The lids of my life

A mutual love of coffee is a good start to any relationship. So this guy and I had that, and a few other things, going for us some months into our getting-kinda-serious romance. One afternoon, he picked me up with plans to head out of town for the day, and we made a stop for coffee (to-go). This was circa 1999/2000, a time when smart disposable cup lid design was maybe not the norm yet, because not everyone was so intensely serious about their to-go coffee experience. I have no idea if that's the reason why actually, but I do know most lids were not as user friendly and simple in design, and an insulating sleeve was even more rare to come across. So my to-go cups usually came with one of these:

Remember this type? Flat. White. No fancy domed lids, no ergonomic, lip-embracing sipping opening, virtually nothing that tells the casual observer how fashionable and overpriced your coffee is. And that's important. Good thing those days are gone, am I right? 

The thing is, I didn't realize that there was an actual accepted and recommended method to opening these. I never once stopped to study this lid and its lines, its raised bumps and apparent perforations. You may be thinking right now, where the hell is she going with this? 

Had I taken a moment out of my extraordinary and fascinating java-soaked life to look at this lid, I might have easily discerned how it was designed to work. But nope, I just wanted to get at my coffee: I'd grab that little tab with my teeth, and slowly bite and rip (yes, with my teeth like little scissors) a small, half-circle shaped opening sort of right between the parallel pair of perforations below that center button. This took a minute or so to get it done, but it worked, and I'd sip my coffee from this new, diy opening. 

On this fateful afternoon, as we sat in his car, getting settled to take off again with our coffee, he watched me, sitting in the passenger seat, slowly gnaw a sipping hole into my lid. Then he said, "What...are..you..doing?"

"What?"

"Why did you make a hole like that?" He was staring at my lid. He looked a little worried.

"Uh, so I can drink my coffee?"

Silence.

Then he lifted his own cup and he showed me how he'd pulled the tab back, along the perforations, and that it folded back PERFECTLY to lock on to the button. And he moved it back and forth, like a hinge. Locked and unlocked. 

I was stunned. 

I married him.

Tonight, some 16 years later, I took our 10 year old son to the village Christmas parade. It was just the two of us, since he had to work. After the parade and tree lighting, he got free hot cocoa. It was in a tall disposable paper cup, conspicuously without a lid. I thought back to that afternoon in the car for a moment. 

By the time we walked back to the car, the cocoa was still too hot for him to drink, so I knew we'd have to contend with a big, open cup of cocoa sloshing around in the car.  I drove slowly, and we made it back to the house with no spills. "How is it now?" I asked him.

"It's ok. It's not as good as yours..." (Don't fall for it people, he just wants marshmallows)

"Aw, buddy - we could add some milk and mini marshmallows to it, ok?"

"Yes!"

I still had my coat on and I put the cup on the kitchen counter. I found the marshmallows, opened the bag, and as I went to drop in a handful, my coat sleeve knocked over the cup and all of its sugary brown chocolate liquid across the counter. It rushed into the utensil drawer, and the drawer below that, and made it into 2 cabinets as well. We both stared at the spill. It was just the worst looking thing. I opened the drawer and saw my forks and spoons floating in cocoa. I must have made a telling face, because my son said quickly, "It's fine, I didn't really want it, mom. It's totally ok!"

As I cleaned up the mess and washed every utensil we own, I felt aggravated. What started out as a pleasant evening turned into an annoying, unexpected mop-up. I thought, "should have had a lid" and then I realized that once again, a disposable drink lid changed the course of my day. Dramatic? Maybe. But see, the first time there was a lid and the outcome was good - the second time, the lid wasn't there and we had a big, sticky spill. I know, I know, marrying someone and cleaning up a spill are completely different things. Wait - are they? 

Basically, what I'm saying is: Always use a fucking lid.

Working girl: Part I

I don't know if the laws are still the same, but when I turned 14, kids could legally work if they had magical "working papers" which could be sought at the school district office with proof of age. There you'd find the district's 200-year old secretary (oh, it's a fact) who'd squint at your documents from behind her half-frames, purse her wrinkled pucker, and then retrieve from one of the file drawers lining the wall a precious blue index card for you to present to your new employer.

