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One. Day.

I wake up cold. I roll over and hit my phone, because it’s beeping. Incessantly. That doesn’t stop it, so I sit halfway up in the bed and fiddle around with it until it stops making that horrible noise.

I look at the time and mumble, “Five more minutes.”

I roll over to shake my husband awake and my hand lands on the cold bed. He’s not there. I sit up, yell out his name before I realize that he doesn’t live here anymore. In my near-sleep state, I’d forgotten. Again.

The shock hits me anew, like it does almost every morning. My body shakes and I fight back the urge to scream and throw something.

No, not because we’re getting a divorce, because we aren’t.

Rather, I feel cheated.

Absolutely cheated.

I miss my husband so much that it hurts. I want to talk to him every second of every day. I have heard my entire life that the whole “obsessive” crazy thing wears off after the first two years of marriage, after the first kid is born, after the first time you walk in on the other using the bathroom, after you gain weight. All of these lines have been crossed, sometimes by accident, but they’ve been crossed.

We’ve been married almost 7 years and I want nothing more than to crawl in to bed next to him, tangle myself in his blanket and snuggle up next to him.

I want nothing more than his kids to be able to jump on him in the morning, giggling with glee at waking their daddy up.

I want nothing more than our lives to, for once, be normal and completely and totally in sync with one another.

For some reason, whether it’s Fate or God or just us being stupid, this doesn’t seem to happen for us. Being married isn’t easy for us.

It’s hard work.

To try to keep up the smiles, the happiness in the face of overwhelming sadness and depression, and to keep up the “normal” feeling of having a happy “home” in the same state.

I feel like I can’t tell him any of this, and it’s driving me insane.

I know, I know, there are many wives out there that have to live with the fear of having someone tell them their husband passed away during war. I lived with this fear for a while, although he hasn’t deployed since we’ve been worried, the possibility was always in the back of my mind, and I thank God every day that he decided to get out of the Army and think of his family.

I know, I know, there are many things worse than only seeing him for one week a month.

I get told this everyday by people that are just trying to make me see the glass as half full.

But, once, I’d just like for someone to see it as half empty with me, because although I have empathy for all the bad things that happen to other people, sometimes? I just want to feel bad for me. For my kids. For my husband. For my family.

So, yeah, I get it, things suck for everyone. But today? I just want to focus on how much things suck for me. Just for today, ok?

I just need that one day.

Ack.

The First Day of College Post

In an easy-to-read bullet-point-style post to boot! (What? It’s easier to read.)

  • My first class of the day, Ancient Greek Civilization, or some such something, was like a slap in the face. Our professor went over the syllabus, but not thoroughly, and he (gasp!) didn’t let us out of class afterwards. If you’ve never been to a community college, then you have no idea why I’m being sarcastic. Community college is basically high school for grown ups. It’s sort of easy, and it’s basically laid back. Now? I’m at the Big Bad University, and apparently, they don’t play that. So, yeah. It didn’t take me by surprise, but some people groaned aloud when the Professor told us to open our books and started lecturing.
  • The course itself is going to be challenging (there’s a theme here of that) — mostly the sheer amount of stuff that I’m going to have to remember/memorize/pretend to know/BS my way through is the part that is going to get me. The subject matter is going to be awesome, so it shouldn’t be hard.
  • After literally sprinting across campus to my next class, I arrived (I thought) early. There were people that were waiting for my class (Latin) sitting outside. Twenty minutes after class was supposed to start, we figured out that Latin had actually started early, and we were now late. Oops.
  • This is going to be one of the hardest classes for me, because learning languages doesn’t come easily to me. I thought it would be the hardest class I would have, until I went to the next class after lunch.
  • After finding one of the oldest buildings on campus and walking in to the closet-sized, no windowed classroom they’d stuffed thirty 1920s-era desks in to, I realized that the class after lunch was going to be crowded and smelly. When twenty men/boys filed in (only four girls) I knew that it would be smelly. And crowded. And uncomfortable. Because those desks straight out of 1850? They aren’t very big. And? When one is right on top of you behind you and filled with a big, burly football player? You’re gonna wanna ask for dinner first, it feels like you are that close to one another.
  • The class itself? Awesome. It’s a Russian History class, which isn’t really my interest or area of expertise, but the class is going to be challenging as hell, which I like. To add to the challenge, our professor is Actually Russian, which means his accent is thick, he’s also Actually 9,000 years old, which means he basically whispers when he talks. Which just adds to the challenge. Because who doesn’t want to wonder what their professor just said and whether or not it was important enough to ask him for the four millionth time to speak up and also repeat what he just said. I mean, when does that become rude?
  • In addition to the rooms being crowded, the whole campus was just overly crowded. I also really adore skateboarders. Zipping through the crowd and almost knocking down everyone in their path? Charming. Trying to do a board flip  in front of you while you’re trying to run to your next class? So adorable. No, really. What? Sarcasm? Me? No way.
So, there’s that.

