HONESTLY.

My head is NOT ATTACHED to my shoulders right now. I managed to fuck up a dinner party invitation. I thought it was tomorrow night. NOPE! Turns out it's about to start in thirty minutes. Good thing I have a sitter for tomorrow night, right? Riiiiiiiiiiiight. Dammit to hell. I feel really bad. (apologizing yet again to HDHusband - who should just go anyway. FUCK!)

I have forgotten a lot of things this month. I walk away from project half-completed and stumble upon them later and think, "OH YEAH!! I remember now that I was cleaning out the sinks ... and there's crusty Soft Scrub in them ... huh ...".

What the hell? I'm normally not THIS forgetful. All pregnancy tests negative - that would be my other answer!

Reminds me of that song by India.Arie, actually. Lyrics go:

"Slow down baby, you're going too fast
You got your head in the cloud with your feet on the gas ..."

If that ain't the truth.

Okay, so it's not a boobie shot.

And not that there's anything wrong with boobie shots. In fact, my boobies aren't too shabby. I spent a great deal of the 90's flashing my boobies around. If you were in Denver and happened through LoDo during that time, you probably saw them. There are a few surviving photos. I might put you on the list if you're nice enough.

Instead, I will offer you my face. My nose ring. My eyes. My lips. My whatever else you see here.

Most importantly, I think, is that I offer you 'myself' every time I blog. It's not really just "a bunch of words". It's more than that, actually. I'm lucky enough to have found people throughout this blogging journey who appreciate the words I write.

I'm entirely pleased to have the best readers on the 'net, and I welcome the rest who stumble through here.

"The lyrical content has grown more introspective and less abstract. I don't know if that's good or bad... Sometimes it feels a little raw to be putting so much of myself out there." ~Mark Edwards

Saturday night, we hosted a party at our house.

Kath and Howard were there, among all sorts of old and new friends and neighbors. And I'm sorry a lot of us don't live closer, or YOU would have been at our casa, too!!

I digress.

A few hours before the party, I start trying to figure out what I'm going to wear. In the back of my mind, I knew I had a shirt that was festive-ish, so I figured I would throw that on with some time to spare and be ready to get my holiday GROOVE on.

I put it on.

I realize that not a single one of my bras would work with this shirt. Not ONE.

It's approaching 2 pm on a Saturday afternoon in December, and I realize I'm going to have to go to the MALL.

SAY IT ISN'T SO!

The entire visit at the mall took less than twenty minutes - parking, shopping, buying all wrapped into one. I busted ass out of there, gave up my parking spot to a sweet old woman, and went home. I really and truly lucked out.

Fast forward to the party: While sitting there, relaying this story to a group of friends, one wife pops up and says, "Geez, HDW. Why did you go on Saturday? IT'S NOT LIKE YOU WORK".

And I left the table not long after that. I didn't know what to say, as it really and truly caught me off guard.

Don't work? The hell I DON'T work. What did I spend this last week doing? Busting my ass, taking care of a 33-month-old beast of a child who was intent on making a million messes. I was fighting with the drywall dude and running errands all over creation for him. I was making grocery store runs to have supplies on hand for this party. I was cleaning this house. I was wrapping presents. I was finishing the Christmas cards - all 150 of them!!

I was being busy being a full-time mom, full-time wife, full-time housecleaner, full-time caretaker.

I know it's an old argument. Some people really don't believe stay-at-home mom's do anything. But every working mother I've met that has BEEN the stay-at-home mom believe otherwise. At a dinner party last week, one woman said, "It is the hardest job I have ever had. I went back to work because I needed the break". My mom stayed at home with my brother and me. She kept the house clean, the ranch books up to date, had healthy dinners prepared. It's an honorable thing to do if you can. Some people can't. It's okay either way.

I didn't spend this week fucking around, eating bon-bon's and drinking champagne. I was busy with LIFE. Don't ever assume a mother or father who stays home 'does nothing' and has so much time to do whatever they want.

Sometimes, we, too, have to hit the mall on a Saturday afternoon during December.