This blue card allowed you to hold down a real, taxable job, contingent on a number of child-labor discouraging regulations, such as not running belt sanders after midnight. You know, stuff like that.

I don't remember exactly what my rush was: my parents didn't pressure me to get a job at 14, and it didn't seem like many of my friends were running out to get 'real' jobs. I think I just wanted some dough coming in on a regular basis - I never received an allowance because my parents are Italian and Italians just don't do that. Most of the cash I came into consisted of the occasional $20 my grandpa slipped me...or later, the occasional $20 I slipped from mom's wallet. Hey, she left her pocketbook on the kitchen counter -- I'm sure she knew. So yes, that was it: I needed to feel the power of having my own cash flow...and, I wanted a leather bomber jacket - I mean, it was 1989 after all.

McDonald's struck me as the easiest and most glamorous job I could get. I am not being cheeky. In my naive 14 year old head, I imagined myself the fresh new face of our local friendly McDonald's counter: headset, visor, and totally adorable. Watch me work this cash register all cute-like. Is that for here or to go, Sir? Have you ever seen someone so effervescent!? I'm having fun, wearing eyeliner, AND making bank. Boom. Except we didn't say "making bank" in 1989.

I never, ever imagined there would be other tasks involved.

My first day was mostly spent watching corporate training videos in the manager's office. I don't remember how long I was (locked?) in there, but it seemed like hours. After, she showed me around a bit, issued me a uniform, and told me I needed to procure black shoes with non-slip bottoms. My first 'real' shift would start the following Saturday.

I chose black hi-top Reeboks. You know, the kind that went with aerobics and leg warmers, or acid wash and hairspray - whatever your poison was in those days. These were probably the most slippery shoes I could choose besides stilettos. What does a 14 year old girl know about non-slip work shoes? Come to think of it, my mom was with me. Why didn't she intervene? Sometimes I think she was just watching this whole thing unfold in amusement.

Saturday came and my mom dropped me off at the McDonald's on Route 6. Grinning from ear to ear, I punched in like I'd been shown, and located the manager. She was not as excited to see me as I thought she would be.

"You'll start on fries."

"OK!" I practically yelled.

Wait. What? Fries?

"Oh, um, but I think I'd like to work at the counter instead?" I added.

"Everyone starts by learning the fries" she said, not even smiling. She was a meanie. A meanie with a bad perm.

If you've worked in a fast food restaurant, you know that fries duty is hard, physical work. It's not just dropping the fry baskets and flinging around the salt. Oh, no no - that's the glitzy part. The part they showcase out front. There's this whole other dance that happens...you see, because the fries have to come from somewhere. That somewhere is the walk-in freezer, stacked with cardboard boxes containing bags of frozen fries. As the french fry lackey (my term, not theirs), you wield this teetering vertical cart, which is about 6 feet tall, with hooks for at least a dozen fry baskets. You roll it to the freezer, open a box, and as I recall, each bag in the box filled one fry basket. You keep opening boxes and ripping open bags until you fill up all the baskets, hook each basket back on to the cart, and you roll this monster back to the fryer. Where it's hot. And slippery. The floor is slick with grease and your hi-top Reeboks will be the death of you. You keep on frying, dropping in full baskets, hanging the empty ones, until the cart runs out of fries, then you refill the whole thing, over, and over again.

As I learned the functions of all the buttons, what the different beeps meant, and how much to salt each batch, I grew increasingly upset. This was nothing like what I'd imagined. I was sweating, my hands hurt from handling the stainless steel baskets for hours, I was thirsty, and hungry. I never sat once. I never even thought of asking for a break, and no one offered me one. I just worked continuously until my shift was over. I was scheduled to work again the next day, and I showed up, reluctantly.

I was on fries again. On this day, a gentleman working in the back was friendly to me on my way to the freezer. Or maybe I'm just remembering Louie Anderson washing the lettuce in Coming to America. Honestly, the details of that day are hazy.

At some point, someone sent me out to clean up a spill. I managed to figure out the mop bucket and rolled it over to the table. Milkshake everywhere. EVERYWHERE. As if someone spilled the largest milkshake available for sale in America at this very table. It started on the table, pooled onto the seat, and finished on the floor, and was still spreading. I wiped and mopped and wiped and mopped and the more I wiped and mopped, the more milkshake I found. The manager was telling me to hurry and get back to my station. My french fries station. MY station? Oh no. This is not working out.

