10 feet down the hall lived a mentally ill, malevolent, pot smoking ogre who was prone to tantrums and fits inside a deadbolted lair from which the smell of “incense” continuously wafted. every night before drifting off into a vodka induced slumber, i would pray for the ogre’s untimely demise – perhaps a smoting by dragon or being eaten alive by a pack of transient wildebeasts, and for my incarceration to end. after living imprisoned in my own life for 12 years, i had to live through another 2 in a jail cell in my own home with a warden that tirelessly tried everything in his power to keep me on death row for eternity. he would stop at nothing to try to destroy me trying to take my money, my possessions, my children, my freedom, & my pride. and i summoned a courage and strength to fight him that i am sure he never imagined i could or would possess. he always undervalued and underestimated me and that became my greatest weapon in the War of The Asshats.

this past june 21st was my divorceiversary – the day i was truly emancipated thanks to a combined succession of 5 lawyers and a terribly lengthy, exasperating, & expensive legal process that finally forced the divorce’s end – the ogre would have let it go forever but was finally slain by my lawyer (it’s no secret, that i have a huge crush on him). and i have never known a peace like this in my entire life. i had never lived so deliciously alone and been in complete control of everything in my life. after high school, i left my parents’ home for dorms and apartments with inconsiderate college roommates, i returned home to live with my parents after college where i manifested my 16 year old self again, after a year, i moved into an apartment with the aforementioned fucking jackass who said he wouldn’t marry me unless i did, and then i moved to my marital home. in my entire existence, i was never free to run my own life, make my own decisions, have any say in the finances, or breathe without someone’s approval. so, you can see, how the simple acts of paying bills, leaving lights on when i chose and setting the thermostat to any degree i want are all pure heaven. my leftovers are there when i wake up the next day. i can leave my cell phone on the counter and it will be there when i return for it and it will be dry. i can leave my purse out and my cash will still be there when i open my wallet. i no longer have to try to get to my mail first or tote around a huge purse with my garage door opener, cell phone charger, jewelry, ipod, personal papers, and anything else i hoped to keep. i no longer flinch at the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, share the dvr, or share anything for that matter. i don’t have to listen to music that makes my ears bleed (well, other than the jo-bros) or pretend to give a shit about someone’s day. oh, and the bed – it’s all mine. no one waking me up with their sleepless seismic activity or snoring loud enough to annoy corpses (oh, how often had i had fantasized about what i could do with a well placed pillow?). i never again to have to play personal assistant in a life of indentured servitude to an ungrateful moron. i don’t have to stroke an ego or look at anyone’s flab other than my own in disgust. i don’t have to find hairs on the floor, toothpaste globs mixed with shaving cream gunk in the sink, or petrified snot on the shower walls. i don’t have to hear someone hocking loogies in the kitchen garbage can or coughing up pot induced mucous from his lungs that i kept hoping would fail. in short, i don’t have to live with an absolute pig anymore. if there is dirt, it is my dirt, if there are dishes in the sink, they are my dishes, if there is an ass impression on the couch, is it on my couch from my ass (and we all know what a great ass i do have). i now have a deep appreciation for life & the things that fill it in a way i never did. i live my life fully and enjoy every day as much as i am able. i laugh and feel a warped gratitude to The Asshat every single day for setting me free.

i certainly have no intentions of marrying again because i think marriage just ruins a perfectly good relationship, and i just can’t see how number 2 would turn out any differently. i hate other women’s husbands for them. i joke a lot about being bitter, and sure, i probably am to some extent, but i have never been so happy in my life as i am now – not even as a child. i have finally found my voice, found out who i am, and most importantly found out i love sex… mostly with strangers… but seriously folks, in my mind, a life lived in quiet desperation, always settling, continuously wondering what could have been, dreaming of “someday,” isn’t one worth living. i have watched so many people become resigned to such a life -and i was almost a casualty of it myself - and being too scared to fight for their own happiness. being a victim is a choice. next to wasted potential, this is one of the he saddest things to me- because you only get one shot at life, my friends, and it’s yours alone to spend as you wish. you are not a doormat for your spouse, friends, kids, boss, parents, or anybody. and i pity those who realize they are miserable yet never summon the strength do something about it. you are never stuck no matter how bad things may be and i believe you get out no matter the price. your happiness is priceless. ultimately, it’s a choice to stay in a bad situation because it’s easier not to change. change is hard and terrifying. and, i, of all people get that, because it took me 12 years to make that change and someone else ultimately had to pull the plug for me. but, there were so many times during the making of that change where it would have been much easier to lay my weapons down, give up the fight, stop suffering, and crawl back to the security and ease i could have had, but it would have come at an enormous cost – my self respect & my happiness. i will always encourage those around me to be more, to want more out of life, & above all be true to themselves and fight for their lives.

the suevoltiuon ™ (a brilliant term coined by not me) continues…

if you like this blog, then like it on facebook too! please?

