tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44766763202244320532024-03-13T00:07:47.950-03:00We're At Dad's That Week....while the kids are away, Mum will play.Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.comBlogger165125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-80449278253607729792011-08-09T10:51:00.000-03:002011-08-09T10:51:11.834-03:00On The Road Part IYou asked for it....<br />
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We went on the road. I packed my shit up and off we went. I cannot explain to you how much I was looking forward to spending an entire week with trucker boy. Seven nights sleeping with him, seven days waking up to him, his face being the last thing I see at night and the sound of his voice the first thing I hear in the morning. We travelled 7000 km in seven days, 11 states, 4 provinces, $4000 in diesel fuel, I lost count of the cups of coffee after the 534th one...Maine, New York, Conneticut, Virginia, Penssylvania, North and South Carolina, and a few others that are just a blur of highway. I had my laptop with me. On the third night with him I wrote this:<br />
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<em>Don’t judge a man until you walk a mile in his shoes. It’s a phrase we often hear used to portray the importance of seeing the world through someone else’s eyes. For the last three days, that is exactly what I’ve been doing. I packed my bag on Sunday, throwing aside the four inch heels, the well pressed pants, and the silk shirts, for denims, sneakers, t-shirts and anything that could be even remotely considered comfortable. Packing was the first challenge. I am what my friends call a “girly girl”. I enjoy painting my nails, wearing skirts, looking feminine. So to try and pack a duffel bag that didn’t include any of those things was a significant task for yours truly.</em><br />
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<em>It’s 9:16 local time, M is in the bunk trying to get some sleep before a long day of driving tomorrow. I tried laying down and my body said, “Ummm yeah, it’s barely dark, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Rather than tossing and turning, keeping him awake, I decided it would probably be best just to get up. So here I sit. We’re parked at a rest stop on the interstate in Pennsylvania. I should be revelling in the fact that my ass is sitting here in Pennsylvania. I have travelled across 4 states today, I’ve seen the Hudson River, I have driven through the beauty of Conneticut and seen more of the country in one day than I have in 37 years. </em><br />
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<em>Yet as I fired up the laptop, I kept my fingers crossed that I might be able to get an internet connection. Apparently there is a wi-fi connection available, I’m either out of range or the huge trucks parked on either side of me are blocking the signal. I feel disconnected. I should be lapping up this new experience but I feel completely disconnected from my life. It has only been one day since we entered the US and I shut my phone off, thereby terminating my connection with friends and family back home. I long to get on face book to see what everyone is doing, I long to text my girlfriends with updates. </em><br />
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</em><br />
<em>Is this something that truckers get used to - this disconnection with normalcy and people? I suspect much like a physician needs to separate himself from a sick patient, a trucker would have to condition himself to deal with loneliness and being away from loved ones, all the while doing a job that gives you more than ample time to think about loneliness and loved ones. I cannot help but question what the fall out is to develop the ability to do such a thing, to compartmentalize the loneliness and missing. I see it in M, his ability to shut everything out but the job. It scares me. I asked him about this very thing. His reply, “It takes some getting used to, once you get used to it, you start to like it”. The man I love with all my heart likes being disconnected. It’s not an easy thing to accept.</em><br />
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And the next day....<br />
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<em>So here I sit, in the passenger seat of a truck that’s hauling about 43, 000 pounds of peat moss, barrelling down Interstate 81 in Virginia at 100 km an hour . I have never seen truck traffic like this in all my life…keep in mind small town girl where a traffic jam is a tractor and 4 cars. We keep passing by fall out from the tornadoes that have been touching down through the states. I cannot fathom the fear, the sense of having your life literally torn apart.</em><br />
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And then we hit the Carolinas...<br />
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<em>Summer has come to the south already. It’s 84 degrees (and snowing back home), everything is green, the sun is out and the scenery is absolutely breathtaking. It makes me long to get out and hike what are sure to be spectacular trails among the hills rising on both sides of the highways. M would have a stroke and gag me for the rest of the trip if I even suggested such a thing. A little over an hour before he needs to be at the customer gives us just enough time for a pit stop at the rest area outside Statesville. I grab the sleeping bag from the truck, and after getting cold drinks, I spread myself out on the green grass (still marvelling at the green everywhere) and M sits at the picnic table with his book. It’s nice to be away from the truck, if only for a brief time. And when he looks down and smiles at me from his perch on the picnic table...yeah this is the way life is supposed to be lived.</em><br />
<em> </em><em>I am not sure yet how I manage to “forget” the 35 degree heat, or the lush, green landscape that spreads as far as the eye can see, but I do. The air conditioning in the truck isn't working and sleeping at night makes me feel as though we're trying to redefine the meaning of hell. I forget that I am in the south sometimes. Until a sales lady, a waitress, a fellow trucker speaks to me in that drawling, warm southern twang and I do a double take each and every time. I love accents, period. The southern accent with its rich, lazy mode of delivery makes me grin foolishly each time I hear it. I strongly suspect I’ll leave a small piece of my heart in this beautiful state. Oh and white gravy with southern fried chicken and that thing these people do with a potato all mashed with 400 pounds of butter....oh dear sweet jesus how do I get a weekly supply of that sent to Canada?</em><br />
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Then we headed back to Canada, through Quebec into Ontario and back east. The trip home is when things started going awry. No, that's not true, things started going awry when I was sitting beside the man I loved and felt lonelier than I have ever felt in my entire life. That happened on day 3. It just got worse from there....<em><br />
</em><br />
Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-58189521959545289442011-08-02T21:29:00.000-03:002011-08-02T21:29:55.879-03:00Can You Ever Go Home?I go away for a day or two (ok four fucking months) and now we have mobile templates? Is this something I need? Oh my god I feel like the new kid in the class all over again.<br />
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I don't even know where to start. Or if I should start or just call it a day and hang up the sparkly red shoes, thank you all for your love, verbal kicks in the pants, the laughs you have given me and call it a day?<br />
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This blog, and me, myself, has changed so much from what it originally started as. I am alot more receptive to changing me than I am the blog itself. It is impossible to change one without changing the other, hence my lack of writing. My life is no longer about bitching (oh there's no fear I still do that a gazillion and four times a day) about everyone around me. It's become more. I don't know if that will translate or fit into this space here. <br />
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But there's so much I want to tell you, to share. And it feels safe to do it here. I am so clicking my ruby reds and saying, "There's no place like home". Do you want to hear about the total uber fuckedupedness that is my life right now? If nothing else it will make you feel better about your own. Can I come home now?Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-2217249192452210622011-04-09T09:11:00.000-03:002011-04-09T09:11:37.475-03:00Can We Just Skip The Teen PhaseOh sweet jesus can we not just skip this part of the book?<br />
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As many of you know I have three teenagers. The oldest decided back in the fall that he didn't like his mother's rules and moved in with his father. He turns 19 next week, he graduates from high school in June, he has a girlfriend apparently and I have been excluded from all of it. People keep telling me he will wake up someday and realize his mother isn't the witch he has made her out to be. I am not so sure that day will come. In the meantime I'm missing some monumental life moments. <br />
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The youngest (Ms. Noreene) who turns 13 in June has her very first boyfriend. I cherish the fact that she feels comfortable enough to tell me about this. I learned of it the day SHE ASKED HIM OUT! Dear sweet jesus she's her mother's daughter. He calls every evening, he shows up at concerts and basketball games. I can't understand how he's still walking upright really as I've killed the poor little fucker in my mind about 236 times. He's a nice enough boy, polite and speaks in full sentences. She is so in love with him, in that 12 almost 13 year old way. I dread the day he breaks her heart and I have to try and convince her that life goes on. In the meantime I smile and nod when she spends 20 minutes telling me about what Connor said and did. I revel in her happiness while hating the fact that my little girl is growing up.<br />
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My middle child, who in typical middle child fashion, has never given me a day of worry in his life, got home last night at 1:10 am. Blink, Blink. Blink. What the hell? Does he have any idea how difficult it is to call off the hounds and the air search party? This morning he explained in a calm rational way that he had lost track of time. Went to a movie with his buddies, out for chinese food afterward and didn't bother to look at a clock. He stood in front of me explaining this as though we were talking about the weather. He apologized for worrying me and said that I don't need to worry. When my head stopped spinning on my shoulders and my body stopped twitching from anger, I explained to him that worrying is what mother's do. It is our job. We have union cards. His response, "Well mum I'm really sorry, but your obsessive compulsive disorder is your problem not mine". Do I laugh or slap him?<br />
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So yeah, I'd like a please pass go and collect $200 dollars for this phase of child rearing, please?<br />
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All anxiety and tongue in cheek aside, I realize fully that I could be dealing with so much worse. I have never had to pick my kid up drunk in a public place (sorry Mom), I don't worry about any of them drinking and driving or doing drugs (sorry Mom). I've never had to go into a hospital to sign waivers so they could have surgery because they broke an ankle falling down a set of stairs...drunk (sorry Mom). It could be alot worse. Hell, I have done so much worse. <br />
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On the boy front - I'm going on the road next week with him. Yours truly is hanging up the heels, putting on the sneakers and living in a truck for a week with a boy - who may or may not throw me in the Mississippi at the first opportunity. You just know there will be stories. What else will I have to do but blog about everything he says and does? There may even be pictures.Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-3225852958670395562011-03-20T12:00:00.000-03:002011-03-20T12:00:01.470-03:00Being Happy With What You HaveIt's something that everyone struggles with in life. Being happy with what you have in your life rather than focusing on the things you don't have. It's usually material things, wanting to jet off on holidays but not having the financial means to do so. Salivating over those beautiful pair of Franco's that just came out last week at the shoe store (fuck me but they're beautiful) and knowing that if you buy them it'll be kraft dinner all around for the next month! The bigger house, the nicer car, the better job. <br />
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I find myself in the tenuous position of trying to be happy not with the amount of material things but rather the amount of love. For anyone that knows anything about the trucking lifestyle (and make no doubt that's exactly what it is), you know that time is money. If their wheels aren't turning, they're not making money. Trucker boy's schedule has him on the road for two weeks then a Friday, Saturday and if I'm lucky a Sunday home. During those two, sometimes three days, he has to spend time with his son, do any errands that need to get done and squeeze me in. To say it's a juggling act would be the fucking understatement of the year. <br />
