Somehow this post got lost in my blog. If you haven't read it yet, enjoy.
This past fall, a TV show premiered called, "The Ex List." The premise was a 30-something protagonist has to find the love of her life within a year or she’ll be single forever. The caveat was that she has to explore all of her past relationships because her future husband was someone she already dated.
I watched the show a few times and thought it was rather incredible how often the protagonist ran into her ex's. I live within an hour's drive of where I finished high school and in the same state as my college, and I almost never bump in to my ex's, thankfully. However, as I continue to Facebook, I realize that all my ex's are hiding out in cyberspace.
However, none of these guys really are ex's. Once you get married, you no longer have ex's. Those guys/boys/men become "old boyfriends" or "a guy I dated" and those terms are not interchangeable.
Lately, there's been lots of debate about catching up with an old boyfriend or girlfriend. Especially as more of my friends dive into Facebook. Is it okay to add him as a friend? Can you innocently IM him too? How about coffee?
There's plenty of resentment that can come from knowing your husband is Facebooking with women from his bachelor days. Or maybe you don't even know. The etiquette of FB between partners seems to be evolving because it's easier than ever to reconnect with everyone from your past.
I just don't care who Maverick Facebooks with. The truth is he doesn't need a website to find a woman with whom to have an affair if he so choosed. He travels weekly around the country and surely has plenty of real face-to-face opportunities. Yes, he may be FB'ing with an old flame with whom he's had hot sex. But that was no earlier than 14 years ago. Am I going to waste my energy worrying about that? I say no. Because there's nothing I can do about it except trust him.It's imperative in every marriage to have trust.
I like Facebook very much for the intended purpose of catching up with old friends and yes, sometimes finding a guy I once dated. There's no harm in that. It's my nature. If I cared about you in my previous life, I like to hear that you're doing well today. It makes me happy to know if you're happy. I like to say hello, recall a few laughs and then say goodbye and get back to my real life. Except of course when you find out though your Facebook conversation that your ex actually lives down the street from you. Then, you might have a problem.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
The apple doesn't fall far
My six-year-old has gorgeous hair. It’s silky, long, straight and blonde—the perfect Jan Brady hair that I wished to have when I was her age. As a matter of fact, I recall walking around with a yellow towel on my head, tucked behind my ears, in my own attempt to cover up my own plain, mousy-brown head.
I try hard as a mom to raise strong, intelligent women who are beautiful on the inside and outside. I compliment my girls when they are good people and kind and thoughtful and considerate. I compliment them when they look pretty too. I like giving positive reinforcement to bolster their self-confidence when its warranted.
This morning, as I was brushing her golden locks, I told her that she was beautiful. I shared it as quickly as the thought passed through my brain.
My daughter turned to look me squarely in the eye and said, “You always tell me that. You tell me I’m beautiful all the time and that makes me think you don’t really mean it.”
How is it that this little girl could twist my words, words of honesty and a compliment no less, and perceive them to be false and degrading?
Oh yeah, she’s my daughter.
I try hard as a mom to raise strong, intelligent women who are beautiful on the inside and outside. I compliment my girls when they are good people and kind and thoughtful and considerate. I compliment them when they look pretty too. I like giving positive reinforcement to bolster their self-confidence when its warranted.
This morning, as I was brushing her golden locks, I told her that she was beautiful. I shared it as quickly as the thought passed through my brain.
My daughter turned to look me squarely in the eye and said, “You always tell me that. You tell me I’m beautiful all the time and that makes me think you don’t really mean it.”
How is it that this little girl could twist my words, words of honesty and a compliment no less, and perceive them to be false and degrading?
Oh yeah, she’s my daughter.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Here's why I'm fat again (ugh!)
Last night I read an interesting article about dieting. It followed a bunch of people on different diet plans. Some did an all protein diet, some did a Weight watchers diet etc. The results after two years were that all the diets worked relatively the same. The people who lost the most weight and managed to keep the weight off the longest, however, were those who attended weight-loss meetings.
I’ve started my Weight Watchers again this week, so the article was of particular interest. However, I can never stick to attending these meetings and that’s part of my problem. But I just can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t sit in a room and share my weekly struggles with strange women. I can’t vocalize the frustration I feel…how I’ve put on weight and how much that bothers me and why. I recognize I have a problem but don’t want to confide in these women. Plus, many of them are twice my size, so I get an attitude from them anyhow.
Instead, I’ll just have to share with you my pain. I’ve been thinking about what I’m doing wrong and came up with the list of reasons why I’m fat again. I know you’ll understand because I bet you’re the same way about some of these things. Let me know. In no particular order:
I’m a hoarder. Yup, I hide in the pantry and stuff three cookies into my mouth before I walk out with the bag. This dieting methodology equates to: if no one sees me do it, it must not count.
I’m a cooking taster. A cooking taster is someone who has to taste her food as she’s preparing all along the way. Sautee some onions, eat a few, add the ground beef, taste several spoonfuls, simmer the sauce into it, taste with each addition of a new spice, cook the pasta, taste-test several noodles while cooking. Mix it all together, taste, taste, taste. By the time it’s ready, I’ve probably tasted a serving. But then, I sit down to eat my normal-sized (read=oversized) portion.
I’m a salty-then-sweet snacker. I can’t just settle for pretzels today and chocolate tomorrow. No, I have to have two different snacks in the same sitting. Unless of course it’s dark chocolate covered pretzels.
I’m a triple-dipper. Leave me alone with my own vat of my guacamole, and I need each bite of chip loaded with a mound of guac.
I eat until it doesn’t taste good. This is my big weakness. When I eat a meal, I keep eating way past my stomach signaling that I am full. As long as there’s food in front of me and it still tastes good, I keep going. Until I want to unbutton my pants or throw up.
I inhale my food. The dieting rule is to put your fork down between each bite and chew for 30 seconds. Just try getting my fork out of my hand when I’m eating a brownie sundae. There’s not talking, no breathing going on, just an inhalation of my food like a vacuum. And I eat every last bite. Like it’s the last brownie I’m going to see. Ever.
I make good food bad. I love eating a yummy salad. But I like it even better when it’s floating in dressing and loaded with blue cheese, nuts and craisins. Even better, I love a Chili’s salad with fried chicken, bacon and cheese. But if I’m going to eat that, I might as well eat a burger. With bacon and ranch dressing on top, of course. (and fries!)
I love comfort food. A popcorn-sized bowl of noodles with real butter and parmesan cheese. A toasted bagel with full-fat cream cheese and sunny side up eggs with bacon. What could be better for my mood or worse for my body?
I'm completely disgusted with myself as I write this to you. And so ashamed! (Though I bet you're doing it too!) But now that it's out in the open, I'm back to celery sticks and tasteless fat-free Ranch for me. No worries, it sure tastes deelish with my rice cakes on the side. It’s not much fun to eat, but I’ll sure feel better when I’m back in my skinny jeans. At least I’ll have a reason to buy myself another new pair then because, “I deserve it!”
I’ve started my Weight Watchers again this week, so the article was of particular interest. However, I can never stick to attending these meetings and that’s part of my problem. But I just can’t bring myself to do it. I can’t sit in a room and share my weekly struggles with strange women. I can’t vocalize the frustration I feel…how I’ve put on weight and how much that bothers me and why. I recognize I have a problem but don’t want to confide in these women. Plus, many of them are twice my size, so I get an attitude from them anyhow.
Instead, I’ll just have to share with you my pain. I’ve been thinking about what I’m doing wrong and came up with the list of reasons why I’m fat again. I know you’ll understand because I bet you’re the same way about some of these things. Let me know. In no particular order:
I’m a hoarder. Yup, I hide in the pantry and stuff three cookies into my mouth before I walk out with the bag. This dieting methodology equates to: if no one sees me do it, it must not count.
I’m a cooking taster. A cooking taster is someone who has to taste her food as she’s preparing all along the way. Sautee some onions, eat a few, add the ground beef, taste several spoonfuls, simmer the sauce into it, taste with each addition of a new spice, cook the pasta, taste-test several noodles while cooking. Mix it all together, taste, taste, taste. By the time it’s ready, I’ve probably tasted a serving. But then, I sit down to eat my normal-sized (read=oversized) portion.
I’m a salty-then-sweet snacker. I can’t just settle for pretzels today and chocolate tomorrow. No, I have to have two different snacks in the same sitting. Unless of course it’s dark chocolate covered pretzels.
I’m a triple-dipper. Leave me alone with my own vat of my guacamole, and I need each bite of chip loaded with a mound of guac.
I eat until it doesn’t taste good. This is my big weakness. When I eat a meal, I keep eating way past my stomach signaling that I am full. As long as there’s food in front of me and it still tastes good, I keep going. Until I want to unbutton my pants or throw up.
I inhale my food. The dieting rule is to put your fork down between each bite and chew for 30 seconds. Just try getting my fork out of my hand when I’m eating a brownie sundae. There’s not talking, no breathing going on, just an inhalation of my food like a vacuum. And I eat every last bite. Like it’s the last brownie I’m going to see. Ever.
I make good food bad. I love eating a yummy salad. But I like it even better when it’s floating in dressing and loaded with blue cheese, nuts and craisins. Even better, I love a Chili’s salad with fried chicken, bacon and cheese. But if I’m going to eat that, I might as well eat a burger. With bacon and ranch dressing on top, of course. (and fries!)
I love comfort food. A popcorn-sized bowl of noodles with real butter and parmesan cheese. A toasted bagel with full-fat cream cheese and sunny side up eggs with bacon. What could be better for my mood or worse for my body?
I'm completely disgusted with myself as I write this to you. And so ashamed! (Though I bet you're doing it too!) But now that it's out in the open, I'm back to celery sticks and tasteless fat-free Ranch for me. No worries, it sure tastes deelish with my rice cakes on the side. It’s not much fun to eat, but I’ll sure feel better when I’m back in my skinny jeans. At least I’ll have a reason to buy myself another new pair then because, “I deserve it!”
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Losing ourselves
As little girls, women dream of a life like Cinderella. Not the rags and housework part, but the dream of meeting our Prince Charming and living life happily ever after. Each of our versions may be somewhat different but collectively, we all wish to find happiness and fulfillment one day when we wed our true love and become a Mrs.
Then there’s other fairy tale of the house with the white picket fence, an adoring husband and two lovely children. Again, the stories we’re fed as children fuel this desire to have a perfect life. How often we sung the song of “…k-i-s-s-i-n-g! First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes so-in-so in the baby carriage!”
Unfortunately, our mothers did not do a proper job of filling in the blanks. Perhaps it was the Mean Stepmother’s story: the one that teaches us that oftentimes, in our quest to fulfill these childhood fantasies of what married life with children would be, we lose ourselves along the way.
We’re so consumed with our work, our home, our husbands, and our children that we squash any sense of self. There’s just no time left in the day for us. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve noticed a wrinkle in the mirror and wondered how long it had been there. God knows, who has time to look that closely in the mirror anyway?
And then after a while, we stop one day, look in the mirror and realize we don’t know who we are anymore. We know we’re “wife” and “mother” and “daughter” and “friend” but we don’t know ourselves.
It’s scary to acknowledge the fact that we let our passions (and ourselves) go. We’re consumed with filling our kid’s day with meaningful activities to uncover their passions but what about ours? We used to be dancers or painters or photographers or roller-skate queens with ambition too. We had dreams and desires. Wants and needs. But we’ve prioritized ourselves right off of the list.
Of course, when we come to this realization, it causes strife with our spouse. He can’t imagine what we’re going through because it’s just not the same for men. But the truth is, we need to find ourselves again sometimes. Take a new class. Schedule a lunch-date with a girlfriend. Read that dusty book on your nightstand. Call an old friend for a good laugh. Go for a run. Make time for YOU!
In the long run, not only is it best for us, it’s best for our kids and our marriages too. So don’t be afraid.
Then there’s other fairy tale of the house with the white picket fence, an adoring husband and two lovely children. Again, the stories we’re fed as children fuel this desire to have a perfect life. How often we sung the song of “…k-i-s-s-i-n-g! First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes so-in-so in the baby carriage!”
Unfortunately, our mothers did not do a proper job of filling in the blanks. Perhaps it was the Mean Stepmother’s story: the one that teaches us that oftentimes, in our quest to fulfill these childhood fantasies of what married life with children would be, we lose ourselves along the way.
We’re so consumed with our work, our home, our husbands, and our children that we squash any sense of self. There’s just no time left in the day for us. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve noticed a wrinkle in the mirror and wondered how long it had been there. God knows, who has time to look that closely in the mirror anyway?
And then after a while, we stop one day, look in the mirror and realize we don’t know who we are anymore. We know we’re “wife” and “mother” and “daughter” and “friend” but we don’t know ourselves.
It’s scary to acknowledge the fact that we let our passions (and ourselves) go. We’re consumed with filling our kid’s day with meaningful activities to uncover their passions but what about ours? We used to be dancers or painters or photographers or roller-skate queens with ambition too. We had dreams and desires. Wants and needs. But we’ve prioritized ourselves right off of the list.
Of course, when we come to this realization, it causes strife with our spouse. He can’t imagine what we’re going through because it’s just not the same for men. But the truth is, we need to find ourselves again sometimes. Take a new class. Schedule a lunch-date with a girlfriend. Read that dusty book on your nightstand. Call an old friend for a good laugh. Go for a run. Make time for YOU!
In the long run, not only is it best for us, it’s best for our kids and our marriages too. So don’t be afraid.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Stepping back
I got home from work early last week. Usually, I don’t walk in the door until at least 6:30. But on this day I was settled in right after 5. The kids were playing indoors with a friend and I realized I had time to get a few things done around the house. I made lunches for the next day, put away a basketful of laundry, picked up the mail and had a nice conversation with a neighbor, scheduled a doctor’s visit and put something in the oven for dinner.
While I was waiting for dinner to cook, I realized I had enough time to vacuum the floors. As I pushed the vacuum, I fell into the well of my own thoughts. I considered how nice it was to be home early today. To accomplish tasks that usually had to wait until the weekend to get done, or never done at all. I thought about how relaxed I felt, even though I was wrestling with the vacuum hose as I sucked up the dirt that hides behind the couch cushions.
It dawned on me that I’ve been so consumed by my work these last few years and so accepting of my crazy schedule that after a while, that’s all I know. While my friends remind me how crazy my life is, with a 45+hour work week and a two-hour roundtrip commute to boot, I’ve forgotten the simple joy of being home from work before dark. Before my kids have already eaten and been bathed by someone else.
I contemplated how frantic I feel every day because my laundry list of to-do’s never ends. Nor does it ever seem like it’s getting close to the end. Every week I struggle to remove items that will never get done, period. I thought about all the reasons I went back to work in the first place, to find myself and my sense of worth. To make a difference in the world. To make a meaningful contribution. Whatever happened to all that and is it still worth it, I wondered?
I questioned how happy I am right now, living my crazy life. I decided that what I do now is not the meaningful life contributions I imagined making. So why am I so dedicated to it? Perhaps I would be better off taking a job with less responsibility that would leave more time to do the things I’m missing… like driving my kids to dance class or making them a home-cooked meal more often than just Sunday nights. I thought for a minute that just maybe I was willing to take a step backwards, or laterally, in my career and focus more on my family. To be the mom I wanted to be. To stop having such guilt.
Even considering the thought of back-burnering my career had never dawned on me before. Never ever. As I called the kids to the dinner table, I decided to put some “thinking time” aside later to ponder this new idea.
Then, after I warned Maya to put the bowl of hot pasta down before she got a drink, she dropped the bowl. Not dropped it as in falling vertically onto the floor. Her friend knocked into her and the bowl of pasta went flying everywhere…it landed on counter tops and cabinets and on the floor six feet away. She started to cry that it wasn’t her fault…Camryn began yelling she asked for a drink and hadn’t yet received it…the friend complained she didn’t like what I had made…then I realized I burned what was in the oven…
…and I couldn’t wait to go back to work the next day.
While I was waiting for dinner to cook, I realized I had enough time to vacuum the floors. As I pushed the vacuum, I fell into the well of my own thoughts. I considered how nice it was to be home early today. To accomplish tasks that usually had to wait until the weekend to get done, or never done at all. I thought about how relaxed I felt, even though I was wrestling with the vacuum hose as I sucked up the dirt that hides behind the couch cushions.
It dawned on me that I’ve been so consumed by my work these last few years and so accepting of my crazy schedule that after a while, that’s all I know. While my friends remind me how crazy my life is, with a 45+hour work week and a two-hour roundtrip commute to boot, I’ve forgotten the simple joy of being home from work before dark. Before my kids have already eaten and been bathed by someone else.
