Oh my word. How terrifying is this? WE ARE BUYING A HOUSE. A HOUSE. It's pretty much the biggest purchase of your life, right? I mean, at least until your rich enough to afford an even nicer house. But the first one is terrifying. Maybe all of them are terrifying. I don't know yet. But this first one certainly is.
There are so many things you don't know beforehand. So many things you don't know how to understand. There are abbreviations, and taxes, and expenses... things you never knew you didn't know. Words you are given long before you understand the meaning of.
Well now I'm in the throws of it. Sick of apartment life, my husband and I set out to find our dream home for our dream price. There are so many things I hate about house shopping. You always have to compromise somewhere. You find a two car garage, but it only has one bathroom. You find a beautiful big blue house on the corner, but the kitchen is still locked in the 50's. You find a perfect house in a terrible, scary neighborhood, or an almost perfect house in a perfect neighborhood 100,000 bucks out of your price range. You find a home-sweet-home for the perfect price an hour away from your husband's workplace.
Pretty soon every new construction begins to look the same, and things you thought you couldn't live with or without seem totally negotiable.
We loved our mortgage broker right off the bat. She was so communicative, positive, upbeat. So encouraging. She taught me a lot. I had no idea that everyone has THREE credit scores. Three of them. Why wasn't I taught that in high school? Every credit score commercial I have ever seen, there has only ever been one number sitting there on the screen. But no. You have three. And the one they usually go with is the one in the middle. And checking your credit score for a mortgage actually lowers it by 6 points. Every time. You can check it multiple times a month as long as it's for the same thing (such as a mortgage or getting a car). But every different month you check it, it drops. However, it's surprisingly easy to build your credit back up. It can be as simple as making your payments on time. That is something that I didn't know. When we first went to the mortgage broker, we didn't get approved. We knew we wouldn't. But she was able to give us a few simple steps to help our credit shoot up to where we needed it to be, and a few short months later, we got pre-approved. She threw around words like Fannie and Freddie... I nodded along like I knew what she was talking about, but I had to ask my mom what that meant later. They're the loan agents or whatever. They were probably people a long long time ago, but now their just labels for companies that turn a profit by lending you funds to make real life possible.
A few days after pre-approval, I was already fed up with every house on the market, scared that we'd never be able to afford something worth living in, and completely falling out of love with the idea of moving.
Our realtor was harder to like for me. On our first meeting I kind of let my husband run the show He pays attention to things like neighborhoods and directions... things like "North side of town". If someone asked you if you lived on the "North side of town" would you even know?? I would have no idea. I've never looked at my town on a map! So I let him say all the things that were important to him, and I felt so left out of the whole process. I was so discouraged, and I really didn't like her. I felt like she should have been more interested in my opinion, asked me more questions. But she didn't. So I left her out of the house finding process until I was truly ready to give up. And then she texted. I just said all of the things I'd been thinking and feeling and finally said what I was looking for. Within the afternoon, she had a house for us to look at. That was the moment I fell for her too. Hahaha! She was so upbeat and helpful. We liked that first house we looked at a lot. We were able to narrow down what we were looking for a lot by looking at that first house. The very next day she called us and told us she had found it: Our home.
That morning, Petal called me and told me not to leave the apartment because a man had attempted to kill his girlfriend the night before in our apartment complex. That he was on the lamb and was last seen with a knife. Needless to say, by the time we drove to the house that evening, I was ready to fall in love with it. But it went above and beyond my expectations. I loved everything about it. And where we live, the market is hot. Very competetive. She told us to jump and we did. It was so scary. But we made an offer at 6:30 that evening and by 8:50 the next morning we were under contract.
Buyer's remorse set in this afternoon. It's not that it's not home. And it's not that I want to back out or give up on this process. But there are things that you overlook when you've just found home. And when you get a moment to think about living with two sets of stairs to get into your front door every day... when you have a moment to think about buying paint and a washer and dryer and putting in a fence, it gets a little stressful and you start to second guess going 15,000 dollars over budget.
Since my husband is in the military, we're getting VA loan, which is really really nice. No down payment, if interest rates drop, you can go in any time and resign the paperwork to get a better deal. Realtors and brokers waive their fees as a thank you for the service. Most of the time, they can get the sellers to pay for closing costs and things like that. But it's not all roses. It's a lot better than it could be. But it's certainly not perfect. We are not one of the lucky ones, and the closing costs will be on us. We have to pay for the loan appraisal and a home inspection and a radon test and a sewer scope and "good faith" money. It's all incredibly expensive and stressful.
But we get good news, that the house has passed inspection with very little negatives. The radon test passed with flying colors. It's happiness in the household. This afternoon we got the results of the sewer scope. It's an hundred dollar optional test that we thought good and hard about opting out of. Thank GOD we didn't. That 100 dollar test saved us 4,000!! Because we caught the horror show that they called a sewer system before the house closed, the current owners are liable to fix it. Yay! Take all the options, people. DO NOT OPT OUT OF THE TESTS!!
I'm still scared, and excited, and nervous, and so very ready to move. Oh. Yeah. They caught the man who tried to kill his girlfriend in our apartment complex was caught hundreds of miles away in the capital. Still. Terrifying. And last night our kitchen sink took a dive and is now sitting in the cabinet that used to be beneath it. So the stress never ends, and the house looks better than ever.
Monday, November 21, 2016
Tuesday, October 4, 2016
Astrology
Now, I'm not one to buy into something like the stars defining who we are... but reading about your personality through the glass of a theory is pretty interesting.
I think we often do our best to define ourselves... whether it's through stupid quizzes, what we enjoy, or a very strange pseudoscience of reading the stars we were born under. But recently I started reading different sites about astrology, and I have to say, I'm fascinated by it.
I'm a Pisces. And my husband is a Gemini. And if you know anything about astrology, those two signs aren't usually recommended to go together. I rule by my heart, he rules by his head. He is calm and cool and collected, and if I range from furious to playful to sobbing in a day, it's been a pretty normal day for me. But I suppose that's true for most women and guys. Reading about our compatibility was a little heartbreaking, because it felt... accurate. Places it would say we disagree, we do. Things it said we'd have a hard time getting past, we have. And hurt feelings from a complete misunderstanding based on a fundamental personality point... have happened. I'm sure there's not much to these silly theories. And anytime someone says, "This is who you are", you'll try to find pieces of yourself. But at the same time, I can't shake the feeling that I might have robbed him from finding bliss with someone better suited for his calm. Because I read about what life would be like for my Gemini if he had ended up with a Sagittarius. And what's worse... is I know who his Sagittarius would have been.
She wore white to my wedding and sobbed as we said our "I do's". She was there first. She is loved by his mother. She is friendly and child-like and calm. And I'm not saying I stole him or anything like that... if he had truly wanted to be with her, he would have been. But he never was and never really wanted to be.
But with all the drama between his mother and me, I can't help but wonder if I lured him into a chaotic life... one he could have avoided if he had just... "Married the girl of his youth" as the verse his mother read at our wedding said.
His mother is quite passionate about astrology. Mostly because she likes to fit everyone into neat, definable boxes. She will hear two facts about someone, label them and stick them into their box and if they ever try to crawl out, she will be utterly lost. Her passion for it was why I looked into it in the first place. I wanted to find some common ground. I wanted to find a way to communicate with this strange creature.
She is a Leo. And again, Leos and Pisces' don't exactly get along. At all. We are both based in love, but go about it completely differently. I am fluid, sensitive, and idealistic. She is stubborn, direct to the point of insensitivity, and grounded. I am surrounded by the energy of Neptune (if you believe in that) which could be construed as deceitful and fake, and she is surrounded by the energy of bringing Neptune to it's fall (whatever that means), and therefore is on a warpath to reveal my lies. Even if I'm not lying. We will never have trust between us, not naturally anyway... Because our personalities tell us the other is hiding something, manipulating the situation, and being dishonest. It was summed up as her thinking I'm too spacey, and me feeling sorry for her.
And reading that is shocking because it's so close to how I feel whenever I'm with her.
Maybe one day I will blog about my side of the chaos between us... Really talk about the hurt that has happened... the devision that has driven me so far from wanting a relationship with this woman who gave me the man I love. But not today.
Today I wanted to say that astrology is interesting. And it makes you think.
I think we often do our best to define ourselves... whether it's through stupid quizzes, what we enjoy, or a very strange pseudoscience of reading the stars we were born under. But recently I started reading different sites about astrology, and I have to say, I'm fascinated by it.