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So I'm having to relearn my entire way of thinking. Anyone that has been reading this blog knows that I have a tendency to be a tad bit selfish, just a wee bit. Tiny little intsy wintsy bit. Oh hell "It's all about me" should be tattooed across my ass. Learning to share at the age of 37 is quite an eye opener let me tell you.<br />
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He was home last weekend. Arrived on Friday, I picked him up at 10:30 Friday night. We got back to my house and I made chicken wings at 11:00 at night. He read parts of my blog while I puttered around my kitchen. Yes, you read that right, I let him read my blog. No one in my real life even knows I have a blog, except for him now. We went to bed around 2am and back up again at 9am so he could get back in town to spend time with his son. I had to work on Saturday afternoon and he texted me around 3:00pm. "What are you doing for dinner?" I hadn't given much thought to it. I knew I'd have to throw something at the anklebiters and essentially replied as such to him. He replied back, "Why don't you let me make dinner." So I picked him up at 5:00, he hopped in my car with grocery bags in hand, came to my place and cooked a delicious mushroom chicken linguine for the kids and I.<br />
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I'm learning to cherish those small things. Watching him putter around my kitchen, being thankful that he's there and would think of cooking dinner for us, knowing that he has a million other things on his mind. I watch his hands move as he cuts up vegetables and I'm enthralled. He kisses me on the forehead as I stand against the kitchen counter and I smile as though someone has handed me a pair of Loubitins. The Dual Mom of a year ago wouldn't have been thankful for those things. I see these changes in myself and they scare me. Change is scary. I find this wellspring of patience where he is concerned and I marvel at where it comes from. The kids see the changes, Mom is a little less edgy, smiles alot more, is much more patient. I question whether I'm losing a part of myself or simply growing. The edgy, take no prisoners, don't fuck with me or I'll eat you for breakfast woman that I've known all my life wouldn't settle for stolen moments and being grateful to have her man cook her a meal. Hell no, the woman I've known all my life would demand to be picked up at the door, wined and dined at a nice restaurant, showered with compliments and endearments, put on a pedestal and make damn sure it's a pretty one. So where did this other woman come from? Was she always there hiding, waiting for the right love, or is she settling because of love? <br />
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I went on a short trip with him in the truck. Yep, your's truly whose idea of camping is renting a 30 foot camper complete with air conditioning and full bath spent 24 hours in a truck and loved every minute of it. What the hell? No bathroom facilities, no running water, curled in a bunk for a quick nap on the side of a highway. Peeing in public bathrooms at truck stops. Who is this woman? He sleeps in short 3-4 hour periods. We arrived at his first delivery stop at about 4am hopped into the bunk, set the alarm for 7 and drifted off to sleep. When the alarm went off he hopped into the driver seat, I mumbled something incoherent and drifted off back to sleep. He drove around, making his deliveries while I dozed in the bunk listening to the sounds of him working. About 9:30am I hear, "Do you know someone that might like coffee?" I pulled myself out of the warmth of the bed, hopped into the front seat of the truck, blindly groapped for the coffee sitting in the holder and looked at that beautiful face smiling back at me saying, "Good morning baby" and I can't remember ever being happier. What the hell?<br />
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We drove for another 12 hours, stopping for bathroom breaks, naps and food. Driving down the highway, watching the world go by, singing together at the top of our lungs (have I mentioned how badly I sing) and I was happy, deleriously so. What the hell?<br />
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Seat covers - that's what passengers are referred to in the trucking world. Apparently I make a good one. My passport application is completed and ready to go. I've decided to take a week off in the near future and go out with him. It requires a passport because he does runs to the US. How much fun will I have blogging from the open highway people!?!<br />
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I need to learn how to accept the happiness without overanalyzing. I need to convince myself that it's ok to be happy when I sit and remember how he wakes up in the morning, looks down at me with just one of those beautiful blue eyes open and whispers, "Good morning love". Or how it makes me feel safe when he reaches for me in the middle of the night to wrap his arms around me. I need to let go of the crazy thought that I'm somehow less because I love this man with every fibre of my being. I love loving him - and I need to accept that that doesn't make me weak.Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-89710773121839263842011-03-09T20:11:00.000-04:002011-03-09T20:11:37.738-04:00I May Be Dancing In The Rain YetIf you love something set it free, if it comes back to you....<br />
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It came back to me. Now before you start banging your head against your keyboard and screaming, "Nooo DM please don't tell us you took him back," let me tell you the story. <br />
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Oh brief interlude, your comments have made me smile, laugh and cry. I cannot thank you enough for caring. Reading your comments at 3am got me through more than one lonely night. One of the best was from GB Girl. She wrote: If it makes you feel better, I've been flipping off every truck driver I see on the roads. Just in case it's him. <br />
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Oh hun I had wonderful mental images of perplexed truck drivers wondering what the hell they did to piss off that crazy bitch. It made me grin from ear to ear. Sorry to say you missed him though, I asked. <br />
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In my efforts to forget my broken heart I've been keeping busy. There's been lots of wine drinking, spending time with friends, texting those near and dear (you know who you are), did I mention wine drinking? Yeah I have been pretty much pie eyed shit faced drunk for two weeks. A week and a half ago, I'm at a dance with a girlfriend having the time of my life. Sober. For some reason that I can only call fate, I wasn't drinking. I got home at 2am and sat down to check email and a text came in on my phone. <br />
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"Decided not to dance huh?"<br />
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Remember I deleted his contact info off my phone. It took me several seconds to recognize the number and then it dawned on me who it was...the blue eyed boy. My heart immediately went into the 160 bpm range and my breathing stopped momentarily.<br />
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My reply:<br />
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"I was out"<br />
Him: Ok<br />
Me: Where were you?<br />
Him: Insert club name<br />
Me: I see<br />
Him: Insert club name for you?<br />
Me: Nope.<br />
Him: Ah k have fun?<br />
Me: Yep<br />
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Fuck that, I wasn't going to make this easy for him. At this point he said:<br />
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Ok, I'll leave you alone now.<br />
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And I asked, "M, why are you contacting me"<br />
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"Because I miss you and I miss us"<br />
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My breath caught in my throat and I had to close my eyes against the searing pain that coursed right through my heart.<br />
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My reply: "You do?"<br />
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"Yes"<br />
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Me: "And what do you want me to do with that M?"<br />
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Him: "Nothing. I'm sorry I bothered you."<br />
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And then I lost it.<br />
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No M, you don't get to do that. You don't get to text me at 2am and then just pull away and shut down. Goddamn it no.<br />
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Him: "It's what I am"<br />
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It went back and forth for another 5 minutes. I finally asked if he would talk, if I went and picked him up if he would talk to me, open up, explain to me what the hell this was. Then he asked me if I was going to hit him.<br />
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So I went and got him and we talked till 6am in my car. There's the fate I mentioned earlier. Had I been drinking that night, there's no way the rest of the night would have happened.<br />
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He admitted to not being able to communicate. He admitted to being angry at me because I asked things that he had no answer for. He admitted to being scared. When he held my face in his hands and said, "TM I love you" with tears in his eyes and more love than I have ever seen in a man's face, I was done for. I wrote before about how much I longed to hear those words. <br />
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Leather helps the forgiving process. This is what he landed with for me on Monday evening. He said he saw it and thought of me. That I would need it this summer when he gets the bike out.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-yXdKcpAiFs4/TXgPnOd3xlI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/xIqxn8ZVZ8s/s1600/53547_H_SH315_MW355.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" q6="true" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-yXdKcpAiFs4/TXgPnOd3xlI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/xIqxn8ZVZ8s/s1600/53547_H_SH315_MW355.jpg" /></a></div>He won't call it a "I fucked up and here have some really nice leather as an apology for my jack ass actions" present. No, he won't call it that. It's because he saw it and thought of me. Mmmmmkay baby, I'll let you have your delusions.<br />
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I may be making a colossal mistake. I may be setting myself up for more heartache than I can possibly imagine. But right now, right at this very moment, I am brimming with happiness. This man has a selfish streak a mile long, he lives in a world, works in a world where his own wants and needs are the number one priority. Oh I'm not delusional enough to think that I am in any way, shape or form going to change him. He is however trying. There is no doubt that I feel completely and utterly loved. I asked him why he contacted me, why he came back. His response, because I love you. That is enough. For now, that is enough. It may not be enough tomorrow or next week, but right now I'm happy. So incredibly happy and loved. <br />
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If two months down the road he pulls away and shuts down, I'll rage and rant and stay drunk for several weeks, and I'll cry on my virtual friends' shoulders and I'll call him every version of rat fink bastard that I can think of ... and I'll have known what is to date the greatest love that I have ever had in my life. I'll have the memory of his arms wrapped around me as he whispers "I love you" into my hair. I can't walk away from that without giving it another chance, I can't spend the rest of my life wondering if it might have worked had I the courage to try again.<br />
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So here I go again.....Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-89997668615245908392011-02-22T21:48:00.000-04:002011-02-22T21:48:38.938-04:00A Rolling Stone Gathers No MossAnd so it ends.<br />
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Officially, and perhaps more importantly, with the answers I needed to - if not mend my broken heart - to at least partially fill my need to make sense of it all.<br />
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His text today, "I can't give you what you need, what you deserve. It will hurt less to end it now than in six months time. Sometimes love isn't enough."<br />
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"You cowardly son of a bitch", was my reply. <br />
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Then I went vaginal, he went silent and I said goodbye to my blue eyed boy. He was never mine, I see that now.<br />
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So after more than two weeks of radio silence I have my answer. I'm trying not to dwell on the thought that keeps running through my head....he simply didn't love me enough. It's what it all boils down to, but I can't dwell on that.<br />
I typed all of that without crying. Progress...<br />
