Undomestic Diva

You, who couldn't love me

I'll admit, for a long time I waited for you to call. I checked my phone for missed calls when I knew it hadn't rang. Because my phone never left my pocket. For weeks I held my breath at the sound of footsteps outside my window even though I knew they weren't yours; I knew better than to think you were coming back. Yet I would close my eyes and wait anyway for the doorbell to not ring. I watched the clock for more minutes, hours, days than I care to confess for your call to never come. For closure, I told myself. But really, I just wanted to hear your voice.

I would have taken you back.

I shouldn't have, but I would have.

I reasoned that you were busy working. You were probably tired. But you probably missed me. Maybe you missed me? Maybe you were thinking of me? Maybe I wasn't out of sight, out of mind. You might not have called that night but the next night? You would. And when you didn't, I was certain you would tomorrow. Because of all the things I knew that I knew, it was that you were better than that.

I was certain you were better than that.

In the wee hours of the morning, when I would finally give in that this night was not the night you were going to come through, I intentionally avoided my own reflection in the mirror knowing I would only see the epitome of pathetic looking back at me.

I couldn't stand to look at me anymore.

Finally, after weeks of that song on repeat, I turned it off. It was like pulling the plug on everything that had sparked life in me for that little while. Lying awake in the dark, the irony still singing, "You. You bring me to my knees in spite of all these lies that I would just love to believe..." The words haunting me.

I wanted to be angry at you. Look at what you had done to me. Look at who I had become. Mad at you for turning me into the girl who sits and waits and watches the phone and looks through the peephole and what the fuck? repeatedly allows herself to be hurt and sad and miserable and chalks it up to 'worth it' just to be with you.

Angry at you for being someone I thought I could trust and open up to, for saying those things - those things you just don't say to a girl unless you mean them - and then disappearing. Furious at you for making me feel so worthwhile and then so worthless - like everything and nothing - in such a short period of time.

But the truth is, I'm just mad at me for loving you, who couldn't love me.  

Surprisingly accurate Halloween costumes

Don't let the costumes fool you. They're very scary children.

True story: After L put on his Joker costume I had to chastise him for misbehaving. Defiantly and straight-faced he peeped at me through his mask and replied, "Why sooo serioussss?"

Yep.

Happy Halloween, tricks. ;)

Do one thing every day... for 30 days challenge

If it's the thought that counts then I owe quite a few people apologies and others owe me restraining orders. I'm also in great shape on account of how often I 'think' about going back to yoga, will have a book published any day now based on the words swimming in my head and should have millions - if not billions - in my bank account with all my brilliant ideas come-to-fruition. (I should check my balances.)

The difficulty is in the discipline; going from thinking about the things I know I can do to actually doing them. There's certainly plenty of motivation: Yoga = amazing body? Yes, please. Published memoir = bucket list item complete? Huge sense of accomplishment. And so on. But when comes to focusing my efforts on making these things happen? Well, I'm the queen of imagining the happy ending without even beginning with Once Upon A Time...

So I'm challenging myself. Actually, Eleanor Roosevelt is challenging me to "Do one thing every day that scares you." For 30 days I'm going to see what happens when I bully myself into bravery and document the details to see what happens when I stop being imaginative and start making life happen.

Since 30 days has November, there is no better timing to take life by the balls. I'm pretty sure that's what Eleanor meant.

And you? What are you waiting for? I'm challenging you to do the same.

Ready. Set. Go.

Which is the X and which is the O?

Sometimes, when life hands you problems you just can't solve on your own, it's best you lean on your friends (where friends = Facebook and Twitter) to help you out.

This is a true story. Names have been censored to protect the innocent.

[click to enlarge image]

In the end, we all realized it doesn't matter whether the X = hug or kiss as long as Avitable is happy.

But really, what do you think? Which is the X and which the O? Yahoo, Wikipedia and Urban Dictionary couldn't agree. Bring it, Internet.

Knowing when to say 'when'

Knowing when to say 'when' even when you don't want to... This used to be solid advice at the bar. You know: knowing when you've had enough - too much - stopping yourself before you went from happy to stupid to -worse- sad.

Funny thing: that same logic applies to other areas in life, none more relevant than relationships. Crazy how you can take that first initial sip and god! it tastes so. damn. good. and while you promised yourself the last time you would only sip 'the next time' suddenly you find yourself chugging, bellied up to the bar; a thirst for happiness that you know - in that small, logical part of your brain - cannot be quenched by this particular drink.

