My sagging knees aren't a crisis, and other comforting thoughts

We live up the road from the beach. It's about 15 minutes from our back door to the sand. A straight shot.

A few weeks ago we loaded up the car and headed off. At the end of our street, instead of turning right and heading down the hill, Sam turned left.

"Maybe he is avoiding the traffic." I thought to myself. "Or maybe he's going to swing by Fukushima's for some chow fun."

As he came to the next intersection he slowed the car, and then hesitated. "Which way do I go?" he asked, turning to me. "Are you kidding?" I asked as I fiddled with the radio.

Silence.

I looked up, annoyed. He started driving again, in the opposite direction of the beach. My annoyance switched to alarm. "Where are you going?" I asked. "What are you doing?" He stopped again, then swung the car to the left and headed in a different direction. He was confused. Disoriented. I told him to pull over.

"No, I'm fine," he protested. "I just got confused about which beach we were going to." We drove in silence for a few moments, and then he asked, hesitantly "Does the beach have just one entrance? Or is there a second one?"

And that was the moment when I knew that something was seriously wrong. We have driven by this beach hundreds (thousands?) of times. We live on an island, on the side of a mountain. You can see ocean from every major roadway. The beach is not hard to find. First of all, it is downhill from where ever you are. So, that's pretty easy to figure out.

I worried that it might be something else besides the Lyme Disease. Maybe a side effect of the medication? Maybe wholly unrelated to illness or treatment? Oh god, what if he was starting to lose it....like, for real. Is this what it's like to get older? I was worried about the skin over my knees starting to sag - this was putting that in perspective. Which is to say, still an urgent problem, but definitely not as serious as my husband losing his mind.

The next morning I called his doctor. The nurse refused to put me through to him. I talked very slowly and clearly.

"I need to talk to the doctor. I don't care about HIPPA laws, he doesn't have to say a word, he just has to listen. My husband could not find THE BEACH this weekend. Couldn't remember how to get there from our house. Wouldn't you find that alarming if it was your husband? The doctor diagnosed my husband with an illness, but something is very, very wrong. It's more serious than we thought, maybe. I need to tell him that."

"Well, if you are having a medical emergency, you should call 911 an-"

"No, this is not an emergency. I mean, it could be, but my husband is at work right now. I am not calling 911. I need to talk to the doctor."

"I'll give him the message."

"Thank you. I really appreciate it."

An hour later the doctor called me back, then talked to Sam, extended his antibiotic prescription and ordered an MRI of Sam's brain. The MRI was clear, but they added yet another week of antibiotics just to be safe, and referred Sam to a specialist for follow up.

We have learned over the past month that Lyme disease is more than aches and pains and rashes.
It can affect every single cell in your body. One of Sam's first symptoms was clumsiness - he was dropping things and falling over his own feet - more than usual, that is. And that might continue for a while - today the specialist reassured Sam that the disease, while still in his body, is dead. That now all we can do is wait for it to flush out. Sam may feel the residual effects for months. He may be more easily fatigued. He may stumble from time to time, or feel achier than usual. But he's going to be fine.

I would be relieved, except I knew that already: Sam drove to the beach last week without prompting.
Well, you know, without more prompting than usual. He may be better, but I'm still an asshole.

Every little thing is going to be all right. Lyme Disease 0, My Marriage 15

It's late. I am finally, after several sleepless nights, almost feeling......tired. Maybe.

Just wanted to update the blog to say that the MRI was negative - which is actually a big positive. No signs of tumors, and no lesions or any other visible damage from the Lyme disease.

The antibiotic prescription has been extended for an extra week just to make sure they really zap it.

And tomorrow we celebrate 15 years of wedded bliss. Ups and downs, but mostly ups to be sure.

Today I walked around the mall waiting for Sam to let me know the test was done. I wore his wedding ring on my thumb. He had handed it to me when I got out of the car. I stood there, frozen and confused for a moment as his ring rolled around in my palm. It was all I could do not to cry. He looked at me strangely. "They said no jewelry or metal of any kind in the MRI suite."

Oh, right. The bad stuff is over. He'll be back in a little while. It's just a quick test. I forgot, everything is going to be all right. I know, because he has told me so over and over again the last few weeks - reassuring me even in the face of uncertainty and illness and conflicting information. Even as they were sticking a needle in his spine. "It doesn't even hurt!" he insisted. "I can't feel a thing!"

Tonight I am grateful for finding a person so wonderful that - when he became ill, and many other times before and since - I am reminded how lucky I truly am. A kind and gentle soul, a sweet and generous man, a loving and devoted husband, and a fun and firm father figure for our kids.

How lucky am I, right?