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I deserve a man that loves me beyond reason. <br />
I deserve a man who will fight tooth and nail for my love.<br />
I deserve a man who stays awake just to watch me sleep.<br />
I deserve a man who is constantly willing to remind me how lucky he is to have me.<br />
I deserve a man who when he says I love you, doesn't attach a dozen conditions to that love.<br />
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And I won't settle for less, no matter how much I miss his smile. It amazes me that even though he broke my heart, every little piece of it still loves him.Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-25997706887841489322011-02-08T23:24:00.000-04:002011-02-08T23:24:00.483-04:00Silver Linings and Fucking SnowFucking snow.<br />
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Fucking fucking fuckity fuck fucker fuck snow. Bastard snow I curse you with every fibre of my being.<br />
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Why yes I am sick of the snow, how could you tell? It's been snowing for the last 693 fucking days. It's like snowfuckingpalooza and let me tell you it's getting old fast. I'm sure if I went back in my archives I'd probably find an almost identical post at this time last year. One where I threatened to punch all the skiers in the vagina and shove their poles up their arse. (No offense to any of my darling readers who might enjoy such a passtime).<br />
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At this moment I am stuck sideways in my driveway. Don't ask me how I ended up sideways...I am just THAT good people. It is 11:07 and my day is just NOW ending. I have been on the go since 6:15 this morning. Stab me in the face please. <br />
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My heart is still broken but let me tell you cursing like a crazy psychotic bitch who's forgotten to take her meds certainly makes me feel better. That and your comments. You guys are just the best damn bunch of people in the world. I say so so it must be true, right? <br />
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It was two weeks ago today that he told me he loved me. How do you go from that to this in two weeks? I don't understand. I just sit here and try to make sense of it all ... and no matter how many tears fall or how much I think - it doesn't. It doesn't make sense. I sent him a text yesterday morning, it said "I love you, I miss you" and he ignored it. He has never ignored a text I've sent him. <br />
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So the rat fink bastard has been deleted from my fucking phone and at the first opportunity I'm going to bitch slap the fucker like he's never been bitch slapped before. I'll take pictures and share with you.<br />
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Excuse me while I get another kleenex. I've cried so much over the last four days my fingertips are shrivelled up. One would think the amount of wine I've been drinking would keep me from getting dehydrated. <br />
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He's not a rat fink bastard. Truth be told if he were to walk in my door right now, I don't know that I wouldn't just fall into his arms like the lily ass bitch that I am. But he has been deleted from my phone. Every loving text, every sweet nothing, every picture of sunsets in New Hampshire and his smiling face have been deleted. They are all gone. My heart shattered in a million pieces doing it but it was the only way I could keep from contacting him. I don't have his number memorized. No number prevents me from making an ass of myself. I do have some pride left.<br />
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So the continual crying has stopped. Now it's just moments where I'll be driving along feeling part human again and I'll have a vivid flashback of something he said, or the way he looked at me and it's like someone punched me in the sternum. When does that stop?<br />
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The silver lining, I bought a pair of pants today in size 5. Size 5 people!!! I haven't worn size five since I was ....well probably five years old. Now before you go apeshit on my ass and tell me I'm not looking after myself I need to tell you this is what happens to me when I get stressed like this. It's happened twice before; when my mother died and when I left my husband. I rate my stress level by the amount of weight that falls off me. This would be a quadzillion and one on the richter scale. But I'm wearing a size five...<strong>GO ME</strong>!!<br />
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I will be ok, I will be ok, I will be ok. Fake it till you make it, right?Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-28037781091427166362011-02-06T18:56:00.000-04:002011-02-06T18:56:30.296-04:00Should Have Left The Wall UpI have managed to reach the ripe old age of 37 without having my heart broken. It's not an accomplishment I'm proud of and one I can no longer claim.<br />
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He broke my heart.<br />
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Now before the blogging world bands together and you all hunt him down and rip his testicles out let me explain. We'll see if I can do it without short circuiting my keyboard with my tears.<br />
<br />
I went into this relationship with my blue eyed boy knowing what he does for a living. Knowing that he drives a truck and is gone 90% of the time, and LOVES what he does. I knew all that, and yet I fell in love with him anyway. My bad....<br />
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I also went into it with a little voice in the back of my head that said, from day one, he's going to hurt you. He says and does all the right things, but somehow someday he's going to hurt you. I put duct tape over the bitches mouth and buried her deep under my happiness.<br />
<br />
It came to a head this week. I was looking forward to him being home on Friday. I was sooo looking forward to seeing him after two weeks. On Thursday he texted me that they had turned him around back to the states and he wouldn't be home. I went vaginal on him (that phrase comes from an amazing lady, I can't take credit for it). I was hurt, and angry and I needed him to assure me that he would somehow figure out a way to make this work, that he would do something, anything to ensure that we made this relationship work, that he wanted it to work as much as I did. He couldn't, or wouldn't. I think it's more wouldn't. I can't accept wouldn't. I can't be in this relationship feeling as though I'll always come second. That I'm the one who will make all the sacrifices to ensure the relationship grows. <br />
<br />
So on Friday I sent him a text that I needed him to stop driving for 10 minutes and focus on us. I needed him to talk to me. He didn't respond and I haven't heard from him since. This may sound very strange to you and abrupt. It doesn't surprise me. My blue eyed boy loves to have control, he does not deal well with demands. I made a demand and he chose not to respond to it. His lack of response says so much more than any words ever could. I can't be with someone that has such little respect for us, for me. <br />
<br />
It could have turned out so differently if he had somehow just shown me that I was important. That we mattered. I'm a firm believer in actions speaking louder than words. It's easy to say I love you, showing it isn't as easy. Never make someone a priority in your life when you are just an option in theirs. I can't be in a relationship feeling as though I'm an option. I deserve more than that.<br />
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I had no idea I could cry like this.<br />
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You know the crazy thing, I keep expecting him to pull in my driveway and wrap me in his arms and tell me he loves me. I know in my head it won't happen, but my heart keeps hoping.<br />
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The memories are killing me. He would call me and sing to me when I couldn't sleep. His smile when he walked in the door after not seeing me for two weeks made my heart sing. The total feeling of safety and love that washed over me when he put his arms around me. The way he made me laugh. I miss picking up the phone and hearing "Hi baby" in that beautiful baritone voice. Falling asleep with his entire body wrapped around mine. Those blue eyes that I lost myself in. I miss him so much. I miss all the things we're never going to have. <br />
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Goddammit it is not fair. I want to stamp my feet and rage at the fates that brought him into my life to hurt me like this. I can't because no matter how much I hurt right now, no matter how much the memories are killing me, I wouldn't give them away even if it meant stopping the pain. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TU7a8CnbU_I/AAAAAAAAAWM/VpdHsOa7eX0/s1600/imagesCAG05H50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TU7a8CnbU_I/AAAAAAAAAWM/VpdHsOa7eX0/s200/imagesCAG05H50.jpg" width="132" /></a></div>He once said to me, "I want to dance with you in the rain ." I'll never get to dance in the rain with him....Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-30398191356410395262011-02-02T13:19:00.000-04:002011-02-02T13:19:01.924-04:00On The Road Again<strong>Things I've learned from dating a long haul trucker:</strong><br />
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<br />
<em>Soon</em> has many a varied definitions - it could mean anywhere from an hour to four days<br />
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Cell phones are a mans best friend<br />
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<em>Lot lizards</em> are <strong>NOT</strong> an amphibian that you would buy as a pet for your nine year old<br />
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It is possible to send and receive 548 pages of text messages in one month<br />
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The name of every state along the eastern seaboard...and how long it takes to cross it<br />
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The weather forecast a week ahead for above mentioned states<br />
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If you're travelling behind a transfer truck and you can't see his/her mirrors, they can't see you<br />
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Google maps is my new bff<br />
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Receiving a text that says<em> "I'm in (insert name of obscure town, village) and ok"</em> will brighten your day and ease your mind unlike anything you ever thought possible<br />
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The bunk of a truck can be quite cozy...just sayin<br />
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Long haul trucking isn't a job, it's a lifestyle. Eighty percent of society has a totally warped idea of what that lifestyle entails. I know I did. <br />
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Those of us not driving transfer trucks are called "4 wheelers" and for the most part, we drive truck drivers nuts<br />
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Cowboy boots are incredibly sexy on the right man<br />
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So is a 4 day scruff<br />
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It is possible to miss someone so much it takes your breath away<br />
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It will also take your breath away when you see that someone walk toward you, after being gone for 23 days, with a huge smile on his face. When he crushes you in the biggest hug imagineable...priceless.<br />
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Driving for two hours to spend the night in a truck is not outside my realm of possibilities<br />
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Taco Bell is a food group...apparently<br />
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It takes more than the length of a football field to stop a truck when it's hauling an 8 thousand pound trailer. So if you're passing said trailer on the highway - make damn sure you don't pull in front of him abruptly. Think crushed beer can.<br />
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Most truck drivers don't drive when they're tired, they have no desire to make crushed beer cans out of your vehicle. <br />
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EVERYTHING you buy, own or eat, was brought to you in a truck.Think about that.<br />
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Cell service between the US and Canada blows hairy monkey balls.<br />
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It is possible to love someone so much, that receiving the text "Good morning baby, I love you" will make you smile like a fucking lunatic that's ready for the funny farm for the rest of the day.<br />
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I know what a turbo booster is - file that one under info I never thought I'd have.<br />
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I have it within me to relish the thought of living in a truck for two weeks, without running water, bathroom facilities or a coffee maker. If I'm coming through your hometown can I stop and borrow your shower?<br />