But by now, you're no longer logical. Logic was lost long ago. You're flat out drunk on the idea of This Time and god, the idea of What If tastes so. damn. good. and before you know it that happy little blissful buzz gets out of hand and you can no longer say 'when' even when the signs of Nothing Good are rapidly approaching.

No, there you sit, continuing to order more glasses of Trouble, watching in slow motion, fully aware in your love sick drunken haze that this is going to end horribly and yet you continue to go with it. Why love, lust, drunken optimism and foolish romanticism impairs our ability to stop ourselves from repeating the same mistakes, who knows. Perhaps the What If's are just too tempting.

Unfortunately the bar tab eventually arrives and it isn't cheap. You pay dearly for your indiscretions and overindulgences. And as if that weren't enough, the hangover that follows is an asshole of a reminder of You Knew Better.

You would think we would learn to say 'when' the next time we start to relinquish that control; the moment we see trouble coming our way. But damn, there's just something about having another shot that is so intoxicating.

Keeping score

Oh boys. Silly, silly boys. You and your scoring system when it comes to "the ladies."

Check her out - with that ass? She's a solid 9.

-or-

Daaaamn. With those teeth? A 3. Ouch.

You're so funny. Not because your little scoring system lacks class and substance but because you dumbasses fail to notice that us 'ladies' have a little scoring system of our own and you would probably be surprised to see where you (don't) rank.

Sure, we like a nice set of teeth. A muscular body. Gorgeous eyes? Yes please. These will all give you a point or two.

But...

Turn on the sense of humor,

show us your... intelligence,

prove you have a plan for yourself,

call "just because,"

let go of your pride,

be willing to make a fool of yourself on the dance floor,

resurrect chivalry,

surprise us with flowers when we're not the buy-me-flowers-kind-of-girl,

grab ahold of our hand in public,

show up unexpectedly,

give us our space,

keep our beer in your fridge,

know what you want,

ask when you aren't sure what we want,

make us a mixed CD,

compliment us when you don't think we can hear you,

pull us into the nook in the middle of the night without asking for more,

take us into the bedroom without saying a word,

make us feel like the only girl in the room when there are a hundred others,

let us catch you staring at us,

be cool with our friends and include us with yours,

give us a nickname that makes you blush,

make us feel sexy when we feel frumpy

...and you'll never be anything less than an 11 on our scale of 1-10.

Cockfighting for kids

Randomly, as conversations frequently happen with my boys, my 6 year old dropped an interesting oh-by-the-way-this-happened-at-school-two-days-ago bomb on the way to soccer Saturday morning.

"My friend was getting beat up by this kid and I asked him if he was getting hurt and he said yes and I said what does the kid look like and I went and found the kid."

I turned down the radio the rest of the way.

Shit.

All three of my boys are trained in MMA (Mixed Martial Arts) a full three years; the six year old a first degree green belt. He's also Mr. Peacekeeper of the bunch but when he spars? I hold my breath. The kid is a powerhouse. 

"You went and found him? Then what?"

"I found him and his friends hiding behind a wall. They started punching me."

I was clutching the steering wheel, scared to ask what happened next. We have made it very clear to the boys that they are not allowed to use their MMA training unless they need to defend themselves and - well - here we are, a situation where he had every right to defend himself.

"I blocked the punches."

"Did you punch them back?"

"No. Just used my MMA blocks."

Relief.

"So you didn't have to punch anyone?"

"Nah. Their punches weren't very good so I just blocked them until they got tired and then I got a teacher."

I sat back in my seat. I was impressed. At six years old, he had a) stuck up for someone getting hurt, b) utilized his MMA skills while maintaining the right amount of composure and restraint and c) made sure a teacher took control from there.

This is where I make my case for MMA. When I mention my boys (ages 5, 6 and 8) are MMA trained as well as nationally recognized and awarded, I hear everything from "Geez, what is that? Cockfighting for kids?" to "Oh you're raising little fighters, huh?"

No, actually.

I'm raising boys. Boys who participate, play and train in a number of sports - soccer, baseball, basketball and yes, MMA. Boys who are strictly disciplined at home and whose discipline continues at the MMA studio. Who are not allowed to abuse their training in any way. If they do use their skills in a way they shouldn't, they won't just answer to school officials and us as parents but to their sifus and senseis. They will lose their ranks and belts. They are taught respect and self control before they learn to throw a single punch and they're taught that throwing that punch is only done when it's necessary.

And sometimes, it is necessary.

My oldest spent three years being bullied to the point of complete misery and anxiety at his last school. So much so that it ended in both police and school board involvement at the end of last year and us moving schools. This, mind you, with the school having a supposed "zero tolerance" bullying stance.

Yet he never threw a single punch. He never defended himself.

