I’ve been thinking a lot about the relationships I’ve had in my life.
You know, to the point that I find myself drumming on the top of my head, deep in thought. Which, really? Looks a little nuts.
Here’s the thing about relationships that I’ve found: They are fantastic, exhilirating, intoxicating. They make you feel whole, new, young, happy, beautiful, fresh, whatever.
But at the end of the day? Eh.
Someone always is left with a broken heart, be it from a break up, divorce, a fade out, death.
So, with that, let’s delve into Round One Of Crazy Ass Things That Happened To Me Because I Went Out On A Date, shall we?
Let’s.
Let’s start with my junior year of high school. Let’s call him by his real name by a fake name, Sporty Spice. (Because it’s my blog and I can, neener neener.) So.
My junior year, Sporty Spice and I began dating. I always was a “good girl,” as in my knees and teeth tended to stay together instead of gape open, iff’n you know what I mean.
Well, this was a problem for Sporty Spice. Sporty Spice wanted to Do It. And me? Well, I was unsure about it, despite his constant declarations of love.
He was a year older than me and at one point wrote me a letter stating that he planned on being single when he forged ahead at university. (Which, for any high school boys reading this? Not the way to get into a girl’s pants. So there.)
So, I didn’t Do It with him. In fact, I got more and more distressed by the constant pressure that I broke up with him, two weeks before prom.
And my father made me go with him anyway.
“You made a commitment,” he said, “and you need to follow through.”
Gah.
So, one bright May morning, I awoke, got my hairs did and makeups did and put on my pretty prom dress (I should scan these pictures so you could see how thin I was … gloooooory daaaays.) and waited on him to pick me up.
He comes, we do the pictures, he keeps putting his arm around me, and I keep pulling his hands away from me. Friends ride with us to the restaurant, to the actual prom.
And then? Shize goes downhill, and downhill fast. Immediately upon entering the prom Sporty Spice removes his jacket and vest and proceeds to belly slide across the dance floor.
Here’s the thing about me? I HATE LOOKING LIKE AN ASS.
So, I watch him slide, see him gathering lint from carpet and dresses and only God knows whate else, and I cower in the corner with my girlfriends, who are much more amused by this than me, and I wait. for. the. end. Soon, though, Shania Twain’s “From This Moment,” comes on and here comes Sporty Spice.
“Dance with me,” he requests.
“No. NO. You are covered in sweat, and … no,” I say, trying not to be too juvenile (but keep in mind I am 17 and self-centered and EVERYONE is staring and it couldn’t get worse, could it?).
“YOU DON’T LOVE ME!” he screams (Yes, it can get worse. Awesome.) and runs from the banquet hall.
Sighing, I go to find him, and there he is, right by the entrance, weeping.
I try to make amends, be nice the rest of the night. Then, when it’s almost over, he removes his tuxedo shirt and his t-shirt, thus effectively rendering him the “Skins” part of a “Shirts and Skins” prom, if there ever happened to be such a thing.
We drive back to my house, where the post-prom get together is getting together. And we all hang out, and I keep thinking he will leave, because we are broken up and he knows we are not getting together and this is weird and everyone is staring at me and I am only 17 and is my first real boyfriend and are people supposed to act like this, because it’s kind of freaking me out and if this is how people act before they even have sex then I am never doing it because there is nothing in this world that could be worth having to deal with people acting like crazy people ohmygosh when can I go to bed?
And finally, people start falling asleep. I curl up on the couch, with my friends and Sporty Spice around me.
And an hour later, I wake up as Sporty Spice is climbing onto the couch. With me. And suddenly, turning me into the little spoon. So I stretch and fall off the couch. Take my blanket and move to the floor. (Yes, I had a bedroom. Yes, I should’ve just gone there. I was young and foolish, okay?!)
And an hour later, I wake up as Sporty Spice is climbing onto the floor. With me. And suddenly, I am the little spoon again.
And then, he whispers, “I need you like I need air. You are my air.”
To which I reply, “You’re mother is a respiratory therapist. You’ll be fine.”
Which, honestly? One of the less nice moments in my life.
Let me just say that I did spend that summer getting numerous care packages from Sporty Spice, with torn up pictures of me and Bible verses scratched on scraps of notebook paper.
And then, years later, when he friended me on an online social networking site he criticized me, acted as if I were a failure as I hadn’t published a book yet. (As his career as a soft-core … artist(?) is really what his childhood dreams consisted of … well, maybe they did. Huh.)
So, really? Dating is ridiculous. It shows us at our worst.
And fear not, dear readers, because next up? I will regale you with me at my most psychotic. Remember, here at I am THAT mommy, we are equal-opportunity maker funners.
Brought to you by the genius of Julie at myfourboys.net
Dear Adobe Creative Suite,
As a child, I spent so many days writing, drawing, painting. Little did I know that when I became an adult, computers would be doing most of those things for us.
That’s why, I was so happy, when at the University of Georgia, I found you. You were only a fragment of yourself then: Photoshop.
But my, what fun, what joy I had with you, adding horns to my coworkers mugshots, writing snappy catchphrases on photographs, cutting and pasting myself in half to see what I’d look like if my face was symmetrical.
Then I became a real adult, a working adult, and I put away my childish things kept playing with Photoshop. And InDesign, and Illustratror, and all the other fun things involving Creative Suite 3.
And, you’ve given me not only an outlet for my creativity, CS3, you are letting me celebrate friendship. I present to you, Julonberisse, a graphics carnival of my cohorts in internets activities, the fantastic girls — Kimber, Julie and Charisse — who make up the most beautiful, best racked, most witty and loveable four-headed woman who ever lived.
And for that, CS3?
Mama thanks you. Mama thanks you very much.
First off, Happy Guy Fawkes Day. Remember to go burn something before the day is over.
Secondly, I’ve been quiet as of late. Sorry. I know you’ve not noticed been missing me desperately. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.
I’m really feeling weird these days. Toward a lot of things in my life, from some people to belief systems to future plans to … well, everything.
With that said, I’m going back to my regularly scheduled programming. For fun Friday times, check out Foursons blog over at myfourboys.net for Letters of Intent. I’m sure I’ll be participating in that.
I am in flux.
My weekend was beautiful, wonderful, fantastic. While I never was a resident of Louisiana, my mother’s family is from there. They are Cajun, and as a child I felt a strange fascination about this side of my lineage that I knew so little about.
So, of course, when I go to New Orleans, I feel pretty damn happy. And, with my bestie, Mamanda, living there, it’s like the greatest thing ever. I arrived Friday night and left Sunday. And, while I was glad to be home, glad to see The Noodle this morning, I was sad.
There’s such an empty feeling of leaving your friend, of leaving a city that you one day believed you’d live in before life planted your feet so firmly elsewhere, of driving in the dark toward reality. Halloween was wonderful.
We walked through streets, saw dancers and perverts and cops on horses. We bullwhipped (Well, I bullwhipped, but Mamanda documented it, so there) strangers and took a lot of pictures of them (However, because people have jobs and stuff, they’re only available on Facebook, so if you have not friended me, you are missing out!) and danced our booties off at a goth club and collapsed in bed around 5 a.m. It was a lovely weekend.
I am in love with New Orleans, as is Lucky.
But, as I have been gone for days, there is much to do and little time for me to write now. Expect more later. I’m sure you’re all quivering with anticipation.
Ahem.
I’d like to tell you a little story about how I, for months, laughed at my sister.
In case you were unawares, I have two siblings. One, Tiny Juan, is 19-almost-20 and a college student. She and I are fairly similar in terms of interests. My other sister, The Fivehead, is 26. She’s incredibly outgoing, friendly, the life of the party. She has never met a stranger. While I am more reserved and less likable, she is everyone’s friend and wildly enjoyed by all who meet her.
We’re very different, but we’re siblings. Here we are. Clearly, good looks run in the family.
Well, every year my family goes on vacation to Anna Maria Island, Florida. It’s the most beautific place in the world, and I love going there. In fact, I love going there so much that I daydream about winning the lottery and retiring there at the ripe old age of 30.
Anyway.
Well, a couple of years ago, we rented a house instead of the usual condo we get. The house was great. We had a pool and it was bright and airy and spacious.
And, just a short — like seriously, a block — walk from this:
So, we had fun.
BUT. On, seriously, like the second day there, The Fivehead straddled a bicycle and headed off to the beach.
I’d returned earlier with The Noodle, and was at home when she returned, red faced and upset.
Turns out, the basket on her vintage-style bike had done the unthinkable and, when overloaded with towels and sunscreen, broke off from the bike.
The Fivehead had had no choice but to strike said basket, sending her flying through the air and landing on her elbow and knee.
Her knee was a bloody, scraped up mess. We tended to it.
“My elbow is broken,” The Fivehead wailed.
We tried not to snicker.
“My ‘bow,” she moaned.
We tried harder not to snicker.
She held her arm out at a ridiculous angle. We really paid no attention. After all, this was the same person who had, as a child, left her arm dead and limp for hours after getting shots, and would sling it up onto a table with a loud thud as if it had no feeling in it.
She’s special.
Well, that night, we all went to bed. Later, I was jolted awake by some terrifying, keening sound.
It was The Fivehead.
She was dead asleep, moaning and thrashing about, because apparently her elbow was hurting THAT much.
The next day, I mentioned this to my father, who finally grew slightly concerned.
We talked to The Fivehead and she demanded a sling.
Off we went.
Turns out, there had been a rash of arm-related injuries on the island, because — and I am not lying — we went to about FOUR different pharmacies before we found one that had slings in stock. The rest? All gone.
Finally, we thought she might be okay.
Well, she wasn’t.
The next day, my dad ended up taking The Fivehead to the hospital medical clinic. The result?
She had broken her weenis. (That’s the non-technical term for the elbow, anyway.)
And we laughed and laughed and laughed at her. We laughed so hard. We thought it was so funny.
And granted, she was a decent sport about it, most days.
But, now, after having a fracture of my own, (Have I mentioned I broke my foot a few weeks ago? Oh, no? Well I did) I know now that it is not funny. It is a royal pain in the arse.
And although my foot is no longer swollen and I am walking mostly normal, a mere 25 days later, it still hurts and throbs, and I expect that to continue a while longer.
And while I feel sort of bad for laughing a little — okay, a lot — at The Fivehead, I probably would do it all over again.
Because Lona? Broke her foot. The Fivehead? Broke her weenis.
Heh heh heh.
You know what, guys? I do a lot of stupid things.
I mean, really.
Let’s think about it.
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I break my foot and wait two days to go to the hospital.
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I break into song constantly.
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I laugh when my three-year-old son says to his grandfather, “You get over here and play with me or I’ll kick your ass.” (Because, really? It’s funny. And he knows it’s a bad word and if I make a big deal out of it, he’ll just do it again and again and again, so I ignore it or simply give him a Mom Look, which works wonders.)
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I decide to dress up as a ringmistress for Halloween, ignoring the fact that I am almost thirty, that my thighs have definitely seen better days and that carrying a bullwhip around New Orleans might invite creepers.
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I speed. Despite the 1,000 speeding tickets I have received, I keep speeding.
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I’m crass. (I blame it on being a journalist. In fact, on Facebook, I am a member of a group called ‘Journalism Makes Me Drink,’ and the tagline contains this: Do you enjoy getting soused, legless, crunked, or just generally pissed? Can you drink more than it would take to kill an Indian Elephant? If you answered “yes” to any of the above questions, then you, my friend, are a journalist. And while I do enjoy a good glass or eight of wine, I am by no means an alcoholic. But let’s just say in college? Mama could drink you under the table. Perhaps I should regal the old blog with some of those stories, huh? Anyone care to hear about the time I gave a homeless crackhead all my jewelry because of some Goldschlager? Anyway, I digress.)
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I constantly make bets with myself. Like, if I do this, then I win this prize.
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I pretend that spending change doesn’t count as wasting money. Ahem.
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I wear wide belts so that I can find my waist. You know, because I miss it.
And all of these things just slide on by, because most of them you can’t see on the Interwebs unless I blog about them.
Well, today, boys and girls and girls and girls, I offer you this. Whilst at home this past week, yours truly got together with her son and her sister and her sister’s Mac, and we played around. With Photo Booth.
And it was awesome.
Behold, the beauty that is me and my family.
My personal favorite. Me, as a dementor. Tiny Juan, in the throes of my soul sucking.
Brought to you by the genius of MckMama!
You know, having a kid is a wondrous, glorious thing. And my kid? A wondrous, glorious child. I mean, look at him:
I mean, really. The kid's adorable.
But, this weekend, I DID NOT completely slack off and take some much needed “me” time.
And I know what you’re thinking: Your child is with his dad half the time. Don’t you get all the me time you need then?
The answer: Shut up.
Aaanyway, after working late Friday night, I DID NOT swing my child past Wendy’s for chicken nuggets. Nope, I packed dinner and we ate a balanced meal at work. Ahem.
And, after getting home Friday night, I DID NOT do one load of laundry before sprawling across my bed and sitting on the phone for two hours.
Saturday morning I planned on taking The Noodle to a couple of fall festivals around Athens, and then heading to my hometown — that’s right, the very place I grew up, ladies and germs — for more festivaling.
Because we had a lot to do, I DID NOT hand my child cereal and turn on a movie when he awoke at the perfectly reasonable hour of 9 a.m. I DID NOT then doze off and on, getting up only to restart the movie once, until noon.
I mean, come on now.
Once I was up, we DID NOT rush out the door, go to a Business & Home Expo for work, and then head to Winder’s Jug Tavern Festival.
I DID NOT completely forget the fact that IT WAS COLD outside, and wear a short-sleeved t-shirt to the festival.
I DID NOT briefly lose The Noodle as he ran from inflatable to inflatable, as I was trying to text my friends carry balloons and hot dogs and hot chocolate.
Spot The Noodle! Can you find him? Luckily for all of us, I did.
And I definitely DID NOT use my child for warmth as he went on his very first hay ride, ever. (Because that’s how we do it in the South, yo. We ride in tractors on roads with cars whizzing past. Because Southerners? We are HARD CORE.)
Brr. I mean, BRR.
Once we got up to the homestead that evening, I certainly DID NOT go to town with my younger sister and rent horror flicks so that we’d stay up all night, terrified. We also definitely DID NOT go to Dairy Queen or listen to *N Sync’s “Bye Bye Bye” three times in a row with the windows down. Because, ahem. I am 28.
Sunday morning, I DID NOT wake up, eat breakfast with the family, watch as my child ignored me for Sir Winston and promptly go take a nap in the sunroom.
When I awoke, I DID NOT invite everyone to go with me to the local Harvest Sale, and have everyone decline.
So, instead of lazing around the house with them, I DID NOT go into town by myself, with only my point and shoot camera, and try to capture some of the beauty of my hometown.
Downtown in the hometown. I used to walk this tracks after school.
The downtown district ... you know, right out of a movie.
This is the street my father grew up on. Fer reals.
When I got home, I DID NOT look at the pictures and really like them. And then, after uploading and Photoshopping them a little, I DID NOT like them even more.
Which means I AM NOT now contemplating doing something I always wanted to do: Get my SLR out and get my certification in photography through UGA’s Continuing Education program.
Because, really, I DO NOT have the time to do that, right?
Right?
Brought to you by the genius of Julie at myfourboys.net!
Dear Lona,
Hi, self. I know you’ve been through a lot these past couple of weeks, but how about finally getting off your arse and, you know, doing something productive?
I know, I know. Your foot is broken. Your foot is broken, thus disabling you so that you cannot do laundry or sweep or anything like that. However, I did notice that yesterday, wearing three inch heels, you ran across a Gwinnett County parking lot like a woman being chased by zombies. Ahem.
I know, I know, you’re stressed out. And I know that you don’t mean to be Captain McSnarls to everyone lately, but the other day, walking into Transmet? When the one guy held the door open for you and you said thank you, and the other guy, in the cowboy hat and boots, almost fell down the stairs on you and then said, “You could say ‘excuse me’ for being in my way,” and you went from 0-60 in .2 seconds, and snarled, “You could not get so drunk you almost knock down a woman,” and then finish up with, “you redneck from hell.” I mean, really, Lona. Take it down a notch.
And you know those leggings you wore? With the sweater? I mean, it’s a great look on most people, but on you? How do you say, “I’m giving up on how I look” in Lona? Oh yes, you wear black leggings on your upside-down triangle legs with a HORIZONTALLY striped sweater on tops. Just so you look like a ball. I mean, really, woman. Get yourself together.
Now, I’m not trying to attack you. I just want you to do somethings for me: you know, dishes, laundry, sweeping. It’s about time you stopped wearing that one pair of jeans and tried to look pretty. Because right now? You are a hot mess. (Just like Lindsay Lohan … but not.)
I mean, wowzer. You know?
I hope when I see you on Monday, you’re doing better, mmkay?
Excellent.
Love,
Your Rational Half
About a year ago, I was directed to WhyMommy’s blog, by a friend. As a cancer survivor, she documented what it was like to have two young children and inflammatory breast cancer. She recently wrote the following about IBC, which is an extremely aggressive form of cancer.
Breast cancer — well, any cancer, really — terrifies me. My grandmother, who I am named after, died of leukemia in the mid-1960s. I never knew her. My mother’s father died from cancer a few years back. My great-grandmother died from breast cancer, and my own grandmother has had scares over the years herself. In my community this year, we watched as a mother and her son passed away just days from each other — from breast cancer and neuroblastoma, I believe.
Anyway, WhyMommy wrote this. Read it. Share it.
Inflammatory breast cancer
There’s more than one kind of breast cancer. Did you know that? During October, we’re so often flooded with “buy pink” campaigns, and reminders to check ourselves for lumps, that it’s become almost commonplace. We all know that we should do regular self exams, and we’ve heard it so often that the urgency often fades into the background of children, spouses, laundry, and work. But did you know that there’s a kind of breast cancer that forms without a tell-tale lump?
It’s called inflammatory breast cancer, and it spreads FAST. The cancer forms in thin sheets, or in nests, like a bird’s nest of cancer growing inside your breast. There are few external signals or symptoms, and they’re sneaky too, since most of them are similar to mastitis, which many of us have experienced while breastfeeding a baby, or bug bites, or sunburn.
But taken together, one or more of these symptoms can signal a dangerous cancer lurking in your breast. What are the symptoms?
Here’s a list, from the IBC Research Foundation:
* Swelling, usually sudden, sometimes a cup size in a few days
* Itching
* Pink, red, or dark colored area (called erythema) sometimes with texture similar to the skin of an orange (called peau d’orange)
* Ridges and thickened areas of the skin
* Nipple retraction
* Nipple discharge, may or may not be bloody
* Breast is warm to the touch
* Breast pain (from a constant ache to stabbing pains)
* Change in color and texture of the areola
There’s a great illustration of these symptoms over at Worldwide Breast Cancer that is guaranteed to be not like anything you’ve seen before…. In my mind, it boils down to this. If you notice ANYTHING DIFFERENT on one breast that’s not on the other breast, please CALL YOUR DOCTOR.
Today.
Because this cancer moves fast, faster than almost any other cancer, and is deadly. Only 40% of patients survive 5 years after diagnosis. In the 2.5 years since my diagnosis, I’ve already lost a dozen friends to cancer. Many of them were moms and bloggers, readers just like you. They fought hard. They fought with everything they had. But cancer treatment is largely still in the experimental stages, and it’s a tough road.
Just to be here today, I had to not only survive cancer, but also survive 6 months of chemotherapy, 7 weeks of daily radiation, 2 surgeries to remove my breasts and ovaries, and a lot of physical therapy to deal with lymphedema, which makes my arm swell in the heat when I step outside (as a lovely side effect of the mastectomy that took all my lymph nodes on that side).
It’s been a hard, hard road, but I’m grateful for the chance to be here today, to hug my children, to play their games, to laugh at their knock-knock jokes. There is joy after cancer. But first we have to get there.
So please, take a moment, call/email/blog/tweet/update your friends, and SHARE the SIGNS of inflammatory breast cancer with the people you care about. You never know. You might just save a life.
I found this the other day. I wrote it in early 2004, before marriage, before child, before college graduation and divorce and gray hairs and everything else. It’s interesting that I still completely identify with how I felt then, over five years ago.
“The nature of the game is that someone else rolls your dice. You’re at the game, not a participant really, more of a spectator, and you get to watch as the little game piece selected for you moves forward three spaces, goes back to start, gets trapped on Llava Mountain and is stuck until snake eyes is rolled. The game offers no instruction book, no online tutorial, no 24 hour hotline.
This is not your typical Milton-Bradley.
There is no Candyland. There’s no Operation. Connect Four is sold out. The only thing you get handed is Risk, and I’ll be damned if I know anyone who ever spent that much time with a game touting itself as a bastion of world domination.
So what do you do? You can throw it back in its box, leave it on a shelf. You can let the board fade in the sun, or you can let someone else roll for you. There is no option to start over, to re-do, to see past the next roll. You cannot know what lies ahead. You cannot know what this feels like.
Inside me lives the worst board game. It’s a game that I have, inadvertently, been given control over, for some period of time, at least. It’s something I do not understand, do not know if I want to understand.
I can’t ignore the dice. They’re in my hand. It’s up to me to throw them onto the board or into the air.
Anticipation.”