Randomness

*My laptop is bu-sted. It, for some reason, has gone all bat-crap crazy on me and since I run through laptops like lipgloss, we’ve (McHusband and I) been expecting this for a few months. I’m not sure why laptops hate me, but for some reason I go through one every other year. This time, McHusband really wants me to get an Mac. Ok, that may be a lie. But it’s only a little lie. (Read: I have nagged him and pestered him until he finally said, “Fine, we’ll buy you a freaking Mac, honey,” to which I squealed and kissed him and then began planning what accessories I needed, because duh, every girl needs accessories.) Seriously though, the price tag makes me want to vomit, but other than that, I think it’ll be a good fit for me. I don’t normally drop my laptops (although I drop my phone eleventybillion times a freaking day, and have dropped my Nook twice in the last week, and also drop everything else I own at least once a day, I rarely, if ever drop my laptops) but I use them all the time. We have three computers in our house, and my laptop is always the first to have worn down keys, viruses, etc. because I use it all. the. time.

Ok, enough about that. I’m excited. Yay, us.

*One thing I hate about Wyoming is that they don’t get their schmidt together until the last possible second. You would think that, as an avid procrastinator myself, I would be perfectly fine with this arrangement, but actually I’m totally fine with me being the procrastinator, but not anyone else.

In other words: It’s ok for me, but not for thee.

*My son apparently believes that socks are torture devices sent from the deepest, darkest pits of Hell to torture us meer mortals into submission to … I’m not sure what … but something. The kid hates wearing socks. Sadly, his feet sweat like his Mama’s, so therefore, he has to wear socks or he stinks up my house with his funky smelling shoes. This, I cannot explain to him without basically jamming his nose in to a shoe because he’s all, “Nuh-uh, Mama, they don’t stink!”

Apparently, the child needs sandals.

*One more thing about Thing 1: at home, he speaks in his native tongue (we’re still not sure what it is, but it sounds like a mish-mash of Russian, German, Toddler-ese and Phlegm), but when we’re out in public (anywhere there are other children) he speaks like a normal, well-spoken five year old. My daughter, myself and McHusband are all versed in Thing 1’s Native Tongue, but apparently what we need is a strange child to come co-habitate in our house for a while to kick that out of him.

Anyone wanna volunteer one of their kids? (I’m kidding about that. Stop punching air holes in that box.)

*We have the worst luck with animals. That’s all I’m saying about that right now.

*A trained mokey could keep my house cleaner than I can.

*Last night, at midnight, I sat straight up in my bed, barely awak. I crept out of my bed towards the kitchen, where I did a sink-load of dishes. No, I’m not kidding.

Once I realized what I was doing, I promptly sat down to read a book.

At 3:00AM, I crept back in to bed, tired, but fulfilled.

No, not from washing the dishes, silly. The book!

*My husband’s philosophy is if there’s something that you want to do that isn’t pleasant (taking out the garbage, cleaning, working out), just sit down until the feeling passes. I like this philosophy. Maybe a little too much.

*Did I mention I may be getting a Macbook? Because, I’m not sure, and I don’t really wanna scroll back up.

I’ve already decided to re-do my blog as soon as I get it and get reliable wi-fi connection.

*<————Leave this space blank——————->

*I took my kids to the library yesterday. Oh, yeah, I have stories from that adventure, but no time to adequately describe them. Soon, I hope.

 

Jackhole Bike Riders

This is an open letter to the Jackwagon bike riders my town is infested with. If you are a bike rider, more power to you, just learn how NOT to be a jackhole and everything will be fine. Heck, you might not get almost run over every single day if you do it right, wouldn’t that be nice? Seriously, though, if you are a bike rider that follows the rules and are awesome and great, then AWESOME, please move to my town and show these other people how to ride a bike. I will pay you in chocolate and booze.

Ok, jackhole bike riders, gather ’round. Apparently, some of us missed Bike Riding 101 or our parents were douchebags who never taught us how to ride a bike. Either way, I will now give unto you the lessons passed down by the Smarter, Wiser, ALIVE bike riders. Listen, because this will only be said once.

If there is a bike lane/side walk/anywhere that’s NOT the middle of the freaking road, ride your bike THERE. Riding your bike in front of my F-150 when there’s a sidewalk less than five feet from you is not going to help you live longer. Seriously. Especially when I’m late for a Very Important Something-or-Other and I need to get there right! now! and it’s only a block away and you’re channeling a turtle and lolli-gagging like you’ve got all the time in the world, which you might, but I don’t. Which is why I drive.

