Is This How You Picture Me?

Stolen from a Fabulous blogger, here is a picure of your caffeinated junky. Only envision a little more warp speed conversation with hands wailing around like a turtle on its back trying to get up. (Yeah, there’s a nice image, hope you can sleep after that.)

Go make one of you. I wasted spent an hour there of my day that I didn’t really have.

Bounderies

I am a person of few boundaries.  I talk about any subject, any time, any place.  Physical, spiritual, I am fearless.  I do have one area that is closely guarded.  Emotionally, I have an 80 acre fence around my heart that has for the most part been impenetrable.  Great research and effort would need to be taken to be able to cross that boundary. 

I have slowly been lowering the security level of this fence, letting in certain people who seemed trust worthy of admittance.  But like a sheep that goes the wrong path sometimes for water, I too was wrong.

Two people recently have hurt me beyond believe and maybe beyond recovery.  They know who they are.   They know the trust that was given to them.  They promised to be different.  Well, put promises in one hand, and a pile of shit in another and see what one smells the prettiest.  Neither lived up to their promise. 

I want my Strawberry Shortcake Band-Aid.  Because every time I give in a little, I’m the one who gets hurt.  And I don’t know how much more I have in me to give.

Boundaries.  I learn a new appreciation of them every day.

Seeing The Scars, Not the Wounds

One of my many quirky things when I meet someone is this, I like to look for their scares.  I find it fascinating to see the remains of a healed wound and wonder where they got them from.  When you have known someone for a long time, you know where the scars came from.  You might have even been there when the wound happened and you might even been the cause of one or two.  Yet when you meet someone new, you don’t know their stories yet.  If they were a dangerous soul or just a klutz.  You are waiting to hear the stories. 

The perspective of hearing the stories will be different.  You are on the side of the healed wound.  Time has started the renewal process for flesh.  Depending on how bad the battle scars are, you are getting aqainted with the other side of shell shock.  And finding out who the person is from the other side of war?  Is part of the charm.

I’m Holding Myself Hostage and I Have A List Of Demands

If you need me, you will find me locked in the bathroom with tissue and cookie dough.  But first, here’s my demands:

1. I will go to the bathroom by myself, without a child watching me or sitting on my lap.
2. While it is 108 degrees outside, I will not be touched.
3. I will not be screamed at while fixing dinner. 
4. I will not pick up food that was thrown in the floor, just so I can pick it up again.
5. I want to go to the bathroom while someone isn’t trying to play in the toilet at the same time.
6. I will shower without having a child watch me or play with the razor.
7. I will not clean up after the baby pulls his diaper off and sits on the vent.
8. I will come out when I do not find cheerios on my feet, in my hair, in my unmentionables, or the baby’s diaper.
9. I can talk on the phone without the baby saying "dadda, dadda, dadddda," thus loosing my train of thought, ability to concentrate and words to be able to communicate back.
10. I can have a pen in my hand without the baby tugging on it, and then stabbing himself in the eye.

If these can not be fulfilled, please send cookie dough and "How To Survive When Your Baby Learns To Walk and Talk".

Thank you.

Always a Guest Table Host, Never A Bride

I pride myself on being a friend who’s always there. Given any situation, I can pull together a party together in a few hours, a funeral together in a few days and a wedding together in less than a week. Advice?  I can help you with your relationship, find inspiring scripture, get over a bad relationship, start a new job, get along with your co-workers and put a little snizzle in the romance area.

Yet, I am eating cheesecake ice cream on my couch tonight, pondering and reminiscing. 

Censorship

Censorship is a nasty word. The dictionary defines it as "to examine in order to suppress or delete anything considered objectionable". But in who’s eyes? Who gets to define what is objectionable to everyone? I hate censorship of books in schools because who am I to say that one book is better than another? I’m nobody. I don’t Harry Potter books, but I’ve never staged a protest in front of Barnes and Noble telling people they are going to hell for buying it.