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I have patience, not saying limitless patience. Just saying I can hear<em> I don't know</em> or <em>we'll have to wait and see</em> without wanting to rip the face off of the person saying it to me.Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-34733043185131306682011-01-31T18:00:00.000-04:002011-01-31T18:00:03.001-04:00Errrr...Ummm Hello?Crazy lady steps to the microphone, head hanging with shame and a faint blush tinging her cheeks. "Hello?"<br />
<br />
So I'm not blushing, but yeah hanging my head with shame, just a wee bit. I logged on expecting to have four followers left. To my surprise, I've only lost about 10 of you. This tells me one thing, you people never clean up your blog lists! What the hell is wrong with you? I haven't opened my blog since my last post. Seriously. I also didn't realize how much I missed this until.....right now. Putting these words out there knowing that some of you will read and respond and I'll respond back and we'll insult each other and you'll offer your words of wisdom and then I'll read all about your crazy antics and your dysfunctional lives and boy have I missed this. <br />
<br />
I'm baaaccccck she says...as Satan shudders with fear.<br />
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I have stories!<br />
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But really it's the new man you want to hear about isn't it? C'mon you know it is. <br />
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Yes, he's still around. Yes, I'm still deliriously happy. <br />
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Yes, I'm in LOVE. I'm fucking in love people. I know, you're as amazed as I am right? In love like I didn't think it was possible for this hard, blackened heart to love. <br />
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So be prepared because I'm going to bore you to shit with stories of the blue eyed boy. After I catch up on what everyone has been up to. Must go read.....<br />
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Oh I'll be back, I promise.Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-15121435885976162412010-11-22T10:37:00.000-04:002010-11-22T10:37:11.733-04:00Girl Meets Boy Part III arrived first at the restaurant. We had agreed to wait for the other in the lobby. I watched him as he walked up to the restaurant. His size held my eye, as it had the night before, until he stepped in the door and looked at me and that’s when he smiled. Dear sweet jesus is all I remember thinking. How is it possible for a simple smile to hit me in the solar plexus like that? The next thought was do I stare at the smile or the eyes? Those incredible, piercing blue eyes that shine unlike anything I have ever seen before. This was going to be one helluva fun evening. As luck would have it, the restaurant was full. He quickly decided we wouldn’t wait, but rather walk up to another restaurant. As we’re walking, he crosses behind me to walk along the side closest to the street. I gave him a quizzical look and asked what he was doing. He proceeded to tell me that it was a chivalry thing, back in Victorian times it was considered good manners when walking with a lady, to walk on the outside to prevent her from getting covered in shit should someone happen to lean out their window (I’m paraphrasing here…he said it much more eloquently) to dump their latrine bucket. You can guess what went through my mind, “Is this guy for real?” <br />
<br />
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This guy was interesting. I was not expecting interesting. Good looking, charming, funny I was expecting, interesting was a different ball game all together.<br />
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We got to the restaurant, ordered dinner and chatted. The usual vital stats were exchanged, talk of our respective jobs. No matter how hard I tried, my eyes were constantly drawn to his mouth; I desperately hoped he didn’t notice. After dinner, where I, like the idiot that I am, ordered the hottest dish on the menu and then carried on as though my mouth wasn’t burning like the deepest bowels of hell, we walked up to the coffee shop and went for a walk around town. We talked about his son, childhood memories, blah blah blah. Short term memory, I don’t remember everything we talked about – he would. I do remember him telling me he was going on the road for 2 weeks the following morning. My immediate thought, “I can’t let him go before I know more” so I suggested a drive and he quickly agreed. I’d love to know what he was thinking at this time, perhaps I’ll ask him.<br />
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Most of you know I drive a boxy little car. I told him we could take my car and he could drive. He asked, “What kind of car do you drive?” With a devious smile I replied, “You’ll see”. Keep in mind the poor man is 6’1”. He was a good sport about folding his legs in four and pouring himself into the driver’s seat of my car. We drove aimlessly. I remember both of us singing along to the music, I remember grinning like I hadn’t grinned in a long time. I was relaxed enough with him to have my feet planted on the dashboard as he drove. I was completely comfortable with this man. We drove to the beach where I fully expected him to wait five minutes before making an attempt to get me out of my clothes. Again, I couldn’t have been more wrong.<br />
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We walked down the boardwalk to the water and stood there talking. He put his jacket around my shoulders because I was cold, and he stood freezing in his tshirt. He spoke of not liking the ocean, how it made him feel lost. It was in incredible night and the roar of the surf was almost deafening. We walked back to the car and sat in the parking lot, at the beach, talking. After almost two hours, he asked me to hold my hand up. I did and he pressed his hand against mine, and then closed his fingers around mine and ASKED me if he could kiss me. It’s about goddamn time, I thought. When I responded yes he ever so gently pulled me to him and kissed me.<br />
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When that first kiss ended he said: “One of those isn’t going to be enough” At that point a tiny tiny crack formed in the six inch veneer I’ve managed to cover my heart with over the last three years.<br />
<br />
We kissed like a pair of teenagers in the front seat of my car for hours. We would stop kissing, he would put my face between his hands and then we’d kiss some more. At one point around 3am, he suddenly turned the music up, opened all the windows, got out of the car and came around to my door and tugged me out of the car. He wrapped his arms around me and we stood under the moonlight dancing. I don’t think my feet were actually touching the ground at this point. It was one of the most incredibly romantic things I had experienced in a really long time and I just wanted to stop time. I wanted to remember every detail of the way he smiled down at me, the way his arms felt around my waist, and how we seemed to fit so well together. My lips were sore when we finally stopped at six am and I felt as though I had been hit by a freight train, if it’s possible to feel really really good after being hit by a train. <br />
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I had told him earlier in the evening about my troubles with Monty: the accident, my bone deep fears, the grandmother buying him a car, Monty moving in with his father. As we drove back to town that morning, a news story about a teen getting killed in a car accident that night caught my ear. As I reached over to turn it up he said, “It happened in the western part of the island”. He knew without me saying a word….<br />
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Prior to dropping him at his truck, in an effort to be cute, I tried writing my cell number on his hand only to discover I was so damn tired I couldn’t remember what my cell number was. He had me call his cell. We parted ways with a long kiss in the parking lot. I hopped in my car and drove away. I’m not sure if I was out of the parking lot before I got a text from him, “Wow” is all it said. When we had been chatting the day before I had asked him what he was looking for and his response was, “I just want to make a connection you know?” So I responded to his text with one of my own, “Click”.<br />
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What followed was the most intense two weeks of my life. How is it possible to miss someone you’ve known for less than 24 hours? Miss him I did; with an intensity that forced me to sit and analyze my emotions for hours on end. He told me that first Monday evening that he was twitterpated. I didn’t get the Bambi reference and he explained it to me. It was like being on a roller coaster that went from absolute terror to sheer joy in 2.5 seconds…every damn five minutes. He felt the same way. We sent hundreds of text messages to each other, spent hours on the phone. It was one evening, a few kisses, how did that equate to what we were feeling? It wasn’t possible, was it? We were blowing the evening out of proportion in our minds; it had not been as intense as we remembered it. <br />
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By the following week I had a small part of myself convinced of exactly that. I had to spend three days at a conference and though we communicated back and forth as much as possible, I had convinced a part of myself that I was overreacting. That I was being silly acting like a teenager with a high school crush. Then he sent me a text on Wednesday, saying that he would be home on Thursday, a day earlier than expected. The wait was over. It’s a mighty damn good thing I was driving a van load of ladies home the next day…the 5 hour drive kept me from going absolutely insane with the thoughts that were running through my head.<br />
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At 7:30 that evening he pulled in my driveway. I stood waiting for him on the deck, and as I watched him walk toward me I knew that I was a goner. Cupid had hit with flawless aim. Deny and lie to myself all I wanted, whatever this was between us – it couldn’t have been more real and was every bit as intense as I remembered, if not more so. Then he looked at me and smiled, and my world dissolved so that it was only him. The kiss made me close my eyes in pure ecstasy. <br />
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We spent Thursday, Friday and Saturday night together. We fit together like pieces of a puzzle. <br />
<br />
As I sit here writing this there has been another weekend spent together and he’s back on the road. In the month since we’ve met, we’ve logged over 4000 text messages back and forth to each other. His smile, the sound of his laugh, the way he looks at me, his touch…it all has me enthralled. I don’t recognize this woman; this soft, mushy, romantic woman isn’t the hard ass bitch I’ve known for 37 years. <br />
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I’m scared shitless and excited all at the same time. The fear is sometimes overwhelming. It’s all too much too fast. I did not want this. I wasn’t looking for love, or the one, or a heart stopping romance. I wanted light, casual, and meaningless. None of those words can be used to describe the last six weeks. I have had to force myself several times over the last two weeks not to walk away out of fear. He scares me, what I feel scares me. I’m counting sleeps until I see him again for fuck sakes people!! He sends me texts before I go to bed, “Good night ma petite”. I think of him and smile. <br />
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And that is what has been keeping yours truly away from the blogging world as of late. I hope you can forgive me!Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-82899718546242155872010-11-19T15:10:00.000-04:002010-11-19T15:10:12.752-04:00Girl Meets BoyAs many of you know, since my break up in June, I have been hell bent on having fun and living life to the fullest. Dating, dancing and drinking with every man that peaks my interest, committing to none of them. Of course it’s all been done in the most responsible manner possible (she says gleefully, tossing her hair over her shoulder).<br />
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A “relationship” a “fixation” a “thing” was at the very bottom of the to do list. I was not looking for anything beyond casual and actually ran from it with a couple of dates. Live for the moment had become my new modus operandi. The energy and dedication required to make a relationship work wasn’t something I wanted to commit to. <br />
<br />
And then he came along, tipping my world on its’ axis.<br />
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I have been using an online dating site for a few months. I have had a few great conversations, a couple of interesting dates, nothing serious. Almost five weeks ago (I can’t believe it’s only been five weeks) I was out with a friend at a dance club. We were up on the dance floor shaking what our mammas gave us when I spot a really tall guy standing by the bar. His height caught my eye and when he turned around his eyes shone from across the room. I’m not being a drama bitch here people, the blueness of his eyes could literally be seen across a dark, crowded bar. I recognized his face from a profile on the dating site (small community) as someone that I had traded casual messages with. So at one point during the evening as I’m walking down to the bar, I met him on the stairs. Never being one to let an opportunity pass, I turn my head; look him directly in the eye and smile. He hesitantly smiled back and kept walking. Ok, I thought, not interested. No big deal. Not every guy is going to fall at my feet in a trembling pile of lust, right? <br />