ponderings of a mad woman / true but unecessary confessions — 2 Comments
10
May 10

file it under gggb

from the i am getting too old for this files:

i have been out with my pre-tween girls on more than one occasion when i clucked disapprovingly at what “teenage girls are wearing these days. it’s just disgraceful that their mothers allow that.” pictures from my high school years would reveal that i dressed like one of those tramps myself.

no matter how routine she knows it is, and despite her seemingly huge annoyance with it, any woman over 30 will always be secretly thrilled to be carded.

at 2 am there is nothing sadder than a drunk, over-botoxed, orange spray tanned, too skinny, bleached blond cougar in spandex with new tits on an old body alone at the bar for last call waiting for someone (anyone) to take her home for a mercy fuck. i am going to retire early from the singles’ scene before i can be described as doing even just one of those things (well, except for drunk).

from the that will ruin your day files:

upon sitting in the pedi chair for a relaxing treat after a long hard week, the tiny asian bitch looked at my gut and most likely trying to make conversation said, “you have baby?” i said, “no, apparently i gained some weight since i was here last, but thanks for noticing.” consequently, she was quiet for the rest of the time which was nice because i always hate when they talk to me anyway.

while purchasing tickets for a movie, my mother asked for the senior discount. the vacuous 18 year old behind the counter then turned to me & asked if i would like the senior price too. at first i wanted to cry, but then i thought, “what the hell?” a discount is a discount.

from the hangover files:

i decided i must make a clean break from dirty martinis.

my liver can’t recover like it used to. in college i could party as late as i wanted for as many nights as i wanted, pop 2 tylenols before bed & resume all of my daily activities. now if i want to binge drink for even one night, i need to plan for a week of recovery.

a friend remarked, “when people say they have to quit drinking, it makes me nervous.” i told her that’s why i never quit.

from the beauty files:

i decided i won’t torture myself anymore to lose that last 5 (10) pounds because i realized there is no way you’re gonna get these perky 32DD’s (which are real AND spectacular) on a 5’0 frame without a little extra padding elsewhere.

my mom was never high maintenance (none of us have any idea how she raised me) but she did impart some valuable knowledge that has allowed me to preserve my glowing youth so successfully: 1. it is never too early to start using eye cream. 2. stay the fuck out of the sun especially when you are fair & have skin the thickness of filo dough.

it is not advisable to wear new fuck me heels in which you are unaccustomed to walking after a fresh pedi, because when you fall off them & twist your ankle, you will indubitably scratch up the fresh polish.

after a full day of personal maintenance, it occurred to me that i was all groomed up with no one to fuck.

i quit the gym, but it’s okay because i have some new behaviors in place: 1. i am going to jog to the fridge. 2. i will hide my remote & manually change the channels on the tv. and 3. i will put diet soda in my vodka.

from the lost poetry files:

roses are red.
violets are blue.
it’s been so long since i got laid,
that my legs i no longer shave.

from the irritable bowel syndrome files:

at dinner my pal thought her phone was vibrating, but she realized it was just her intestines.

after a long day or full evening of holding in my gas, i love when i am finally in my car alone and can let loose, but i am concerned my intense flatulence is obliterating the new car smell.

i often wonder what would happen if farts had a color and differed in color according to intensity of stank. kind of like the national state of emergency chart of color level for terrorist activity but for methane intensity. i think we would have no choice but to deem farting socially acceptable. except you might cross the street if you saw someone blow a dark green cloud knowing it was going to be especially foul.

the smaller the girl, the bigger the farts.

you ever think its safe to freely fart in an empty room at work and then someone walks in after you did? they have to know it’s you. no one else is in there.

you know your gas is intense, when you have to roll down the window.

you know you are in a solid relationship when you can lean to one side & lift a cheek and let it all out.

from the random musings files:

why is that i can instantly get most anything delivered to my house except for what i really need? vodka.

so, since i started writing, i can’t simply have conversations anymore or participate in any aspect of my life without wondering if its blogworthy and surreptitiously taking notes on my phone. to be fair, i tell people, “i am so using that in my blog.”

i tried to quit coffee but the withdrawal was so intense i didn’t want to live. plus i was tired and confused all the time. if i owned a drug company, i would develop a caffeine patch or a gum for those trying to quit or who just need a steady delivery system of caffeine to make it through the day. (hey merck, this is a freebie.)

being in bumper to bumper traffic has a domino effect: the guy in front of you moves up 2 millimeters, then you do, and down the line it goes. sometimes when sitting at a traffic light i will notice a space between me & another car that i can either ignore or move up few inches. i usually choose to move up because there is a delicious sense of power in knowing i just set off a major chain of cause & effect for all those poor slobs behind me. i am the traffic queen!

some commercials are so intentionally cheesy i can not imagine that the advertiser even thinks they are good. i figure that the production budget was so low, they advertiser just didn’t give a shit as long as the product was on tv.

i think we need to buy products on infommercials that will “save us so much time” because we wasted all that time watching said infommercials. they are just sooooo fucking long.