I'm a Pisces. And my husband is a Gemini. And if you know anything about astrology, those two signs aren't usually recommended to go together. I rule by my heart, he rules by his head. He is calm and cool and collected, and if I range from furious to playful to sobbing in a day, it's been a pretty normal day for me. But I suppose that's true for most women and guys. Reading about our compatibility was a little heartbreaking, because it felt... accurate. Places it would say we disagree, we do. Things it said we'd have a hard time getting past, we have. And hurt feelings from a complete misunderstanding based on a fundamental personality point... have happened. I'm sure there's not much to these silly theories. And anytime someone says, "This is who you are", you'll try to find pieces of yourself. But at the same time, I can't shake the feeling that I might have robbed him from finding bliss with someone better suited for his calm. Because I read about what life would be like for my Gemini if he had ended up with a Sagittarius. And what's worse... is I know who his Sagittarius would have been.
She wore white to my wedding and sobbed as we said our "I do's". She was there first. She is loved by his mother. She is friendly and child-like and calm. And I'm not saying I stole him or anything like that... if he had truly wanted to be with her, he would have been. But he never was and never really wanted to be.
But with all the drama between his mother and me, I can't help but wonder if I lured him into a chaotic life... one he could have avoided if he had just... "Married the girl of his youth" as the verse his mother read at our wedding said.
His mother is quite passionate about astrology. Mostly because she likes to fit everyone into neat, definable boxes. She will hear two facts about someone, label them and stick them into their box and if they ever try to crawl out, she will be utterly lost. Her passion for it was why I looked into it in the first place. I wanted to find some common ground. I wanted to find a way to communicate with this strange creature.
She is a Leo. And again, Leos and Pisces' don't exactly get along. At all. We are both based in love, but go about it completely differently. I am fluid, sensitive, and idealistic. She is stubborn, direct to the point of insensitivity, and grounded. I am surrounded by the energy of Neptune (if you believe in that) which could be construed as deceitful and fake, and she is surrounded by the energy of bringing Neptune to it's fall (whatever that means), and therefore is on a warpath to reveal my lies. Even if I'm not lying. We will never have trust between us, not naturally anyway... Because our personalities tell us the other is hiding something, manipulating the situation, and being dishonest. It was summed up as her thinking I'm too spacey, and me feeling sorry for her.
And reading that is shocking because it's so close to how I feel whenever I'm with her.
Maybe one day I will blog about my side of the chaos between us... Really talk about the hurt that has happened... the devision that has driven me so far from wanting a relationship with this woman who gave me the man I love. But not today.
Today I wanted to say that astrology is interesting. And it makes you think.
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Married life in Year 2
Many many many things have changed since I first walked down the aisle. Hell... many things have changed since I met this man I call "Petal". But focusing purely on married life... So many things are better. I can't think of a single thing that is worse... apart from my relationship with his mother, but hey! I think we all saw that one coming.
The thing about marriage is, you always THINK you know what it'll be like... who you'll be inside of a marriage. I for one, was SURE that I would be a "cool" wife. I wouldn't nag, I'd be understanding, I'd sit through football games and video games, and say "Yes" more than I said no. I wouldn't nag or care if he left the toilet seat up, or where he squeezed the toothpaste tube.
And for the most part, I think I am a cool wife.
But I am also a nag. I HATE being a nag. But you just eventually get to this place where it's either, "Ask him to do this, do it yourself, or live with it the way it is." And all three pretty much suck, so the least I can do is spread the suck-age and make his life suck a little too. Hahaha! I am sorry, I don't actually want to make his life suck. I just wonder sometimes why women have this caregiving instinct and guys don't.
My sister just got married. And for a long time I didn't really like the guy. I didn't know him, and I lived faraway and it felt like everyone else in my family was moving forward in this awesome new life and I was left behind, alone with my husband on an island as they all fell in love with this new guy. I was also jealous, because they never fell in love with Petal the same way. Possibly because we met and a month later he moved to Guam, so our whole relationship was via skype messages. But still. It hurt. I went home and spent a month helping fix up our farm to the Shabby-Chic wedding, and along the way, I drank that damned kool-aid and fell in love with her husband to be too. ^_^ The truly amazing thing about my sister finding the man of her dreams, is that he was the man of our dreams for her too! And I am so happy to call him BIL.
And the other awesome thing about them getting married... well, you need a little backstory.
My sister is the head-in-the-clouds, ooey-gooey, freaky-deaky type... the type of person to fall in love so completely that she forgets there are other people in the world... the type of person (and this is a literal conversation that we had) that even if she found out he was her half-brother... she would still commit to him and love him and stay with him forever.
I am not that kind of person. Not at all. For me, love was always a choice. A choice I had control over. A commitment wasn't something I did because I couldn't help myself, it wasn't something I was so overcome with FEEEEEEELings, I had to do... it was a conscious choice to be with someone I understood wasn't perfect. And I'm not saying there's anything wrong with the way my older sister loves. It just wasn't the way I fell in love.
And over the course of my marriage, I have had to do a lot of scary things... I had to commit to someone I knew I loved, but had had very little actually physical contact with. I had to leave everyone and everything I knew to go be with this one person I had gotten to know through a computer screen. I had to quit my job, stop going to school, leave my community. I had to go live with a man (one of the strangest things a girl will ever have to do), and say goodbye to everyone. My family. My friends. My pets. And suddenly he became my whole world. I ate, slept, spoke to only him for the most part. My whole support system was 6,000 miles away. Everything familiar was very very faraway.
So needless to say, there was a lot of anxiety, a lot of fear, a lot of issues, a lot of adjustment. There were a lot of happy things too, but I could only really report the strange things, the foreign, the upsettingly different... Back to my family. Because I wanted them to know how different it was. But it came out very complain-y... to the point where it was too upsetting to my mother for me to even talk about. And my sister was completely convinced that I made a mistake, that he was a ruiner, and that I would never be happy again.
As a disclaimer, my family is very understanding, but the whole situation was so stressful, and they didn't know him, and I got into the bad habit of taking every little thing that was unexpected or different or discouraging and making every conversation I had with my family about that. All in all, it added up to a lot of hurt and confusion.
Anyway. My sister started comparing her starry-eyed version of her boyfriend, to my bad-habit-complainy version of my husband, and it turned into a mess. She hated my hubby, my hubby and I hated her boyfriend, her boyfriend hated me and my hubby, and I was at a total loss because out of everyone in the world, my sister understood me best. And she didn't understand. It really hurt.
I kept wondering why she didn't get it? Why didn't she understand that I was just venting, that I loved him. That he made me happy. That he could be both things... annoying and slobby and inconsiderate, but also my heart and soul, the happiest thing in my life, and my true love?
My sister is married now. And suddenly all these things that she had no idea how I could possibly put up with... are a reality for her as well. And it's so much better now.
There are these difference between how a man and a woman work. A woman will see the socks on the ground. A man will not. A woman will know if she wants to eat the leftovers, she will have to wrap them in plastic wrap and stick them in the fridge before they go bad on the counter. A man will just be annoyed that it's gone bad. A woman will know that comfort is found in clean sheets (both a top and a bottom!!), room to sit on a couch, and food on the table. A man will nuzzle down in his laundry covered bed and be confused why his back hurts from sleeping on the lumps.
When I came home from my month of helping with the wedding, my house was a mess. I have dogs, and there was pee all over the floor. The child we had left in charge of our fur-babies had an emergency surgery and didn't let us know, so they were left in the hands of a stranger (her boyfriend) that didn't know his head from his ass. This was without our knowledge of course. I walk in the door and immediately get to work. I take the dogs out, I give them baths, I scrub dried urine off the floor, mop up fresh puddles, scrub dried diarrhea from the cracks in the laminate... I then sweep a month's worth of dog hair up (that's a lot of dog hair with my short-haired dog, it's a nightmare) and go to work with a bottle of bleach and my Shark, which has randomly decided to stop working, so it's a pretty pointless process which leaves my floor stickier than it started, so I have to go over it again with just water. The whole process took me two hours. I also had to change the sheets on the bed and start a month's worth of laundry (pee soaked towels from 2 weeks ago, when my husband was home. It smelled AWFUL), plus get dinner started, strip the couch which may or may not have been peed on, bring in ALL of the luggage from our trips, and unpack it.
In this time, I have to ask my husband to do the little things... sweep the bathroom, clean out the kennel, take the dogs out a second time, take out the trash, sweep the dog hair that my dog as ALREADY spread over my swept floor. And every time I turn around, he's disappeared. He finishes a chore and thinks he's done. I find him sprawled out on a sheet-less bed, sitting on the toilet clipping his toenails, on the stripped couch, checking his fantasy football. It doesn't occur to him to pitch in. He doesn't see the mess. He smells it, I know that. But he doesn't actually know what to do.
How?? How do I know, and he doesn't? How is he blind to it and I have to tell him every single time. I asked him later, "Why do you think you have to be asked to do stuff?" He shrugged and said, "I don't know." I said, "I mean, if you think about it, how much do you have to ask me to do? Like, how many times have I asked you to take the dogs out, versus how many times you've asked me? Why do I know to do stuff, and you have to be asked?" And he laughed and said, "I don't know. You're right though. You keep my on track. I know I've asked you to take the dogs out though." And he's right. But he's also missing the point.
I'm not telling this story to bitch about my husband. Even with the 4 hours of work I put in after a 20 car trip, I was in a brilliant mood. I am so happy to be reunited with my husband (I was in Cali for 3 weeks before he joined me, and then we stayed for another 2.), so happy to be home, so happy to be with my pets. I am joyful. I am back in my element, back in my comfort zone, away from drama (from visiting his family). He's jovial, understanding, willing to talk about anything, willing to listen.
After everything, I was putting away a load of laundry, he comes up and hugs me so tight and says, "You are amazing. You could have come home and thrown a hissy fit, you could have gotten really foul and mean and mad, but instead you just worked your butt off and fixed it." I laughed and kissed him and said, "Don't get me wrong, I'm definitely mad, but that wouldn't have solved anything. There still would have been pee everywhere." And he just hugs me. And it's all better.
Earlier this evening, my heart went through a roller coaster of emotions... there was this big pile of clean laundry on the bed and Petal came in and said "I can't lie on the bed because of all the stuff." So I apologized and said I would get to it after I finished dinner. A little while later, I went into the bedroom and it was gone. I was astonished and started to say, "Whaaat!! You're so Ama-" and then I walked around the bed and there it was dumped on the floor. I teased him and he teased me back and we put it all away together.
My sister is going through similar things right now with her new husband... She's 7 months pregnant, a teensy bit lazy, and not exactly a fanatic of cleaning, so moving into his house is a little stressful to begin with... Add in the fact that he is an artist who works with clay and stone in his living room, doesn't know how to clean anything up, and is slightly lazy himself, it puts her into a position of feeling very unwelcome in this new place that's supposed to be her home. Plus his family doesn't want her to live there (her in-laws are worse than mine!), so she just feels like she doesn't belong. There's no room for her. She has to convince him to get rid of every tiny insignificant thing to make a little bit of space for her to fit. Add in asking for room for the baby... She's more than a little overwhelmed! And I think some of the shiny-rose tint has gone away for her a little and the love is a little more... well... real. Because love when you see someone as they are, faults and errors and issues and all... That is true love. And I cannot be more happy for her.
She said something that really tickled me in regards to her husband that I want to share: "I love you more than earth and sky and I would brave time wormholes to find you... but if you leave your toenail clippings on the couch ONE MORE TIME I'm going to punch you in the balls. So what I'm learning is that me on my slobbiest, laziest, lay-in-my-own-filth day, that's your average man every single day."
There is nothing quite like having sisters.
These things that you think you'd never put up with... the feeling of you love him just a little bit more than he loves you because you just instinctively know how to take care of him. And when he doesn't seem to know how to reciprocate, it feels inconsiderate. You love him more than anything in all the world, but you still want to bash him in the face a little bit.
I think my sister and I were spoiled... because we were surrounded by women who knew how to pitch in and make our lives easier, and noticed when we did stuff for them, and talked and listened, and thought we were funny and clever and amazing, and now, being alone with this one man-type-person... it's just a little bit less wonderful. Don't get me wrong! It's still wonderful... It's a different kind of wonderful!!
Ain't love odd?
The thing about marriage is, you always THINK you know what it'll be like... who you'll be inside of a marriage. I for one, was SURE that I would be a "cool" wife. I wouldn't nag, I'd be understanding, I'd sit through football games and video games, and say "Yes" more than I said no. I wouldn't nag or care if he left the toilet seat up, or where he squeezed the toothpaste tube.
And for the most part, I think I am a cool wife.
But I am also a nag. I HATE being a nag. But you just eventually get to this place where it's either, "Ask him to do this, do it yourself, or live with it the way it is." And all three pretty much suck, so the least I can do is spread the suck-age and make his life suck a little too. Hahaha! I am sorry, I don't actually want to make his life suck. I just wonder sometimes why women have this caregiving instinct and guys don't.
My sister just got married. And for a long time I didn't really like the guy. I didn't know him, and I lived faraway and it felt like everyone else in my family was moving forward in this awesome new life and I was left behind, alone with my husband on an island as they all fell in love with this new guy. I was also jealous, because they never fell in love with Petal the same way. Possibly because we met and a month later he moved to Guam, so our whole relationship was via skype messages. But still. It hurt. I went home and spent a month helping fix up our farm to the Shabby-Chic wedding, and along the way, I drank that damned kool-aid and fell in love with her husband to be too. ^_^ The truly amazing thing about my sister finding the man of her dreams, is that he was the man of our dreams for her too! And I am so happy to call him BIL.
And the other awesome thing about them getting married... well, you need a little backstory.
My sister is the head-in-the-clouds, ooey-gooey, freaky-deaky type... the type of person to fall in love so completely that she forgets there are other people in the world... the type of person (and this is a literal conversation that we had) that even if she found out he was her half-brother... she would still commit to him and love him and stay with him forever.
I am not that kind of person. Not at all. For me, love was always a choice. A choice I had control over. A commitment wasn't something I did because I couldn't help myself, it wasn't something I was so overcome with FEEEEEEELings, I had to do... it was a conscious choice to be with someone I understood wasn't perfect. And I'm not saying there's anything wrong with the way my older sister loves. It just wasn't the way I fell in love.
And over the course of my marriage, I have had to do a lot of scary things... I had to commit to someone I knew I loved, but had had very little actually physical contact with. I had to leave everyone and everything I knew to go be with this one person I had gotten to know through a computer screen. I had to quit my job, stop going to school, leave my community. I had to go live with a man (one of the strangest things a girl will ever have to do), and say goodbye to everyone. My family. My friends. My pets. And suddenly he became my whole world. I ate, slept, spoke to only him for the most part. My whole support system was 6,000 miles away. Everything familiar was very very faraway.
So needless to say, there was a lot of anxiety, a lot of fear, a lot of issues, a lot of adjustment. There were a lot of happy things too, but I could only really report the strange things, the foreign, the upsettingly different... Back to my family. Because I wanted them to know how different it was. But it came out very complain-y... to the point where it was too upsetting to my mother for me to even talk about. And my sister was completely convinced that I made a mistake, that he was a ruiner, and that I would never be happy again.
As a disclaimer, my family is very understanding, but the whole situation was so stressful, and they didn't know him, and I got into the bad habit of taking every little thing that was unexpected or different or discouraging and making every conversation I had with my family about that. All in all, it added up to a lot of hurt and confusion.
Anyway. My sister started comparing her starry-eyed version of her boyfriend, to my bad-habit-complainy version of my husband, and it turned into a mess. She hated my hubby, my hubby and I hated her boyfriend, her boyfriend hated me and my hubby, and I was at a total loss because out of everyone in the world, my sister understood me best. And she didn't understand. It really hurt.
I kept wondering why she didn't get it? Why didn't she understand that I was just venting, that I loved him. That he made me happy. That he could be both things... annoying and slobby and inconsiderate, but also my heart and soul, the happiest thing in my life, and my true love?
My sister is married now. And suddenly all these things that she had no idea how I could possibly put up with... are a reality for her as well. And it's so much better now.
There are these difference between how a man and a woman work. A woman will see the socks on the ground. A man will not. A woman will know if she wants to eat the leftovers, she will have to wrap them in plastic wrap and stick them in the fridge before they go bad on the counter. A man will just be annoyed that it's gone bad. A woman will know that comfort is found in clean sheets (both a top and a bottom!!), room to sit on a couch, and food on the table. A man will nuzzle down in his laundry covered bed and be confused why his back hurts from sleeping on the lumps.
When I came home from my month of helping with the wedding, my house was a mess. I have dogs, and there was pee all over the floor. The child we had left in charge of our fur-babies had an emergency surgery and didn't let us know, so they were left in the hands of a stranger (her boyfriend) that didn't know his head from his ass. This was without our knowledge of course. I walk in the door and immediately get to work. I take the dogs out, I give them baths, I scrub dried urine off the floor, mop up fresh puddles, scrub dried diarrhea from the cracks in the laminate... I then sweep a month's worth of dog hair up (that's a lot of dog hair with my short-haired dog, it's a nightmare) and go to work with a bottle of bleach and my Shark, which has randomly decided to stop working, so it's a pretty pointless process which leaves my floor stickier than it started, so I have to go over it again with just water. The whole process took me two hours. I also had to change the sheets on the bed and start a month's worth of laundry (pee soaked towels from 2 weeks ago, when my husband was home. It smelled AWFUL), plus get dinner started, strip the couch which may or may not have been peed on, bring in ALL of the luggage from our trips, and unpack it.
In this time, I have to ask my husband to do the little things... sweep the bathroom, clean out the kennel, take the dogs out a second time, take out the trash, sweep the dog hair that my dog as ALREADY spread over my swept floor. And every time I turn around, he's disappeared. He finishes a chore and thinks he's done. I find him sprawled out on a sheet-less bed, sitting on the toilet clipping his toenails, on the stripped couch, checking his fantasy football. It doesn't occur to him to pitch in. He doesn't see the mess. He smells it, I know that. But he doesn't actually know what to do.
How?? How do I know, and he doesn't? How is he blind to it and I have to tell him every single time. I asked him later, "Why do you think you have to be asked to do stuff?" He shrugged and said, "I don't know." I said, "I mean, if you think about it, how much do you have to ask me to do? Like, how many times have I asked you to take the dogs out, versus how many times you've asked me? Why do I know to do stuff, and you have to be asked?" And he laughed and said, "I don't know. You're right though. You keep my on track. I know I've asked you to take the dogs out though." And he's right. But he's also missing the point.
I'm not telling this story to bitch about my husband. Even with the 4 hours of work I put in after a 20 car trip, I was in a brilliant mood. I am so happy to be reunited with my husband (I was in Cali for 3 weeks before he joined me, and then we stayed for another 2.), so happy to be home, so happy to be with my pets. I am joyful. I am back in my element, back in my comfort zone, away from drama (from visiting his family). He's jovial, understanding, willing to talk about anything, willing to listen.
After everything, I was putting away a load of laundry, he comes up and hugs me so tight and says, "You are amazing. You could have come home and thrown a hissy fit, you could have gotten really foul and mean and mad, but instead you just worked your butt off and fixed it." I laughed and kissed him and said, "Don't get me wrong, I'm definitely mad, but that wouldn't have solved anything. There still would have been pee everywhere." And he just hugs me. And it's all better.
Earlier this evening, my heart went through a roller coaster of emotions... there was this big pile of clean laundry on the bed and Petal came in and said "I can't lie on the bed because of all the stuff." So I apologized and said I would get to it after I finished dinner. A little while later, I went into the bedroom and it was gone. I was astonished and started to say, "Whaaat!! You're so Ama-" and then I walked around the bed and there it was dumped on the floor. I teased him and he teased me back and we put it all away together.
My sister is going through similar things right now with her new husband... She's 7 months pregnant, a teensy bit lazy, and not exactly a fanatic of cleaning, so moving into his house is a little stressful to begin with... Add in the fact that he is an artist who works with clay and stone in his living room, doesn't know how to clean anything up, and is slightly lazy himself, it puts her into a position of feeling very unwelcome in this new place that's supposed to be her home. Plus his family doesn't want her to live there (her in-laws are worse than mine!), so she just feels like she doesn't belong. There's no room for her. She has to convince him to get rid of every tiny insignificant thing to make a little bit of space for her to fit. Add in asking for room for the baby... She's more than a little overwhelmed! And I think some of the shiny-rose tint has gone away for her a little and the love is a little more... well... real. Because love when you see someone as they are, faults and errors and issues and all... That is true love. And I cannot be more happy for her.
She said something that really tickled me in regards to her husband that I want to share: "I love you more than earth and sky and I would brave time wormholes to find you... but if you leave your toenail clippings on the couch ONE MORE TIME I'm going to punch you in the balls. So what I'm learning is that me on my slobbiest, laziest, lay-in-my-own-filth day, that's your average man every single day."
There is nothing quite like having sisters.
These things that you think you'd never put up with... the feeling of you love him just a little bit more than he loves you because you just instinctively know how to take care of him. And when he doesn't seem to know how to reciprocate, it feels inconsiderate. You love him more than anything in all the world, but you still want to bash him in the face a little bit.
I think my sister and I were spoiled... because we were surrounded by women who knew how to pitch in and make our lives easier, and noticed when we did stuff for them, and talked and listened, and thought we were funny and clever and amazing, and now, being alone with this one man-type-person... it's just a little bit less wonderful. Don't get me wrong! It's still wonderful... It's a different kind of wonderful!!
Ain't love odd?
Saturday, July 30, 2016
My friend Ali
The day I met Alicia, I knew I wanted to be her friend. She was wearing a cute hat, she was thin and adorable. We were introduced at the salad bar by the recruiter of the boarding academy and I over-compensated a little because I was so excited, interested, I wanted to get to know this brunette with big blue eyes. Her wheelchair might have been why I wanted to get to know her. It might have had nothing to do with it. But she rolled away, seeing what else the school had to offer and I made up my mind to befriend that cute girl in the wheelchair. The rest of that year was spent preparing for the girl in the wheelchair to attend the next year. Ramps were installed, handlebars in the downstairs dorm room that had a bathroom, everything Alicia might need. And the next year, there she was, getting all registered for school. I went right up to her and reintroduced myself. She didn't remember me at all, but that didn't deter me from forcing my way into her life. I bubbled over with words, with smiles, with introductions, opening up my circle of friends to fit her in.
I was so nervous. I wanted her to be my friend, so nervous someone else would swoop in and scoop her up. I went out of my way to make sure she felt included, felt like a part of my little group of weirdos. I remember the first time I hung out with her with my sister... She had this giant three wheeled bike that she would ride around and around the school, exercising her slowly failing legs. I saw her through my window and I quickly grabbed my little sister (a new little freshman herself), and ran out to walk along side her slow pedaling. I remember being nervous, not knowing what to talk about. She was such a shy person. I do remember never asking her why she was in a wheelchair. I never brought it up first. I just let other people ask when I was sitting next to her, babbling about nothing and smiling like an idiot.
My fear of her being stolen from me before I had a chance to get to know her was completely unfounded. I had this unshakable feeling that she was my treasure... someone I had to protect. And looking back, I cannot express how glad I am God put that on my heart. So quiet, so far from home, feeling like an alien, I don't know that anyone else would have committed to forcing her to open up to friendship.
I don't know when we became best friends. It felt instantaneous. Suddenly she was part of every meal, every rec, every memory. I would ride to the church on her lap, her motorized wheelchair wheezing under the weight of two flirty girls giggling their way past their peers. She would ask us to help her stand for music during church, and she was always freezing during the sermon, so I would rub her feet and hands and try to keep her warm. And then on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, we would take a blanket out to the front yard or the back yard or the football field and lie in the sun surrounded by our friends, knitting and reading, listening to each other's music, flirting with the cute boys and making those perfect memories.
I don't think it took me long to turn her from Alicia into Ali... Princess Ali... Ali-Cat... she was mine. One of my best friends. Nor did it take us long to name her chair, name her bike... we took her and her chair and her oddities and her differences in, we took them in and made them all a part of our little friendship family. She helped me woo the boy I liked and we used to pretend we were the parents of our group... she would call us mommy and daddy and it was so much fun.
Whenever we needed to do something for school, a field trip or whatever, she knew she had us to count on. Every night for evening worship, I would put her on my back and carry her up the stairs. She didn't have to worry about asking for help because we were there to help her. I remember carrying her on my back along the beach... to the river... She got to ride a four wheeler, and so I got to ride a four wheeler.
There is so much I love about Ali... her humor, her love, her patience, her kindness, her gentle and unending faith in God.
When I finally opened up and let myself ask her questions about why she was in a wheelchair... I think that was when I really discovered how deeply our friendship ran. I remember a day where we were sitting on her bed, she was lying in my lap with her head on my chest, crying about losing her mobility. Crying about a boy she liked. Crying about something bigger than I could really comprehend, but wanted so badly to heal. She has a timeline. She knows how long her life will be. To know, everyday, that you lose a little more of what you can do for yourself, is a terrible burden to bear. And holding her against me, petting her hair, wishing I could do SOMETHING, I could see her heartbeat in her throat. Fluttering there. So strong, so sure, so... permanently fragile. And I imagined being there, in that same position, holding my dearest friend at 35... 40... 45 if we're truly lucky... watching that fluttering as it died away. And I cried. And she told me that I would make a great mother some day. I don't think I had ever really thought about how much I wanted to be a mom until that day.
Every day of being her friend, I am proud of her. I am thankful that I have a friend so wonderful as Ali, so willing to let me in. A million amazing memories with a girl who has changed me in so many ways.
"I've heard it said
I was so nervous. I wanted her to be my friend, so nervous someone else would swoop in and scoop her up. I went out of my way to make sure she felt included, felt like a part of my little group of weirdos. I remember the first time I hung out with her with my sister... She had this giant three wheeled bike that she would ride around and around the school, exercising her slowly failing legs. I saw her through my window and I quickly grabbed my little sister (a new little freshman herself), and ran out to walk along side her slow pedaling. I remember being nervous, not knowing what to talk about. She was such a shy person. I do remember never asking her why she was in a wheelchair. I never brought it up first. I just let other people ask when I was sitting next to her, babbling about nothing and smiling like an idiot.
My fear of her being stolen from me before I had a chance to get to know her was completely unfounded. I had this unshakable feeling that she was my treasure... someone I had to protect. And looking back, I cannot express how glad I am God put that on my heart. So quiet, so far from home, feeling like an alien, I don't know that anyone else would have committed to forcing her to open up to friendship.
I don't know when we became best friends. It felt instantaneous. Suddenly she was part of every meal, every rec, every memory. I would ride to the church on her lap, her motorized wheelchair wheezing under the weight of two flirty girls giggling their way past their peers. She would ask us to help her stand for music during church, and she was always freezing during the sermon, so I would rub her feet and hands and try to keep her warm. And then on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, we would take a blanket out to the front yard or the back yard or the football field and lie in the sun surrounded by our friends, knitting and reading, listening to each other's music, flirting with the cute boys and making those perfect memories.
I don't think it took me long to turn her from Alicia into Ali... Princess Ali... Ali-Cat... she was mine. One of my best friends. Nor did it take us long to name her chair, name her bike... we took her and her chair and her oddities and her differences in, we took them in and made them all a part of our little friendship family. She helped me woo the boy I liked and we used to pretend we were the parents of our group... she would call us mommy and daddy and it was so much fun.
Whenever we needed to do something for school, a field trip or whatever, she knew she had us to count on. Every night for evening worship, I would put her on my back and carry her up the stairs. She didn't have to worry about asking for help because we were there to help her. I remember carrying her on my back along the beach... to the river... She got to ride a four wheeler, and so I got to ride a four wheeler.
There is so much I love about Ali... her humor, her love, her patience, her kindness, her gentle and unending faith in God.
When I finally opened up and let myself ask her questions about why she was in a wheelchair... I think that was when I really discovered how deeply our friendship ran. I remember a day where we were sitting on her bed, she was lying in my lap with her head on my chest, crying about losing her mobility. Crying about a boy she liked. Crying about something bigger than I could really comprehend, but wanted so badly to heal. She has a timeline. She knows how long her life will be. To know, everyday, that you lose a little more of what you can do for yourself, is a terrible burden to bear. And holding her against me, petting her hair, wishing I could do SOMETHING, I could see her heartbeat in her throat. Fluttering there. So strong, so sure, so... permanently fragile. And I imagined being there, in that same position, holding my dearest friend at 35... 40... 45 if we're truly lucky... watching that fluttering as it died away. And I cried. And she told me that I would make a great mother some day. I don't think I had ever really thought about how much I wanted to be a mom until that day.
Every day of being her friend, I am proud of her. I am thankful that I have a friend so wonderful as Ali, so willing to let me in. A million amazing memories with a girl who has changed me in so many ways.
"I've heard it said
That people come into our lives for a reason
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you...
Like a comet pulled from orbit
As it passes a sun
Like a stream that meets a boulder
Halfway through the wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good."
Bringing something we must learn
And we are led
To those who help us most to grow
If we let them
And we help them in return
Well, I don't know if I believe that's true
But I know I'm who I am today
Because I knew you...
Like a comet pulled from orbit
As it passes a sun
Like a stream that meets a boulder
Halfway through the wood
Who can say if I've been changed for the better?
But because I knew you
I have been changed for good."
-For Good, Wicked
Not every moment is brushed with gold, we bickered about silly things, I would get irrationally mad about this and that. She started dating the boy I had been wanting her to date since the year before, but she told someone else first. I held a grudge for a long time. I wanted to be most important, like most friends do... I was jealous and mean sometimes because I didn't know how to deal with my own feelings. I would sometimes be mad because she didn't say thank you, not thinking about the fact that it was so hard for her to not be able to do things for herself. And when we both started dating boys, we would focus on ourselves and not prioritize the other one as much as we should. Ever single fight, I regret. Every single moment of anger wasn't worth clogging up my memories of her.
She got married not long after we graduated from high school. I came to stay with her before her wedding, sleeping next to her, holding her hand as she got her eyebrows waxed, so happy and proud of her. I was in her wedding, sobbing my eyes out as her father carried her down the aisle. She was the most beautiful bride I had ever seen.
I was in Guam when she told me she was pregnant. I was so excited, so hopeful... and so filled with fear. She was weaker than she was in high school. She was sick... so sick. She had only reasons to be afraid and worry, but every time I talked to her, every time we skyped... she was hopeful. She would tell me, "I will worry and mourn when I have a reason to." When she found out her baby had Turner's Syndrome, she named her. She prayed. She was prayed and prayed and prayed. And her husband did whatever he could to make sure she was taken care of. He left his job and moved her in with her parents so she would be safe. Hooked up to IVs and sicker than anyone should have to be... She'd call me. And we'd laugh and talk and hope and pray. And when she lost the baby, we cried.
5 months... 10 short weeks away from her c-section date. I think what killed her the most was that as soon as the baby was out of her, she felt well again. Her sickness was gone, her appitite was back. She could keep her fluids down. I did everything I could. I poured as much love through that computer screen as ever has been poured. It wasn't enough. It could never have been enough. I sent her a care package and I begged God to give me the wisdom to know how to be there for her. And I reminded her over and over again that she was a mother no matter what, forever... she was a mother. All around her, friends and family were giving birth to healthy babies. And she had to mourn her's. I couldn't heal her.
I am so powerless in her life. I have so little to give her. But I want to remind her every day that she is so important to me. So loved. And that no matter what, I am no farther than a phone call away.
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
Too fat to be pretty
Let me just preface this by saying my husband is such a loving, wonderful, devoted man. But... he is a man. A white man. Raised in a society that entitles white men. And despite that, he has managed to grow up strong, gentle, kind, and mostly open-minded. But, he is not always immune to the idiocy or douche-baggery commonly found in today's world. He'd human. Even the loveliest person will occasionally be a stupid jerk-face.
So. On to the story.
We were in the mall and he decided he wanted to go into American Eagle (a store where I fit the shoes and that is all... not that I would buy anything from there anyway) and there were these very hot young ladies shopping and working there. The reason I noticed was because, earlier that day, Petal had made a passing comment that may have made me key into what he idealized as "legitimately hot", and balancing on my own insecurity, maybe I was ready to notice any comparative action on his part. As soon as we walked in, Petal drops my hand. It wasn't as if he needed it for shopping purposes. It felt very pointed. But I felt "ok, maybe I'm reading into this." and tried to shake off this feeling that I was too large, to chubby... the girls working could eyeball me and know I wouldn't fit anything in the store. I just wished I felt like I belonged. I followed my husband to the back of the store, he poked around the men's clothing a little, and then turned to leave. I reached out and tried to take his hand again, sure he wouldn't need it for shopping or anything, since we were on our way out... but he kind of snakes it away from me. I'm instantly hurt, and we walk out without exchanging any words. We're several stores away when he reaches for my hand again and I go, "Oh, so now you want to hold my hand?" And he looks at me inquisitively and confused. "Now there aren't any hot girls around?" And he kind of chuckles and says, "Oh is that what I was doing? I didn't notice." In this very casual... act-dumb-to-get-out-of-trouble way.
At this point, I'm still in a semi-agreeable mood. It's mostly in my head. I have no reason to believe my husband would genuinely not want to hold my hand in front of hot girls... After all, we're married. I just NEEDED him to hold my hand because I was feeling so insecure. It wasn't his fault he didn't realize it. But, based on what he's just said... based on the comment earlier that day about his friend going on a date from a girl he met online that never would have worked out because she was "legitimately hot"... based on a hundred unsaid compliments and my own longing to feel beautiful, worthy, loved... The culmination of all these things has lead me to have these deep secret beliefs about him, and suddenly it feels like I have an opportunity to talk to him about it.
So. I say, through a clenched throat, that I feel deep down, in some inexpressible place inside him, he doesn't think I'm thin enough to be pretty.
And the confident side of me, the prideful side, the side that would never genuinely believe something so hurtful and detrimental to my self-worth, believes that this will be instantly swatted away. Even if he has to lie. Because who would ever admit that they wished their most beloved, the person who loves them most in all the world... isn't as sexy to them as they are to you?
But that is not what happened.
What happened was a conversation that was not fun. A conversation where he admitted he would think I was prettier if I were thin. Because that's the body type he's always been attracted to. The girls he liked in high school were athletic. The girls he likes in Hollywood weigh 100 pounds nothing. The media has told him what to find attractive and she looks a lot like half of me.
None of this is mean. None of it is meant to hurt, or to offend. He's talking to me honestly... even if it's a little brutal. He loves me, he reminds me over and over again. But there is a part of him that wishes I was a stick with giant boobs.
I am in tears because I understand. He's not a bad person. It's just this yucky thought... A thought that should never have been expressed.
He would never ever put pressure on me to lose weight. He would never ever be mean or rude or try to push me to exercise or diet. He would never say, "You look fat in that" or make me feel less than beautiful. Not on purpose. But it's under the surface. It's where my mind goes if I've put on a nice dress for him and he doesn't compliment me. Or flirt. Or engage in public as much as I wish he would. It's not in what he does, but what he doesn't do.
And on the one hand, it's wonderful that he can be so honest, open and frank about how he feels. But on the other... it's a super problematic mindset to have, and we have to address it if we want to have a close and loving relationship.
Ultimately, I came to the conclusion that I just have to deal with it and get over it. I can't change him. I don't really want to change him either. And if I physically change myself, throw myself into extreme diets and exercise it would be so detrimental to my mental health. I do want to change, but my mindset has to change first. For me... I have to fall in love with me just the way I am. I am healthy. I walk 1.7 miles almost every day. I keep a clean home and lots of delicious food in in the pantry and in the fridge. I take excellent care of our pets, and one day, I'm going to be an awesome mom. I am not huge. And I'm not small. I am me. And lovable as myself.
The hurt that I felt toward his thoughtless words has started to evaporate. He admitted to me later that it wasn't something he likes about himself. He's not proud of this dumb thought that he barely pays attention to. And while it is there, there are so many things that he loves about me. So I made him tell me 10 of them a day for a week. To buoy me up and fill me with good stuff. At first, I made it a point to tell him all the ways each of the things he loves about me would be different or nonexistent if I were thin, mostly to make myself feel better, but eventually I stopped that and it turned into me basking in the glow of his adoration. A friend asked me if I returned the favor and I giggled and said "No... I compliment him all the time. I'm very thoughtful. He's less so." Sometimes it's ok to ask for something without owing someone something back, especially when it comes to feeling loved. And especially after a big hurt.
But I've thrown myself into loving my chub. I don't care if he might actually treat me like a queen if I were thin, I can treat myself like a queen right now. And maybe if I lose my insecurity, if I commit myself to feeling good when I look in the mirror, maybe he'll love me better for it too.
A while ago I wrote a poem about feeling in love with someone who loves unconditionally, and for a few days I couldn't look at the poem because it felt like a lie... but yesterday, I illustrated it and reposted it to claim it as a promise to love myself unconditionally and remind my husband what that meant too. But I decided to change the words just a little... From "Me and My" to "I and him". He told me that one of the things he loves best about me is that I love him just the way he is. And that was so incredible to him, that he strives every day to do the same for me. And in a lot of ways, I was his love role model. Now... how awesome is that? Who could ask for anything more?
So. On to the story.
We were in the mall and he decided he wanted to go into American Eagle (a store where I fit the shoes and that is all... not that I would buy anything from there anyway) and there were these very hot young ladies shopping and working there. The reason I noticed was because, earlier that day, Petal had made a passing comment that may have made me key into what he idealized as "legitimately hot", and balancing on my own insecurity, maybe I was ready to notice any comparative action on his part. As soon as we walked in, Petal drops my hand. It wasn't as if he needed it for shopping purposes. It felt very pointed. But I felt "ok, maybe I'm reading into this." and tried to shake off this feeling that I was too large, to chubby... the girls working could eyeball me and know I wouldn't fit anything in the store. I just wished I felt like I belonged. I followed my husband to the back of the store, he poked around the men's clothing a little, and then turned to leave. I reached out and tried to take his hand again, sure he wouldn't need it for shopping or anything, since we were on our way out... but he kind of snakes it away from me. I'm instantly hurt, and we walk out without exchanging any words. We're several stores away when he reaches for my hand again and I go, "Oh, so now you want to hold my hand?" And he looks at me inquisitively and confused. "Now there aren't any hot girls around?" And he kind of chuckles and says, "Oh is that what I was doing? I didn't notice." In this very casual... act-dumb-to-get-out-of-trouble way.
At this point, I'm still in a semi-agreeable mood. It's mostly in my head. I have no reason to believe my husband would genuinely not want to hold my hand in front of hot girls... After all, we're married. I just NEEDED him to hold my hand because I was feeling so insecure. It wasn't his fault he didn't realize it. But, based on what he's just said... based on the comment earlier that day about his friend going on a date from a girl he met online that never would have worked out because she was "legitimately hot"... based on a hundred unsaid compliments and my own longing to feel beautiful, worthy, loved... The culmination of all these things has lead me to have these deep secret beliefs about him, and suddenly it feels like I have an opportunity to talk to him about it.
So. I say, through a clenched throat, that I feel deep down, in some inexpressible place inside him, he doesn't think I'm thin enough to be pretty.
And the confident side of me, the prideful side, the side that would never genuinely believe something so hurtful and detrimental to my self-worth, believes that this will be instantly swatted away. Even if he has to lie. Because who would ever admit that they wished their most beloved, the person who loves them most in all the world... isn't as sexy to them as they are to you?
But that is not what happened.
What happened was a conversation that was not fun. A conversation where he admitted he would think I was prettier if I were thin. Because that's the body type he's always been attracted to. The girls he liked in high school were athletic. The girls he likes in Hollywood weigh 100 pounds nothing. The media has told him what to find attractive and she looks a lot like half of me.
None of this is mean. None of it is meant to hurt, or to offend. He's talking to me honestly... even if it's a little brutal. He loves me, he reminds me over and over again. But there is a part of him that wishes I was a stick with giant boobs.
I am in tears because I understand. He's not a bad person. It's just this yucky thought... A thought that should never have been expressed.
He would never ever put pressure on me to lose weight. He would never ever be mean or rude or try to push me to exercise or diet. He would never say, "You look fat in that" or make me feel less than beautiful. Not on purpose. But it's under the surface. It's where my mind goes if I've put on a nice dress for him and he doesn't compliment me. Or flirt. Or engage in public as much as I wish he would. It's not in what he does, but what he doesn't do.
And on the one hand, it's wonderful that he can be so honest, open and frank about how he feels. But on the other... it's a super problematic mindset to have, and we have to address it if we want to have a close and loving relationship.
Ultimately, I came to the conclusion that I just have to deal with it and get over it. I can't change him. I don't really want to change him either. And if I physically change myself, throw myself into extreme diets and exercise it would be so detrimental to my mental health. I do want to change, but my mindset has to change first. For me... I have to fall in love with me just the way I am. I am healthy. I walk 1.7 miles almost every day. I keep a clean home and lots of delicious food in in the pantry and in the fridge. I take excellent care of our pets, and one day, I'm going to be an awesome mom. I am not huge. And I'm not small. I am me. And lovable as myself.
The hurt that I felt toward his thoughtless words has started to evaporate. He admitted to me later that it wasn't something he likes about himself. He's not proud of this dumb thought that he barely pays attention to. And while it is there, there are so many things that he loves about me. So I made him tell me 10 of them a day for a week. To buoy me up and fill me with good stuff. At first, I made it a point to tell him all the ways each of the things he loves about me would be different or nonexistent if I were thin, mostly to make myself feel better, but eventually I stopped that and it turned into me basking in the glow of his adoration. A friend asked me if I returned the favor and I giggled and said "No... I compliment him all the time. I'm very thoughtful. He's less so." Sometimes it's ok to ask for something without owing someone something back, especially when it comes to feeling loved. And especially after a big hurt.
But I've thrown myself into loving my chub. I don't care if he might actually treat me like a queen if I were thin, I can treat myself like a queen right now. And maybe if I lose my insecurity, if I commit myself to feeling good when I look in the mirror, maybe he'll love me better for it too.
A while ago I wrote a poem about feeling in love with someone who loves unconditionally, and for a few days I couldn't look at the poem because it felt like a lie... but yesterday, I illustrated it and reposted it to claim it as a promise to love myself unconditionally and remind my husband what that meant too. But I decided to change the words just a little... From "Me and My" to "I and him". He told me that one of the things he loves best about me is that I love him just the way he is. And that was so incredible to him, that he strives every day to do the same for me. And in a lot of ways, I was his love role model. Now... how awesome is that? Who could ask for anything more?
I love my love
I love my love fat and happy.
I love my love curled on the couch, watching crappy television shows.
I love my love mouth filled with chips, laughing and spewing.
I love my love undressed, rolls of guilty pleasure pounds, late night snacks stacked on his hips.
I love my love angry, screaming, ranting, pissed.
I love my love sobbing, tears mixed with snot, face red with sorrow, blotched and unlike the perfect tears of Hollywood.
I love my love stupid, questions asked without thinking, misunderstandings and confusion.
I love my love quiet, nose tucked in a book or doodling.
I love my love loud, making too much noise and laughing like a snorting rhino.
I love my love silly, fingers poked in ribs and face pulled in unfortunate expressions.
I love my love serious, with no mischief on his mind.
I love my love's folds, his ins and his outs, his shorts and rounds.
I love my love imperfect, unreserved, unkempt.
How sad is the love that loves conditionally, with reigned passion and lists of expectations.
How sad is the love that ends with weight gain, with job loss, with change.
How sad is the love that destroys each other, that expects devotion, that takes without return.
I love my love with abandon.
With joy.
With grace and mercy.
I love my love the way movies forget to show love.
The way friends love.
The way God loves.
And with every moment of imperfect perfection he can feel the heart beat of my love repeating messages of steadfast loyalty.
I know that I love him forever.
Just as I know...
He loves me.
I love my love sobbing, tears mixed with snot, face red with sorrow, blotched and unlike the perfect tears of Hollywood.
I love my love stupid, questions asked without thinking, misunderstandings and confusion.
I love my love quiet, nose tucked in a book or doodling.
I love my love loud, making too much noise and laughing like a snorting rhino.
I love my love silly, fingers poked in ribs and face pulled in unfortunate expressions.
I love my love serious, with no mischief on his mind.
I love my love's folds, his ins and his outs, his shorts and rounds.
I love my love imperfect, unreserved, unkempt.
How sad is the love that loves conditionally, with reigned passion and lists of expectations.
How sad is the love that ends with weight gain, with job loss, with change.
How sad is the love that destroys each other, that expects devotion, that takes without return.
I love my love with abandon.
With joy.
With grace and mercy.
I love my love the way movies forget to show love.
The way friends love.
The way God loves.
And with every moment of imperfect perfection he can feel the heart beat of my love repeating messages of steadfast loyalty.
I know that I love him forever.
Just as I know...
He loves me.
Thursday, May 5, 2016
Making Up Memories
In high school I would have random thought... sentences, ideas... dialog... Just from time to time something well structured or interesting would pass through my mind and I would want to share it. That's when I came up with "Making Up Memories". They were my own thoughts, but I would pretend that I was quoting something so I could share it with the facebook world. It seems silly and random, but I still do it. I wish I could record every made up quote I had ever posted. But today I had to admit to a friend that it wasn't a book, because she wanted to go buy it. It was so embarrassing to have to turn her compliment towards me and not some book I recommended. But I didn't want to lie to her.
I wonder if I should write a book. If I could compile a novel or collection of random thoughts and stories into a book and call it "Making Up Memories". I wonder if it would interest anyone. If they would want to read what I had to say... Not just my facebook people. But real people who think similar to me. Somehow I doubt it, and I could never finish it anyway.
I wonder if I should write a book. If I could compile a novel or collection of random thoughts and stories into a book and call it "Making Up Memories". I wonder if it would interest anyone. If they would want to read what I had to say... Not just my facebook people. But real people who think similar to me. Somehow I doubt it, and I could never finish it anyway.
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Predators of the worst kind
Warning: This is another episode of sad personal stories with Sarah, so do not read further if you don't want to know impossible intimate thoughts and details about me and my experiences.
I just read a wonderful article by a mommy blogger that a friend of a friend had posted on facebook. It was one of those articles you know will be a little hard to read, but you do it anyway to feel safer in a world that shares its scary stories to warn others. (http://herviewfromhome.com/not-my-child-protecting-my-son-from-a-sexual-predator/)
It made me happy and sad... And a little introspective. This mother was so careful, so present, so involved, she knew exactly what to do with the "ick-factor" that "Bob" the all too interested old neighbor elicited in her. She kept her babies safe.
This is something that I think a lot of parents of victims of sexual assault often feel guilty about. Like there should have been a sign. They should have known. Or they shivered away the worry, the doubt, the "ick" and gave the benefit of the doubt to this virtual stranger. Or the man (or woman) who wasn't such a stranger... If they are good parents, really good parents, they feel that they should have been more careful.
Which makes this part of the blog, the part that I tell my story, feel a little strange. To compare my parents, my wonderful, loving parents' reaction to my scary moment with a woman who went on to encourage other parents to trust their instincts.
I was young, very young, when I met my best friend. Let's call her Ella. She was beautiful, funny, and different than me in a lot of ways. We met when I went to my older sister's art class, got in trouble for trying to open a bottle of paint with my teeth, and was subsequently sent outside. She was playing on the playground and I remembered her from seeing her pick up her sister sometimes. She had twisty little braids with colorful bobbly hairties. Her mom was white and her dad was black, making her a smooth caramel color and I loved her right away. I thought she was the coolest. She always had grape flavored candies at her house with different disney characters on them. We were always spending the nights at each other's houses... spending birthdays together, since they were so close we had several joint birthday parties as well. It was wonderful. Then she had to move. I remember being so sad and when I asked she told me that there were people who lived on her road that were racist (when I asked what that was, and she said it meant they hated black people, I was stunned. I had never heard of someone hating someone else based on something so unimportant) and saying her dad drove too fast, kicked up too much dust, or something. I found out later, this was not the case.
We stayed best friends, calling each other, visiting each other for birthdays and different events. I guess I was about 6 or 7 when I went to her house for her birthday. We made ice cream by hand, played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, and I got to meet all her public school friends. Then that night after chasing her brother all over the house and deciding we wanted a little privacy to talk about our secret girly stuff and not sleep with her hyper brother in her room, we made the couch in the den into a bed and cuddled down for the night. It was very late when we fell asleep. And even later when I woke up with a bad feeling. A terrible feeling. I felt hot and cold and scared and I looked over to see her father standing over us. I laid as still as possible until I thought he wasn't looking, then flipped onto my tummy, thinking I was somehow protecting myself. He hadn't touched me. I knew nothing about what was happening or what might happen or what would happen... but for some reason I knew that I needed to protect my front bits. It didn't really stop anything. A pervert will be perverted no matter the circumstances. I don't know what all happened. I don't know that I was raped... I felt him use his thing to move my shirt and he put it against my backend. But that's all I remember. I don't know if I forced myself to fall asleep or if he just used me to stimulate himself.
I don't remember the next day. I don't know what happened next... but what I do recall is telling my older sister. And she told me to tell my mom.
The thing is, I was a liar. I lied all the time. I would look my mom straight in the face and tell her a bald-faced lie that she KNEW was a lie, but I would insist. "I saw a blue unicorn through the window!" "Now, Sarah, did you REALLY see a unicorn, or is this a story?" "NO! I did! I did see it mommy!! I promise." And I lied about things all the time and so well, she kind of just took all of my stories with a grain of salt.
So when I tried to explain what had happened and why I didn't want to go visit my friend anymore, she listened with this doubt that I might not be telling the truth. So she never asked me about it, never pursued it... What she did do, was amazing. She believed me enough to keep me safe forever afterwards. I didn't have sleepovers unless they were at my house. I was watched more carefully. And I felt heard. She asked me when I was 12 again if I remembered something that happened when I was little with my friend's father. And I refused to tell her, the feeling of fear and shame flooding me. So that Christmas, she bought each of us girls a diary that were our special ways to communicate with her. We would write in them and then leave them on her bed and she would reply and leave them on our's. And it was in there that I wrote out the story. As vague and as detailed as I could be. I know that is a contradiction... but that's how it was. Once she knew the truth, that I hadn't lied about it, that she had trusted me to keep me safe, it was this moment of painful what-ifs.
My father didn't find out until I was out of high school.
I love my father. He is this deep-thinking philosopher who believes true riches are found in community and education... and less in things like, "a job". He took good care of us. But he has a unique way about him... a non-traditional approach to life, to family, to everything. He surrounded himself with odd characters that weren't exactly the cream of the crop of society, but had intricate thoughts about how the world works.
When he found out, he was furious. He wanted to press charges. He was so distraught that he hadn't been able to keep me safe when I was young, that he didn't even know what had happened until I was too old for him to fix it... it was one of the moments I felt truly loved by my dad... the day he wanted to kill the guy who made me so scared.
It must have been a year later that I found out about... Let's call him... Ronald. Ronald was a family friend that was always around. He helped my father work on our house, helped him in my father's career as a construction worker (when he had work). He was an artist, a sculptor. He made the memorial stone when my baby sister died. He was always very nice to us kids. He loved to "crack our backs" and tickle us, especially me. I was always friendly with everyone. I'd climb into strangers' laps and talk to anyone and smile smile smile with my dimple and blond pigtails. My other sisters were not that outgoing. So I loved talking to Ronald. And when you're little, you love adult attention. So I would always be excited when Ronald came over because he played with me so much.
My dad was always a little on guard with Ronald. There would be long time periods when he made it clear that Ronald was not allowed to come over. But slowly Ronald would come back into our lives. We would meet him at the river. He would come to dinner parties. I always thought my dad liked Ronald, but thought he was kind of annoying. Becasue he was. He was a weirdo. I remember a few times when he came over before my parents were awake on the weekends and just watch us kids play computer games and tell us stories. My parents would come out and be surprised that he was there. But go with it. I remember a time he was helping us build our pantry and he asked my mom if anything happened to my dad, would she pick him. And she said no. Not in a million years. It was always a joke that if she had said yes, something bad would have happened to my dad.
But I remember there was one day Ronald had come over and stayed late and the next day he showed up early in the morning... and just us kids were awake. And while I was waiting for my turn on the computer he told me this story about seeing two women naked at the river. And said they were kissing and getting "hot and heavy". I was weirded out by that, so I went into my parents room and told them that Ronald was there talking about weird stuff. And when they came out, he was gone. It was a long time before we saw him again.
So about a year after my father found out about what had happened with Ella's father, my father admitted to me that Ronald had told him he had been arrested for a few years before they had met for sexually assaulting his ex-wife's children (his step-children). He had been up front about it right when he met my father. And my father let him into our lives anyway.
Don't get me wrong, my father was always on guard, and nothing actually ever happened with Ronald hurting any of us. But there were some rather... voyeuristic moments with him. Accepting a man who was trying to live a normal life, a life outside of his unnatural urges... Was very christian of my dad. But when I found out... I couldn't help but feel hurt and betrayed. That he made such a big deal about what happened when he didn't know... but what could have happened BECAUSE he knew... My father showed more love to a man he befriended than for his children. I felt very wronged.
I have since forgiven him, come to terms with this contradiction in my mind of loving father and the man who knew he was inviting a convicted paedophile into his home and into his life... But there are still moments... like while I was reading an article about a family who did all they could to keep their child safe... when I think about how my father put the needs of an outsider above his children.
I am grateful for both my parents so much. My mother who listened to me even when she doubted my truth-telling abilities... My father who taught me that you can love a sinner while hating their sin... And I try to think about what I will be when I am I parent.
I hope I will be able to protect my baby.
I just read a wonderful article by a mommy blogger that a friend of a friend had posted on facebook. It was one of those articles you know will be a little hard to read, but you do it anyway to feel safer in a world that shares its scary stories to warn others. (http://herviewfromhome.com/not-my-child-protecting-my-son-from-a-sexual-predator/)
It made me happy and sad... And a little introspective. This mother was so careful, so present, so involved, she knew exactly what to do with the "ick-factor" that "Bob" the all too interested old neighbor elicited in her. She kept her babies safe.
This is something that I think a lot of parents of victims of sexual assault often feel guilty about. Like there should have been a sign. They should have known. Or they shivered away the worry, the doubt, the "ick" and gave the benefit of the doubt to this virtual stranger. Or the man (or woman) who wasn't such a stranger... If they are good parents, really good parents, they feel that they should have been more careful.
Which makes this part of the blog, the part that I tell my story, feel a little strange. To compare my parents, my wonderful, loving parents' reaction to my scary moment with a woman who went on to encourage other parents to trust their instincts.
I was young, very young, when I met my best friend. Let's call her Ella. She was beautiful, funny, and different than me in a lot of ways. We met when I went to my older sister's art class, got in trouble for trying to open a bottle of paint with my teeth, and was subsequently sent outside. She was playing on the playground and I remembered her from seeing her pick up her sister sometimes. She had twisty little braids with colorful bobbly hairties. Her mom was white and her dad was black, making her a smooth caramel color and I loved her right away. I thought she was the coolest. She always had grape flavored candies at her house with different disney characters on them. We were always spending the nights at each other's houses... spending birthdays together, since they were so close we had several joint birthday parties as well. It was wonderful. Then she had to move. I remember being so sad and when I asked she told me that there were people who lived on her road that were racist (when I asked what that was, and she said it meant they hated black people, I was stunned. I had never heard of someone hating someone else based on something so unimportant) and saying her dad drove too fast, kicked up too much dust, or something. I found out later, this was not the case.
We stayed best friends, calling each other, visiting each other for birthdays and different events. I guess I was about 6 or 7 when I went to her house for her birthday. We made ice cream by hand, played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, and I got to meet all her public school friends. Then that night after chasing her brother all over the house and deciding we wanted a little privacy to talk about our secret girly stuff and not sleep with her hyper brother in her room, we made the couch in the den into a bed and cuddled down for the night. It was very late when we fell asleep. And even later when I woke up with a bad feeling. A terrible feeling. I felt hot and cold and scared and I looked over to see her father standing over us. I laid as still as possible until I thought he wasn't looking, then flipped onto my tummy, thinking I was somehow protecting myself. He hadn't touched me. I knew nothing about what was happening or what might happen or what would happen... but for some reason I knew that I needed to protect my front bits. It didn't really stop anything. A pervert will be perverted no matter the circumstances. I don't know what all happened. I don't know that I was raped... I felt him use his thing to move my shirt and he put it against my backend. But that's all I remember. I don't know if I forced myself to fall asleep or if he just used me to stimulate himself.
I don't remember the next day. I don't know what happened next... but what I do recall is telling my older sister. And she told me to tell my mom.
The thing is, I was a liar. I lied all the time. I would look my mom straight in the face and tell her a bald-faced lie that she KNEW was a lie, but I would insist. "I saw a blue unicorn through the window!" "Now, Sarah, did you REALLY see a unicorn, or is this a story?" "NO! I did! I did see it mommy!! I promise." And I lied about things all the time and so well, she kind of just took all of my stories with a grain of salt.
So when I tried to explain what had happened and why I didn't want to go visit my friend anymore, she listened with this doubt that I might not be telling the truth. So she never asked me about it, never pursued it... What she did do, was amazing. She believed me enough to keep me safe forever afterwards. I didn't have sleepovers unless they were at my house. I was watched more carefully. And I felt heard. She asked me when I was 12 again if I remembered something that happened when I was little with my friend's father. And I refused to tell her, the feeling of fear and shame flooding me. So that Christmas, she bought each of us girls a diary that were our special ways to communicate with her. We would write in them and then leave them on her bed and she would reply and leave them on our's. And it was in there that I wrote out the story. As vague and as detailed as I could be. I know that is a contradiction... but that's how it was. Once she knew the truth, that I hadn't lied about it, that she had trusted me to keep me safe, it was this moment of painful what-ifs.
My father didn't find out until I was out of high school.
I love my father. He is this deep-thinking philosopher who believes true riches are found in community and education... and less in things like, "a job". He took good care of us. But he has a unique way about him... a non-traditional approach to life, to family, to everything. He surrounded himself with odd characters that weren't exactly the cream of the crop of society, but had intricate thoughts about how the world works.
When he found out, he was furious. He wanted to press charges. He was so distraught that he hadn't been able to keep me safe when I was young, that he didn't even know what had happened until I was too old for him to fix it... it was one of the moments I felt truly loved by my dad... the day he wanted to kill the guy who made me so scared.
It must have been a year later that I found out about... Let's call him... Ronald. Ronald was a family friend that was always around. He helped my father work on our house, helped him in my father's career as a construction worker (when he had work). He was an artist, a sculptor. He made the memorial stone when my baby sister died. He was always very nice to us kids. He loved to "crack our backs" and tickle us, especially me. I was always friendly with everyone. I'd climb into strangers' laps and talk to anyone and smile smile smile with my dimple and blond pigtails. My other sisters were not that outgoing. So I loved talking to Ronald. And when you're little, you love adult attention. So I would always be excited when Ronald came over because he played with me so much.
My dad was always a little on guard with Ronald. There would be long time periods when he made it clear that Ronald was not allowed to come over. But slowly Ronald would come back into our lives. We would meet him at the river. He would come to dinner parties. I always thought my dad liked Ronald, but thought he was kind of annoying. Becasue he was. He was a weirdo. I remember a few times when he came over before my parents were awake on the weekends and just watch us kids play computer games and tell us stories. My parents would come out and be surprised that he was there. But go with it. I remember a time he was helping us build our pantry and he asked my mom if anything happened to my dad, would she pick him. And she said no. Not in a million years. It was always a joke that if she had said yes, something bad would have happened to my dad.
But I remember there was one day Ronald had come over and stayed late and the next day he showed up early in the morning... and just us kids were awake. And while I was waiting for my turn on the computer he told me this story about seeing two women naked at the river. And said they were kissing and getting "hot and heavy". I was weirded out by that, so I went into my parents room and told them that Ronald was there talking about weird stuff. And when they came out, he was gone. It was a long time before we saw him again.
So about a year after my father found out about what had happened with Ella's father, my father admitted to me that Ronald had told him he had been arrested for a few years before they had met for sexually assaulting his ex-wife's children (his step-children). He had been up front about it right when he met my father. And my father let him into our lives anyway.
Don't get me wrong, my father was always on guard, and nothing actually ever happened with Ronald hurting any of us. But there were some rather... voyeuristic moments with him. Accepting a man who was trying to live a normal life, a life outside of his unnatural urges... Was very christian of my dad. But when I found out... I couldn't help but feel hurt and betrayed. That he made such a big deal about what happened when he didn't know... but what could have happened BECAUSE he knew... My father showed more love to a man he befriended than for his children. I felt very wronged.
I have since forgiven him, come to terms with this contradiction in my mind of loving father and the man who knew he was inviting a convicted paedophile into his home and into his life... But there are still moments... like while I was reading an article about a family who did all they could to keep their child safe... when I think about how my father put the needs of an outsider above his children.
I am grateful for both my parents so much. My mother who listened to me even when she doubted my truth-telling abilities... My father who taught me that you can love a sinner while hating their sin... And I try to think about what I will be when I am I parent.
I hope I will be able to protect my baby.
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