<br />
Anyway, the night proceeded. I drank too much, was kissed by a girl on the dance floor while her husband stood by laughing and fun was had by all. In my drunken wisdom, when I got home that evening I sent him a message, “Hey, you wouldn’t have been at the (insert bar name) tonight, tall guy, black leather jacket?”<br />
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He replied the following morning: Yes, I was. I am guessing you were there as well. Did you enjoy the band? Have fun?<br />
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Me: You have a great smile. lol Yes, we passed right by each other and smiled. <br />
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We proceeded to talk about music, favorite foods, pastimes, kids. I asked him if he remembered me, described what I was wearing and he responded:<br />
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I think I actually remember the exchanged smile. lol --- Its not often I make eye contact in a bar, but you looked right at me! What could I do?<br />
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Yeah, that’s me, always the brazen one.<br />
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He asked if I was sorry I had smiled at him. I replied that I wasn’t, not at all. His bashfulness intrigued me. It was contradictory to his physical appearance – tall, rugged, cowboy boots, leather jacket. The email messages turned into an instant messaging session that lasted about three hours. Around 5:30 he asked me to have dinner with him. He quickly decided on where to meet (loved the take charge attitude) and a time. I agreed, expecting to spend an amusing evening with a cute guy, have a few laughs and a story to tell the girls the next day.<br />
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I couldn’t have been more wrong.<br />
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Stay tuned for part II. Ohhh c’mon..you don’t think I’m actually going to give it to you all in one dose do you?Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-19925784330927727322010-11-01T10:31:00.000-03:002010-11-01T10:31:13.636-03:00I Used To Have A Handle On Life, And Then It Broke<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TM7BBPRdWhI/AAAAAAAAAWA/RY7QpniExAo/s1600/bwo0008l.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="257" nx="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TM7BBPRdWhI/AAAAAAAAAWA/RY7QpniExAo/s320/bwo0008l.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A bend in the road is not the end of the road… unless you fail to make the turn.</span></div>Or some such shit…..<br />
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Another good one: Live each day so that when your feet hit the floor in the morning Satan shudders and says, “Oh shit…she’s awake”<br />
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I’ve been doing a bit of living like that. Have you missed me? I didn’t mean to disappear. I have been so wrapped up in living that my blog just got pushed aside like the ugly stepchild. I know, I know, feel free to reprimand me. <br />
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So do you want an update – all two of you that are still here?<br />
<br />
On the home front – you’ll remember the last time I wrote Monty and I were having issues. He hasn’t spoken to me since the second week of September. My heart breaks when I think about it so like all well- adjusted members of society I just don’t think about it. Though he’s almost 18 years old I’m just about at the point where I’m going to physically force him into the car with me and hold him there until he talks to me. <br />
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Here’s the kick in the ass folks. My house….since he chose to stay with his father all the time, my house has never been so peaceful. I didn’t realize how much he stirred the pot and kept things in a constant state of turmoil until he wasn’t there doing it any longer. Nora and Jimmy never fight, they actually play together. There is no bickering or arguing or sullenness. It’s like I suddenly have a different family and it kills me to admit what a shit storm my darling eldest caused on a regular basis. I sat the other evening looking at old pictures. The kids were 9, 7 and 3. I sometimes long for those days when my children looked at me as though I hung the moon and stars. <br />
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Work – still doing the two jobs, some weeks working 70 hours a week. It makes me tired just thinking about it! How is it possible to work that many hours and still be fucking broke? I just don’t get it. <br />
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Romantic life, oh jesus where do I start? So much has happened since we last spoke. I get giddy just thinking about writing it all down. I’m a 37 year old, separated, hard ass, mother of three – I’m not supposed to be damn giddy people! Twitterpated even! I’ll write an entire post about the cause of this twitterpation soon.<br />
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So yes, I’m alive, all is relatively well and I miss you guys like crazy.Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-56431360266084501652010-09-16T10:22:00.000-03:002010-09-16T10:22:50.567-03:00An Anne Landers MomentAs many of you are aware, I've joined an online dating site. It's rife with lunatics and 21 year olds looking for their Mrs. Robinson. I actually added an addendum to my profile last week that said, "If you're under 25 years old, please don't message me. I'm sure you're a great guy, but I have no desire to be your Mrs. Robinson. Don't know who that is? Google it". <br />
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Yeah it's that bad.<br />
<br />
I work at the senior management level of a community College in a relatively small area. People love to talk. Our front page news includes articles about emails sent by the wife of a local politican. Yes, THAT small. We have no crime to speak of so what else are people going to talk about really? I'm going somewhere with this, give me a minute.<br />
<br />
I'm very aware of what I do and say - and how it reflects on my employer. No one at work knows I'm a member of an online dating site. It would fuel the gossip mongers for days. No, I do not have an inflated ego, I just know how people talk. I have no desire to be gossip fodder for the crowd in the staff room.<br />
<br />
So last night I'm online surfing through profiles of various men and I get an instant message. I respond and we go back and forth for awhile. This guy is CUTE and YOUNG - 27. This puts him 10 years younger than me. I have not figured out where my boundaries are with regard to dating and age. Is 27 too young for an almost 37 year old woman? I don't know. But we're chatting and there's no harm in that, right? This whole online thing is hit or miss. I sometimes get IM'd by guys who will sit there expecting me to carry the entire "conversation". That doesn't fly with me. Or guys who are so incredibly boring that my eyes bleed and I cannot fathom how they would actually hold a conversation in real life. This guy wasn't like that, he zinged the replies back as quick as I fired them out. He had a biting sense of humour which always attracts me. <br />
<br />
And then I found out he's a student. Not only is he a student - right at this very fucking moment he's in a classroom beside my office. I saw him walking by earlier this morning. It was bound to happen, right? <br />
<br />
He asked me to go for a drink this weekend (he moves fast which I like). I had to explain to him that I work at his College. That I wasn't sure if I was comfortable going out with a student. I couldn't even give the poor guy my first name, considering the fact that there's no one else in the organization with my first name. He has no idea what I look like and here I am checking him out as he walks by my office. I must admit it kind of amuses me. He was surprisingly ok with my hesitation, he seemed to understand it. <br />
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There are just so many pitfalls that this could lead to, me becoming the top item on the gossip circuit being just one of them.<br />
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What do you think? Is 27 too young? Am I just asking for trouble by going for a drink with a student? To my knowledge there is no policy against staff socializing with students. That does not mean there isn't an unwritten policy. I don't know, it's never been an issue in my world. Up until now. If I wasn't in the position I'm in, I probably would not give it a second thought. But I am. <br />
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Did I mention he's incredibly cute and funny?Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-22763535385186076152010-09-14T15:16:00.000-03:002010-09-14T15:16:35.704-03:00Football and Roundabouts<center><a href="http://www.onlyparentchronicles.com/" target="_blank"><img alt="That One Mom" src="http://i936.photobucket.com/albums/ad202/That_One_Mom/PINTthat_one_mom.jpg" /></a></center><br />
<br />
Playing along with PINT for the first time since it moved to it's new home over at That One Mom's. Click above if you want to play too.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is me trying valiantly to look at the positives in life.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TI-3EIpn64I/AAAAAAAAAVM/veYvECk9bOM/s1600/superstickies6.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qx="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TI-3EIpn64I/AAAAAAAAAVM/veYvECk9bOM/s320/superstickies6.png" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TI-4RR-BdiI/AAAAAAAAAVU/LgB0h_zsZbs/s1600/superstickies7.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qx="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TI-4RR-BdiI/AAAAAAAAAVU/LgB0h_zsZbs/s320/superstickies7.png" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TI-6utyDsgI/AAAAAAAAAVc/RFz1vlh5k1U/s1600/superstickies8.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qx="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TI-6utyDsgI/AAAAAAAAAVc/RFz1vlh5k1U/s320/superstickies8.png" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TI-6yxSdV5I/AAAAAAAAAVk/PF3YW8lPWEU/s1600/superstickies9.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qx="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TI-6yxSdV5I/AAAAAAAAAVk/PF3YW8lPWEU/s320/superstickies9.png" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TI-7O4VXR6I/AAAAAAAAAV0/1AHa5YertiM/s1600/superstickies10.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qx="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TI-7O4VXR6I/AAAAAAAAAV0/1AHa5YertiM/s320/superstickies10.png" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TI-7GgHzxWI/AAAAAAAAAVs/372cWF8G6zc/s1600/superstickies11.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qx="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TI-7GgHzxWI/AAAAAAAAAVs/372cWF8G6zc/s320/superstickies11.png" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I'm considering trying to convince a doctor to insert a permanent IV so I can start mainlining wine 24 hours a day.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-14593075945667996252010-09-12T11:04:00.000-03:002010-09-12T11:04:02.280-03:00Finally...Recognition for the Diversity of This Word<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/AUaWCcDlI5s?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/AUaWCcDlI5s?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br />
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Watch it. If you don't laugh I'll refund your money.Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-41023123820807406272010-09-10T07:07:00.000-03:002010-09-10T07:07:11.323-03:00The Ongoing Saga of the Teenage DriverI need you to talk me off the ledge because I'm about fucking ready to jump.<br />
<br />
It has not been two weeks since Monty almost killed him and his brother. It will be two weeks this Saturday. I'm still having nightmares. <br />
<br />
When I went to pick the kids up from their Dad's Wednesday night only Jimmy and Nora came out to the car. Where's Monty? Jimmy explains that Monty is staying at Dad's for the night because Dad is taking him to look at a car.<br />
<br />
crickets<br />
<br />
blink<br />
<br />
blink<br />
<br />
crickets<br />
<br />
So I sat there pondering what to do. Do I go in the house and force my 6'2" -200 pound, 18 year old son into the car? Yeah, I didn't think so either. Do I sit there waiting for Ex to get home and have a calm, rational discussion with him about this? Judging by the way my blood was pounding in my veins I'm not sure how calm or rational the conversation would have been.<br />
<br />
So I left. I took the two kids <strike>who I won't be writing out of my will</strike> home and proceeded to worry, stress, and fume for the rest of the night. By yesterday morning, I had myself convinced that I was overreacting. They were, after all, just going to look, right? No harm in looking. I knew Monty didn't have nearly enough money in his account to purchase any type of vehicle so no harm no foul, right?<br />