why was it when we were in high school (last century) the kids in the band & drama club were usually considered to be giant dorks, but as adults, musicians & actors are some of the most revered people in our society? same is true for the computer nerds whom we now worship when they fix our technology.

there is one good week for women in a month and that is the week immediately after the last day of her period when all of her jeans fit. the rest of the month she is either getting it or has it.

there are now studies extolling the virtues of eating chocolate, taking naps, drinking wine, having orgasms every day, laughing, and limiting hard core exercise. it can’t be long until we find out being a bitch is good for you too.

i think the reason bad weather is so infuriating is that there is no one specific on which to lay blame. you can bitch all you want, but you can’t do shit to change it. weather is the one thing we as humans will never be able to control & that simultaneously freaks us out & pisses us off.

i spent mother’s day with my mom & sister at my friend’s house with her boyfriend’s family for an hour before she came home. when she finally walked in, i told her i was about to text her: “10 more minutes and this becomes a blog post.”

i am all about having a sense of humor and i really don’t understand how someone can lack one. when i run into a humorless person, it immediately becomes my personal challenge to make them laugh and walk away with a smile. i have a warped need for approval.

from the parenting files:

your child’s entire sex education & knowledge of profanity occurs not from your well thought out talks, but from riding that damn bus back & forth to school every day. that is what happens when you put fifth graders & first graders on the bus together. sound travels up from “the back.”

a woman is always most fertile right after losing that last bit of baby weight.

i don’t know why that no matter what my kids ask me to do, my first response is always to want to say no.

i hate hosting playdates, going to birthday parties, and basically anything that requires dealing with other peoples’ children but does not involve booze at the same time.

happy hour used to mean going drinking after work with friends. now it’s that one hour after the kids finally go to bed when i think about drinking but fall asleep before i find the vodka bottle.

god, my kids are perfect, brilliant, well -behaved angels…i have never loved them so much as when they’re sleeping.

my friend had to get off the phone with me the other day because, as she put it “she had to bathe the bitches.” see, we all agree that we adore our children, but we are kinda over the mommy thing.

sometimes i overhear my 9 year old & her friends complaining about me or saying i am mean after i get annoyed with them for asking me for something every 10 minutes and i think “why, you little ungrateful bitches.” then i think, good, i don’t want these fucking princesses to come back here anyway. what happened to the good old days when you were afraid of your friend’s parents and avoided them as much as possible?

from the files of i wish i said this:

i heard a comedian remark that marriage was like the stockholme syndrome. having been there & done that, i must say this is brilliantly true.

from the fashion police files:

i have noticed that generally, most heavy, slovenly dressed, unattractive women, carry the most expensive designer purses. it must be because you don’t have to be thin to wear a purse or even look in the mirror to try it on.

why is it that thin women have more modesty than the big girls? it seems the fatter the woman, the tighter the pants & shorter the top.

men revere summer as a time when women run around half naked to beat the heat. i dread it as the time of year when my retinas are burned by being forced against my will to see far more exposed bodily hair & flab than i could ever have imagined existed. some people need not to dress seasonally appropriately.

from the break-up files:

i realized it’s not the boyfriend i miss so much, it’s the 24/7 texting i have a hard time living without.

i won’t exactly be out on the street after my divorce, but my lifestyle will change significantly. it’s kind of a “riches to rags to story.”

in the process of leasing a new car a few months ago, i discovered going to car dealerships is far better than going to singles’ bars.

when i think about dating again, i refer to that old addage about many fish in the sea, but then a friend said, “same ones keep getting thrown back in the pond.” so i decided to buy the club pack of AAA’s.

from the working girl files:

if he is cute, it’s flirting. if he’s not, it’s sexual harassment.

now that i’m working again (for pay), i am one lazy bitch on my day off – no more guilt about napping immediately after the school bus leaves.

from the sex files:

a woman scorned will undoubtedly make at least 1 of these 3 revelations immediately after the break-up: 1. he had a tiny penis. 2. she faked ALL the orgasms. 3. he was terrible in bed.

how we know when it’s really over as summed up by a fellow gggb: “my vagina is dry for him.”

i have a vibrator that is so good, that i don’t scream, “oh god.” i scream, “i don’t need a
man.”

women try to rationalize sleeping with a married man by saying, “if it’s not me, it will be someone else.” while that may indeed be true, i say, let it be someone else, girl.

men have turned online dating sights into a free prostitution ring. keep that in mind, ladies.

once in awhile i get lonely & think i need a man in my life, but then i get some fresh batteries and in 60 seconds, i am over it.

masturbation, by it’s very definition, is a solo act. so let’s agree that i won’t bother to pretend to jerk you off and you don’t have to hold the vibrator.

in case you were wondering: it is possible to burn out the motor on a vibrator.

faking orgasms is like eating potato chips: you can’t stop at just one.