I've had the occasion recently to think back to a part of my life that I have successfully avoided thinking about for years. And it's not that I don't think about it, but I tend to give it the General Overview in my mind - removing a lot of the details:

1. Go to college
2. Met amazing people
3. Stayed during Interim in January practicing for theater production
4. Met my college boyfriend (he said, "You got nice eyes" ... aw.)
5. First weekend in February was theater production of "Into The Woods". I was Cinderella's evil stepmother.
6. My dad died a few days later.
7. I left for the funeral.
8. I came back and tried to attend classes.
9. I needed a new roommate when I came back, and KB let me move into her room. I cried all the time, skipped classes.
10. I left officially in March.

THE END

But not really.

After reminiscing with KB yesterday, I realized just how much I'd repressed. Boxed up and filed away under "Try Not To Think About" and cross-referenced under "Too Painful, Indeed". But yesterday, it was almost as if a vault opened up and this little "beaten down tried to be forgotten" part of my history came flooding back.

I remembered seeing my dad standing in the doorway of my dorm room the day they dropped me off at school, crying, as he said goodbye to me. It's awfully impressive to see a grown man cry, you know. We'd had a rough year before, and I'm sure he was just as amazed as I was that I'd managed to get to college at all. He made sure everything was put together in my room, lingered around, and left. I watched their car pull away and then I cried.

I remembered standing behind the curtains of the stage on opening night (of the play), watching my dad and mom walk in for the performance. One of my friend's came up behind me and said, "Your dad is such a handsome guy!". I can still see him in my mind's eye: reading the program, adjusting his glasses, looking so proud. I felt so proud having him there.

I remembered standing on the stage at the auditorium during choir practice a few nights later, and the pearl on my ring (the one he had given me for my high school graduation) falling off. It bounced down all those wooden bleachers. We searched and searched and never found the pearl. I left practice and went back to my dorm room, called home, and left a message for my dad. I told him I lost the pearl and I was really sorry. I was also feeling shitty about the way I had ended our last phone call. I had been upset with him and hung up on him, all over a phone bill. And he was right, but I didn't know how to handle that then. So I apologized to the machine and asked him to call me back.

I remember then going to my boyfriend's room across campus. He had given me his stuffed half-frog/half-fish that he'd named 'Phil the Frig', because he thought I might need it that night. I was so upset about losing that pearl and that phone call. I went back to my room with Phil the Frig and hoped there was a message from my dad. There wasn't. I thought for sure he must be really upset if he didn't call me back.

The next morning, I awaken to my RA in the doorway of my room. My roommate had already left for her early class. My RA told me I needed to get up, that my aunt and uncle were coming up to school to talk with me. She told me to get dressed, brush my teeth, and told me I could come to her room for some breakfast. We had Cheerios. I watched a montage on the television about Nicole Brown-Simpson, and they played "I Will Stand By You" by the Pretenders. I thought it was such a pretty song.

And of course, I knew something was up.

I was quite sure my aunt and uncle (who lived about two hours from school) were coming to chew my ass about that phone bill. It made perfect sense to me. My parents had sent them up to do some sort of intervention on my phone useage. (God, it sounds so silly now!!)

I got bored, I walked the halls. I ran into my campus minister in the lobby of our dorm. I wondered why she was there. She looked at me the same way. I kept walking. I walked by KB's room. I wasn't living there yet, but I remember passing her door and reading the notes people had written to her on the door board. I walked back to my RA's room and waited some more.

And then ... and then my aunt and uncle walked into the room. And the campus minister was with them. And my uncle was crying. And my aunt said, "HDW, you need to call home".

I remember saying, "Call ... who?"

She said, "Call your mom".

Dear Jesus. What happened? Who was it? My brother. I bet it was my brother. He was also doing stupid things. He'd escaped death twice in a swimming pool accidents (he was in a coma once!). Was it one of my grandparents? Oh GOD. What had happened??

I dialed the phone. Everybody was quietly waiting. No answer. I hung up. I called again. This time, a woman from my church picked up and handed the phone to my mom. I heard a room full of people at my house go eerily quiet.

And the words ... oh man, the words I'll never forget: "HDW, we lost your dad last night".

LOST? No! You can't LOSE a man who was the pillar of strength, grace and love. He was just fine. I had JUST seen him. He wasn't DEAD. There must be some sort of mistake in all of this. God had the wrong person and I'd wake up and this would all be over.

I threw the phone down, fell over and passed out. When I came to, my aunt was holding me and crying (her brother had just died), and everyone in the else in the room was crying. I screamed. And I kept screaming until my voice was raw and my body was limp.

It was 8:00 in the morning on a beautiful winter day. And my daddy was gone.

Coming out into the dorm hallway, the girls were walking out of their rooms to see what the screaming was for. I hated them all. I hated them all for still having their dad's and a normal life and being able to call their dad's at that moment and tell them they loved them.

And what did I learn later?

I learned that when that pearl fell off, my dad had his massive heart attack. And my baby brother tried doing the CPR he had just learned in school days before.

I learned that when I left that message for him, they were pronouncing him dead at the age of 49. My mom was struggling to call my dad's brother, who was too drunk to come to the phone and hear the news. He woke up the next morning, on his birthday, to find out his brother had died.

I learned that my mom sent my aunt and uncle up early to make sure I wasn't alone when I heard the news. It was the one thing I can say my mom did right - she always said she wanted me to have "one last good night of sleep".

Talking with KB brought so much back. It's been hard to think about. It's been a piece of my life that I talked about for years. I wanted to tell that story and I wanted everyone to understand, as if telling the story would make it make sense to me. As if the more I told it, the better I'd feel.
KB told me that she was worried I would hurt myself, but that thought never crossed my mind. I went bareboned into grief and anger. I felt like I had left this little girl at college and left someone else.

I remembered something else, though. I remembered checking my mail at college after he had died, and there was a letter from him. His perfect handwriting. He had written my name and mailed it the day he died.

Of course, it was the PHONE BILL with a note attached that he was sorry we had such a rough ending to our conversation, but he wanted me to know I needed to be more careful, etc.

He signed it "Love, Dad".

And finally, after all these years, I have learned the lessons I was given. I have made peace with this part of my life, and I have found a way to heal. I love who I am today. I know I wouldn't be where am I now, but more imporantly - WHO I am now - without having had this experience.

And that reminds me:

If nothing ever changed, there'd be no butterflies. ~Author Unknown

It's Love Thursday!

I love this photo of our little family (circa 1978) for a few reasons:

1. My grandma took this photo, and in every photo she has ever taken, someone is cut off or out of focus. Her other 'usual' is to write in black pen or marker on the front of the photo who everyone is. I see this photo escaped that wrath ...

2. My son looks almost exactly like me at this age (two). And my mom has made my outfit, so with a 'boy name' and 'boy clothes', I was well on my way to earning the nickname "Fred" by the lady at the drugstore downtown. She called me for years and years after.

3. My dad has a hot sweater on (so stylin'!), but more importantly, he's sporting a package of Swisher Sweets cigars. And if he's got those in his pocket, it means this was my mom's side of the family over to our house for Christmas. My dad's parents would have been horrified. He left a Swisher Sweet (half-sucked on, ack) on the table one year, and I ate it all. My mom was so upset with him.

4. That piano. I'm still so sad my mom sold it - it was such a beautiful piece of work. I remember sitting at that piano the day they took it away, crying. I loved that piano.

5. It's Christmas 1978, and I pulled the Christmas tree over on myself that year. My mom said she heard a crash, ran into the living room, and the tree was toppled over, me underneath mumbling, and the ornaments scattered around. She put it up on a table after that.

So what do I love this week?

I love old photos, and I love thinking back to happier times. They seemed happier then, anyway. I have no doubt that there wasn't unhappiness and issues and trouble in our lives and certainly in the world.

But in my world, then, everything was just alright.

"What we remember from childhood we remember forever - permanent ghosts, stamped, inked, imprinted, eternally seen." ~Cynthia Ozick

That's right, folks! You heard it here first (or again, probably ...) - I'm a finalist for the Best Diarist Award over at The 2006 Weblog Awards. Howard at The Web Pen Blog nominated me a while back (thanks, Howard!), and the finalists were just announced.

It's my understanding that the voting starts tomorrow (Thursday). When the polls open, get over there and vote! Or else!! Or else nothing, really.

It's just super cool to be nominated.

PS You'll find some really other neat blogs in those categories, as well. I've discovered a lot of lesser known blogs that are now becoming favorites ...

HDW:I have a canker sore and you know what? when I was decorating the tree, I put an ornament in my mouth for a second and got the hanger stuck
RIGHT ON IT
Fyrchk:: so that's awesome
now your christmas ornaments have herpes
HDW:: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH
passing down memories from generation to generation
Fyrchk: DECK THE HALLS WITH HERPES SIMPLEX 1
HDW: ah yes, the Xmas mommy had mouth sores
Fyrhck:FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA
HDW: falalalalalala tis the season to buy some Herpacin falallalalaalalalal dawn we now our pussed out apparel flalalalallalalallala tis the season to ...
Fyrhck:: troll the ancient yuletide open oozing sores
me: flalalalallalalalallalalalalalalalla

(This message brought to you by the makers of Kanka. 'Cause that shit doesn't work.)

I have a friend who has the right idea; when the people in charge of renovating her basement kept fucking around and not getting it done, she became a contractor herself. She's licensed and everything. She's onto something, folks.

For the better part of forever, I've had to deal with electricians, plumbers, painters and drywallers. I've dealt with every sort of repairman you can think of, almost all due to HDH's fish tank fuck-up's (so sorry, HDH, but it's true).

It's getting really, really, really old.

And when it's not been related to the fish tank, it's been some fun faux painting I've had in mind for the dining room. The woman was recommended by a neighbor. She busted in the bathroom while I was showering because the sound of running water 'scared her'. She thought there was an intruder in the house. Honestly.

Now, we (meaning: me) have been dealing with the latest drywall issue. There was a minor leak with the fish tank, and it ruined the ceiling in our basement (right under the tank). I called and called drywall companies; no one would call me back. When HDH started calling, of course, we started getting calls.

We had a few bids once things were all said and done. All agreed to paint, which was big for me. I had to supply the paint and primer, but that wasn't too big of a deal for me. Probably cheaper for us in the long rung. Whatever.

Drywall guy and his team show up last Thursday. They work pretty hard Thurs-Sat. They had been showing up at 8:15 almost every morning, taking small breaks, and staying until 6:00.

I swear I heard the "Hallelujah!" chorus.

I told the Head Guy that he should tell me how much paint to get, and how much/what kind of primer to pick up, as well. I wanted to get it done last Friday so I could spend this week getting ready for our big party we're hosting here at the casa. I run my errands, feeling all so proud of myself that I'm knocking this shit OUT. I buy the paint, I get the primer, and I'm home in time for lunch.

And then today ...

I'm waiting for them to show up.I'm also waiting for the Jackass Catering Company from last night to show up and pick up their leftover crap. (I have no idea when that tool finally arrived, but I dumped all of that shit on the front prorch)

8:30 passes. 9:30 passes. 10:30 passes. I need to drop the Bug off at daycare and get my errands/appt's done, so I leave a message for the Head Guy. Somewhere around Noon he calls back with this message:

"Yah, we'll be there, but we can't show up until you have the paint we need and the primer. But I don't want that first kind of primer I told you about. I want a special kind called HDWDOESNTGIVEARATSASSKIND. It has to be this kind because of the water damage, not the other kind."

First problem:
1. See, I already BOUGHT the paint, so if they've been fucking around all morning because they didn't think I had it, when the crew KNEW I had it already, then they can suck shit.
2. You KNEW there was water damage, YaAss, so why not ask me to get that 'special kind' then??

But, because I am determined to have this project completed and these guys out of my house before the party (as well as the second coming of CHRIST for all I know), I dutifully truck over to a paint store for this 'special primer'.

They don't have it, of course.

Go to a second store. They have the primer type he wants, but not the name brand. MAKES NO DIFFERENCE TO ME. I have the following exchange with the Paint Store Guy:

Him: What are you looking for?
Me: Fuck if I know. I'm supposed to buy "name brand" primer.
Him: We don't have that, but we have something that's the same, but better than that kind.
Me: Fine. Whatever.
Him: Anything else?
Me: Yes. A drywall guy who buys his own shit would be nice.

I head home, drop it off, and get a phone call from the Head Guy.

Him: Make sure it's water based, not oil based.
Me: Uh ... hmm. It doesn't say ANYWHERE on the can if it's one or the other?
Him: It HAS to.
Me: It DOESn't.
Him: Look again.
Me: Swear, I can read - and I don't see water or oil.

My patience is running thin about now.

One of his worker bee shows up, I make him look for water or oil based label (which he doesn't see either) and pronounces the primer 'just fine'. I am relieved. Finally, someone is here, and they can start finishing up this freaking project already.

About 30 minutes later, I'm sitting right here, in my cozy little computer chair, and the guy comes up the stairs.

Him: HDW?
Me: Yes?
Him: I have a question for you ... Head Guy wants to know: do you, by any chance, have a paint dropcloth?

And here, folks, is where my head (I believe) spun around in slow motion, I ripped his head off, and shat down his neck stump. Twice.

Me: No. I don't believe I'd have that.
Him (and I quote): You're right. You wouldn't have this. Why would you? We're the painters. I'll tell Head Guy to just buy one.

HOLY. CRAP.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME!??!?!

They've already borrowed:
1. a ladder
2. a flashlight
3. a broom
4. a dustpan
5. a fan
6. and a partridge in a pear tree

Head Guy tells me they'll be done on Wednesday. They'll clean everything up ... if we could loan them our vacuum cleaner.

I love watching NFL football. I have watched it since I was a little girl. When football season is over, it's a bit depressing. I actually have to find things to do on Sunday afternoon's. I love firing up some chili, sitting on the couch, watching football.

This year has been different.

This year, HotDoctorHusband joined a Fantasty Football league. Seemed innocent enough in the beginning, you see. He and some guys from work piled into our basement many months ago, little dorky spreadsheets and laptops and phones in hand (all Jerry McGuire-ish) and spent HOURS down there bickering over kickers, quarterbacks, rules and what not.

HDH has spent countless hours of all days of the week "checking scores". All he does is "check scores".

"HDW, I'll be up there in a minute - but I have to check my score. The Smirker is beating me and I won't fucking have that shit!".

They've started calling one of the other players "The Smirker". They honestly do rounds of trash talking on the internet all week long. My favorite was, "I need a morning after pill after the screwing you guys gave me in the draft".

But back to The Smriker: he is winning, kicking their asses in fantasy football and taking names later. This just pisses my husband off to no end.

And not in the "It's just a FANTASY FOOTBALL LEAGUE AND NOT REAL" kind of way. OH NO! It's almost a level of anger of The Smirker showed up at our home and pipebombed the hell of it. And even then, I don't think he'd get a signficant response unless he said, "You should have played Romo and you suck, HDH!!".

Yesterday (after putting it off for a while and then needing it done before a reception at our house last night), we decorated the Christmas tree. It was early enough in the morning, so I figured I was safe in assuming HDH would be available to help. Oh no, how SILLY OF ME! He'd throw on a few ornaments, say, "Oh, this is my favorite time of year!", and in a cloud of dust, he'd be gone. You'd find him in front of the television, with his laptop, bitching about how such and such a guy should have been played, and why the hell did so and so miss that pass, and "Goddamn it! Seriously, HDW. They are killing me!!", how The Smirker better not win, how he shouldn't at all come to this reception last night, and how (and this is direct quote), "I'm not playing this game ANYMORE!! And do you want to know why? Because it RUINS my Sundays! My whole Sunday goes to SHIT!"

I asked him if he was going to take his "fantasy football and go home then".

Here is my plan for next year:

I will kick The Smirker in the balls when he comes calling next year and asks my husband to play this game. Square in the nuts. No problem-o. I will take their stupid fantasy scouting reports and shove them up their fantasy butts. I wonder if in their fantasy world of football, do they have fantasy girlfriends as well? I hope they are kicking their asses, too.

Edit:

Phone call at the present:

HDH: I told The Smirker that we could host a party here in January for play-off's in fantasy football.
HDW: Okay.
HDH. Well, I mean, I've had a good time other than my whining.
HDW: Uh-huh.
HDH: The Smirker asked if you would be okay with this party and I said, "of course! My wife loves watching me in misery." (insert long rant here about Steven Jackson, Jesus Christ, you know, OH NO, now we get personal and screw me over ...)