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Keep in mind I have told you countless times I'm very good at deluding myself.<br />
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A million dollars to the person that can guess what was parked in Ex's driveway yesterday morning when I dropped the kids <strike>that I don't want to hang from their fucking toenails</strike> off. That's right, a sparkly, rust colored, four door Sunfire. <br />
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blink<br />
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blink<br />
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blink<br />
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In the house I go. Did you hear the results of that conversation clear across the country? That's what I thought....<br />
<br />
Let me tell you something about Ex. He does not argue with me. He does not raise his voice, he does not shout, he does not get emotional. It makes me want to punch him in the fucking face. Goddamn fight with me would you!!! What ensued was without a doubt the worst fight I've had with Ex and Monty. They do not understand my fear, they do not understand my anger over not being consulted about this purchase, they do not get that as a mother, it's my god given fucking right to be hysterical at the thought of my son killing himself because he's too arrogant and cocky to drive defensively.<br />
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As I stood there looking at the two of them I realized I was fighting a losing battle. Monty is his father's clone, it was like arguing with two Ex's. It gave me chills. In their mind, it's absolutely necessary Monty has a vehicle (I know, makes no good goddamn sense to me either) and I am the irrational, overprotective mother.<br />
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Accept the things you cannot change? That's always been a difficult pill for me to swallow. So I left Monty with his father. Not only because of the car issue but because I'm tired of being treated like a second class citizen by my son. I'm tired of being told that I don't know what I'm talking about, that my opinion does not matter, and that essentially I'm stupid. I know all teens think their parents are stupid. I know this. Thinking it and saying it are two different things. I don't have to listen to it in a house that I work two fucking jobs to pay the mortgage on.<br />
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Yeah, I'm angry. I'm hurt. I'm frustrated. <br />
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But mostly, I'm scared. I'm scared of when (not if) that phone call comes, or worse yet it won't be a phone call, it will be a knock on the door telling me my son isn't coming home again. <br />
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It's not an irrational fear (is it?). I feel this to the very core of my being. It's a sense stronger than anything I've ever had before in my life. And it scares me. He tempted fate once, what if he's not as lucky the next time?<br />
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Ok, you can proceed to talk me off the ledge now.Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-67212908338145793052010-09-08T11:27:00.000-03:002010-09-08T11:27:09.646-03:00Miscellaneous Crap You Probably Don't Need to Know AboutI think I've finally stopped shaking from the near death experience of my boys. Working 14 hour days on last week kept my mind from constantly focusing on the accident. It did not however keep me from seeing the truck everytime I closed my eyes which in turn made me not want to close my eyes. It's difficult to sleep when you don't want to close your eyes. So no fucking sleep, which makes me a little crazier than normal.<br />
<br />
The only thing that kept me going on was knowing that I had 5 whole fucking days off with no work whatsoever. None. Zilch. Zero. And boy did I make the most of those days.<br />
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I've pretty much pickled my liver and my body is crying out in protest for sleep and non-alcholoic fluids. We all know yours truly loves her glass of vino but I rarely imbibe in more than a glass or two. I think I drank a whole fucking vineyard last weekend. There were large quantities of wine consumed on the beach until 5:30 am. A spontaneous date with motorcycle boy saw the two of us heading to the beach at 10:00 on Thursday night - memories that I will have with me when I'm old and shitting myself in a seniors home let me tell you. Laying on a blanket with a gazzillion stars overhead, the sound of the surf pounding against the shore, vino in hand in the company of a beautiful boy who makes you laugh until you want to pee. Those are good times people.<br />
<br />
There were large quantities of wine consumed on the dance floor of a club, where I danced until I looked as though I had been at the beach. There were large quantites of wine consumed while sitting at my place watching movies. I seem to be really good at making up for the fact that I've lived for almost 3 years as a nun.<br />
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Of course none of this helps me forget the huge, angry, black bruise that covers my boy's chest and stomach. The image would not leave my mind, even though he was out at his father's house. <br />
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I partied like this knowing that yesterday, the world must right itself on it's axis once more. The early morning routines have started again. It's time to be the responsible drill sergeant who manages time in micro-seconds rather than hours. The start of another school year (both at home and work) brings with it the ridgid routine we as Mom's must follow to ensure our kids have the food they need, clean clothes, drives, homework, and projects completed. Yeah I know kids always need to eat...but during summer holiday if supper isn't ready until 7:00 rather than 6:00 it's not the end of the world. If there's no clean clothes for the morning well they just wear their pj's until noon. What? You don't let your kids wear pj's till noon?<br />
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It also means the influx of a brand new group of 1600 students at work. It means instructors will be back from summer holidays. It means alot of chaos and trying to make alot of people happy when I just want to stab <strike>almost all</strike> a few of them in the jugular with a pencil. It means the end to days of the boss coming into the office at 2pm and saying, "Let's close up for the afternoon". Sigh<br />
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This school year will see my oldest child graduate from high school and start another chapter of his life. I imagine him crossing that stage, knowing how much work and tears it has taken for him to get there, and it gives me goosebumps. I'm so incredibly grateful that he is alive to turn the page.<br />
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Nora came out of her room this morning in her new jeans and t-shirt and my mouth fell open in complete astonishment. Nora is 12 and over the summer she's completely lost all traces of her little girl physique. At 5'5" she's just a hairs breath away from being as tall as her mother. Her face has thinned out and she has these beautiful cheekbones. She has an ass. When did my little girl get a booty? When did her life stop being about dolls and giggles?<br />
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Time, please slow down. Just a wee bit. Kthanks.Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-47328629565139889142010-08-30T09:24:00.000-03:002010-08-30T09:24:02.633-03:00I'm A Witch or Self Fulfilling Prophecy? You DecideDo you remember <a href="http://wereatdadsthatweek.blogspot.com/2010/06/coloring-outside-lines.html">this</a> post. Probably not. It's the one where I went on like an irrational nutbar about my 18 year old getting his license. I have been told by countless people in countless different ways over the past two months that I need to gear down on the worry about the boy driving.<br />
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Yeah well fuck all of them because I was right. <br />
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Saturday noon I'm reading email, drinking coffee and deciding whether to go for a run or go shopping. My phone rings, the caller ID shows a name I don't recognize. I normally don't answer the phone unless I recognize the name...something twigged at the back of my neck and for some reason I answered this call.<br />
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Me: Hello (said in my phony office voice)<br />
Stranger: Hello this is (insert stranger name). Your sons have been in a car accident.<br />
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Before she could get "They're ok" out of her mouth I was throwing up in the kitchen sink. <br />
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Sometimes it's no goddamn fun at all being right.<br />
<br />
So I get directions to where they are after making this poor woman assure me I'm not going to drive up only to find their heads detached from their bodies. I assure Nora that everything will be ok, call their father, and hop in my car.<br />
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They are on a back road about 10km from the house. As I pull up both boys are standing on the side of the road. There are two guys standing with them. The truck.....<br />
<br />
The truck almost snapped in two. The engine was practically sitting in the front seat. The airbags deployed, the front tires were sideways. It was a culvert that stopped the truck. A fucking culvert. And my boys were standing their alive.<br />
<br />
The story I got out of the boys is that Monty had the window open and a bug flew in the window. As he tried to swat the bug out of his face he jerked the wheel of the truck, the truck went off onto the shoulder of the road and he couldn't get it back under control. They went into the ditch, travelled about 15 feet and hit a culvert.<br />
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There's no doubt in my mind he was speeding. You don't do that much damage to a vehicle if you were only travelling 60 km an hour. <br />
<br />
According to the tow truck driver - if they hadn't of had their seat belts on I'd be planning a double funeral today. I don't think he realized that I had already played that whole what if scenario through my head a dozen times. That I would spend the rest of the weekend seeing that truck every time I closed my eyes and playing the "what if's" through my mind.<br />
<br />
Both boys were white as ghosts. Monty had somehow scraped the shit out of his arm, Jimmy had a severely bruised chin. Monty is devastated over the loss of his new found freedom. He's too young and too stupid to realize how much worse it could have been. He was lamenting the loss of his truck yesterday and I looked at him and said, "M how much worse would you feel right now if we were burying your brother?" Perspective boy....perspective. <br />
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It scared the shit out of Jimmy. He was very quiet all weekend and I would force him every once in awhile to talk about it. If you've ever been in a car accident you know how frightening it is to know that you're going to crash. I can't imagine how it feels to a 16 year old. I wish I could somehow take the memory of it away for him. <br />
<br />
Everyone keeps telling Monty- a truck is replaceable. As long as I fucking live and breathe that boy will not own another vehicle before he's 30....at least. Going out to buy the bubble wrap and duct tape today to insulate the two of them against further catastrophe.Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-65611432636673131402010-08-28T12:06:00.000-03:002010-08-28T12:06:51.646-03:00You Can Thank Me Later for Making You CrySo yours’ (your’s yours…which one is right Zgirl?) truly received an email. I know, astonishing right? Anyway, the email was from a dude named Denny Chapin (Denny, let me know if you object to my splashing your name all over my blog). Anyway Denny is involved with <a href="http://www.alltreatment.com/">this place</a>. It’s a website that gathers and links information on addiction for states all over the US. He said he stumbled across my blog while doing some research (me thinks I may post too much about wine drinking) and he said in his email to me:<br />
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I was impressed by your expressive and unabashed voice; it's great to read a few honest, 'all-out' posts every once in awhile (seems harder and harder to find these days). Your kids also look like a ton of fun (and work, hah)!<br />
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Oh you know compliments will get you everywhere with Dual Mom, right? I’m still wondering if “expressive and unabashed” is his way of saying I’m opinionated and swear too much? So of course after these flattering words he wanted something (don’t they all). He asked if I would place a link to his website <a href="http://www.arizonatreatmentcenters.org/?ref=plemail">Arizona Treatment Centers</a> on my blog…dude even offered to pay me. Crazy right! I declined. In my response back to him I said “My blog is the one thing in my life that is completely about me. I don't do it to pay the bills, or for the benefit of the kids. I do it because I love to write, I love to make my readers chuckle once in a while and I love the feeling I get when I know I've made someone smile.” <br />
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However, Denny’s mission strikes a chord with me and I agreed to do a post highlighting his efforts. Since I'm all about serving my community and making the world a better place (don't laugh arseholes) here goes nothing.<br />
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You see, I wasn’t always the fierce, strong shit kicker that you all know and <strike>put up with</strike> love. I’m the product of a severely alcoholic, abusive father. Don’t get your tissues and sympathy cards out yet, I’ve obviously lived to tell the tale and besides severe issues with letting my walls down it hasn’t altered me too much. <br />
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But when I sit and think about it…when I really sit and think about it…it still makes me sad. <br />
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My father was a wonderful man. He was warm, caring, beautiful, strong - when he was sober. When he was drunk, he was angry, hurtful, god so angry. I remember the anger most. You know how people talk about wonderful childhood memories, memories of doing fun things with their parents/siblings. Memories of great holidays and loving times spent with family. I don’t have those. I have memories of being afraid, knowing that it’s Friday night and that Dad got paid. At 5, 6, 7 years old, I have memories of being afraid. Because when Dad was drinking, home was not a fun place to be. My most vivid childhood memory was of my 18 year old sister’s going away party. She was leaving for Toronto to go to school. The night before she left my father got drunk and threw my aunt across the room because she said something that made him angry. I was 8. The aunt in question had cancer at the time. Those are the childhood memories I have.<br />
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He went for treatment after that. He spent 3 weeks in an addiction facility. When he came home he was a new man. God I remember that month he was sober. I remember not being afraid, for the first time in my life. A month, he had the strength to last a month before he relapsed.<br />
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Children of alcoholic parents blame themselves for their parents addictions. If I was a better child he wouldn’t drink. If I clean my room he’ll come home sober. If I make him laugh he won’t need that beer. It is without a doubt, one of the most incredible fucking burdens you can place on an innocent child. <br />
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My mother finally found the courage to kick him out of the house when I was 11 years old. I remember it vividly. The last straw, so to speak, was him leaving me on the couch the day I got home from a tonsillectomy. My mother was working a night shift, left me - thinking Dad would be home in one hour to look after me. He came home, grabbed his beer, gave me $5 to get treats (yeah because that did me a lot of fucking good when I couldn’t eat asshole) and left to go drink with friends. <br />
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When he got home the following day I remember my mother standing at the counter peeling potatoes. He came in the door and she said, without looking at him, “Your bags are packed in the bedroom, get them, and get out. I’m not arguing with you, you left our daughter to potentially choke to death on her own blood, get your goddamn bags and get out. If you don’t I’ll call the police, but right now I’m not sure if I’ll call before or after I use this knife”. He came back in after taking his bags to the car, “I need my boots.” he said. I went to the closet and got his boots and rushed them to him. I wanted him to leave that badly. I was 11 years old and I couldn’t wait for my father to leave. <br />
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I remember it like it was yesterday. This man had terrorized my mother for over 20 years. There were times she feared for her life and the life of her family. And she finally found the courage to stand up to him. <br />
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Go Mom!!<br />
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He moved to another province after that. He would call periodically when he was drunk. Ranting and raving about how much he loved us. As we grew up we stopped taking his calls. The last time I spoke with my father was 3 days after my mother died. I was 22. He called, not knowing mom had died and started into his drunken diatribe. He called my mother a bitch. I responded, “Mom is dead, as far as I’m concerned I have no parents. Do not ever call me again because as far as I’m concerned, I’m burying both my parents today.”<br />
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Dad has eight grandchildren he’s never met. He has four grown children he hasn’t seen in over 20 years. He has an entire family filled with loving, awesome people that he’ll never get to know or love, or be loved by. Because he loved alcohol more. He’s 70 years old and has an entire family that would love nothing more than to love him, have him here with us, have him as a grampy to our children, but he made that impossible.<br />
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It was not my responsibility as a child to make my father want to be sober. It was not my fault. It was not my fault. It was not my fault. How many times do I have to repeat it before I believe it?<br />
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So if you know someone in your life that has an addiction, I truly believe as an adult, you have a responsibility to try and help them. If that person has children, then know that those kids are going through a shitstorm of really gross emotions, even if they don’t show it. No one in my life knew what I was going through, teachers had no idea, friends didn’t know. I became incredibly adept at hiding everything. As I sit here typing this at 36 years old, the thought of my father doesn’t fill me with love, it still makes my heart race with fear. <br />
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So yeah, addiction is an incredible monster to try and fight. I get that. But aren’t the people who love you worth the fight? That’s the question I still struggle with. Why wasn’t I enough? Why wasn’t our love enough? <br />
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I was a great fucking kid Dad. I was funny and smart and I loved you so much. I’m an even greater adult, my bloggy friends say so. You are missing so many awesome things in life. YOU threw it all away.<br />
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Please, please, don’t ever force your children to be asking themselves those same questions. If you or someone you love has a problem with addiction, get help, just do it. Please. <br />
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Those links in case you missed them the first time:<br />
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<a href="http://www.arizonatreatmentcenters.org/?ref=plemail">Arizona Treatment Centers</a><br />
<a href="http://www.alltreatment.com/">All Treatment</a>Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-62959424344385290382010-08-25T09:11:00.000-03:002010-08-25T09:11:20.082-03:00Office DynamicsMy boss just walked into my office, handed me this and said, "Here this is for you." He chuckled and walked out to his meeting.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/THUHeTTTKHI/AAAAAAAAAUU/HhgdQQJHla0/s1600/97719_strip.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="123" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/THUHeTTTKHI/AAAAAAAAAUU/HhgdQQJHla0/s400/97719_strip.gif" width="400" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I'm surrounded by smart asses. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Is that a condom she has on her head?</div>Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-84517904176104896152010-08-24T09:16:00.002-03:002010-08-24T10:29:11.127-03:00JM2C or Just My Two Cents - For Those of Us That Speak In Full SentencesWhen did this freaking become a blog about my dating life? How the hell did that happen? I blame it on you, and you....oh yeah and you had a part in it too.<br />
<br />
Seriously, since the blogging world has become my go to when matters near and dear have me stumped I need your help.<br />
<br />
You see, I suck at online dating.<br />
<br />
There I said it. Hi I'm Dual Mom and I suck so badly at online dating. Is there a support group? Like suck dirty monkey balls I'm that bad.<br />
<br />
Let me back up a moment and say a few things non boy related. My middle anklebiter turns 16 today. Why yes, I was 14 when I had him. Ok not really, fuck. While I'm glad my kids are growing up into semi well adjusted, non serial killer types, every birthday makes me nostalgic for the days when they were small and I didn't really like them that much.<br />
<br />
And school starts in two weeks. What the hell? Yesterday, my daughter presented me with a list of all the "things" she needs before starting Junior High. Yeah, junior high, I know it made my fucking head spin too. So now I'm going to have to work the corner every night for the next two weeks just to get her half of the things on her "needs" list.<br />
<br />
Ok onto the dating segment of the joke that is my life.<br />
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I joined an online dating site. I know, right?<br />
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Because I'm a smart ass my profile includes details regarding my internal debate over the whole cat lady/cougar scenario, the fact that acronyms drive me completely around the fucking bend (it's YOU not U people) and boys with beer bellies need not apply. Not that I have anything against beer bellies, some of the most wonderful guys I know have bellies, however, I'm in the shallow, vain I just want you to be pretty segment of my life and that's what I want. I make no apologies for it. I also state that if you can't start a sentence with a capital letter we probably won't have much in common.<br />
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Bitch, right? Mehhh <br />
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Anyfussybitch, for your reading pleasure I have saved some of the messages I've received to share with you. It's all about you people...it's all about you. <br />
<br />
This one came from a 29 year old male who's profile included a picture of him drunkenly hanging off of two females (at least I think they were females), and his passtimes included (and I quote) "haning out wit freinds and drinking"<br />
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<strong><em>hi i no what a cougar is lolol but what do u mean by the cat lady thing. r u a cougar</em></strong><br />
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I wanted to respond: c'mere till I chew your fucking head off and do the whole world a favor. <br />
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I get the whole millenial generations need to simplify everything to fit into 60 characters or less. But when someone explicity states that acronyms drive them crazy and capital letters are a must and yet they still send THAT type of message, there's bigger issues there than just a need for simplicity.<br />
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I've received multiple messages that said:<br />
<br />
<em><strong>hi, wanna chat</strong></em><br />
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About what, your lack of proper punctuation, or the fact that since you just sent me a message trying to get my attention and you used THREE FUCKING WORDS, chances are the chats going to be pretty onesided. And I'll want to stab my eyes out with a fork because you don't use capital letters or punctuation.<br />
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So here's where I need you to weigh in. Should I just get over myself and stop being so critical about the proper use of the english language, should I embrace the u r's and brb's and AWHFY and CWYL? Should I learn to live without question marks and proper punctuation?<br />
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One more thing, did you know there's a text acronym for oral sex? I know, I didn't really need to know either.Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-41080597343482371352010-08-19T00:52:00.000-03:002010-08-19T00:52:57.148-03:00A Tale of Body Snatchers?I think I know myself pretty well. I mean obviously there are days I like to delude myself into thinking I'm a calm, nice, rational person but really, it's bullshit. Even more so lately. I think I've been possessed by the spirit of some Lolita that's forcing me to hit on complete strangers in parking lots. I think I need an exorcism. <br />
<br />
Hold onto your hats for this one people. Aren't you glad Dual Mom's single? <br />
<br />
So yeah, I hit on a complete stranger in a parking lot. Ok, truthfully I didn't really hit on him. I commented on his bike (after checking out his ass as he was bent over said bike). I told him he had a nice <strike>ass</strike> bike. Totally innocent, right? He asked me if I "ride" (oh look- there goes my mind rolling into the gutter) and I explained that I leave the driving to those that know what they're doing but that I did enjoy riding shotgun.<br />