ponderings of a mad woman / true but unecessary confessions — 5 Comments
15
Apr 10

the cleaner

i don’t know what it is about organizing/cleaning that i so deeply adore, but i just can’t stop doing it. i know i come from a long line of anal people: my great grandfather was called The Tyrant, my grandfather insisted my grandmother iron his hankies into perfect squares, and my father kept his shirts in the bag with the cardboard from the cleaners precisely stacked on his closet shelves (my sister & i used to try to pirate that cardboard without disturbing the perfect order of his shirts but he knew every time). or maybe it is just my manifestation of OCD combined with the false sense of control i feel i have over my life when a drawer is perfectly outfitted with labeled bins. as a kid i loved to clean and purge. my sister was always rescuing my priceless childhood memories from the kitchen sized garbage bags i would smuggle up to my room and fill with stuff that i eventually tried to buy back on ebay (and it turns out you really can’t buy your childhood back). i even had a circa 1979 dymo label maker which my sister & i used to label everything in the gd house. there was nothing like new pristine school supplies and brandy new boxes of crayons to send me into a tizzy. and i was quite neat for the most part, save for the messy anomaly of my teenage years. so, you can not imagine what a horrible, awful surprise it was to learn i had married a slob of epic proportions. we are talking a filthy, messy, stacker. nothing tortures a neat person more than having a slovenly roommate (just ask felix unger). i was miserable and had to do something about it, so i turned to a trusted friend for help, Mr. Clean, and became completely obsessive with instilling order in my life.

the organizing impulse really kicked into high gear when i learned i was pregnant with my second child (a sweet surprise that occurred immediately after i lost the last bit of first baby weight & had bought an entirely new wardrobe of very expensive size 1 jeans which never got worn): i had the idea that if i could somehow systematize my entire home and catalog every single item located in it, i would be running a well oiled machine before rugrat number 2 joined the family to turn things upside down with her own special brand of chaos. it would be different this time after the baby came – it just had to be. it had been 3 years since number 1 invaded, and i was just beginning to feel like i was finally in control of my life again (which is really a well practiced illusion for anyone with children anyway). i watched all the organizing shows, bought instructional books (which i could now write myself), took notes, and then attacked my home from every angle. i purged all the useless items and had every single closet professionally organized. i was buying giant plastic storage tubs before it was fashionable. and i worked it like a job before there was an actual industry completely dedicated to the Organizing Arts. anyway, by the time i was 8 months pregnant and balancing with one toe on a bar stool i had fashioned into a ladder so i could clean off the last high shelf in the kitchen, i had achieved my goal of 100% complete domestic organization and OCD niravna was mine (but the post baby organizational bliss was short-lived since once that second runt became mobile, she quickly desecrated my sacred Temple of Neatness).

my closets became a thesis in anal retention. all garments were placed on wood hangers (NO WIRE HANGERS!) which all must be made of the same wood and finish and FACE THE SAME WAY. as a kid when i had those colorful plastic hangers, they too were arranged by color. clothes were lined up according to season, function, color order (ROY G. BIV), and arranged from shortest to longest by sleeve and overall length. do i even have to tell you about the shoes with polaroid pix on the front of the boxes displaying the contents and stacked according to the same stringent standards as the clothing placement? (but the move to the dorm room with what can barely be called a closet when the divorce started destroyed that fashion utopia. it’s okay. we will rebuild.) i also run a tight ship in all of my domestic departments: in the kitchen, all cans & food goods face the same way and are alphabetized according to type with tallest items in the back. there is no drawer lacking excessive amounts of perfectly fitting modular containers filled with color coordinated utensils. no spice is without a rack. in the bathroom, there is no hair care product apart from its brethren or out of a basket. no toiletry roams free allowed to float aimlessly in a drawer or a cabinet. all things must be properly contained & corralled. paper goods lined up by type. i have my own hot line to call for emergency label maker tape refills. hell, my entire basement & kitchen remodels were thinly veiled excuses to build glamorous storage spaces designed to hold beautiful high end containment systems. i built a fucking cedar closet outfitted with cedar hangers. i searched tirelessly for hours to find just the right bin and there was no organizing device i wouldn’t buy. i have my socks in grids. by color. and type. my bras & panties (which, i am sure you have figured out, must match) are stored as a set separated by color by drawer dividers. why i am not next in line for ceo of The Container Store (my heaven on earth) is a mystery to me. and there is no doubt that i successfully passed the organizing gene onto to my kids.