As I ended the shift, the manager told me she'd be calling me to give me my next hours, as she set up a more regular schedule for me. A couple of days later, the call came.

"OK, so I'll need you here at 6am next Saturday."

"6 am?"

"Yes, 6am."

What the? Who does she think I am? Some sort of old person who gets up early? This won't do.

I protested.

"Um, I'm sorry, but I just can't come to work at 6 am!!" Ah-ha! Now I've got her! She will now realize that maybe she's been mistreating me, keeping me at the fries...she will realize that I should be at the counter after all - she'll realize how mean she's being!

"OK, then we don't need you here. You can come and turn in your uniform this week."

"I..uh....ok, thanks?"

Click.

I was stunned. Then, relieved. I cried a little bit and then I laughed. And I told my parents. And they laughed at me. Or with me. I still don't know for sure. I think they thought all the same things you are probably thinking.

Later that week, my mother drove me to return my uniform and pick up my paycheck: $58. I'll never forget because it's the first line right on my social security statement - $58 earned in all of 1989, and I earned every damned penny of it.

One time I did this thing for almost 2 years

In honor of World Breastfeeding Week 2015...

Shit! I just lost half my audience, didn't I? Oh well, they'll miss out (losers).

Like I'd started, in honor of this week promoting and normalizing (can you believe that crap? We are still working on normalizing in 2015...because America can't deal with tits or something) breastfeeding, I'm gonna share my experience, but of course I'll make it funny and touching and universal and and the best thing you ever read....because I know that's what you expect of me by now, and I'm here for you. Maybe though you should raise the bar a little bit? Whatever, I don't judge (except sometimes).

I made the decision to breastfeed while I was pregnant, but it wasn't a committed decision until the very end - or the very beginning, depending on how you look at it. I remember my mom breastfeeding my younger siblings, so I suspect (because I can't remember) that early on in my pregnancy I'd assumed I'd be figuring that part out when the time came. I do, however, recall the process of solidifying the choice to avoid formula altogether, to breastfeed exclusively, when I was commanding a huge, super round and shiny belly, and absorbing every piece of pregnancy/birth/newborn info I could find in the weeks before I was due. I knew it all, bitches. I was ready to yell at the entire hospital staff if necessary. I had a midwife. I had read 3 entire natural birthing books, and about a million and a half articles.

Fast forward to the birth NOT going anything like I'd planned. Because my little guy decided to literally sit down inside me and get his tiny ass stuck in my pelvis, because two back-to-back attempts at external cephalic version (when they try to manipulate a breech baby, from the outside, to flip into the right position - it's really painful and it was the worst thing ever), and because countless headstands, yoga bullshit, music, directed light and other coaxing didn't help to get him flipped into position, I had to finally succumb to a scheduled c-section.

I use the word succumb because at the time, it felt like complete defeat, even though it was an informed and thought out decision. I had been prepared for, and rather obsessed with, a natural birth, which I now felt cheated out of. That's another story for another time...and I got over it, no worries. However, because I'd read that having a c-section can negatively impact one's success in breastfeeding, I now felt like..ok, I lost control over this birth, I am definitely not losing control over how I feed him!  And I think that was maybe the moment I literally turned into a milk monster. Lactzilla. Nippleratu.


Titacabra.


I'd also read that in the recovery room, they are observing, among a number of things, for signs that the spinal block is wearing off, so that you can be taken back to be with your baby again. I made it clear to my c-section team that I knew this information and I'd be monitoring myself. I'm sure they all rolled their eyes. Don't care.

In recovery, as the cocktail of narcs that had been pumping through me for hours began wearing off, my face starting itching intensely. Like inside my face. I thought I would scratch my face right off - they gave me Benadryl for it. That was an awful feeling, but also kind of cool - for a moment I imagined I was a famous junkie rock star, in withdrawal, doing a stint in rehab against my will. My face has worms in it! Spiders! I need a fix! It's not funny. But it is.

Except I was a post-surgery blobby mess and probably not remotely cute, or funny, or cool at all.

Once I could finally wiggle my toes, I let the nurse know immediately that it was time for me to latch the baby. He needs colostrum or he'll DIE! Roll me back up to maternity at once, you bastards!