I contemplated how frantic I feel every day because my laundry list of to-do’s never ends. Nor does it ever seem like it’s getting close to the end. Every week I struggle to remove items that will never get done, period. I thought about all the reasons I went back to work in the first place, to find myself and my sense of worth. To make a difference in the world. To make a meaningful contribution. Whatever happened to all that and is it still worth it, I wondered?
I questioned how happy I am right now, living my crazy life. I decided that what I do now is not the meaningful life contributions I imagined making. So why am I so dedicated to it? Perhaps I would be better off taking a job with less responsibility that would leave more time to do the things I’m missing… like driving my kids to dance class or making them a home-cooked meal more often than just Sunday nights. I thought for a minute that just maybe I was willing to take a step backwards, or laterally, in my career and focus more on my family. To be the mom I wanted to be. To stop having such guilt.
Even considering the thought of back-burnering my career had never dawned on me before. Never ever. As I called the kids to the dinner table, I decided to put some “thinking time” aside later to ponder this new idea.
Then, after I warned Maya to put the bowl of hot pasta down before she got a drink, she dropped the bowl. Not dropped it as in falling vertically onto the floor. Her friend knocked into her and the bowl of pasta went flying everywhere…it landed on counter tops and cabinets and on the floor six feet away. She started to cry that it wasn’t her fault…Camryn began yelling she asked for a drink and hadn’t yet received it…the friend complained she didn’t like what I had made…then I realized I burned what was in the oven…
…and I couldn’t wait to go back to work the next day.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Scrubbed, rubbed & loved
I heart Valentine’s Day. I know a lot of folks feel it’s a bullshit made-up holiday for women. Maybe it is. But while the flowers and the candy are nice, the best part of my Valentine’s Day was being loved.
I’m sorry I’m going to brag, I’m forewarning you now. I had the f@#%ing best V-Day. Yes, I got flowers but I’d skip them next year and every year after that if Maverick will continue V-Day like this past one. We had plans to go out for dinner but nixed them to stay home instead. I cooked him a lovely meal. Then he spoiled me with love. He made me feel like I was the most beautiful, special, sexy, hot, sweet, delicious woman in the whole world. I was scrubbed, rubbed and loved.
I’m going to leave out the steamy details of scrubbed, rubbed and loved. But suffice it to say, it was the planning, along with the execution, of course, that made me feel so incredible. It was so romantic and just so perfect. From the spa candles and massage oil to the right music and setting the scene. It was obvious that he enjoyed the planning part and that meant so much. Because let’s face it—men don’t really care about all staging or the props. Once dinner was over, it was all about me and better than I anticipated. (and I was anticipating!)
I know he’s going to kill me for this post, but I’ve been smiling from ear to ear since Saturday. And today’s Monday. And that’s a long time. After fourteen years together, I can’t stop gushing about how lucky I am. It’s great to know that our marriage is still as thrilling as it was when it was new. Hope your V-Day was equally rewarding.
I’m sorry I’m going to brag, I’m forewarning you now. I had the f@#%ing best V-Day. Yes, I got flowers but I’d skip them next year and every year after that if Maverick will continue V-Day like this past one. We had plans to go out for dinner but nixed them to stay home instead. I cooked him a lovely meal. Then he spoiled me with love. He made me feel like I was the most beautiful, special, sexy, hot, sweet, delicious woman in the whole world. I was scrubbed, rubbed and loved.
I’m going to leave out the steamy details of scrubbed, rubbed and loved. But suffice it to say, it was the planning, along with the execution, of course, that made me feel so incredible. It was so romantic and just so perfect. From the spa candles and massage oil to the right music and setting the scene. It was obvious that he enjoyed the planning part and that meant so much. Because let’s face it—men don’t really care about all staging or the props. Once dinner was over, it was all about me and better than I anticipated. (and I was anticipating!)
I know he’s going to kill me for this post, but I’ve been smiling from ear to ear since Saturday. And today’s Monday. And that’s a long time. After fourteen years together, I can’t stop gushing about how lucky I am. It’s great to know that our marriage is still as thrilling as it was when it was new. Hope your V-Day was equally rewarding.
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