my kids have learned my insane habits too. miss 9 year old is painfully neat & won’t allow a single stray item in her room (which is really just a glorified container for her things since she pretty much lives with me in here in the cell). she also likes to throw everything out and has to be watched like a hawk just like me as a child. “you are going to want that in 25 years.” “no, i won’t.” “trust me. you will and you won’t be able to buy back your judy blume diary on ebay.unfortunately, i know.” (i certainly don’t want her to make the same purging mistakes i did as a young novice. i never had an organizing mentor.) miss 6 year old is truly a slob at heart, but does clean when asked, BUT she calls it “organizing,” and she can’t seem to tidy up without embarking upon huge re-organization projects that involve emptying every single thing she owns onto the floor and assigning new placements to each – which is the same exact way i clean. and by the way, i couldn’t wait for her to read so she could read the labels on all the bins and be organizationally self-sufficient. at one point after i had sold all of my own & the girls’ purged items on ebay, i dubbed my self The Tidy Terror and and i actually had an entire schtick going in which i helped people organize by going through their stuff and selling it for them on ebay. that was a decent gig for awhile but i had to store too much crap in my house and it conflicted with my personal domestic organizational scheme and just really began to stress me out, man.

you can immediately read my mental status by how neat & clean my house is. when i feel perfectly at ease in my life, the order in my home rivals that of a military barrack’s. when i start to lose it, you can see that by the deterioration of my home – stuff will be all over because i just stop caring. but then the mess stresses me out, so i go into a tornado of cleaning in order to feel more in control. a kind of chicken & egg conundrum really. so you can only imagine the manic depressive organizational cycles my home has suffered over the past 21 months of The Less Than Amiable Divorce Proceedings. and the reality of living immigrant style in one small room with my 2 girls, has taken it’s toll on my neatness as evidenced by the buffet of food stains that was formerly known as, The Carpet. so, naturally, it also follows that as the divorce winds down & i feel a renewed, but cautious, sense of hope & control over my own life, i was inspired to spring clean. the other evening i was feeling so elated about A New Development in The Divorce, that i sorted my enormous bag of free samples into a plastic expanding file AND labeled them appropriately with the professional grade DYMO 3000: cleansers, moisturizers, skin care, hair care, and makeup. OMG. that is soooo insane, even for me, but i was so full of self-satisfaction i that slept without a care in the world that night. but i don’t stop at my own domicile – i have to keep feeding the beast.

i dont fuck around with my organizing.

i have been known to invade other peoples’ homes with my cleaning tendencies if they will let me or are just too weak to resist. like when my mom was sick in december, i seized that as my opportunity to “help” her by organizing her life. first i pounced on her kitchen and cleared all the counters. i can’t stand so much stuff being displayed. then i emptied her pantry, fridge & freezer and scrubbed until it all shined like the top of the empire state building as miss hannigan had demanded of annie. i was completely disgusted with the state of her fridge – there is no excuse for mystery sticky messes & crumbs. i firmly believe that where you keep your food should be pristine. after eliminating the extremely past due food items, i returned it all to the shelves but it was merchandised perfectly: all labels facing out, products in alignment, condiments with condiments, juices all together, cheeses stacked by type in the drawer. next, i hit that mass of papers she likes to call The Office. i labeled all of her hanging files, filed all the piles of papers, and made her look through every loose scrap of paper, coupon, and article she pulled out that will never be read unless god forbid she was saving them for me (but she knows where i file all of that helpful advice – the circular file). then we made lists and lists of lists (oh god how i LOVE lists) and she pledged her devotion to a new life of organization and told me she would reform her wayward ways as soon as she was well again. it was 48 hours of restored health before things returned to their natural state & the sanctity of The Organizational Oath was violated. sigh, you can only do so much for some people. but i have new arenas for expansion.

now that i am gainfully employed, there is a whole new level of organizing i have undertaken that i never even imagined existed: The Paint Department. i like to keep busy all day at work – i am not one for standing around which drives the slackers who were hired before me nuts since i probably make them look bad. it’s not on purpose or to be a suck ass (what kind of ladder can i climb, other than orange, there anyway?) but as you can see, inventory control just comes naturally to me. obviously part of my job is to stock the shelves. now, most employees fill in “The Holes,” as well call them in The Business, only as a blatant need arises. i am busy pulling out merch from the back of the 6 foot deep shelves that hasn’t seen daylight since the store opened 13 years ago. it’s like an inventory Land Of The Lost back there. but i don’t sop there. oh no. i climb that 65 foot orange ladder to the roof-line so i can pull the boxes down from the top & properly label them with my corporately approved black sharpie. i put like items together into the proper bay’s overhead area directly above the same items on the shelves (we pros call it “striping”). why are those spray cans from here stored with the paint brushes over there? harummpf, i say. of course i get so involved in this fun, i forget that i actually have to mix paint for customers sometimes. but i have to tell you that the spray paint aisle has never looked so beautiful. it brings a tear to my eye. i found some colors that weren’t even out for sale! the other day, one of my associates commented, “girl, i walked by you today, and you were so far back into those shelves, all i could see were your feet.” plus the frequent squatting down to fix all of the items on the floor, gives me a great opportunity to show off my butt crack thanks to the popular low waisted jean styles of today (about which one of my pals commented, “maybe that is why the working class wears such unfashionable clothing.” she may have a point). but paint sales have risen in the past month…

today the paint department, tomorrow the entire store. next week, the world. muah-hah-hah.