Latch the baby. What a fucking joke. It just wasn't working. I think every nurse on that floor, including sweet, quiet mustached Stanley, handled my stupid boobs and inadequate nipples in an attempt to help. I didn't care who it was - if you knew anything at all about babies and breastfeeding, you were going to be introduced to my breasts.

Oh, my dad is here? Cool, here's my left breast just chilling. It's out because it doesn't work. I'm gonna whip out this other one now and try it again. Poor guy. My dad was great about it actually and never made me feel weird. I'm not gonna ever tell him or thank him though because that might be weird. Some things just don't need words.

Nipple shields. SNS tube. Cup feeding expressed colostrum. Pumps. Engorgement. Let-down. I learned a new language in a couple of days. The more walls I hit, the harder I fought. The more people tried to tell me it's ok to 'give in' the more single minded I became.

Anyone that came to our house in those first few weeks got a boob show because I did all the things they tell you to - go topless as much as possible. Air dry those poor nipples. I was a little bit more reserved in public, sometimes positioning a small cotton blankie early on, but I never used an actual cover up because fuck you, people that think I should. That's right: I'll breastfeed on the hood of your car, in front of your kids, and laugh.

It took almost 3 months for things to work smoothly. I breastfed exclusively all that time though, through mastitis, cracked and bleeding nipples, thrush, and poor latch - but we kept going, and he kept growing and thriving, and then one day, just like that, it stopped hurting. And it was easy and mindless and convenient. I soon went back to work and figured out the whole electric pumping thing, (which is really on the edge of weird dystopian fuckery if you think about it), and I had accumulated a respectable stockpile of frozen breastmilk. My monster ways yielded amazing results. We kept right on going past his first birthday and almost to his second. It was around 20 months when  he was down to just one breastfeeding a day, usually the last one they give up, first thing in the morning. He just started forgetting about it...and I didn't remind him, and he self-weaned. That's kind of how it should happen. I still had milk for months though. That was freaky.

I can still imagine what it feels like to have a let-down. It's part pain, part pleasure, and all life-giving. It is a super power. I can close my eyes and see his little round baby face looking up at me, breaking away from my body for a second and giggling, then going right back for more. Even years later, I'm still so grateful for the experience. Looking back, I can see that I should have cut myself some slack, and that by not doing so, I caused myself a lot of anxiety with my constant, unwavering focus...at the same time, that was part of my learning process: I learned how deeply and fiercely I can dig in my heels when I know with all my heart that something is right, and it's a trait that has served me well much more than it hasn't.

So anyone out there breastfeeding - you're at one of the peaks of motherhood. You are the vessel that sustains your baby. You are full of magic at the same time that you are so very normal.

Everyone else - support breastfeeding mamas everywhere. Protect them, and stand up for them, and smile when you see them. Because that's the normal thing to do.

What I needed today

Today, at my local community pool, my comfortable, family-friendly, walk-to-almost-daily pool, an older lady insulted me. In front of others. It was so unnecessary and rude, I was speechless until I managed a weak, practically apologetic response.

I let the comment eat away at me all afternoon, and thought of all the great comebacks I could have given. Unfortunately, we are never prepared when someone, especially a complete stranger, decides to ruin our day with some fresh bullshit. I wish it was cool to come back up to someone hours later with a carefully crafted list of sassy responses. Mine would be bulleted, of course, and I would yell them and wag my finger right up in her smug face. Which I would then punch. But this post is about something greater than reactionary face punching.

After a roller coaster of feelings this evening, I saw a great blog post in my FB feed, and after I read it, I realized it was exactly what I needed. Not only did it make me feel a hell of a lot better, but it plucked me right out of my blogging dry spell (I know, it has been a while since my last post).

Let's get to the scene: I took my son to the pool this afternoon. I wasn't feeling particularly excited about it because I sprained my wrist a few days ago and have to be really careful -  however, 80  degrees, sunny, and an earlier promise meant I was going. In case you were wondering about my wrist, I regained the ability to type with two hands just this morning, though it feels a little achy. I'm sure tomorrow I'll regret all this typing.

I wore my workhorse swimsuit, meaning the no-frills navy blue number meant for being an active parent (if need be) at the pool, without worry of flashing any lady parts. It's quite plain and maybe even conservative by some standards. I do own a couple of flashier/swankier/more feminine suits, but those are reserved for out-of-town vacations where I pretend to be glamorous.

What I'm getting at here is that I am not one to call attention to myself at my village pool. I've also never been particularly comfortable in a bathing suit, because like I've been doing since I was an idiot teenager, I still spend a little too much time focused on my imperfections, and not quite enough time giving zero fucks about what people think. I am much better than I used to be, though. More on that in a bit.

After half an hour or so of sunning, I was feeling pretty roasty and my son was yelling for me to get in the water. I took off my arm brace, then braced myself (ha ha) as I started down the main pool steps into what I knew would be cold water. Holy crap it was it ever cold. You know that paralyzing cold after your skin has been sizzling in the sun? That "uh...yeah...never mind I'm good" kind of cold where you believe more sun is the way to go, and you're racing through lame excuses to turn around? So it was like that level cold.

I was in almost to my hips, waiting for a few kids to splash by before lunging forward to get it over with. So I took a deep breath, and,

"Yeah, suck that gut in."

What the? That voice was right next to me. That was spoken to me. I turned toward the voice and it was an older white-haired woman, my guess is in her late 60s, but besides that, rather nondescript. A complete stranger. There were several other adults and children around us, but she was absolutely talking to me: as I sucked in air to take a plunge, she accused me of, or believes she observed me, trying to suck in my stomach...and she had to call that out. Loudly. Like what the fuck is even the point of that?

I half squinted and said, "Ha, yea no it's cold."

I quickly dove in and floated away from her, toward my kid, more aware of my body than I'd been all day...and probably all damn week.

Then, instead of playing with my son, I watched her intently from the edge of the pool because I hated her so so much from that moment on. Her shitty comment made me take inventory of myself, and every single move I'd made since I got to the pool, and the fact that it bothered me so much...yes, you can finish this thought...that's what really bothered me!

Ultimately, it doesn't even matter, but for the record, I don't actually have what I suppose one might refer to as a "gut." I don't have the waistline I did 20 years ago, but for being a few days shy of my 40th birthday, for the full life I've lived, and how much I love good food (omg), I'm satisfied. It took a long time and hard inner work, right up to this year, to feel this way, and there can still be tough moments, but they are much fewer and much further apart. I take care of myself, and I'm great health inside and out. I suck in my imaginary "gut" for pictures though, like you do. Or maybe sometimes when I swagger into a room like I own that shit. Shoulders back, chest out, and chin up. I rock it.

Fuck that nasty geriatric bitch.

Now wait - I'm above that super mean thought, I promise - that was to illustrate where I was earlier, in the pool, floating in my stupid hurt feelings. Reverting to my primal, less evolved self just for a little bit.

So with all this rah rah I'm finally good and satisfied, self love, blah blah, why did this comment bother me so much still? Why am I letting it matter? I've processed all my stuff, I think, and I'm owning it. So what gives? That essay brought it home -

It's not about me! Thats it!

It's about her.

What bothers me...no, what saddens me, is that this mature woman, this grandmother (I'm assuming a grandmother, as she was playing and bobbing with a couple of toddlers), felt compelled to say something like that to another woman, as if to shame her. What kind of self-hate does she still have going on inside, at her age even? If she can say something so tactless and mean to a complete stranger, I wonder what kinds of comments she reserves for the people close to her? For the other women in her family? Did her little granddaughter hear what she said to me? Perfect, lady. Reinforce that crap. Way to go, asshole.

Had she not opened her mouth, she would have struck me as a rather elegant person,  enjoying the pool with her grandkids, laughing and playing and also giving zero fucks about how she looks to others. That's the kind of old lady I want to be at the pool one day. That's the kid I want to raise. Can we all be that kind of person right now?

By the way, that super helpful post I mentioned early on was here.

Because dirt is ew.

A few years back I blogged about how deeply ignorant I was of gardening, landscaping, farming in general, and really, just keeping house plants alive. It's not that I don't appreciate and understand how vital farming is to all our lives, or the satisfaction and even zen that many find in home gardening and landscaping (ok, I don't get the latter as much, but whatever). No, it's not that at all.