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He then said, and I quote, "I have an extra helmet, want to go for a drive?"<br />
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I don't shock easily. After I picked my fucking jaw up off the floor I sort of stuttered and may have actually spit on him in my efforts to get words to come out of my vocal chords. Oh yeah, Dual Mom can impress the boys with her suave comebacks and spit. But really, what's a girl to do? It's 28 degrees, the sun is shining, the birds are singing, I've worked 42 hours in three days, I've been up since 4am and I'm single. I didn't even give myself a chance to talk myself out of it, I mean how completely fucking moronic is it to hop on the back of a bike with a total stranger? Yeah, he's cute, he's got a smokin ass, and he obviously appreciates the finer things in life (he is driving a Harley after all) but still....moronic with a capital M people.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TGypRhxfl5I/AAAAAAAAAUM/Lyad3l1TNOM/s1600/Harley-Davidson-FXDF-Dyna-Fat-Bob.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="151" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_KRCWxvv17hg/TGypRhxfl5I/AAAAAAAAAUM/Lyad3l1TNOM/s200/Harley-Davidson-FXDF-Dyna-Fat-Bob.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>So I locked my car, put on his helmet and what followed was probably one of the best evenings I've had in a very very long time. It was obvious that he was an experienced driver. Both ex hubby and ex boyfriend had bikes. I've spent my fair share of time on the back of a motorcyle. This guy knew what he was doing. So as we're driving across the bridge into town my sunglasses go flying off my face. He leans back and asks me if I want him to turn around and all I can do is laugh. I have my arms wrapped around this beautiful strange boy, I'm riding on the back of a Harley and I'm laughing with complete and utter abandon. <br />
<br />
We drove and drove and drove. Fuck I think my hair was even blowing like you see in one of those corny commercials. Every few minutes he would turn his head slightly to ask if I was ok. He told me his name, I told him mine. He's chatting with me whenever we pull up to a light or stop sign, whenever we slow down for traffic. He asks if I'm scared (pffff scared? I hop on motorcyles all the time with strange men), he tells me that he's been driving motorcycles all his life, he asks me what I do, he asks me if I'm single, (ha pretty sure if I wasn't I would be after my little escapade). All I can do is sit there dumbstruck, with this shit eating grin on my face. I'm staring at his hands as he operates the gears. He has a beautiful silver watch on his left wrist and his hair curls beneath the rim of his helmet. <br />
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We laughed at the absolute insanity of what we were doing. <br />
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And you know what? As I sat on the back of that bike, with my arms wrapped around beautiful strange boy (did I mention how much I liked having my arms wrapped around beautiful strange boy), I felt free. I mean, I've heard people say how they "felt such a sense of freedom" but I never understood what it meant. At that very moment, I was free and I have no words for how glorious it felt. <br />
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When you have children as a teenager, you're freedom is cut very short before you have the knowledge and means to really enjoy it. Any mother out there knows how children have a sneaky way of infiltrating into our lives and souls. We live for our children. They are the very substance of our existance from the moment they are placed in our arms, and often well before that. This evening, I was just a woman. I was a woman on the back of a bike with a complete stranger and I have never felt more free.<br />
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He took me for nachoes and beer. Seriously. We ate nachoes and drank beer at an outdoor restaurant. I had two, he only had one. We laughed. My sides hurt from laughing. I told him I was recently single and had joined an online dating site (more on that later). He teased me that I wouldn't be able to keep them all straight, that I'd be mixing up names and vital statistics of all my paramours (his word). He suggested the proper thing to do was to get a white board and start a flow chart. I laughed until tears rolled down my face.<br />
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Then we walked around town because he said he wasn't taking me back on the bike until I walked off the beer. For an hour we walked, laughing some more. We stopped and he bought coffee and we walked more, talking as though we were the best of friends. We stopped and listened to an outdoor jazz concert. It was surreal. I wish I could describe how it felt, the craziness of it mixed with the sheer joy. <br />
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We exchanged contact info. I hope to hear from him again, but if I don't I have to tell you I won't regret a minute of it. He gave me one of the best evenings I've had in quite awhile...and yes, I include the evening spent with boy toy (more on that later too).<br />
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As he drops me at my car, he gets off the bike and unstraps my helmet all the while smiling at me (yeah, the shit eating grin was still on my face). <br />
<br />
He <strong>hugged</strong> me before hopping back on his bike and riding into the sunset. A real, genuine hug. <br />
<br />
I think someone should pinch me because I have to be dreaming, seriously.Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-54532433492686084412010-08-17T00:45:00.000-03:002010-08-17T00:45:10.638-03:00Do's And Don'ts of Being A HouseguestConsider this my PSA for the week. I swear to fuck my head is going to explode and brain matter is going to come spewing out of both my nose and ears. As you all know the famille is home (insert long, drawn out, hyena like scream). I've written before about my sister, and the time she came home and both she and her daughter had lice and she thought I was overreacting when I sprayed everything with 120% proof insecticide and washed the bedsheets twenty eleven times a day. <br />
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So do's and don'ts of being a proper houseguest.<br />
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Do <br />
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Pick up behind yourself, and your daughter. Yeah, the 11 year old's underwear on the kitchen floor? Pretty fucking sure it's going to get shoved down her throat.<br />
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Wash the dog shit (or what looks like it) off your feet before curling up on your hostess's couch. Better yet, how 'bout washing your entire body? What a concept, I know.<br />
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Don't<br />
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Allow your child to walk around the house carrying your hostess's laptop by the screen. What sort of fucking neanderthal does that?<br />
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Wait until your hostess gets finished working a 14 hour day and then tell her you're too tired to make up the air matress for your daughter to sleep on. Oh and you probably shouldn't FUCKING STAND THERE AND WATCH as your hostess inflates the air matress, digs out the linens and makes up the bed. You know you're just asking for an elbow to the jugular bitch. You'll find yourself out in the woods with the rest of the damn wildlife.<br />
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Don't fucking sigh when your hostess tells you she gets up at 6:00am to get ready for work. It's just too fucking shitty pants for you if the noise of your hostess making 1420 pots of coffee so that she can stay awake to work another 14 hour day wakes YOU up in the morning. Proper etiquette does not entail you then lamenting about the fact that you want to sleep in especially considering you've been off on holidays all fucking summer.<br />
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Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuccccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkk where's my gun?<br />
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Oh and let's not even talk about that goddamn skinny arse brother of mine, who each and every year manages to have a blissful, sister- free summer. Bastard.<br />
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Feel free to send your questions regarding proper houseguest etiquette to <a href="mailto:losingmyfuckingmind@sisterhoodofthetravellingpants.com">losingmyfuckingmind@sisterhoodofthetravellingpants.com</a>Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4476676320224432053.post-38915472497706097722010-08-06T13:03:00.000-03:002010-08-06T13:03:25.903-03:00Fawk You Friday<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.boobiesbabiesandablog.com/"><img alt="BWS tips button" height="125" src="http://boobiesbabiesandablog.webs.com/fufriday.JPG" width="125" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm playing along with the fabulicious Boobies today. Click above if you feel like joining in on the fun. Nothing is more fun than flipping the bird to those that piss you off, in my humble opinion.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><ul><li><div style="text-align: left;">To whatever it was that caused a huge gaping hole in my tire. I fucking love getting up in the morning only to discover that my front tire is completely flat. Know what's even more fun? Having to tow your car to the dealership to the tune of $125 smackers. The cost of replacing the tire was just icing on the cake really.</div></li>
</ul><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><ul><li><div style="text-align: left;">To the mosquitoes that seem to feel that my yard is the only place in the neighborhood adequate enough to set up housekeeping and multiply....fuck you. It's wonderful to sit in the livingroom watching my neighbors frolic on their deck in the evening, knowing that were I to step forth outside my house, I'd be carried away to neverland by you blood thirsty motherfuckers. </div></li>
</ul><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><ul><li><div style="text-align: left;">To my well-meaning older sister, who sent me an email saying I sounded "stressed and sad". Really? I can't imagine why I would sound stressed or sad. After all I have your visit to look forward to, I'm broke, I'm working two fucking jobs and I'm still broke and you need mussels and won't share your prozac. You'll land here full of piss and vinegar wanting to jaunt off to do this and that thereby making me feel bad because I can't frolic with you because I can't seem to gain entrance into the same fairy tale universe where you reside. (Pity party for one, anyone? It's ugly, I know.)</div></li>
</ul><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><ul><li><div style="text-align: left;">To the grass on my beautiful acre of property that won't stop fucking growing. Do you see the mosquitoes? Do you know how hard it is to cut you with the fuckers flying in my eyes and mouth? I look like I have a severe case of tourette syndrome with my head jerking everywhere and waving my hands ceaselessly in front of my face, all the while cursing FUCCCCCKKKK every two minutes.</div></li>
</ul><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><ul><li><div style="text-align: left;">To the doctor at the walk-in clinic who told me my blood pressure was high and attributed my chest pains to stress, then proceeded to advise me to "reduce the stress in my life" and to folllow up with my family doctor. Oh sorry, I didn't mean to spit on you as I laughed hysterically in your face. That's some funny shit there doc...reduce the stress in my life. You've got a magic wand stuck up your ass that you can wave? You obviously read that little sheet on your clipboard with my stats very carefully, you know, the one that indicated I DON'T HAVE A FUCKING FAMILY DOCTOR ASSHAT. Let's not talk about the fact that I pay almost 46% of my yearly income in taxes, a large part of which is supposed to go to health care so that we as Canadians have such frivolous things like family doctors.</div></li>
</ul><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><ul><li><div style="text-align: left;">To my coffee maker. For dying on me this morning, leaving me to fall to the floor in an oscar worthy show of hysterical tears and blubbering mass of emotional despair. Why, oh why this morning of all mornings? </div></li>
</ul><div style="text-align: left;">Is it a bad thing that I'm seriously considering drinking at 12:30 in the afternoon? Do I need an intervention? Have I asked that question before? Never mind, please don't answer.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">No worries folks. This too shall pass, right? RIGHT? I have my health. Wait no, apparently I don't. I have three beautiful children. Ummm well no, they're really not that cute anymore and quite frankly full of attitude that is fugly. I have a wonderful job that I love that pays the bills, well no not .......ahhh fuck it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I'll be back later with a list of all the sunshiny, glorious things. After a drink or two....</div>Dual Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13219625667306878645noreply@blogger.com15