Archive / ponderings of a mad woman / true but unecessary confessions — No Comments
29
Sep 09

i heart guinea pigs

more random & fascinating confessions most of which my mom shouldn’t read:

i am a major underachiever & huge procrastinator, but i did pretty well in school anyway. i am more of a street smarts, common sense kind of girl, but i always wonder what amazing things i would have accomplished had i truly applied myself. although, my english scores were very high, i was in basic skills math & retard science. i still struggled in those too. eventually i grew boobs and said fuck it.

i may have once slept with a mafia don. i am not investigating any further.

i stalked a boy in high school. okay, several. on foot. with binoculars.

uncle buck is my all time favorite movie. i named one of my daughters after one of the characters.

it’s not the posting of unearthed sex tapes or naked pictures (both of which i have never wittingly submitted to) on the web that concerns me. it’s if my gut looks fat or if you can see the cottage cheese on my ass that truly worries me.

i find the smell of beer on a man’s breath to be sexy. that is really warped.

i still have all of my sticker albums. the stickers are in MINT condition. most still in original packaging.

when i get mad i shop. take that visa! i shopped a lot during my crappy marriage. this did not help my crappy marriage at all, but i have a kickin’ wardrobe.

i obsessively use the notes app on my phone to remember song lyrics so i can google them later to get the title & download them for my ipod.

i started a female pant suit revolution at my first job fresh out of college in 1993. i have authority issues. they breathed a sigh of relief when i quit. i am not meant for corporate life.

when i was 21, i came home late from a date & i busted my dad smoking pot. we went into the house & he sat on the bed of my childhood room while i lectured him on the evils of its usage. for an hour.

i worked at the freehold raceway mall before it opened to set up the gap there. when it opened they hired all new people. working at the gap sucks. i still fold my jeans the way i was taught.

as a teenager & into college, i shoplifted from mostly any retail establishment for which i worked. i found it to be quite a thrill. i totally understand winona rider.

when i was a freshman in college, i briefly dated a high school senior. i went to his prom.

sometimes i wonder if the people on billboards look familiar to me because i actually know them or just from driving past them every day.

when i watch really old reruns & there are old people on the show, i say to myself, that person must be dead by now. conversely, i wonder how the child actors turned out.

in college i peed behind a dumpster. several times. i also passed out on the floor of the girl’s bathroom in my freshman dorm after puking my guts out. several times. i drank a lot in college. i was nicknamed “booter.”

i had a major obsession with garfield when i was kid. i drew him constantly, read every book, and set up a residence for him & his girlfriend in my room. i had about 30 or so stuffed garfields & pals. i also slept with one of my stuffed garfields (& a nightlight) until i got married. i still have them all, but i am trying to get rid of the husband.

after college, while looking for a real job, i was a bank teller. since, i suck at math, my till was short often. i got fired. i still make sure all of my money is facing the same way & in order of denomination in my wallet.

i was an ugly duckling: i was born with one eye that crossed in & wore bifocals from 18 mos to 16 yrs. my feet turned inward and i had to wear shoes on a metal brace until they faced out. i was never allowed to sit “indian style.” when i was 12, i was diagnosed with minor scoliosis. i cleaned up nice though.

i used to get spontaneous bloody noses from allergies as a kid without warning. this was a fun party trick and most endearing to the hostesses.

at the end of my senior year of high school, a bunch of my friends & i stole a street sign with my name on it by knocking it down with a baseball bat. we were unaware that this was a felony. i still have it displayed in my home.

i had a “valley girl” sleepover party for my 13th birthday. everybody had to dress like valley girls & talk that way. i was like, oh my gawd, a huge dork.

mere days after i got my license and brandy new honda civic, i smashed it into a car that was pulling out of a parking spot at woodbridge mall because i gunned the gas instead of the stomping on the brakes. my bff was in the car. after the information exchange with the bewildered driver, we still went shopping. i bought a pair of sneakers which i then returned a week later but i made my mom drive me. it was years before i ever drove back there. the woman said to my dad, “meester, i don know where she came from.” my crazy bff still drove all over the place with me.

the manner in which i lost my virginity would most certainly be considered date rape today. it was over 21 years ago & i still have not forgiven that guy. i most likely never will.

surgeries: age 12: 8 molars removed age 15: nose job, age 18: 4 impacted wisdom teeth removed, age 21: breast reduction, age 30 & 33: 2 c-sections. age 35: lumpectomy (benign, thank god) age 36: corrective eye surgery for the cross. i sincerely hope i am done.

i secretly love lite fm. i have an entire playlist on itunes. i know all the words to most of the songs. brandy & wildfire are in my top 10.

i LOVE guinea pigs. i had 2 as a kid before it was cool to own them. i had a sleepover with my childhood bff & let “miss piggy” run around in her sleeping bag. the pig left many “gifts.” her mom was not pleased. the modern day guinea pig cult following pleases me to no end. i got not 1, but 2 for my kids when the divorce started. $200 later i realized they are cute, but a pain in the ass to take care of when you live immigrants style in a tiny room with 2 other small people. my kids lost interest in the piggys & i gave them away on craig’s list after 2 months. i still feel guilty & hope they are living happy little guinea pig lives. now i just collect guinea pig books & leave it at that.