Yeah, pretty lucky. It's a good life, and I'm glad he's sticking around to share it.

Thought he was being an asshole, but it turned out he had Lyme disease. So really, I'm the asshole.

The last thing I wrote may have alluded to some asshole behavior I might have been experiencing. Little did I know that the asshole behavior was all my own.

Typical.

However, I am almost always willing to accept responsibility for my own behavior. And so, here is my mea culpa to the blogosphere.

For about 3 weeks, I thought my marriage was over. Does that sound dramatic? It should, because I was sick about it. My husband had become another person, seemingly over night. And I did not like this new guy. It was like every article in my mother's Redbook that I had ever read as a child about "When Your Spouse is a Stranger".

Sam and I celebrate our 15th anniversary this week, and because of all of the life experiences I have had, and all of the divorces and parting of ways that I have witnessed, I figured it was just a matter of time before something happened to fuck up our happy marriage. And I was ready to fight that "something" - for him and for our family. Though I admit, I thought that "something" would involve a vagina (mine or someone else's) not a deer tick.

Sam and I get along really well. We complement each other, we share a living space harmoniously, and we rarely disagree in matters of parenting. He deals with my crazy, and I deal with everything else. So when Sam started acting really strangely, I paid attention. I paid attention so closely that I (possibly) became a total bitch. He would do something weird or annoying, and my response was to freak out. Remarkably, he kept doing weirder stuff, and my freak outs elevated to a high pitched "WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM, MAN?" It was mostly a question of judgement: saying or doing the wrong thing, being incredibly inconsiderate or acting like a total bonehead. Sometimes he was downright mean. He fell down a few times while working on the house, smacked himself in the face with a pair of pliers......weird stuff that told me he was distracted. But why? I didn't even know what to ask him. Was he having an affair? Worried about work stuff? Was it Alzheimer's? Cancer? My mind was racing, and I spent hours running through a long list of possibilities. There were no tears, no accusations, just actions and reactions that continued and accelerated and grew until, well, all I can say is boy howdy, he was not my favorite for a while there. And then one night, I slept on the couch. I have voluntarily slept on the couch maybe three times in our entire marriage, and it was because one of us was contagious. So sleeping on the couch was a huge deal. A red flag that signaled perilous times ahead.

The night that I slept on the couch, he came out early in the morning to apologize - for his night sweats.

Night sweats? That was weird. I had slept on the couch because I thought he was an asshole, not because he was sweaty. After 15 years, I'm used to the sweaty. The man is like a furnace, and I went through menopause a few years ago, which is a terrible combination when you live in Hawaii. So let me assure you it takes a lot more than night sweats to get me to sleep somewhere other than my bed.

The next night, it happened again. I went out with friends to avoid an uncomfortable evening of spending time with someone I thought was being an idiot. When I got home, he was passed out in our bed, and I could see the ring of sweat surrounding his body on the clean sheets. Rather than being angry, for the first time in several weeks I had a rational, measured reaction. I woke him up, stripped the bed and remade it, laid down a towel, and got him a dry quilt. He said he didn't feel well.

And then I started to really worry. My husband was acting weird, extremely weird, and now he was sweating like crazy. Was it guilt? Maybe he really was having an affair. But no, he's just not that kind of guy. Was it hormonal? I spent some time online that night, trying to figure out if men actually went through a physical menopause, or just used it as an excuse to buy dumb expensive cars. (Still to be determined.)

The next night, he was outside grilling dinner and being weird - which was his new normal by now, and I heard Lucy say "Daddy, what did you do to your leg?"

I stuck my head out the door. He looked down and said "Holy shit! I have no idea!" I leaned out further to get a look. There was a large - maybe 5 inches across - dark red blotch on his leg. It looked like a bruise, or a burn. At least, it would look like that to someone who isn't from Connecticut, home of Lyme, CT and the deer ticks that can ruin your life.

"Sam," I said calmly, "you have Lyme disease. You need to go to the clinic."

12 hours later, after 10 vials of blood and a spinal tap, we were home with a bottle of antibiotics and a followup appointment to create a treatment plan. My hunch was correct, and we were lucky to get a diagnosis so quickly. There is no Lyme Disease in Hawaii, you have to catch it somewhere else - in this case probably during our amazing summer vacation in Connecticut.

Silly me, I thought the worst thing we had to worry about was catching our flight home.

So now we know. And the antibiotics are working. No one is sleeping on the couch, and I told him that while I was sorry he was sick, I was glad there was a reason we weren't getting along, because I can't imagine life without him, even when one of us is a hot mess (literally). He has almost finished his course of antibiotics, and has an MRI scheduled to try to pinpoint the cause of his confusion and general poor decision making lately. I don't know if we can blame Lyme Disease for everything, but I'm sure going to try.