Often, you put in time and hard work and things go inexplicably wrong. Like when plants don't thrive, or get ravaged by pests. Gee, I'm so glad I bothered. I'm so glad I weeded, and watered, and watched for weeks so I could grow this one tiny, lumpy ass pepper right here. No, I don't wish to learn from this experience. I just wish to stomp around, rip all this bullshit out and go buy it from the store. I have a day job, dammit.

I also hate when people casually throw around fancy in-the-know gardening words like "pruning," which, by the way, always makes me think of someone shriveling into a prune.

What happened to that boy!?

Oh, the Smith boy? Yea, he just up and pruned. Isn't it awful?

A pruning? Gasp! Tragic! He's so small and wrinkled now. 

Yea. He's weirdly sticky, too. Terrible thing.

Growing up, I was surrounded by farmers and gardeners - we lived on a family farm in Italy, with chickens and turkeys - our neighbor, who did most of the farming for us while my dad ran his mechanic business, had an apricot grove and raised pigs...our backyards connected with a small wheat field and a tiny vineyard and we had walnut and fig trees. I even picked fava beans, split them open, and ate them on the spot...yea I know it sounds like a romantic movie set in the sunny Italian countryside and maybe you want to punch me right now. But it's all true. It was like a movie - except the part where everyone gathers for the pig slaughter...but don't worry, my parents didn't let me watch (pssst I could totally hear it though). My grandma, however, happily let me assist her in killing and plucking chickens. Italy was no joke.

Back in the States, my grandparents, who lived across the street from us, kept an impressive vegetable garden, the harvest of which (is that what you call all the stuff that's picked after it's ripe?) was plentiful enough to give tons away to neighbors and friends. They also had flowers and lovely shrubbery all around the house and kept everything neat, weeded, and pretty. On their own. Like magic.

My parents grew tomatoes and other stuff in our suburban backyard for a while too...I don't recall what else because I was too busy being annoyed that they made me water the tomato plants during my super important teen years, when I had places to be and people to see. Two big coffee cans per plant. So.many.plants. The point of all this is that despite being raised this way, none of it stuck or rubbed off on me, or seems to be in my blood. None.

Fast forward a couple decades to home ownership and the years of wanna-be gardening and landscaping - trial and error, motivation followed by utter neglect, confusion and doubt, and I will finally admit that despite some new skills and a few minor successes, I hate it all. So, after all, that's it - that's what it is: I hate getting dirty and grubby, toiling in the yard until I'm completely beat, only to realize I'm barely making a dent. Also, there's nothing worse than surprise worms and other squiggly, squirmy little creatures, so obviously pissed about being disturbed. When I see a shed snake skin, I gag uncontrollably. I can't be alone here.

The only things I like about gardening are my flowered gardening gloves - I own several pairs. Like I do every first pretty day of Spring, I dig a pair out of the garage and spend a few days wandering around acting like I know what I'm doing...gloves on, rake in hand, all sorts of determined. Mostly I push the wheel barrow around and freak out about how much needs to be done, imagining the armies of weeds getting ready to sprout just under the surface...and I replay in my head the way all my green-thumb friends start talking in seasonal smack:

Oh, I am thinning out the Fuckface lillies, do you want some?

Time to cut back the Smugjerk bushes!

Better deadhead these delicate Know-it-Alls!

I must take a cutting of these Pompous Perennials!

Hmm, the tomatoes must have Blythering Dumassery disease this year.

I love you all, green-thumbed friends. But that's how you sound to me on the days when I can't tell a weed from a rose bush...or on the the day I realized I killed the parsley. I KILLED THE PARSLEY. As an Italian, I should be able to grow parsley in a desert - no? Clearly I bring shame to my people.

I also don't think I have any rosebushes, but if ever I did, I probably pulled them. Oops.

A couple of years ago, I was under some sort of possession, and went apeshit buying up flowers and building little rock walls, and mulching, mulching, mulching. I still don't know where it came from, but I was excited, machine-like, and felt all sorts of accomplished. Unfortunately, it seems it was a freak occurrence, as I've yet to see a return of that strange, trowel-wielding, dirt-loving, sod-ripping woman who took over my body for a few weeks. She was something. She even saved all the little tags from the plants, imagining she'd hole punch, catalogue, and use them as reference for proper care. She was mistaken.

Yesterday I spent most of the day outside - there's still a couple of patches of snow left (ugh, for real) so I didn't get too involved, instead opting to take a mental inventory of projects. I also raked a bit and crushed my big toe while dumping the wheelbarrow. Don't even ask me how - I couldn't tell you. I'm just not built for doing such dirty, lifty things. I almost tipped the whole damn thing (which is nearly as tall as me when upright, by the way) down the hill in our woods, so I suppose my toe saved the day.

Despite my disdain for most things dirt, I'm finding lately that I'm willing to play in it a little bit more - mmm...well, it's early...I will  revisit that thought. I realized yesterday that maybe instead of running around from area to area wanting everything done NOW, I should try to focus on one area or project at a time. The downside to this, of course, is that when I'm finally finished, I'll look up and the weeds on the other side of the yard will be big enough to eat me. And the prune boy will be hiding behind them, smiling.

Closing in on 40

I've come across a number of online essays about turning 40 recently: realizations and confirmations, pauses and platitudes, anecdotes and affirmations. I suppose I've put in the time to read some of these because I'm closing in on this number myself (not till late July, suckas!), and it's always nice to find someone else reflecting in a similar way. They've inspired me to compile my own list of absolute truths observations and experienced(ish) suggestions to share as we enter the middle decade of life. I have no idea how many items I'll end up listing here, but it may not be 40 on the nose, or any sort of pre-set number, because one of the things I've learned as I approach my 40s is that sometimes you don't know where you're going to end up until you actually arrive:

1.  Make up rules for yourself and stick to them - until you don't want to anymore. Like going to bed by 10pm every night. Except Tuesdays and some Fridays, and also stay up as late as you can handle...which in truth is not very late anymore. So pretty much just go to bed when you want, it will all work out.
   
2. Speaking of sleep, it will now come in one of two ways: Great or Awful. Nothing in between.
3. By now, a pedicure is no longer a luxury...and it can be seriously restorative, speedy therapy on the cheap. Get them as often as you can afford. Pretty feet will always make you feel better, I promise. Not to get all philosophical, but why not pamper your dogs? They've been walking, running, and holding you up your whole damn life. Give them some love.
4. While you don't need a TV series to remind you how lucky you are not to have lived through the 50's and 60's, you should watch Mad Men. Shit was awful for women in a much more transparent and cringe-inducing way it than it is now. Also Jon Hamm.
5.  You don't focus on flaws anymore - instead, with a little age and wisdom of your own, you can learn to step back and see how the physical 'flaws' of a man or woman work together with everything -  and you start to find that everyone has an inherent beauty, and the flaws actually accentuate it. And yes, most men are actually getting hotter as they age...but I'm convinced it's because they don't fight it. Although a few maybe should. Don't be too jealous though, ladies, because it does stop. There's distinguished, and then suddenly decrepit. Like The Crypt Keeper. But back to the beauty and lovely sentiments...
6. You realize slowly that your own flaws work that way too. You stop hating your body or your this or your that, and loving yourself as a whole. So just take care of yourself and your inherent beauty will just happen...and it spills over, and you find more confidence than you ever imagined you would have. Confidence is visible and beautiful - and it's not to be confused with arrogance.
7. In a related way, you start to appreciate your body, too. We are in decline, wether it's obvious yet or not, so love and appreciate yours for where it is right now. If you want to change it, go ahead, but please do it lovingly and with respect.
8. Big Girl Pants - otherwise known as BGPs: We should all have by now several well-fitting pairs, clean and ready to go at a moment's notice when you need to grow the eff up. Have a couple spares to lend out as well. Wear often. Feel free to mix in Sassy Pants as needed. Remember that people will treat you in the way you let them.
   