my best friend in high school and i spent hours after school cataloging every possible way we wanted to be kissed. we didn’t have boyfriends, but we once hooked up in a foursome situation, latter dubbed “switcheroo with ____ & sue.” i was thrilled until i figured out they just both wanted to hook up with her and i was a mercy killing. she was & still is way hot, no matter how many kids she pops out. you know who you are, bitch.

when i 20 years old and flying home from UF for the holidays one year, i sat next this weird artsy couple. i had the window seat and was essentially trapped. the lady grabbed my hand & said she did “readings” and proceeded to read my palm without my consent. she told me that when i was 40 i would have a major illness but i would recover. i have obsessed about it ever since. when i was 36 & had a lump removed from my breast, and i wondered if that was the illness of which she spoke, but i couldn’t be sure. i have 2 more years to worry about it. so now i fear, “what if i am going through this terrible divorce (14 mos so far) and then i die (god forbid) or the world ending prophecies are true and i never get to enjoy my freedom?” sigh. i am sure she has long since forgotten me & that plane ride, but here i am 17 years later still worrying. it made me realize that you can have a lasting impact on people, positive or negative, long after you have moved on. so be more responsible, you crazy palm readers.

last year, i went on a date with a 25 yr old. during dinner he got carded and i didn’t. i then strongly suspected he was not even 21. i went back to his dorm room anyway. i was curious.

i have had at least 13 different jobs i can remember & sucked at all of them. in no particular order: ceramics assistant at a camp (i spilled an entire bag of slip), babysitter (i got nail polish all over someone’s table), grocery store cashier (before the days of scanners), marty’s shoes store clerk, gap sales person, gap kids saleperson ( hello, may i help you find a size?), secretary (for a day – i left after lunch & never returned), bank teller ( we know how that went), payroll sales person at ADP ( i faked most of my sales numbers), interior design assistant (i helped her organize by throwing out most of her source materials), wallpaper/window treatment sales person inside a paint store (i prayed i got the measurements correct when it was time for pickup/installation), pharmaceutical sales rep ( i was terrified of the office staff & drs. & my main drug was a market dog), psychological study research assistant ( i fudged all of my “research” for some poor dude’s thesis), & interior designer of my own ‘firm” for 11 months (when i was 9 months preggers, i had to sue my very first clients for stopping a check. the entire endeavor actually cost us money. i gladly gave up that empire soon after the first baby came).

when i was 10, i became completely obsessed with puberty & getting my period. i had an entire “starter kit” full of the proper materials under my bed that was ready to go when the time came (it sat dormant for 5 years). i studied the book, what’s happening to me, way before anything was actually happening to me. i still own it. i was actually happy when i sprouted 2 armpit hairs one day. i did flips when i got a giant bush (subsequently, i became a fastidious groomer way ahead of my time when i discovered i could do neat tricks with a hair clipper). i was a strange child.

i have a problem with honesty. too much of it. this why i tell you people all of this crap that is better kept to myself. i most likely have a weird need for self-deprecating attention.

baby hershey, pig #1. way cute.

cuddles, pig #2. also way cute.

Archive / ponderings of a mad woman / rants / seriously, folks / true but unecessary confessions — 4 Comments
23
Jun 09

the saga (and sagging) of my rack

i think the first thing you have to know about me is that i have extensively obsessive boob issues. my entire life has been about my breasts. i come from a long line of large breasted woman, but i was a late bloomer. and ever since i was a child, i wanted a set. bad. i was raised watching boobilicous cartoon super heros like wonderwoman, batgirl, catwoman & she-ra and couldn’t wait to fill in my underoos.

in fact, there are pictures of me when i was around 8, dressing up in my mother’s bras. i wanted boobs B A D. i did those crazy exercises, “we must, we must, improve our bust,” religiously every night before bed. i demanded my early bloomer friends show me what they had. i convinced my mom to buy me bras when i was in sixth grade & stuffed ‘em full of undies. That was a brilliant idea until one fell out on the swings during recess. STONE COLD BUSTED. not one of my proudest moments.

then my prayers were answered before my sophomore year of high school, when i was 15, & i sprouted a set of full C’s by the end of the summer. i came back to school with a sweet rack and was thereafter accused of sticking my chest out when i walked around. but, i wasn’t, haters! those were legit! soon the attention got to me & so did the inescapable teenage bad body image. that was the downfall of my super set. i started wearing minimizer bras. oh, the horror! by my senior year of college my boobs hadn’t stopped growing and i was 5’0″ (okay 4’11 1/2″) & 93 pounds, with DOUBLE D’s.