Happy Anniversary to us. Taking "In sickness and in health" to a whole new place since 1998. Love and marriage is no joke.

I'm not putting that on a t shirt you moron

Since the beginning of time, my husband has played in bands with stupid names. Until recently, most of the lead singers have had control issues, the drummers were all insane, and the gigs were in the shittiest bars in town. But the worst part of it all is that the names of these bands have been absolutely terrible.

I swear to you. Every time he joined a new band and told me the band name, my eyes would involuntarily roll into the back of my head. But, still I was supportive. I lugged cords and sat through soundchecks, spent Sundays hanging around music stores while he bought new and better equipment that we couldn't always afford, and listened to hours upon hours of the same songs, played over and over again ad nauseum.
I didn't mind. While the band names were terrible, the music has always been very, very good. My husband is a very talented bass player, and he has always played with other equally talented musicians. I have maintained a good attitude about the entire thing, and encouraged him to play whenever the opportunity arose.

Lately, he has been playing with a new group of guys - and by "playing" I mean hanging out at one of the guy's houses in a soundproof room on Friday nights, drinking tequila (Sam) and wine coolers (don't ask). They have had a few singers cycle through, but apparently it was never a good fit - and by "fit" I assume these potential singers talked shit about the wine coolers. My point is, the "band" he's in now is a very casual thing. No gigs. No singer. No set list. No band name. Just some guys, playing music.

Until last week.

Last week, one of Sam's current band mates - who also happens to be his co-worker - decided to throw a party, basically so that they could play in front of an audience. And an email was circulated at work promoting the event, and the band. Sam printed out the email and brought it home, leaving it out for me to look at after the kids were in bed.

You can imagine my surprise when I read the email and saw that the guys had come up with a name for their shenanigans.

Somehow, 3 middle-aged men with careers and families sat down and decided that their band name was going to be "Stinkfinger". And they apparently shared this little nugget with their co-workers, who promptly circulated an email via the company email system announcing the band name and encouraging everyone at work to come see them play. Which means that the company that my husband works for now believes that he is a member of a band called "Stinkfinger".

Stinkfinger.

That's it. That's what they came up with. Stinkfinger.

So I set the email back down on the kitchen counter and walked purposefully to the bedroom where he lay in bed reading a copy of Rolling Stone and I said "Are you out of your mind?"

"What?"

"STINKFINGER? You named your band STINKFINGER? Stinkfinger. Really. That's just great. And now your whole office thinks that is the name of the band. They believe that you are in a band called Stinkfinger."

"No, no.....we're just kidding."

"ITS IN THE EMAIL."

"Yeah, I know bu-"

"THE EMAIL WAS SENT TO YOUR BOSS."

"I'm not sur-"

"Let me explain something to you, SAM. If I am in public - hell, if I am in my own BACKYARD and you guys are introduced as 'Stinkfinger' I am getting up and taking the kids and leaving. I am not going to sit there and smile like an idiot and point you out and say 'My husband is Stinkfinger's bass player.' I am not wearing a tshirt that says STINKFINGER across the front of it. I will not do it."
\
"Don't worry, that won't happen, it's just a joke."

"It's not funny."

"It's kind of funny."

"No. See, it's NOT. It's not fucking funny."

"Okay, I understand. You will never hear that name again."

So we go to the party, and they start playing, and there is no mention of anything at all relating to fingers - stinky or otherwise. I wandered inside to grab a beer and sat down on the couch for a minute to let Dude wriggle around and one of the guests came over to admire him.

"So," she said as she tickled Dude's toes. "How'd they come up with the name Stinkfinger?"

The guitars will be listed on Craigslist shortly. I'm keeping the extension cords, but if you're in the market for a sweet amp, let me know.

Nappy McNapper

I'm a napper. Oh, the naps I have enjoyed over the years.

I didn't used to nap, but now that I work at night and get up early in the morning with the kids, napping has become a critically important part of my day. So important that I will fight for my right to nap. People talk about napping as a recreational activity. Something that's nice to do. Something that they enjoy when they have the chance. A luxury few can afford. And I get that - I do. But with a cumulative 3 or 4 hours a sleep a night, napping is not optional for me. It is a survival technique. Because I would not be able to drive to or from work safely if I didn't get some sort of rest, at some point prior to my shift.
 
My point is......I get up early, I work late, and I have insomnia. If I don't get some sleep during the day I Lose My Shit. I am not fooling around. I am VERY SERIOUS. And my husband can tell you just how serious - as soon as he gets his hearing back and I untie him from the doghouse he is residing in this evening. Because that man Fucked With My Nap.

Every week, it feels like we have the same conversation. I ask what jobs he has lined up for the weekend, we discuss the other plans we have made, and my work schedule, and we make a plan. And because I work Saturday night, I need to get some sleep at some point on Saturday afternoon. Which means he needs to be here, or take the kids with him wherever he goes. Period. End of story. Full stop.

And this Saturday was no exception. We had commitments in the morning, and the afternoon was already blocked off for MY NAP. We had a very full day planned, so he was going to do his work on Sunday - we talked about it several times during the morning, in fact. Which is why at 2:30pm, I was surprised to hear that he was leaving to go do some work, without the kids. Because, of course, that would make it nearly impossible for me to sleep, between making snacks and breaking up fights and repeatedly asking that the television volume be turned down. I was confused. But maybe that was just the extreme fatigue, coupled with a debilitating hangover. More on THAT later.

So he left, and I tried to sleep, but that went about as well as I expected, which is to say not well AT ALL. Not well at all.

Which is why tonight, after The Most Boring Shift Ever, I'm simultaneously exhausted and wired from being So Damn Tired for so long. I am on this crazy second wind (third wind? Fourth?) that has left me feeling sort of twitchy and cold. All I want to do is sleep, but my mind is racing and I drank a cup of coffee during work to keep myself awake and fuuuuuuuuck I am miserable. And twitchy. Did I mention twitchy?

My version is better

This weekend was Sami's birthday. His 41st birthday. He is north of 40. He is old.


I am married to an old guy.
How did this happen?

Last night at dinner, I was telling the tale of how, exactly, it happened. That we happened to meet. And fall in love. And get married 11 years ago. Someone asked how old I was when we got married, and I started to tell the story, and Sami picked it up and ran with it....in the far opposite direction of what actually happened. Turns out, Sami's version is TOTALLY DIFFERENT FROM MINE. (Which is to say, wildly inaccurate.) While I didn't realize the story needed to be clarified in his mind, clearly it does.

You know, I have heard that as people age, the memory is the first to go. They were totally not kidding.

Here, for the record, is how we ended up married.

We had known each other for a year or so. I had just broken up with a long-term boyfriend, who had informed me that he was not interested in marrying me. Ever. (Yeah, that sucked, but we were not right for each other because I was depressed and he was an asshole. Obviously. I'm not bitter. And he really was acting like an asshole.)

So anyway, one night in a bar near Fenway park, my buddy Sami told me he "didn't want to be my friend". Actually, he shouted it. Twice. It was loud in there, and I thought I had misunderstood him the first time. But when he repeated himself, and I was certain that he had indeed said that to my face, I basically said "Well, fuck you - I don't want to be YOUR friend either."

He hastened to clarify. He didn't want to be "just friends". Girls always thought of him as a buddy, someone they could confide in. A sidekick. The ultimate wingman. Not a potential date. He was sweet and shy and soft-spoken, and not a lean mean dating machine (as evidenced by what I guess was his....what? His pickup line? "I don't want to be your friend" is how he was picking up chicks. Which would explain why he was still single at the time, I'd wager).

So after he clarified, I pulled him over to the side where the music was slightly lower, and the lights slightly brighter, so he could see my face.
"You told me you never wanted to get married."
"I don't."
"Or have kids."
"I don't."
"Well, I DO. I really do. And you KNOW that. I just went thought this with The Asshole. I don't want to try to change you, or hope you'll come around eventually, or try to convince you to go along with what I want. I don't want to date you and then get sad because you don't want to marry me. I don't want to get pregnant accidentally and have you think I "trapped you". I don't want to miss out on my chance to have a family, because I was dating someone who didn't ever want those things. I don't ever want to have the conversation where you say "I told you from the beginning I didn't want to get married and have kids." I am not that girl. I definitely want to get married and have kids, and dating someone, or even just sleeping with someone, who doesn't want that is a waste of my time. And yours."

He was quiet. 'Well, maybe I do want those things."

"No, you don't. You just told me you don't."

As I put my coat on, I told him I was not interested in "friends with benefits" but thanks anyway. It was all very clear in my head. I was not going to date casually. I was going to take some time, and get my life together, and make a plan for my future...and just hope to god that eventually someone would want to share it with me. Walking out the door, I felt good about having been so clear and honest.

And then I realized that I had been so clear, and so honest, because I really cared about that guy in that bar. The one who didn't want to be my friend. By the time I got home, I was crying. I was worried that I had just lost a friend by being so blunt. I was afraid I had hurt his feelings. He was so NICE and had probably taken a long time to work up the nerve to awkwardly tell me how he felt, and I had just shot him down.

I felt like a total asshole.

He called me at work 2 days later.

"I have something I need to tell you."

"What?"

"I want to tell you in person."

"Tell me what?"
 
Briefly on the phone, and then in more detail in the car later on, he told me that he had been thinking a lot about what I had said. That he had talked to his father. ("YOU WHAT ?! You talked to your FATHER ?! About what ?! What did you tell him ? Jesus, Sami. Your FATHER ?!") That he had taken long walks on the beach, alone, and thought long and hard. And decided that he actually did want to get married, and have kids. With me.
 
I was suspicious. Was this just some sort of scheme to get in my pants? I have heard guys come up with some pretty crazy shit to get laid. But he was, in fact, quite serious. And we got married a few months later. And by the time we celebrated our second anniversary, I was massively pregnant. And now, here we are. Very definitely married. Very definitely with kids. And, still and always, friends.

The yard sale lasted for 1/2 a bloody mary

Sunday was our Big Yard Sale. It was raining.

I got everything up in the screened-in porch. It was crowded - but I knew that I just needed a few minutes to "merchandise" everything, and I'd be all set.

My girlfriend showed up with her 3 kids, and Easter Basket fillings - because we have a small side business putting together party favors, gift baskets, and gift bags for kids and we hoped to sell some Easter Baskets at the sale. The basket stuff didn't fit on the screen porch, so I piled it outside. I'd deal with that later.

Our neighbor arrived up with a bloody mary for me. Heaven. Big slug of tomato goodness and I was ready to get organized. I turned to go into the screen porch and deal with the piles of yard sale stuff. Then our neighbor's wife (another girlfriend of mine) and daughter came up the stairs. The deck was now very crowded. 5 kids were inside the house shrieking. The dog was running up and down the porch stairs. My girlfriends and I were sitting on the steps talking. My neighbor was reading to his daughter. Piles of crap are jammed into the screen porch, and the outside deck is littered with boxes and bags of uncertain origin and contents. I am ignoring all of it.

2 customers walk up the stairs. Yard sale regulars. I recognize them right away, and tell them I'm not ready yet, hoping they will leave. The dog sticks his nose in their butts. They literally run back down the stairs and jump in their car. Coincidentally, the man is the same one who took a dump in my bathroom during the last yard sale. (I am not even joking. It was the same weird guy with the frizzy hair and the too-short pants, with the strange girlfriend.) If there is anyone that deserved to have my dog's wet nose jammed up his ass at 8am, it was this clown.

More bloody mary is consumed. I am still not organizing the crap in the screen porch.

Sami is trying to put out signs, and is attaching them to cars that don't belong to us. No, I don't know why. Yes, I agree, it doesn't make ANY sense. I ask him to go put signs out on the main road. He leaves in the truck, with plywood signs and a hammer.

More customers arrive, and in short order buy almost all the good stuff.
For $6.00.

My girlfriend is browsing - and spends another $5. Now anything worthwhile is gone. We're left with some old clothes, a TV, and a bunch of tote bags and toys.

Sami comes back. He parks the car and gets out. I am now a teensy bit woozy from the bloody mary. I tell him we have to close up shop, that I have sold all the good stuff and need a nap.

He asks if I am serious, and the look in my eyes (and maybe the slight swaying from side to side and slurred voice) assure him that I am, indeed, very serious about ending this yard sale. He gets in the car to go get the signs from the road.

I finish my bloody mary.

Everyone else leaves.

We pack up the back of the car with our crap to donate to the charity store, and make a pot of coffee. Fun times.

The end.

Guys who leave

I was going to title this "men who leave" - but if they leave, I think they leave their manliness behind - balled up and rejected, left for someone else to pick up after them. Because really, that is why they leave...they just want to have someone picking up after them all the time. They don't want to do the work - the real work - that comes with the commitment. To a partner. To a child. To a home. To all of the messy complicatons of a life shared.

The other day, an old dear friend completed one of those memes on Facebook, this one was about her firsts.

One of the questions was "who's wedding was the first one you were in" or something like that. Her answer was: mine. (Mine, as in Daffodil's, to be clear)

Not mine and my ex's. Just mine. I got married alone, to myself. He has been erased from the equation, by having left our marriage. He starts fresh, I clean up and carry the history around with me forever. I have had to show my divorce papers at several times during my subsequent life, not just at my remarriage. At the adoption of my child. For tax purposes. To register a car. I still get his mail at my address, and I have moved 10, maybe 12 times since the divorce. Once I have recovered from the shock of seeing that name attached to my address - the home I share with my husband who swears he will never leave - I mark the envelope "return to sender" and stick it back in the box. Erase it from my mind, like he erased himself from my life.

Around the time that I remarried, my parents divorced. It was long, drawn out, and ugly for the pain it caused. For it's wrongness. It was rife with late-night calls, early morning departures, mail with no return address. Christmas was forever changed because it all seemed to spiral out of control beginning one cold Christmas morning - and the final nail was hammered in exactly one year later. My father was able to wreak havoc, to throw lives into chaos, create turmoil the likes of which I still cannot comprehend. And he just walked away. Left it for someone else to clean up and tie in a pretty bow and stick under the Christmas tree.

I see other couples going through tough times, and I wonder if the challenges will bring them closer together, or tear them apart. If the guys will walk away. Not men, not boys - just guys. Guys who know better, but choose to leave it all behind. It's too hard. It demands to much. It's too hard to keep clean and shiny and new.

My marriage isn't shiny and new. It's dented and tarnished and maybe a little rusty - but it's strong. It has weathered the abuse we (mostly I) have heaped on it. We were discussing marriage last night, and our reaction to friends who are struggling right now to hold their's together. My husband said to me "I plan to live here, with you, until you throw me out." We laughed, because we could. Because it was funny. Because neither one of us has threatened to leave. We have had conversations about splitting up - but those conversations were brief and tear-stained. No one is going anywhere. No one wants to leave. Leaving is not an option. We may disagree many times about many things, but on this topic, we are in agreement.

Coming soon: Women are Crazy Bitches

And if you read this post and thought to yourself "How dare she, my life is not her blog fodder", well, I got a few things to say.

1. Get over yourself, it's not about you. Trust me, many men are making stupid decisions these days. But the fact that you see yourself and your situation in this post should be a huge CALL OUT to shape up and grow a pair.

2. On the other hand.....Yes, everything I witness and hear about IS blog fodder. That's how it works. Too bad, so sad.

Bye Bye Daddy

Saturday, my husband got on a plane and flew back to Hawaii. He left me here with both kids, to wait for the looming arrival of my niece. He is having a lovely time, in the warm sunshine. Bastard.

After leaving Daddy at the airport, we had to sing several rounds of "Bestest in the Barn" to cheer ourselves up. Then Mommy needed some Dunkin Donuts. Then we drove to my mother's house, where I dropped off the kids and left straightaway for the packie (liquor store) and TJ Maxx, to further comfort myself.

Then we had pizza with my extended family, which was wonderful, and we went to lend our moral support to my cousin, who is 4 months pregnant and needed to buy larger bras. We come from a family that is, shall we say, well-endowed in that department. So the idea that they would get BIGGER is both alarming and expensive.

After looking at all sorts of interesting undergarments with my aunt - who kept asking why in God's Name anyone would need something like THAT, while holding up some crotchless panties or something - I went back to my parents and got the kids ready for bed - sort of. Then, I went to Mystic to kick off a bar-crawl of epic proportions.

We started at AZU. We moved to Daniel Packer. We made a quick stop at Voodoo, and ended up staying a while. Then we stopped into 41, which has a new name (Ancient Mariner ?) and after a quick drink, proceeded over to Johns - where we broke a glass and played someone else's game of pool. We left pretty quickly, because John's is not the sort of place that responds well to that sort of stuff - for good reason. It is where the serious drinkers hang out. Don't fuck around in there - they will cut you off and throw you out.

So, chastened, we headed back to DPI for last call. I think we stopped somewhere else too, but I honestly can't remember much. he menu went something like this:
Hot Buttered Rum
Jack and Coke
Patron
Jack and Coke
Water
Jack and Coke
naptime.

Jack was really hard on me. I came home and fell over while I was taking off my pants. I was drunk for most of the following day. Every time I tried to bend over (and mothers NEVER have to bend over hardly EVER - HAH !) I would fall face first onto the ground. Very interesting experience. I went back to bed at about 10am, and woke up at 1pm feeling like I might die. My mother took me on a restorative trip to TJ Maxx where I dropped $150 in 45 minutes. (Totally worth it, by the way. I'll go over the list item by item later - with photos. You have to see it to believe it.)

The rest of Sunday was spent in a drunken haze. I managed to keep it together, and avoid puking - which I am VERY proud of, by the way.

So, now you are almost caught up on my adventures, and to sweeten the pot, here is the latest. My sister in law is having contractions every 3 minutes, and is dilating, albeit slowly. So it may well be baby day around here in the very near future. I'll keep you posted.

Sometimes it is hard to be thankful....

This is my next list - of things that could have been worse. I am thankful - and maybe a teeny bit pissed off.



1. I am thankful that Sami did not get pulled over with his EXPIRED DRIVERS LICENSE when he was driving, before the unfortunate discovery at Enterprise the other day.



2. I am thankful that Sami stopped Max from getting into the strangers car by accident at the truck stop. Long story, but it was just a random, weird thing......



3. I am thankful that we didn't get carjacked when I took a wrong turn and ended up in a very sketchy area of the Bronx. And I know sketchy areas, so trust me when I say this was SKETCHY.



4. I am thankful that while I was trying to explain to Sami how to work the iPod, I looked up in time to avoid a rear end collision



5. I am thankful that the only thing I left in the Cincinnati Airport was a bottle of Vitamin Water. Unless I just haven't discovered the missing items yet.........

The saga of Sami and his drivers license.

To properly explain this, I have to tell the story backwards.

A few years ago, we were going on a trip to the mainland. Sami informed me, a few days before we were leaving, that he had lost his drivers license. Crap. I told him to go to the DMV and get another one. He went, and tried, and came back with a state ID, but didn't have a new license for a reason I cannot recall now.

So we went on our trip. And he didn't have his drivers license, so I had to rent and drive the car all by myself. I was pissed.

And then, finally, I asked him to drive the car one day, because I was really tired, and wanted a break. He explained that actually he couldn't drive, because he had lost his license.
My reply was "Whatever, give them your name if you get pulled over - they can look it up."
He got quiet.
"What, jesus, I just want a break from driving !"
"Well....see."
"WHAT, dude, just drive the car. Christ !"
"Well, I lost my driver's license for speeding. Actually."

(long pause)

"WHAT?!?!?!"

"Um, yeah, I got a speeding ticket and I lost my license."

"OK, listen here. I have two things to say to you. First, you did not "lose" your license. Someone fucking took it away from you. Second, you do NOT lose your license for ONE FUCKING TICKET. You just don't."

"Well, I was going pretty fast."

So needless to say, it did not bode well for the rest of the vacation.

Fast forward to THIS trip. We get to the East Coast. All is good. Flights on time. Weather is fine. We go to the correct car rental agency (something that does not always happen). I go to the counter with our driver's licenses.

And the lovely woman tells me that actually, she cannot put Sami on as a driver.
Because his license is expired.

I turned around and gave him the finger out the window. He looked at me like "What ? What did I do ?"

Then we got in the car, and I drove for 6 hours straight, jetlagged and really REALLY pissed off. Every so often, he would offer to drive, like when I was nodding off on I-95. And every time, I would look over my shoulder and glare at him with a look that would peel the hair off a monkey.


You would think I would be used to this. Sami has had his driver's license taken away many a time (at least 3 times that I can remember). Because he drives very fast. You know, he's from Massachusetts, and they have a special name for Massachusetts drivers for a reason.

Yes indeedy, my husband is an honest to goodness, dyed in the wool Masshole.

So ANYWAY. When I met this man, he had no job (he was laid off) and no driver's license (lost it for multiple speeding violations). Hot, right ? Yeah, I thought so too. Married him RIGHT AWAY before someone else snapped him up !

So needless to say - I knew what I was getting myself into, so I should not be surprised - or angry.

Right ?

Sunshine and Roses

I would like to make an announcement.

Today, of his own volition, with nary a peep from me, my husband took all of our library books with him when he left for work this morning, and presumably has returned them to the library for me.

The fact that he missed a few that were next to my bed, or that he may have returned some books that actually belong to the SCHOOL library and not the public library....well, those are just pesky little details. They do not take away from the initiative shown.

Huzzah, old man.

Miss Pissy Pants

This post could be about me or my daughter, so I shall talk about us both. And I shall use the F word and probably the A word and the S word. I can almost guarantee I won't use the C word because I don't like that word. You've been warned.

Let's start with my daughter. My darling baby girl HATES to travel. She hates change. She hates the unfamiliar. It's a good thing she lives on a very small island in the middle of a verybig ocean. We don't go anywhere too often. Which suits her Just Fine. She likes to be at home, in her jammies, with her toys, and maybe a friend over to play. Doesn't like to leave the house under any circumstances, really. So you can imagine that having suitcases piled all over, and lots of conversations like "Where are we going to sleep the night we get to Boston" and "How many nights will we be there ? 2 ? or 3?" have pushed her completely over the edge.

Tonight a neighbor came over to discuss picking up our mail, and the dates we would be gone, and Sami told her the HE would only be gone a few days, and that we (the kids and I) would be back much later. And when Lucy heard that, well, it was kind of like that movie Exorcist, where the little girl was shrieking and her head was spinning around and an exorcism was clearly necessary. Apparently, Lucy was not aware that Daddy was coming home before us. Which means, of course, that he will be HOME with HER STUFF and HER FRIENDS (and in her mind having what amounts to a non-stop tea party with brief intermissions to jump on the bouncy castle). So, needless to say, she's pissed.