I'll be honest. I wish he had. When your kid cries himself to sleep at night because the kids won't leave him alone and the school officials whose job it is to keep him safe refuse to, don't tell me you wouldn't want your son to fight back too.

This is the irony of the schools' no-bullying campaigns. Even when the schools enforce and provide consequences to the kids who are bullying (which his school didn't), rarely do they go beyond the write-ups and suspensions to actually get to the root of the problem and resolve why the event(s) even happened in the first place.

Maybe this is why the bullying never ends? Why it's being called an epidemic?

The schools have kids - even at the Kindergarten level - so scared about coming face-to-face with the principal over an altercation of any kind with another student that kids will let other kids bully them until they can't take it anymore.

If they tell on the kid? They're told not to be a tattletale.

If they stick up for themselves? They're given the same exact punishment as the kid who threw the first punch.

And the moment the bully's friends find out their buddy got "ratted out" well, forget it.

Don't get me started on the parents who refuse to believe their precious child could have ever done such a thing.

We will never encourage our kids to fight. Ever. But we will always make sure they know that they have the right to defend themselves if they have to. Because in all the anti-bullying campaigning, the school's are failing to teach our kids that they do not deserve to be pushed over, punched, jabbed, tripped, bitten, spit on and harassed by anyone. And if the schools won't remind my boys that they deserve to be treated better than that by other human beings, I will.

In the Cosmos

 

Go ahead and belly laugh but I'm just being real: I subscribed - not bought an issue, but full-on subscribed - to Cosmopolitan magazine.

In my defense, dearest people of the Internet, I honestly believed it would bring me good blog fodder. I mean a "21 Naughty Sex Tips" article? Really, Cosmo? How many times have you printed that in some version or another over the past decade?

I might have started off with a bit of a cynical attitude. I'll give you that.

But, ok, here's the deal. Here's where I get honest at the expense of you pointing your finger and laughing in. my. face. until your ribs hurt.  Every single month? I find at least a few - if not several - articles, tips, tidbits, WHATHAVEYOU that make me go "Ohhhh."

Oh.

Oh.

Ohhhhhh.

*epiphany*

You would think at the ripe old age of 30 I should know whatever there is to know about a) men, b) relationships, c) make-up and d) sex but apparently shit changes and trends and technology and OH MY GOD I now thumb through Cosmo's pages nodding along, eyes wide open, jaw sometimes dropped, a few particular pages dogeared like I were 14 years old hiding in my bedroom trying to learn about things, mom, I didn't care to learn about at 14 years old I SWEAR TO GOD.

I mean, until my recent Cosmo binge, I for one didn't know "what men want most at 9 pm" but thankyouverymuch June Cosmo for making me blush.

*sets alarm clock*

*looks around for a man at 9 pm*

*hits snooze*

Aww, well.

The September issue promised to let me know what my "vajayjay" was "dying to tell (me)." And sure enough, well. *nods in appreciation*

Protips: Buy yogurt, pee after sex, give your vibrator a bath and don't wear jeans so tight. YOU'RE SO WELCOME.

I've also learned how to not just hide but *erase* dark undereye circles, shrink my inner thighs in 6 minutes per day! (don't look, I haven't actually tried that yet) and read - READ - that *cough* vibrators have come alooooong way technologically speaking. *cough*

Laugh all you want but holy hell, I am now a wealth of information. Do I have any use for it? Not so much. But if knowing is half the battle... well... dammit, bring on the war.

Being somebody else

Today, I don't want to me. I want to be somebody else.

Just for today.

(OK, fine. Maybe there are some other days when this idea appeals too.)

But especially today.

If you could be somebody else - past or present - just for a day, who would you be? Why?

Risky business down South

Fancy this: I took a little risk and bought an airplane ticket across the country to chase a job I won't like, I'll love. Did I get it? I don't know. Perhaps it was crazy on my part. Maybe I was a bit tenacious. But I'm not sorry. How does the quote go? "The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing, is nothing and becomes nothing." I'm still holding out hope. I'm trying on this whole 'have faith' thing for size.

And you know what? In my adventures from here to there and everywhere in between, I had an amazing time. I got to see my family, meet new friends, bar hop in Savannah (a city I've always wanted to go to), see Hilton Head Island and manage to not ever find the ocean (I know, I know), crash a tweet-up and turn up in the local newspaper the next day, eat an entire pound of crab while grown men watched in astonishment, drink beer out of a tube served by pretty women in kilts, learn the tomahawk motion at a Braves game... and I did every bit of it with my sister RV who made it all the more fun.

My trip down South in three and a half minutes: