Ouch.

My ex and his new wife.

As a handful of you can attest, I was not very nice to my college boyfriend.  It most certainly wasn't intentional, but you could probably say that I was downright horrible.  It is something that I have felt awful about for years.  I was young and commitment phobic, he was mature and looked toward the future.  All in all, I was a huge jerk.

I have tried, intermittently, to apologize to him.  But it's going on over 15 years, and my apologies still haven't been accepted.  As I mentioned, we were all a very tight-knit group and still try to keep in touch as much as possible.  Sadly, though, when I say "we," he's not really included.  I think R in Idaho may have had some contact, but other than that, it's been radio silence.  But in the past few weeks, I have had the VERY great pleasure of talking with a handful of our clan and it has been a great tonic.  So, I thought, it would be fun to try to track down college guy and try again to mend the friendship.  So I did what all sane, adult people do these days.  I cyber-stalked him.  It took about 5 minutes, but I found him.  Photo and everything, on a blog his sister writes.  He has changed professions and states, but looks to be doing well.  And then I saw it.  Last fall he got married.  Ouch.

Before you get all indignant, I'm not upset that he married someone other than me.  As I said, it was 15 years ago, and I was...mean.  But it's just seeing it there, all in cyber-reality.  The photo of him with his wife at some party, looking all happy.  I realized that I was never going to get a chance to apologize.  He wouldn't be joining our email chats.  He would be coming to Vegas with us and our kids (when they're older, of course.  Is 5 too young for Vegas?).  He had gone and made a huge life change without telling any of us.  He had walked away.

I guess I forget that my closest friends are allowed to have lives without me.  That's shocking to me.  What do you mean, you don't want my opinion or good wishes?  Or, in this case, what do you mean you don't want my apologies?  I guess I need to learn to let things go.  AND to be nicer to people.  Because you never know when you might lose them.

Do As I Say...



From http://www.derekjeter.com/
And if you are getting
life lessons from Derek Jeter,
you may be in worse shape
than my kid.

 Easily one of my biggest, and most annoying faults is my exceedingly low patience level.  I say annoying and I mean both to others as well as to myself.  It's seriously irritating how quickly I can go from "cool" to "what the...."  And we are talking 24/7 here.

One of the nice things about Montana is there isn't a ton of waiting.  Sure, people are slower, but there are fewer of them and they generally don't get too uptight much.  So the entire stress level in public places is much lower.  Unless I am there.  I cannot begin to comprehend what the problem is, when someone can't bring me the stupid soda I ordered.  If you're driving too slow in front of me?  I sit about 5 inches from your bumper and glare into your rear view.  And I literally have no place I have to be.  If I asked you for a job?  I can't comprehend why it's be 5 minutes and I haven't heard anything.  I drive myself insane.  Those around me can comment as to how pleasant this aspect of my personality is to them.  But I'm guessing there are few who love it.

But the worst part is that I see it in my kid.  He'll hold his hand up for another bite of food and while I am cutting whatever our feast happens to be, he will let out a squeal and will grab the entire meal off of the plate anyway, because I am too slow.  If he wants his shoes on, there is no finishing the dishes--he wants them on NOW, dammit.  It's hilarious.  And I get that I am the parent so his poor life really is "do as I say, not as I do."  But there is a part of me that feels incredibly guilty about it.  Yet I can't decide whether I want to change my ways as a result of the guilt, or go easier on his.  As the latter seems less invasive to me (and quicker), probably that one.

There are so many things that are lessons we teach our kids but don't follow.  I have to wonder where we went astray.  Clearly we know about the right path, or we wouldn't be teaching it.  So we were likely taught the good stuff.  So how in the world did we fall off and how do we keep our kids from doing it?  I'm guessing there is no way.  We know too little about this whole process.  And THAT is annoying.

If anyone has any ideas, I'd love to hear them.  Now.  Right now.  I want to hear them NOW.

A Wrinkle in the Plan

My female relatives are incredible.  This statement is true in many contexts, but in one particular area, they really stand out to the general public--their skin is gorgeous.  My grandmother is model-beautiful at 150 (she would kill me if I actually said her age).  My mother is stunning.  My aunts glow.  They all look terrific.  And this is a particularly incredible feat considering the fact that half of them spent a lot of time on a farm, sans sunscreen.  But it's true.  Barely a wrinkle in sight.

Because I refuse to do a self-analysis, I will just contend that my skin is ok.  It's relatively normal, I would say, particularly for my age.  Lately, I have seen the deepening of some wrinkles on the forehead, but what do you expect when you are constatly squinting at a toddler, trying to figure out his next move.  But there is one issue that sort of bothers me, and I have no idea why.  I don't have laugh lines.

For those of you who don't watch daytime TV, laugh lines are those little "(" and ")" lines around your mouth.  It is very popular for men and women, alike, to use various forms of toxins to remove these lines.  Most people hate theirs and spend good money to get rid of them.  So why, in the name of Dr. Dre, am I feeling weird about not having any?  Because I wonder whether I have laughed enough.

I know--freakish.  But the thought crossed my mind the other night.  What if I don't have these annoying little wrinkles because I don't smile and laugh enough.  Don't get me wrong--the entirety of my childhood and a good chunk of my adulthood was absolutely blissful.  I think I generally have a good time, even when things are bad.  But I'm wondering if all of this joy/ smiley-simle stuff is just in my head and I walk around glaring at everyone all of the time?  I'm not really sure that I care, if this is the case, because I also dislike people in my head a lot and it really saves time if we just get that out in the open right away.  But what am I teaching my kid??  What if he doesn't think mommy smiles?  What if I raise a kid who thinks it's bad to show happy emotions?  What if he pierces his eyebrow at the age of 3 and asks to be called "Prince Dark"?

I know--I know.  Lay off the vodka.  But when you have very little adult conversation time, these are the things that pop into your head.  Maybe I'll draw the lines in every morning.  Has a makeup company come up with a liner for this yet?  If not, I should pitch it.  I can't be the only Debbie Downer out there.  Heck, the entire East Coast would totally buy the stuff.  I'm all over this idea.  In the meantime, dear readers, know that I am generally trying to smile.  Even if I can't prove it.

And hi Grambo.

A Common Thread

Apparently, it is me.  There is a very familiar occurrence happening here.  And sadly I am not talking about any of the millions of really great things Chicago has to offer.  I'm talking about inconsiderate, insanely loud neighbors.  And it's possible that this "little bit of home" will send me over the edge.

I had the wonderful fortune of having neighbors in the city who decided to convert a residential garage into a venue for rock concerts.  No, really.  I'm actually not just being snarky here--they charged people and everything.  About the only questionable part of my statement is the term "rock"--their music generally sucked.  And the true joy was that the garage was located three stories down, but 5 feet across from my bedroom.  It was fan-freaking-tastic.  My mom stayed over one night and we couldn't hear each other talk, it was so loud.  Plus, bonus--people would come out into the alley way and smoke and drink and yell at one another (or whatever it is that sociable people do). 

Being me, I of course handled the situation in a completely adult, non-emotional manner.  I cried.  A lot.  And then I emailed and called the Alderman.  Constantly.  I basically threatened to personally begin a campaign to unseat him if he didn't fix the problem.  Sadly, I had no idea he wasn't planning on running for re-election.  BUT in a rare act of generosity rarely seen in Chicago politics, his office put a (sort of) end to the concerts.  Took pretty much the summer of 2010, but my newborn was finally allowed to sleep.

So....here we are.  The first few weeks of being in Montana, it was so quiet at night, it completely freaked me out.  It was just strange.  No sirens.  No yelling.  No bar across the street.  Very, very weird.  And then I got used to it and it was heavenly.  And then my neighbors started rennovating their house.  For some reason that defies logic, they decided that between 11pm and 3am is the best time for working.  I'm not kidding.  They are pounding and sawing and blaring Guns N'Roses (yup, we're in Montana) all night long.  It's as though the thousands of miles never happened.  But this time, if I call the cops they will be very confused and likely laugh at me.  If they're even up at that time of night.

So what do I do?  Well, I tried walking over in my slippers to have a polite discussion with them.  After all, unlike in Chicago, I was fairly certain that, though they probably had guns, they likely only used them to take out furry things.  But nobody answered the door.  That happens a lot here (remind me to tell you about the kids selling things--man, I'm a sucker).  Anyway, so then what did I do?  I cried.

Blissfully, it seems that they are about done with the HGTV show over there.  But I guess it goes to show you that some things never change.  You can be miles from where you were, and still you experience frustrations that make you want to scream.  I guess there is some comfort in that, though.  Like maybe we take our crap with us wherever we go.  I don't know about you, but that sort of makes me feel better.

But maybe I am just sleep deprived.

Re-Jected

I am most certainly no stranger to rejection. No.  Let me rephrase that.  I have been rejected by everyone and everything from Dusty Cladis to Tylenol.  And, trust me, neither of those examples was pretty.  I have been rejected by boys, by men, by jobs, by friends and (most frequently) by alcohol.  You get the picture.

So lately my kid is going through a phase.  I have learned from my friends who have older children, as well as various NBC shows, that my child will go through many phases.  During this particular phase, we are experiencing crazy highs as well as lows so insane, they make Lindsey Lohan look like Hillary Clinton on the respectful citizen level.  He has molars coming in, he can't quite talk, he can't quite keep up and all of this is both exciting and really, really frustrating for him.  As a result, about 15 times per day, I get the most delicious hugs and kisses and smiles and giggles that make my life worth living.  And about 10 times per day, I get rejected faster than Gretta Van Sustren pledging to be a Tri-Delt.  The kid swings so fast, I have learned to simply look at him like he's nuts and walk away.  This, of course, results in a flood of tears (his and mine) followed by the pulling on the pant leg which I will take for "I'm so sorry mom" until he can say otherwise.  In short, I'm used to it.

But my poor dad isn't.  As I have mentioned, he LOVES being Grandpa, and the kid couldn't love him more.  The baby toddles out to peek into the back parking and see if Grandpa's truck is there, the first thing every morning.  He adores the guy (but, really, who doesn't).  The two of them are inseparable.  But.  Because the baby is going through his...thing...there are the rare occasions when Grandpa gets the brunt.  Case in point?  The other day the kid tried for Grandpa's glasses.  This happens a lot--he is obsessed with glasses.  Maybe he'll marry Tina Fey; who knows.  Anyway, Grandpa said loudly "no" and took them away.  You would have thought he had smacked the kid (which, for the record, he would never, ever, ever do).  The baby screamed and cried and when Grandpa tried to hug him, he received a big old smack himself and the baby ran to me.  Ouch.  Rejection at its finest.  I seriously think it hurt my poor dad's feelings.  I felt (feel) awful.  I tried to explain that the baby doesn't mean it, and my dad clearly understands.  Plus the kid was toddling after him again within 3 minutes.  Seriously, to him, nothing ever happened.  But I could tell it bothered Grandpa.

These kids.  Man, are they a head trip.  I don't care who you are or how secure you may be--if a child you love gets into your head, you're a goner.  Not even your high school soul mate sleeping with your math teacher can equate to that kind of rejection.  And it can hurt.  A lot.  But the nice part is, nobody you have ever met can love you the way they can.