Really Pissed.

I am just tired. And when I get tired, I get pissed easily. And hooo boy did I get pissed tonight. I decided to lay down for 30 mnutes before my second shift - Sami was home, and Lucy was in bed with me watching a movie, and then suddenly, Lucy was crying (Still ? Again ? I've lost track at this point.) and I came out to the living room and Sami was just SITTING THERE like he didn't know how to deal with a crazy toddler. It was 5:30. There were no lights on in the house. He had not started anything for dinner. Lucy clearly needed to be in bed, like, an hour ago, and he was dicking around and I got really mad and basically told him to buck up and get on board, because I was not in the mood for sweet simple Sami. I needed Sami the renaissance man to kick into gear and come to my rescue because FUCK, you know ? Just.....FUCK. I am tired, and stressed. I am working what feels like 24-7 but is really only, say, 20/7. I am not sleeping. I am eating crap food and not drinking water. I am not exercising or going outside. I am overwhelmed with the things I need to get done before we leave (not the least of which is eating all of the food in the refrigerator and cupboards. Today, it was PBJ on crackers because I ran out of bread yesterday and damned if I was going to buy another loaf when I had those PERFECTLY GOOD SALTINES.)

But there is a spark to the explosion Sami experienced tonight. Last night I went to a movie with a girlfriend. Before the movie, in one hour, I went to the bank, the post office, the party supply store, the YMCA to cancel our membership, the restaurant to pick up his flip flops I had left there by accident (long story). I also went to 2 pharmacies. I busted my ass, then took my girlfriend to the movies for her birthday. I came home, and the ONE THING I had asked him to do was not done. Never mind all the things I didn't specifically request, but just need to happen. Like, emptying the dishwasher, sweeping, running laundry so Max has a clean uniform, etc. etc. etc.

And all of that culminated in me just losing my shit when today he was still not getting with the program.

I get this way. I like to do things myself, and Sami knows that, and so he just assumes that I never need or want help with the things I usually take care of. As a result, he rarely asks if there is anything he can do. Or offers to do anything.....Tonight I reminded him (loudly) that we are leaving for a very long trip, and I have a lot to do, and the nice and considerate thing to do would be to call, maybe, once during the day, and see if there is something you can do on your way home. Like bring home a fucking PIZZA or something since I have to run back to work the minute you get home and don't really have time to cook the usual 3 course fucking dinner I usually do. Or get gas in the car. Or pick up party invitations for Max's birthday. Or any one of the 25 other things on my to-do list, none of which I had time for today, because I was at work beginning at 7:30am.

So today was not my best day. I was not at my best. I have been better.

Tomorrow, on the other hand, is going to be awesome. Or at least, better then today. Unless something really shitty happens, and then you will be hearing all about THAT let me tell you.

But I am sure everything is gong to go just great tomorrow, and we will click along right on time, and everything will be fabulous. It fucking better be. Fuck.

Gush Gush Gush

First, my husband. Now that he's 40 (ha ha ha !!!!!!!!! Dude !)
He is teaching me what it is to be a rock star's wife.

Girls screaming out of car windows in darkened parking lots (he never looked up), guitar pics in the dryer, black clothes everywhere, late nights and loud practices on Sunday afternoons.

It's quite a life.

Second my trip back to the mainland. I am in a frenzy of excitement. Reservations, travel plans, events, gatherings, parties...all exciting. But the most exciting ? The arrival of my niece. Oh. My. God. I seriously am about to jump out of my skin.

I was so impatient for my own pregnancy to be over, so I could meet Max, that I forgot to sit back and enjoy it. There is not a belly photo to be found, and we did make some video, but Sami taped over it (and yes, he still gets grief about it all the time.) Of course, there was not a lot of pampering going on, and the extended prodromal labor really sucked the big one. And I had gained 80 pounds, so there's that.... Then when we were waiting for Lucy's arrival, and I wasn't sure when she would be born, where she would be born, if she was a she or a he, and there was a good chance the adoption would fall through anyway...well, let's just say I was popping Xanax like M&Ms that last weekend. I was at a birthday party, and I sat at their kitchen counter, clutching my cellphone, practically catatonic. Then I cleaned their bathroom. I am not even kidding. I have witnesses.

I was completely out of my mind.

So while this is not exactly like those previous experiences (no Xanax required) I am still pretty damn excited. I love babies, and I love my brother and his wife, and I know they are going to be great parents, which makes the whole thing so damn cool I can barely stand it. I have to physically restrain myself from buying things for the baby at this point. Hopefully she will arrive before I have to leave New England and fly home, because I think I would be crushed to not get to meet her and snuggle her up before I left.

So that's what's in my head today - rock stars and babies.