I said all that to say this. I am probably considered questionable by some people. I talk to fast, I talk to loud and I talk to much. (I also listen, but that’s a different story.) However, I am who I am and I will not censor myself for anyone. So I thought I’d write a list of who I am in real life and you can decide if you need to censor from there. But I’m not going to. I’m not going to change who I am. And I refuse to apologize for that.

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  Sometimes in conversation, I will drop a cuss word. It happens. My favorite word is Pissy. I’m trying not to say it in front of the baby, but I gave up my perfect mom award along time ago, so it does happen.

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  I make off color jokes that might make you uncomfortable. They come out before I think and I’ve gotten better, but it still happens.

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  I’m impatient. To the point it will drive my friends crazy and they will taunt me by going slower. I was blessed with two children who have no idea what time is, that time exists or that time moves on. God has a sense of humor.

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  I will burp inappropriately just because it’s funny in a stale room of stiff people.

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  I used humor to keep you away from my inner secrets.

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  I am obviously not a virgin and crack jokes about that once in awhile. Not often, but it’s not secret that I’m not wearing white to any future weddings.

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  I refuse to change for anyone ever again. This is me.

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  I am in therapy if you like me or don’t like me.

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  I take Zoloft every day and will never give it up. I have been threatened with a court order if I ever did go off it, but I like that it makes me sane enough to function in life, so I won’t. Don’t ask me too, because I won’t.

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  I suffer from depression, inhibiting depression that keeps me from calling you, writing you, emailing you or asking for help. I’m better. That’s all I can promise. Don’t push or I will get worse.

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  I ask nothing from you that I wouldn’t give of myself.

So that’s all I can think of right now. This is me. I will not censor me.

My Patience? Not So Much Today

Wake up: 5:00 am- meeting with editor on different time zone and submission is due.

Baby up : 7:00 am- just for fun.

Breakfast: 9:00 am- put on skanky cleaning clothes because who’s going see us anyway?

Kitchen Pipes Busted: 9:29 am- because it’s Saturday and no one comes over.

Calls made: 9:31 am- and I tell the landlord I am capable of calling him every 5 minutes and going to the bar he owns and sitting there staring at him.

Knock on door: 9:45-  hot neighbor guy returning a computer CD I loaned him.

Panting:  9:48- at hot neighbor bent down checking out my sink and running to grab his tools.

Realization: 9:51- I am in my skanky clothes smelling like bleach, my hair’s not combed and the baby is crying.

Thankfulness: 10:00- hot neighbor guy and landlord are putting in new pipes for said sink.

Exhaustion:  11:00 putting all towels and blankets that were used to clean up water in washing machine, after an hour of cleaning.

Delivery:  12:00- tacos for hot neighbor guy since he did help fix my sink.

Amazement 12:03-  why can’t I look good for when crap like this happens?

Two Years Without a Watch Has Changed Me

If my babysitter had any idea what a blog was, she would writing on it that her new mother and child combo are clue less.  No, the mother is clue less.  I have no hold on time.  You see, I haven’t been tied to a clock or watch for 2 years now.  And now I’m always late.  ALWAYS.  I told her this week that he would be there by 12:30 pm.  What time did he arrive?  No earlier than 1 pm and sometimes later.  I’m paying her for the whole time, but still.  And then one day this week I told her I would pick him at 5.  I was there by 4:30.  What the hell is wrong with me?  Why am I a freak?  I’m looking at getting a part time job and I know I will now be the worst employee ever.

If I make it into work.  Gawwww.  Someone help me, please.

Wanna Come To a Different Place?

I have moved. Wanna come see me? I know it’s a pain in the ass, but how about you drop me an email (nomeanderingATyahooDOTcom) and I’ll give you directions. And you won’t have to drive by the gas station with the weirdo sitting on the corner. Promise.

Welcome to The New Me

If you have stumbled across here from my old blog or just visiting for the first time, Welcome!

Why you ask, did I move.  Well I’m in the middle of a creative post about that, but I will say I was being censored where I was(or maybe it was in my mind).  Now I can drop the f-bomb if I want, or don’t have if I want.  But either way, no one will say anything about it.

I promise to not be cuss words all the time.  But damn it, does it feel good to have the ability to if I want.