And you wonder why people don’t like you.

Stopping in the middle of the road for no other reason than to “holla” at Sha-nay-nay will get you hurt. I get it, that girl was looking fine. That’s great. Dude, get on the effing sidewalk. Seriously. You’re gonna get hurt if you just all of a sudden come to a full stop in front of a mean, Southern, F-150 driving woman. And I wouldn’t blame her, either.

Just because you are on a bike doesn’t mean that you get to do whatever the hell-o you want. That little red hand on the sign across the street from you? Means you can’t! cross! the road! right this second. Because there are cars coming. Cars that might hit you. Just because that sign says “Yield to Pedestrians in Cross Walk” doesn’t mean you should jump out there without looking. I’m going 30 miles per hour and you are basically walking right in front of me, my reflexes are good, thanks to me being a Mom, but Grandma behind me needs a few more seconds to adjust. Don’t be stupid just because you think you can.

If you are on the sidewalk, don’t jump the curb off of it if there is no bike lane, ESPECIALLY without looking behind you. You aren’t paying attention to me, I may not be paying attention to you (because you were on the sidewalk) and jumping the curb into traffic is dangerous. You don’t look eleven years old, but you sure do seem like it. For the love of Pete.

If you are going to ride your bike, put some motherflippin’ clothes on, fool. Seriously. No one wants to see your *completely* nakes self riding a bike. Especially not me. I really don’t want to have to answer questions from my children that are along the lines of, “Why does that man have a banana between his legs?” or “Mama, did you see his BUTT CRACK?“. Really, dude. Clothes. Please be putting them on. And, if you decide NOT to wear clothes, stay out of traffic and away from red lights, that just gives my kids more times to ask me questions about your naked self that I don’t want to answer.

Oh, and one more thing? Naked body + socks that go up to your knees = odd. I wanted to ask you, “What are you afraid someone might see your bare toes?” I mean, come on, if you are going to commit to something, do it all the way. Jeez.

Those little backpacks that say “One Less Car” in big, BOLD, letters? Not cute. Annoying. Ok, I understand. You are one of those crunchy, granola munching, bathing once a month hippies. Coolness. Totally awesome that you would like to save our mother earth. But, wearing a backpack that says “One Less Car” in big letters and then something along the lines of “Aren’t you a douchebag for driving your gas guzzler?” or something along those lines (Note: It didn’t really say that, but it was just as annoying.) is not cute. It doesn’t make me go, “Oh, what an eco-friendly dude,” — it makes me think “What a jackwagon”. Seriously?

You try riding a bike with kids strapped to your back and then come back and tell me I should give up my car.

Also: enjoy the winter, jerkface.

I hope that you all learned something, today. The road is a friendly place for bikers, just not ones that are jackholes. Also? Roads that are not used by F-150 driving southern women are probably friendlier than others.

Class dismissed.

Six.

The other day, I mentioned (offhandedly) that I’d like six kids, to The Husband. He looked at me like I was insane, and I could tell that he was thinking about this:

(My favorite part of that is when Steve Martin says, “Twelve kids later and we still got the heat!” and does that funny little dance).

His mind goes there, even though I in no way want TWELVE kids. Goodness gracious.

In any event, I don’t normally tell people I want more kids. For a few reasons.

Like, because last year, I didn’t want more kids.

Or the fact that Thing 1 is now 5 and will turn six in September, and that’s a bit of an age difference (although my older brother and I are 7 years apart in age, and my little brother and I are 5 1/2 years apart in age).

Also the fact that babies are *expensive*, in case you didn’t know.

Babies also cry. A lot.

But, that’s just the not-so-great parts. The great part to having more babies is that babies are adorable. They are sweet. They smell good.

Just sayin’.

I knew when I got married that The Husband wanted a big family. After we had Thing 1, he changed his mind. Although I was ready to have another baby almost right away.

Same thing after Thing 2.

It’s definitely something that most women won’t admit to nowadays: wanting babies. Lots and lots of babies.

It’s not politically correct to want more than the “nuclear family” — two kids and a dog or cat.

In any event, it’s a secret, one I’m not too keen on sharing, that I just shared with the entire internet.

I suppose that sorta defeats the purpose.

Super.

Giving

I’m sure you’ve heard about the horrendous things that have happened in Joplin, MO, and all around the Midwest. It’s horrible and sad and scary.

I can’t imagine some of the things these people are going through.

So, today, say a prayer. For these people. For your safety. For just whatever.

Or send up good thoughts. Everyone could use a little of that right now.