9. Eat more eggs. They are really good for you.
10. If you have young children, you know that their hair smells better than anything on earth.
11. Say things that need to be said. Talk about things that people don't want to talk about. Use your BGPs as necessary. You don't have patience for bullshit.
12. Avoid most drama though. By 40, you should be able to figure out 11 & 12.
13. Reserve some drama for your spouse. Then it's not drama anymore - it's called passion. It will serve your relationship well.
14. Back to patience - yours is precious and available only in small doses for those who deserve it.
15. Say no to stuff regularly.
16. Be on time most of the time. People who are habitually late are...exhausting.
17. Don't be habitually early either. Those people are equally exhausting.
18. You can't carry every torch. Just pick a couple. One at a time is ideal.
19. Smiling is wonderful, but Resting Bitch Face prevents wrinkles!
20. It's ok not to want to play with your kid(s). You're not here for their entertainment.
21. I kind of want reading glasses. When will my eyesight go? I think I'd be hot with reading
    glasses. I really want to shop for reading glasses. I got excited the other day because I thought I almost squinted at something close up...but it didn't last. Come on, eyeballs - start aging!
22. If you've made it this far without a Brazilian, there's no need to go there. If your guy can't deal with your womanhood, call his manhood into question. Only agree to it if there is a specific compromise: you both get one. And you'd both be dumb. Weirdly bald and dumb.
23. You can still get a random zit at age 39. And you'll be intensely and irrationally angry about it.
24. Don't buy the cheapest dish detergent. You'll just use a hell of a lot more.
25. Actually, don't buy the cheapest of everything if you don't have to. For most of us, by 40, we've learned how money works. Don't be afraid of it. Figure out what that means for you, and what 'worth' means to you, and make changes accordingly.
26. Good shoes are always worth it, by the way.
27. Lesbians are totally on to something. Next life.
28. If you've wanted a tattoo, what the hell are you still waiting for? Keep it below the neck. I mean, you are 40 and all.
29. Make peace with your family - or at least try, and try again, and keep trying. If you have a close family, relish in how fortunate you really are, and nurture your relationships with them. We are seeing the effects of not doing so as our friends and peers experience loss in their lives.
30. Learn the 4-7-8 breath and try to remember it every night before you go to sleep.
    
31. If you've made it to 40 without becoming a coffee addict, or at least appreciating everything about coffee, you are pretty fucking weird and I'm not sure I completely trust you. You've got to be on something. What is it? Oh, right, lameness.
    
32. Pasta should be cooked al dente in moderately salted water. Salty like the ocean. Also, don't buy cheap pasta. Yes, there's a difference. I'll know if you serve me cheap pasta. And I'll judge you.
33. It's ok to not continue some family traditions. It's ok to create new ones. Just be upfront about all of it, and pick your battles.
34. Learn what terrifies the people around you. Keep that info tucked away for when you might really need something and you're not getting your way.
35. Just kidding, that's awful.
36. Still worth noting though. It's ok to think about it.
37. Buy good bras. Your boobs deserve a stage.They are superstars, after all.
38. Teens and people in their early 20s are complete idiots, aren't they? They'll learn. Hopefully. By 40.
39. Some regrets will happen, even if you're one of those "no regrets" people (I call bullshit on those people anyway). What's apparent now though is that while those regrets might still be there, even if they can still tug at you a bit, they don't really matter. They're just good information for navigating the next decade.

Hanging on

As February drags on with its icy, snow-crusted grip making me question reality itself, I'm desperately searching for small joys: brief moments of delight that might serve as stepping stones to Spring. It's getting harder to do.

Today I wondered if I was actually still in the here and now, getting through another tedious weekend in upstate New Hell, or if perhaps I had already been committed weeks ago. It was a frigid and grey morning. It was snowing (of course). My husband comes and goes, saying he's going to work, but it might just be that visiting hours have ended.

Am I really looking at this 10 day forecast on my weather app and crying, or am I actually nicely sedated, swiping the surface of a deck of cards believing it's my iPhone? I am not too sure. I hope my hair looks good at least. They'd allow me a round styling brush, certainly. Who put these tube socks on me? 

Before anyone gets too worried, I'll say that I am fairly certain I'm not institutionalized right now - but dammit, shit is getting rough. Even the kiddo isn't motivated to be outside. I don't blame him. There's nothing but white cold death out there, waiting to eat us up.

Everything I do to pass the time is a reminder that I'm trying to pass the time. This will go on until Spring. This is the hardest stretch of all, and I am getting weaker with each passing winter. 

Someone tell me a really dirty joke, and buy me a drink. Then get on your sled and bring it over. You'll have to sneak it in because I don't think they allow alcohol here.