Oh Come Let Us Adore....Each Other

"The joy of brightening other lives, bearing each others’ burdens, easing other’s loads and supplanting empty hearts and lives with generous gifts becomes for us the magic of Christmas.”
~ W. C. Jones

 

Once of my favorite parts about being married and having stepsons was that I had scored myself a reason to do a Christmas card, as previous years featuring the cat and me would have been pathetic. The first year, the list was basically my wedding invite list, and got smaller over the years, eventually being two dozen family and friends. Last year, I found myself without the faculties to put much care and concern into a Christmas card, because with a husband not living a home and a marriage in limbo, who can think of "happy holiday blessings from our family to yours"?  

 

Last year, I phoned it in a little and used Paperless Post, which charges a small fee to send holiday cards via selected (or all) of the recipients in your email address book. The feedback from the emailed Christmas card was amazing, so I went with Paperless Post again for this year's card. The list stays small - grandparents, aunts/uncles, and close friends who have lifted the three of us up so much in the last year that we were able to find joy, naturally, and take a picture that reflects the healing we've done in 2013. Emotionally and physically.

 

My Christmas joys, beyond watching the discoveries that Santa left on Christmas morning and holiday decorating, are these faces. Yesterday I told one of them that if he were grown, I'd punch him in the face, but then we found the joy of chocolate milk together. No harm, no foul. Jake hates Christmas music but loves Christmas lights and Baby Jesus. Landen can off-key a Christmas song right along with me.

 

 

I share this here on the blog for the friends, family, and strangers who come here and read and support us. Because miracles happen, even if the miracle is the ability to smile.  If you have joy, cherish it. If you are missing joy, it's a long walk and a lot of prayer to find, and we hope for you the discovery of it.

 

This is the message of Christmas: We are never alone.”
~ Taylor Caldwell (1900-1985), English novelist.

 

Merry Christmas and Happy Everything from my boys and me. Our profound thanks and love, even if we've never met you. We know you're there.

 

P.S. Monday is Moving Day.

The light at the end of the tunnel

I've been keeping a secret, because of The Jinx. Every single bloody time I have posted about my house or a potential house on the internets, it fell right though with a giant sucking sound.

 

 

I took this picture at 8:30 AM today, as I was driving away from MY blue house with MY blue door and MY giant crepe myrtle to go to an office to sign MY cottage away to someone who wants to come live in it.

 

That's right. Misty Hollow is SOLD.

Have you ever seen the North?

On Saturday, I sat on the couch and listened as Jake and Landen were told by their dad that he had been dating someone, someone they already knew as part of his circle of friends. We did not expect them to be terribly affected by it. Landen rolls with the punches (until later) and Jake is so used to these "we need to talk to you" family moments that he was likely relieved it was so simple. I only said one sentence, because their dad tends to bumble around these things, and he was burying the lead. "What Daddy is telling you is that he has a girlfriend." Jake looked at me like I just said the word "vagina." Landen was okay because he likes Dad's friends.

Burlap(ping) Around

I accidentally jumped on the burlap bandwagon. When I moved my queen bed downstairs into the master bedroom, it was so girly and pretty that it was little girl and borderline virginal. I'm obsessed with layering beyond what makes sense, so I decided some natural fibers via burlap would add some texture and maturity to the bed, until I can change the accent colors and put the bold navy on the bed.

 

 

Oh Mother Where Art Thou?

I think it's a good thing when you are so busy living your life that you do not have time to write about your life, except that writing makes me happy. I have so much to say. There's an upcoming unmarriage development, and I have to find the right (benign) words to tell you about it. I'm trying. Writing the truth sometimes makes people unhappy, apparently. Words hurt feelings and share details, and my intent is not to make the world mad at The Man I Will Soon No Longer Be Married To. I have to be fair and the-opposite-of-inflammatory when I publish anything about our family, but it's my truth and my journey, so I still get to write about it. 

 

I have spent weeks working on and off on a small painting project. As in, paint a layer and then wait seven days to paint another layer. This should be a full post with before and afters within a week.

Hello...is it me you're looking for?

Sometimes I get on the Blogger and I near-shriek when I see how long it has been since I last blogged, and then I get lost in a reflection of what I have been doing for the past however-many-days have passed between my last post and my new post (this one.) But I cannot recall all of it, because the answer is usually that I have been doing nothing. And everything.

 

Like engaging in giant battles of wills with the short people in my house over important social and familial issues like What Do I Have To Do To You to Halt This Apathy You Have In Non-Response to Not Figuring Out Seventh Grade Yet? and I Swear, Son, If You Do Not Resolve To Use Kind Words and Change Your Tone You Will Not Live To See Eleven.  Right now, I am not winning either of these, but I do not despair, because I am meaner and smarter and older and I am going to win both of these battles.

Knock on wood

Let's go back to The House That May One Day Be. We're closer and closer, but I am not allowed to state anything definitive about it until the potential owners have keys in hand. I jinx things. It is the opposite of the Midas touch. Like last Friday I signed a purchase agreement for my house, and today I signed a cancellation for same said purchase agreement. I am Suzanne.

 

This house needs some love. My peeps saw the house, and felt that they had the love to put in to the house, at a price that would allow them to love it a pretty good amount and buy some furniture. Not "new counters and backsplash before we move in" kind of love, but "let's bring a man with a paint sprayer in here to get this freshened up a bit." Also something about leveling the yard, which makes its own swimming pool when it rains.

Not as much as football

Please catch up on what we've got going on this school year before you keep going!

 

Raising a son with special emotional and developmental needs has always commandeered this blog. I talk about Jake more than Landen. Back here, we're exploring some sort of medical anomaly that I hope to have pieced together like some WebMD Nancy Drew with a great story at the end for how much better Jake feels. On the other end of that spectrum of activity, we have tackle football.

 

Warning: this will make you swoon.

Maybe this time

Two weeks ago, I did room boards for a particular living room built around a gray sectional. This week, I'm back, still unable to tell you about the house, but having played and put together room boards for a linen sectional. Because this is what I do when I cannot sleep. Sometimes the excitement causes an inability to sleep.

 

This one got a big "no." Because it's too fancy and impractical. It is not Rock Hudson or Doris Day. Maybe some Elizabeth Taylor with some Nate Berkus. I suwannee, who would not want to have an old fashioned in this room at the end of the day. Especially with a roaring fire and Charlie Hunnam.

Set this party off

Updated: my cousin just reminded me that her father, a Wilson, married an Allbritton, her mother, who is also from the same original group of Allbrittons as my wasband. Our Wilson-Allbritton wedding invitations were a joke because of this. That Wilson-Allbritton union went belly-up as well. From the source: "I would devote a whole page to explaining why Wilsons and Allbrittons CANNOT marry....like a chemical reaction, the chemicals are initially attracted to each other and create a really pretty color...then explode after seven minutes of chemically bonding." Because, people, this is science, which is always true.

If you want to add to your understanding what it means to live as perfectly imperfect (to augment what I clearly have to teach you about it), go read this blog at Momastery. Joy unto me. Because you know that split second between when you realize you are about to spill something that is going to be difficult to clean up and the moment it actually happens? That mood-altering moment between oh sh*t! and sonofabitch! I exist in that space, almost entirely, from head-off-pillow to head-on-pillow. And I'm not afraid of it at all, because I do it boldly, assertively, and with supreme confidence that more often that not, I will not make that big a mess.

In the gray area

One of the blogs I read religiously chronicled, among many enlightening and hilarious parenting adventures, her struggle to adopt a child, after birthing three. She was convinced there was another baby out there for her to love, and she was denied by every agency and every country at every turn. But then her sister got pregnant with her first child, and she realized that her nephew was the baby she felt a calling to have and love. Plus, it was not as expensive for her.

 

This week, I'm leaning toward renting when this mothereffing house sells. In a big complex, which makes me uneasy about sending the boys outside to play when I just cannot take the noise anymore they need fresh air. We do not have high school plans for Jake yet, and the LAST thing I want to do is buy now and need to get out in less than two years. So renting seems safest, and if I rent on the SJS bus route and save myself $250 a month from after care, fiscally prudent.

Sweet dreams are made of this

Y'all. I think I have a project. It's not my house, because I'm still on the market. And it's not my future house, because I have no idea where I am going. But there is a house that belongs to someone who likes and trusts me and my visions and is in the process of buying a fixer-upper.

 

And I have more vision that I have space in which to utilize it. So here are some sneak peaks and what inspires me for the future of each space. Not all of these have been floated by the potential homeowners yet, but there are limitless possibilities for every bit of this house. 

 

I am trying to make a convincing argument for why the front door should stay. Even without those atrocities of window treatments, the house would lose very little privacy. The front door opens into a foyer that looks straight into the backyard, and the house is far enough from the road that no passersby or neighbors would be able to see your naughty bits if you were going to get clothes out of the dryer, unless you stood in the door and shook 'em.

Pictures of You

Tradition dictates that my kids have to take a picture in front of my blue door on the first day of school every year. So, happy 2013-14!

Seventh grade means you need a hairSTYLE and not a hairCUT. Fifth grade means you make a deal to download an app on your Nabi if you let your hairgirl pick your haircut.

The Story

Here it is. In the deepest, darkest, most fearsome places of my imagination, I could not imagine I would be here, standing upright, on this day. Three-hundred-sixty-five days ago, my husband packed a bag and left our home, never to return as a husband. The observance of that this weekend was compounded by the big fight that usually erupts between two people who have a lot to fight about because the stars aligned and marked the calendar for that day to be a bad day until the end of time. As in, yesterday morning at 9 AM I was standing in front of my fridge reading the label on my bottle of rosè, comparing it to the contents on a bottle of Juicy Juice, trying to decide if rosè is acceptable as juice and therefore an appropriate drink for that particular hour. Don't worry. It isn't.

What's Your Fantasy?

The one year anniversary of The Day My Life Fell Apart is in a few days, and I have a lot to say to you about that next week.

 

So I have this house I'm (still) trying to sell, and I moved a whole bunch of stuff to storage, which made the house more open. I sit in the house and I see so much potential now that there is so much liberty in the space. The kitchen could do with darker cabinets on the bottom, subway tile on the backsplash, open shelving above the buffet. I have two pieces in my living room I want to refinish and my sideboard in the dining room has been in need of paint for five years. The master bedroom curtains are heavy and oppressive for a space that already has no natural lighting. The master closet is shameful. The backyard fence needs work. The patio needs pavers.

 

Potential. We're just full of potential over here.

Wild World

When I started this blog, it was about being a newlywed and a newly-stepmommed. Then there was deployment, and it became many musings and tribulations on that. A home was bought, and I figured out by trial and error all the home-related stuff I was passionate and moderately talented at. Now I am getting unmarried, and I write a lot about unmarriage, single parenthood, grief and surviving this sh*tstorm with heart and a laugh. Eventually, I'll be selling my house and moving somewhere, so I'll be back on the discussion of dwellings, where my heart sings, one day. Someday I'll date. But let's keep going with unmarriage for now. Because, really, this blog is life evolution.

We are the children

I’m one of those mothers who walks around fairly confident that my kids are smarter than yours. Not that my kids make better grades than yours, or read faster than yours, or perform better than yours on standardized tests. I’m not competitive about this. I do not need to wave report cards and test papers around bragging about the academic brilliance of my kids. Because I’m also realistic about the fact that one of them is lazy, like moi. Sure, he could make straight A’s if he wanted to, but he could also watch more TV if he just settled for above average B grades, so he’ll just go with that option. But thanks so much for your input, because he really loves input. The other one has a brain that is difficult to control, and it does not always mind when someone says he needs to learn, retain, or complete information. There’s only so much you can do, with what you have, where you are.

What's the story, morning glory?

Full disclosure: Because my OCD, which is caused by intense anxiety, over this stupid "For Sale" sign in my front yard that shows no signs of leaving, raged out of control, I had to go back on a med I have not taken in a while. I really believe I have traded creativity for calm. So I am registering lower on the Basketcase Meter, which makes me a better mother and sleeper, but I fear I have lost the wit to write about it.

 

So here is some of the sitch, of late.

 

I mentioned in this post about my fireplace facelift that I would be spending the weekend with a bunch of cousins. For a concert. At a casino. You might opine that this is the perfect setup for trouble, and you would be right. Somebody fell down, but it was not me. I almost fell down, which in my thirties means I need to go to bed. In my twenties, it meant an eventual emergency room visit, not a reason to be concerned or curb bad behavior in the slightest. The older I get, the longer the hangover, well, hangs, so I am not the excessive libator (that's a made-up word) that I once was. Casino wine is cheap. Cheap wine is more toxic to the system. It's biology and chemistry, people, which is why I threw up, had room service, threw up again, and slept through breakfast. I am way too old for that sh*t. Sometimes you just need to go balls to the wall and have more fun than your system can handle. It's okay. Jesus still loves me.

There is no song that goes with "Fireplace"

Did y'all know that summer is NOT the time to put a house on the market? While I wait, and wait, I've started removing things. Things I really love, like the Chinamen and the ginger jar from the mantle, and the groups of prints that hung all the way around the living room. Wine-induced introspection has led me to conclude that I am either highly anxious (duh) and wanting less stimulation, or I am trying to depersonalize Misty Hollow so giving it to someone is not the soul-eviscerating experience I expect it to be.

 

So I painted the upstairs bathroom, which was a pain in the arse, but the results make it look taller and less devoid of personality. I have a backsplash plan for the kitchen that will commence once the materials come in. And the handy man is coming to work on a storage solution in the kitchen I'm hoping to God works.

Karma

A rant, in GIF overuse:

 

Wasband has this face of about nine different emotions that he makes at me when he walks into a room and finds me in a state that causes him concern, like being face-down on the kitchen counter with my feet on the floor. He rubs my back or hugs me and asks me what's wrong and I look at him like he just asked me how old he is or whether I should really wear my hair this way. I scoff and say something about loving him but hating him, and blame him for everything I do not particular care for or enjoy that is transpiring in my life at that moment that he's standing in our house. Then he has the sense or the fondness for me that he either agrees or acknowledges, because there are five breakable items within reach, and I'm not averse to throwing things.

 

With(out) This Ring

Today's post is illustrated courtesy of realitytvgifs.tumblr.com/, because me loves me Housewives.

I remember the day I stopped wearing my wedding ring. I decided on a Sunday afternoon that I would be legally dissolving my marriage, the emotional dissolution having been marching on slowly for months. I told my wasband about that on Tuesday, during a rooftop confrontation that was charged with the anger, betrayal and brokenness that only plays out poetically in movies. (They never show snot in movies, which is #1 on my list of why movies do not represent real life. I never Come Undone without a worrisome quantity of snot.)

 

The next Saturday I rose, dressed, put the diamond band in the jewelry box and had a manicurist paint my nails red. It has not quite been five months yet, but I still have a damn indentation on my ring finger, and I still absentmindedly play with the phantom wedding band. I'm working on finding the right piece of bling to take over on that finger. Other than sending a picture of my bare finger and red nails to my posse, it was an unceremonious end to the partnership between my ring and me.

Express Yourself

There is something I was not anticipating when getting unmarried began. Beyond one-half of a king bed being piled high with clothes and shams instead of a human. Beyond having only female-scented items on the edge of the bathtub. Beyond having to get up to get your own glass of water EVERY TIME because no one can do it on their way to/from the bathroom. But also, and what I did not foresee being an issue, nobody (adult) in your house has to listen to you, has to observe your quirky  24 hours a day, as necessary.

 

People get tired of you. People need a break. People need to retract their attention for you and focus on themselves, their children, their parents, their friends, their successful marriages (which is my least favorite excuse.) But the person who lives with you as your partner/spouse is available and legally bound to listen to your verbal unravelings as necessary. Susan Sarandon said in a movie once that people get married because they want to have a witness to their lives, and to be a witness to someone else's. She should have gone on to say that one of the plusses to that is sharing a home with someone who will watch you lose your sh*t, and say "it's really not that big a deal" or "we'll figure it out" when you're done.

That's what you get, folks, for making whoopee

Can somebody please give me a hand while I step up on my soapbox for a minute?

 

Yesterday I posted on Facebook the article about Plan B being available for people without age restriction or parental consent*, and spent time in a respectful difference of opinion with someone who does not share my views on most political issues, but whose opinion I respect and enjoy debating. Part of that exchange was how we dealt with sharing information with our parents in our youth, which made me reflect on the reality that in a few years, my oldest son is going to start thinking about sex. Constantly, if the statistics are true.

Cause You Were All Yellow

Thursday I got into my car to go to work a little bit on time. C-c-c-curly hair (my The Way We Were people know this), baubles, frilly shirt, sandals...I remembered my cell phone. I even remembered to drop a couple clementines in my bag. When I get down my driveway and rounded the corner on to the street, I got my cell phone out of my bag and put it on my lap. In doing so, I felt the phone touch my skin, and I looked down to observe that I had left my house with no bottoms on. I did not have to walk out the front of my house, but my carport is not attached to my house, and garden homes do not boast tons of privacy.

 

Leaving your house for work with no pants on has GOT to be an SOS signal to anybody listening.

Yesterday Once More

Pema Chodron is my dawg. Sister has some good stuff. Pema, Anne Lamott and Glennon Melton are saving my ass on a daily basis.

I find myself with some serious writer's block these last two weeks. It is something that I need to trudge through, because the reason for the block is major anxiety. But the writing is what relieves the anxiety, most of the time. When I write it, well, and truly end an essay feeling like I have said what I feel in a way that impacts the feeling, I shake off the grip of the anxiety. I have not been able to do that.

You Better Shop Around

Last night at 7:30 PM, when the boys got home from dinner with their dad, we three were out in the front yard, in our bare feet, at dusk, burying a statue of St. Joseph and reciting a prayer for his intercession in the speedy sale of our house and the presentation of our next home. The anticipation and rejection that one is exposed to when either listing a home or making an offer on a home is something I'd be mighty fine to never revisit again, having gotten quite enough of that sh*t in high school.

 

Although I think Baby Jesus is prepping me for my future in the dating world, which I never really lived in for the first third of my life. I just sort of wake up one morning in a relationship.

Looking for home in all the wrong places

The business end of unmarrying (which is the aspect I'm choosing to focus on at the moment, as I am still waylaid when the relationship or family part confronts me) continues. The house has listed and shown a couple times, which is encouraging with this being a holiday weekend at all. Fingers crossed someone will fall in love with her quickly and want her as bad as I did. I'm sorry, but I need it to be owned by someone who cares about appearances and has good taste. Fingers crossed so tight your knuckles turn white that the Godiverse sends me through the door of my future home soon.

We fell in love with this one, and it sold days later. Two others in the complex have become available, and sold quickly. Currently there are NO townhouses open there. The townhouse complex next door has some promise, but we'll get to that directly. I looked at three townhomes this weekend, and we'll walk through the Good, the HUD and the Ugly. This feels like House Hunters.

FROM THE ARCHIVES: Mama Tried

This is not one of my favorite moments of being a parent. Okay, maybe it is. Today. The day it happened I was not amused, nor the day after. Now, however, this is grade-A "remember when you were little and you....." story following by pee-your-pants laughter. Only in this day of modern technology and constant photography, this incident is forever captured, long after the paper has been thrown away. Also, time has permitted the perspective that the artistic abilities my children display in a moving vehicle is not without merit.

 

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A Literal Sh!tstorm

 

This is a post about how what we put our parents through when we were little comes back to haunt us when we are trying to raise children of our own. I was nearly perfect, but obviously with the spawn of Corey Allbritton, we have a long road ahead of us.

Don't Be A Girl About It

Warning: This post has a lot of photos. All photos were taken by the selling agent, Raina Johnson, owner of DiGiulio Properties.  

This weekend I listed my house. During the listing and photography, I was completely without emotion, which made me wonder whether this is not as bad as I think it should be, or whether I'm just too f***ing crazy to be aware of what a mess I currently am. I believe it to be the latter, because when I saw the actual listing advertising that somebody else is welcome to come and live in my brown house with the blue door, well, that's apparently the moment the shock was ready to wear off and sorrow tackled my ass smooth to the ground. 

But I am mighty proud of her, all fixed up. She cleans up nice, and is still cleaning up, as there are about ten small things that still need to be done before I am finished. The house can be shown while they are being done, because they are simple and hardly noticeable. Except washing the ceiling in the sunroom or putting the boxes in storage. Houses are selling quickly in my neighborhood. The last two sold in less than a week.

Oops, I Did It Again

Happy Friday. This is porn to me:

 

In getting the house ready to sell, I have been packing away the un-necessities and hauling boxes of things to storage. My house feels no less cluttered. But there are TWO boxes in storage now and ONE box in the upstairs closet that are packed full of blue and white china.

Truth Marches On

I had two conversations with friends recently, both mothers, about the flack we take from other mothers who question our choices. I think it's because what I see you do that is different from what I do makes me doubt that what I do is right. Except I look at my kids, and even when I'm awful, they are great and they think I'm great. I do not advocate co-sleeping with a 10-year-old and a 12-year-old, because that can get weird, especially with non-parents. But I only have a bed big enough for three for so long, so when they ask to "slumber party" in my bed with me once every three months, I say yes. And I sleep horribly because Landen holds my hair and puts his knees in my back. What matters is that all these moments in a day where I think I am f***ing it up are obviously just me, because they WANT to be near me. So to all of us, it does not matter who likes what we do, as long as we are churning out people we think we'll be proud of one day.

FROM THE ARCHIVES: The Holy Grail of Humiliation

This story is famous from coast to coast. I'm kind of a big deal because of it. Now, it would be something to boast about had I done something to earn it, you know like win a Tony (with my super awesome singing voice that makes the dog huff at me) or make it on the NYT bestseller list. I repost it here because 1) it was posted three years ago, so newbies might have missed it; 2) I'm selfless enough to sacrifice my dignity for the entertainment of others; and 3) it almost happened to me again this morning, which is why I have diagnosed myself with bathnophobia, or "fear of stairs and slopes." It's real.

 

So to you I present, The Human Bobsled Story.

 

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The Holy Grail of Humiliation

 

When I finish this story, all will be both impressed with my resilience and understand why it's taken me three years to tell this story, though it is one for the ages.

One time, I was a human bobsled.

Picture it. Cannon House Office Building. 2004. It looks like this. Or one door of it does.

 

 

It was built in 1908. Those marble steps were built then too. The steps are worn thin in the middle, like someone had spent 96 years buffing bowls in them, and they are slick as shit.

Do you know where this story is going?

In August of 2004, I quit my job, which was located in this building. That same month, I was interviewing for other jobs in this same building. If memory serves, and where this incident is involved it is damn near perfect, I had interviews at 1, 2 and 4 in the afternoon, so my friend and I decided to go one block and grab some lunch. Because I had interviews that afternoon, I was wearing a favorite skirt and black sweater, and black heels. I had just swapped my heels out for flip flops to pad down to Bullfeathers to get my favorite sammich: a blackened chicken pita. Bully's had the seriously good ranch dressing.

Upon approaching the door, my friend and I noticed that it was drizzling, and we muttered the same expletives regarding running around in the rain, but hungry and craving ranch dressing we were. It was only a block. I exited the door first and proceeded down the right side of the steps. No sooner had my foot left the first step bound for the second, but both my frigging feet shot out from under me and I went down like I was an Olympian on the luge. It looked like this

 

 

but without the appropriate equipment and attire and snow.

People were filing out the door behind me and a very young Congressman was walking in while I was sliding out. My friend behind me was shouting "Oh my God! Oh my God!"

I stopped about three steps from the bottom. My skirt was around my waist. My Spanx (but they weren't Spanx six years ago. They were just really high, really tight underwear) were all wet in the ass area. My feet were about five feet apart, which means I gave a young CongressMAN quite the show. I rose and stood still while my friend helped me pull down my skirt and dust the wet schmutz off my back. All straight. Nothing broken but my ego. I stepped out again.

And AGAIN I luged down the steps, completely off the marble and onto the concrete. One of my flip flops flew off. My purse slid off my shoulder and the contents spilled onto the concrete. I was That Girl who threw her tampons all over the street. Young, yuppie Congressional staff walked around me like I was a non-event. The security guard just stood in the door to witness this humiliation.

Then it started to really rain. I thought, "This is where I've arrived. I'm unemployed. On my ass. On the ground. Showing my panties to Congress and God and everyone coming off the Metro. In the rain."  

A homely woman, clearly a tourist by the looks of her Mom jeans, pushing a stroller along the sidewalk below, felt the need to stop and comment.

"Wow, that marble must be slick." To which my friend stood upright from her previous bent position trying to get my skirt to head down to my knees where it belonged, and screamed "YA THINK?!"

She helped me up again and straightened me out again and recovered all my belongings. For good measure, I decided to walk barefoot to our destination, since I had clearly lost the ability to walk in flip flops.

It was five hours before I could even tell the story. Recalling it is a mix of awe and humiliation. I did not get a job in that building, but they have since replaced those f***ing marble steps.

I remember this story with the aches of muscle memory whenever I interview for jobs. And when my friend Arkansas, who was not even there but is killing herself laughing at this for the 1,373rd time in our friendship while she is reading it, reminds me of it.

 

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So now, almost ten years later, this is all about perspective. Nothing that has ever happened to me - not the loss of a job, a husband, a friend, a figure, a house, or any other fall I've ever made - has ever dealt a more devastating blow to my self esteem than this. And I stood up just fine.

The End of Another Birthday Season

Jake's and Landen's moms are Birthday Blowout people. There were fetes and extended jubilation in both our houses. My birthday celebration starts the day after my sister's birthday, so March 5, and extends a week past mine, to March 17th. Jake and Landen have benefitted greatly from this. What's more, due to geography, the marital status of their parents and the Gregorian calendar, for these particular children trumpets herald the anniversary for nearly a week of what can only be defined as a birthday festival.

 

Favorite wreath ever, because I made it. And drank an entire
bottle of wine pinning those balloons on individually.

Window Shopping + $100 Retail Therapy: The Paul Michael Company

Last Friday I was in Lafayette for work, and when I was driving over, I remembered that they have a GREAT home store there called The Paul Michael Company. I do not know who Paul Michael is, but we should be friends. There are four stores, so I'm window shopping on limited access, but this stuff is too great not to share. The store is well worth the trip if you are anywhere in the vicinity, or passing through or nearby one of the locations.

I really love the trend in giant lamps with see-through bases. The size of these could not be undersold, and the clear base lets the lamp command the space without overwhelming it. You can see by the scale of the Adirondack chair that these are not small. The shade on that clear one was about 18" in diameter. These were less than $100 to boot.

When I'm a mess, I still put on a vest with an "S" on my chest

"I'm going to be 33, divorced, raising two boys alone!"

 

This is what I screamed for the first six months, through terrified and desperate tears, at my friends, my parents, my sister, my therapist, a couple co-workers, and quite possibly the dog.

 

Two boys who will soon be teenagers, at that.

 

The reality that has come to be is that this is okay. Not as a synonym of ideal, but manageable. Sometimes rewarding. Daily exhausting. I remember having one day a conversation with the wasband, who kept repeating "I don't want it. I want to want it, but I don't want it." This while he was lying on our bed for the first time in months, after taking the kids to school that morning, which ended several days of interaction that left me hopeful things would be okay. I ran to Nashville's house first chance I could, when she was down the street from me, and sat in her family room repeating "I've made a huge mistake" over and over again. At that time, I could not imagine how I would survive heartbroken and partnerless with two children to lead through yet another painfully life-altering event.

You've got to look out for Number One

Part of this journey to redefine our family is finding somewhere new for the boys and me to live. "Expert nester" means I am feathering a nest - mine, yours, my sister's, ones I see on Pinterest - without them actually being mine. So the search for a new abode for me, the boys, the dog and the cat will include full layouts and space planning. If I cannot see my things in it, I cannot put my people in it.

 

I am going rounds with myself about buying vs. renting. What I can afford to rent is not necessarily where I would feel safest alone with two children, and not anywhere in an easy commute to the school. What I can afford to buy may lock me into something it may be difficult to unload in a couple years. Since I fully expect to be making a more significant and permanent geographic change when Jake starts high school, I am running on a two-year housing cycle. In reality, who knows what my housing needs will be in two years. They are dramatically different today than they were two years ago. I need to do the thing that provides the best space for us, is easy on my budget and is not too difficult for me to maintain on my own.

I'm Still Standing

"How are you doing?" or "How are you feeling?" are loaded questions. I am a pillar of strength. I am resolute. I am so f***ing angry. I wish I had the power to inflict as much pain as I have been subjected to. I am so confused and nostalgic I think I might die from it. I am heartbroken. I have dread. I am confident. I am gutted. I am free.

Earlier this week, I inexplicably remembered how emotional we both were on our wedding day. It was a blessing and a miracle to be committing to this lifelong experience together, because we had reclaimed something magnetic after an absence that left big holes in both of us. And here's the thing - I was the least emotional of the pair. I cannot wrap my head around how THAT person is THIS person. I know THIS person, and I did not invite him to my wedding. Where the f*** did THAT person go? How can this BE? Where did my miracle go? That day was too poetic, too profound, too miraculous to have evaporated and lasted no time at all. That day our future could not have been further from where we've ended up, where we have ALWAYS ended up. Shakespearean.

The "including, but not limited to" list

Of what needs to happen at my house before I can sell it. Also known at "A post that I could not think of a song title for."

 

I've put myself on a time-out from the news. At first I was loving the stories of compassion, courage and aid that were coming about the different ways marathon participants and spectators jumped in to save lives and help the injured. Evidence that people really are capable of performing extraordinary acts of courage and kindness are always what I look for in the face of tragedy. Now that the manhunt is on for the second of the two suspects, I cannot stop thinking about his poor family, thousands of miles away in Russia, incredulous and stunned that their little boys grew up to be capable of inflicting such harm to an entire country. I always think about the parents of the perps, whose agony is comparable to the families of the victims, but we demonize them when they usually do not deserve it.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

"But if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need."
The Rolling Stones

I have three best friends. Baton Rouge. Arkansas. Virginia. All three are the kind of ride-or-die friends who will commit capital crimes for you without your having to ask. They were there for the beginning, middle, and/or end of Surviving Him the First Time, and they all had to overcome very strong feelings to permit me to get married for Round Two. When trouble first started this summer, I did not tell them. I knew they would say nothing, and I would know they were trying NOT to say "pack your sh*t." I have never asked them what they thought when I finally told them, individually, that my marriage was taking a break. What all three of them said was "You are beautiful. You are amazing. You are brave and strong and smart, no matter what. And you don't have to live like this."

I Hear You Knockin' But You Can't Come In

When the signs that Things Were Amiss - first signs, teensy tiny little things that no one who did not know him like she drew him herself would have picked up on - started peeking their little heads around the corner , it was a source of consolation to lay in bed and decorate my next sans-husband bedroom, should I end up needing one. Everybody copes differently. I was looking at 75/25 odds he was coming home that kept ooching away from my favor, and I just kept thinking about my next place. My bedroom in particular. My bedroom has been my favorite room in every apartment I've ever had. My bedroom is not my favorite room in my house, which in hindsight should have been a blindingly bright indicator that something needed changing. I actually think the king size bed may symbolize the death of marriage for all eternity, and I'm wholeheartedly opposed to them now. I'd rather be elbowed in the head at night sharing a queen sized bed than ever get unmarried again.

High Five for Friday (i.e. Sweet Jesus It's Almost Over)

First of all, the fact that I even made it to Friday deserves a Hallelujah. All three Allbritton boys kicked my ass all week, starting with five offenses of my wasband on Sunday and the shouting, teary interaction on Monday, simply because I am irrational and he is alive. I'm also currently battling the Mouth of the South, whose favorite word is "just." As in, "I'm just saying...." when he's telling you how wrong you are or "I was just..." when he's defending his complete and total lack of following directions. Jake's Tourette's went into hyperdrive this week - eyes, nose, mouth simultaneously. The rash on his face that we thought was impetigo did not respond to the medicine, so he's off to the dermatologist for his perpetual red Kool-Aid mouth. He also dropped some serious academic balls this week and won an afternoon in detention. And I, single mother of two sons, with aid from their father and grandfather, am trying to impress upon them the importance of good hygiene. It's. the. freaking. weekend.

 

Planting hope with good seeds

"The only things that matter in life are what was true,

and truly said,

and how we treated one another."

Julia Sugarbaker

The second question I get asked, maybe the third, is "how are the boys?" This is an interesting question, because neither Jake nor Landen have really had any sort of emotional falling-out that can be attributed to this particular life event of their dad no longer living with them. It has just been folded in to how they approach life in general, for better and for worse.

High Five for Friday

More appropriately titled "10 PM? At 10PM I will have been in my pajamas for four hours."

 

I am going to try High Five For Friday posts again. I like the snippets of reg'lar life that are not interesting enough for an entire post, but worth a mention. Lauren at From My Grey Desk is the brainchild on H54F, and she's young, childless and fashionable. For a taste of the anti-me, go there.

1.  Did y'all know the jean jacket was back? I did not, until Arkansas Emily dropped in a conversation about the new one she just bought. If J. Crew has it, I feel that it is safe to buy (though not at the J. Crew price.) The Easter bunny bought mine this weekend while she was down taking us to a play and picking up my kids. I wore the sh*t out of a jean jacket when I lived in DC. They became uncool, probably long before I retired mine, and I did get rid of it. It had good wear, so boo on everybody who says "if you haven't worn it in a year, get rid of it." This is proof positive that some things should be held on to.

The stars are stacked against you girl, get back in bed

An email I sent to my friends this evening:

 

Dear friends, I am writing you this note as I make a packing list for my eventual trip to the mother***ing nuthouse. Last night, as Murphy and I were snuggled up watching Nashville, we were startled by what sounded like someone falling down some metal stairs and landing on a metal plate with a very loud THWAP! We then heard something like a small cat flipping the f*** out in our chimney. We have never used it, so the blessed flue is closed. I sat on the floor while Murphy climbed on the hearth to investigate the noises of the creature trying unsuccessfully to climb up the slick, non-brick walls of our chimney. This lasted for about twenty minutes, until the squatter then entered panic mode and began scratching furiously at whatever material keeps him from dropping his fat ass down my chimney. Without a guarantee of stocking-filling and gifts wrapped 'neath the tree, I am in no mood for things to be falling down my chimney and into my fireplace. It is in these situations that I get very irrationally emotional and uncontrollably angry about being left to deal with these types of situations on my own. Listening to the animal try to claw its way into my home and me with no man to handle critters for me, I convinced myself that I could not go to bed. That I would not wake up when the animal came through, ran straight up the stairs with an impeccable sense of direction, and scratched the faces off my kids in their sleep.

How do you solve a problem like a boys' room?

Next up: the boys' room.

 

Every time I do one of these boards, I am so glad I did not go into interior decorating, which was my Plan B in college. Doing any sort of visual representation of my artistic vision is so tedious. I'd rather just spread the torn-out pages of magazines across the dining room table to give an idea of how the elements work together. Y'all can't all fit in my dining room, and I'm not great with company, so I make these boards for you.

 

Apparently I struggle to find my groove in rooms that I do not spend much time in. I have done the boys' bedroom four times in three houses, and it has never been "finished." If they have ever noticed, they have never spoken of it, but I know. And I resolve to do better, and go a little easier on myself in the process. Their room is only going to cost me about $250 in updates, since I am using their current beds and one of the chest of drawers from my bedroom. Whatever apartment we pick after selling our house will be the place we'll call home until Jake picks a high school. The items I've put together here are not age-specific. A boy can easily transition into teenager-ness (groan) among all the elements of this room.  

 

 

Don't Mean Dallas (Part 3 of 3)

If you do not know country music, you are confused right now, so please go look it up before continuing. 

I have been writing this post for months. Because it is sensitive and emotional. Because timing is everything, and the privacy and experiences of the other people involved matter. Because I will not be the same after saying it out loud, to many people at once. Because I had to understand it, and then I had to find my voice.

Inhale.  I am getting un-married.  Exhale.

Knowing someone like they are an extension of yourself is a wonderful thing when it benefits you, and an incredibly unfortunate thing when it does not work to your advantage. This whole experience has led to me really wonder whether people can change, or whether we just grow and learn and decide to do things differently, to evolve in the way we present ourselves to the world. Or don't. He and I are now who we have always been. The truth is that the reasons it did not work out when we were teenagers have turned out to be the same reasons it will not work in our thirties.

She works hard for the money

Y'all, this is my third day of working an eight-hour day outside the office (as opposed to a ten-hour day in yoga pants moving from my desk to my comfy chair and back), and consider my ass kicked. On Friday, I came home with take out, ate my dinner at 6 PM, then fought to stay awake until 9PM, which I managed, and slept until 9AM on Saturday. And whereas when you work from home, you can do some loads of laundry and your food prep for dinner during the working hours, regular working women have to do it when they get home. I have been dreading this part of going back to an office, and spent three months asking working moms I know how the f*** women do this.

I do like my job, though. I have very little idea what I am doing, in analytics, but we all seem to share a confidence that I can quickly figure this out. I have yet to hear any water cooler chat about the Kardashians or the Jodi Arias trial, but maybe I just have not found those people yet. Maybe there will be some Amanda Knox chatter this morning.

A House Is Not A Home (Part 2 of 3)

Here goeth the second piece of Big Allbritton News: We are selling the house. There are a number of small fixes and replacements that we need to make before we put the "For Sale" sign in the front yard, but within the next month, we should be trying to move it.

I am sadder about this and have shed more tears over this house. I am ashamed to admit neither. I AM the brown house with the blue door. It is MY blue door and no one who comes after me will appreciate it as I do, if they keep it at all. Gasp. This house gave my boys somewhere to stick to when we were living in a tornado. We made ourselves a family here to wait for their dad to come home. But, it's time for us to move along on our next adventure.

Working nine to five (Part 1 of 3)

I am going to come clean about one of the changes I have alluded to in an earlier post. On February 22nd, I left my job with the City and armed with lots of prospects but nothing solid, went to my couch for a bit. 

Why? It was time for both of us.  The commuting two days a week, leaving while it was still dark and coming home barely in time to tuck my kiddos in had taken its toll. In addition, the need to be equally attentive to my computer and Blackberry at the same time my kids were demanding food was overwhelming and ended in tears more than I'd like to recount. I had filled a specific need in the Administration when they asked me to come on board, and budget constraints and reorganization made that need obsolete. 

Good for your body, and it's good for your soul

If you're not from Louisiana, you probably don't know that's a lyric from "Hey Pocky Way."

Even though Jake Allbritton told me he did not like parades, I knew that he had not been to a parade in the time he has been with me, which is almost three years now. Too bad he cannot stay home by himself, because I certainly dragged his ass to New Orleans for Lundi Gras to catch two parades - Proteus and Orpheus.

I should mention here that while I was working at Mardi Gras on Saturday night, I may or may not have informed Mariska Hargitay that we were best friends, had been for fourteen years. She thought this was funny enough to laugh from her belly and agree with me, but apparently not true enough to give me her phone number. It's okay. We know what we mean to each other. She recognized me from her parade float - smiled, waved and threw at me once, pointed and threw at me a second time. Then I got to hear Landen behind me say "That chick from Law and Order knows Nell!"

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.

It has been almost six months since my last post. We have experienced a hiatus on this blog while we went through some things. Things that I was not ready to talk about here, and I did not know how to write without talking about it. And because life is a sequence of beautiful and awful events, things are still going down over here. It's almost time to talk about some of them. I have to figure out the appropriate way to talk about others. I'm going to talk about all of it, because the stories are good, because writing them is cathartic, because one day I want my boys to read them and know the hard things we have done.

Also, while I'm still thinking about how to talk to the Internets again, I'm going to give the blog a facelift. When I bring it back, you will know what the hiatus was for, and we will start to discuss it, slowly, in pieces, then.