okay, so many did get enjoy them, but even though i had the perfect body, i hated it! yes, i was a DUMB BEYATCH! i began trying to hide the goods with baggy shirts and became more and more miserable. add in the fact that my mom has had gigunda tatas since she was 10 and she always HATED them and told me so daily. so she was on board the same unhealthy body image bandwagon that i was.

one day during a break between semesters, i saw a large breasted friend of mine. she spilled the beans that she was getting a breast-reduction and i was stunned that there was such a thing. sure I knew about implants, but making them smaller? and just like that, i decided i wanted to lop my boobs off too. i told my bff in crime, millie, (no names have been changed to protect the guilty) about my plan and she told me i was nuts & not to do it. “you have what everyone wants, ” she said. but, that only made me more determined, because i thought no one could possibly understand the plight of a petite huge breasted woman. besides the fact, that i am not a chick that ever listened to anybody. once something was in my head, there was no stopping me. i was sure the reduction was the answer to all my problems. the plastic surgeon with whom we consulted convinced me i would develop major back problems and the life before me would be that of an invalid, albeit, a sexy invalid, if i continued to carry those things around on my “petite frame.” what did he care? i was about to lose my tatas, but he was about to make a wad of cash. so after college I did the deed, and this, my friends, (all 3 of you reading this) is where my story gets really sad: the night before the surgery i had doubts about it & wasn’t sure i even wanted to do it, but i stuffed that down & ignored my gut. (exactly like the night before my now failed marriage, but that is another story entirely.) the other tragic twist is this: the insurance company rejected the pre-approval for the surgery at first. my father who would do anything for us & had no boobs himself lobbied the insurance company until they approved it. no one was telling his daughter she couldn’t chop her tits off.

Life Lesson One: Sometimes it is best to leave well enough alone. SIGH.

the ensuing recovery was a painful, awful, terror & when i first unwrapped my new jugs they were TINY. i had a full B & was feeling the first signs of remorse. the scars were hideous. when i gasped upon first seeing them, i said to my mother, “they are so small!” Her response was to say, “don’t let your sister hear you say that.” it was no secret boobs were not evenly assigned in my family. not only did I feel remorse, but i now had guilt too, and i had to keep it all to myself.

so, i tried to be okay with the boob issue for a few years by wearing mondo padded bras but regret slowly began creeping in until i couldn’t bare to even think about it anymore. i could no longer face my own girls in the mirror, but i became obsessed with other boobs, and just like a guy, i was always checking others chick’s racks out. i needed intensive boob therapy to get over it.

well, fast forward to pregnancy: i was now stressing that i wouldn’t be able to nurse because things may not have been reattached right, BUT, i had giant preggo boobs. it was awesome – AND the boobs stayed big & grew with each kid. so naturally, I wanted to have 4 or 5 kids. i was able to nurse, luckily, or not so luckily depending upon how you look at it – my life became even more about my boobs. there is no pain like engorged boobie pain and trying to get an ill tempered infant to latch onto a full boob. it seems logical that employing the fun bags for their actual intended use would be a snap, but its not and i elicited help from anybody within a 5 mile radius. forget the fact, the i went to an actual class to learn how to do this beforehand. useless. once the hungry screamer & i finally figured it out, my life was lived in 2 hour increments of nipple desecration and my life became a blur of boob chores – pumping, massaging, feeding, crying… and don’t get me started on nursing bras.

then several years ago, i found a lump in my right breast & it was terrifying. i had to to get my boobs mashed in the mammogram machine several different times which confirmed a suspicious lump. so, i had a biopsy & was told it had to be removed and they still weren’t sure if it was the c-word. i had it removed and thank God it was benign. of course, i had to have the lump removed from the smaller boob and i am sporting yet another scar which i tell dudes is a stab-wound ( it’s much more mysterious). i really just found the whole thing to be completely ironic. i wondered if there was no end to the suffering of my poor breasts.

the happy-ish ending is that I have made peace with the girls again (back to a DD thanks to the 2 babies), but feel terrible for treating my body that brutally. i hate the scars though they have mostly faded & are hidden by the (dare I say it) sagging (sigh). in a weird way i feel like they are fakes, because they have been altered.

so what is the moral of the story? mamas don’t let your girls screw with their bodies. they just need self confidence & your support to learn to love their bodies. plastic surgery isn’t the answer that we all think it is. i would absolutely discourage my girls from doing anything to their bodies at such a young age. women have it so tough, our boobs are too small or too big, but never just right. so ladies, love your gazungas no mater what size they are! they are part of what makes you, you, but they don’t define you. i finally realized, it doesn’t matter what size your boobs are, men will stare. it doesn’t matter what your body looks like as long as your head is on right. boobs & the women attached to them will always be used to sell stuff on tv. we will always use our boobs to get men to do what we want. men will always be on a quest to see ‘em no matter what size they are. they love ‘em all.

Life Lesson Two: Its all about confidence & good body image.

DUH. thanks epiphany for coming way late, but at least i figured it out. eventually.

single with vodkagood girl gone bad