The Game Plan

“Do you know how much I love you?” I asked M as she cuddled as close as she could with me on our Cheerio crusted, Popsicle painted, sofa. She looked up with her big hazel eyes and batted her impossibly long lashes at me while reaching her arms out and stretching them behind her back as far as she could and replied “sooooooo much you can’t even reach that far!” And she’s right. I cannot possibly spread my arms wide enough in a game of I Love You This Much to ever show her how much I love her, but she knows. I make sure of it.

M is leaving for her dad’s house on Monday for a week. I know this doesn’t seem like a long time, and really it’s not. This is the first time her father is actually exercising his summer visitation and though I’m happy he is stepping up to the parental visitation buffet laid out in our parenting agreement four years ago I can’t help but be a tiny bit anxious over the coming week. She will go to his house for another full week a few weeks after this visit so this is one of two. I’m lucky in a small way that he’s chosen to split his two weeks. More importantly though M is lucky because he’s actually choosing to exercise this time with her this summer, that is an improvement that I’m happy to see. And again, I realize that this still is not that long a time period for summer visitation but I know that sometimes a week can feel like a month and I know a month can feel like a year.

M also does a week between Christmas and New Year so I’m familiar with the feeling I’m getting right now. It’s the right-before feeling, the right before her laughter doesn’t fill our home time, and it’s a weird place because I know what is coming. It’s the time when I hope our walls soak up her laugh and joy and keep me safe while she’s gone. It’s the place where every smile seems all the more special and heartbreaking because I know this time next week it won’t be here. It’s the time when I more than ever do not take her silliness or knock-knock jokes for granted. It’s an anxiety fueled mixture of emotional exhaustion from the guilt of looking forward to a small break and the sick empty feeling in the pit of my stomach that reminds me I’m never quite right when she’s not here... And I know it's coming.

I think the right-before place is sometimes as hard as the being-gone place. It’s like seeing the ball coming at you and knowing it’s going to sting when it hits. Who am I kidding, it’s just us here right? We both know the sting of the hit is pretty bad too.

Though it’s just a week and I feel a bit silly I know that you know what I mean if you’re “one of us”. And though I’m getting much better at the absences, and yes even sometimes look forward to the “me” time, I know I will be singing a different tune this time next week. So this week, I’m in the right-before place. When I’m in the right-before place I like to lay out my plan of action for the being-gone place because once you get to the being-gone place and you don’t have a plan of attack on how to consume all of that alone time it can get pretty scary, pretty fast. I didn’t know this early on, it’s a lesson I’ve picked up along the way. I’m no Yoda, but trust me on this one. An alone time itinerary is a must.

Here is my being-gone time game plan. What is yours?

- Shove all toys and miscellaneous “crap” into any and all available drawers and closets. There is only so much time and this is the method for doing this quickly in order to get on to the next activity which is much more fun.

- Call a cleaning service to come and de-funk the house from top to bottom. Do this at the beginning of the being-gone place so as to enjoy pristine home for this kid free time and this time only. Once M is home all Hell will once again break loose and all will be dirty and right with the world again.

- Get girly bath products and take a bubble bath every night spent in the being-gone pristine professionally cleaned place.

- Actually light the candles around the house instead of just looking at them as decoration now that I have a kid because I’m too afraid M will burn the house down.

- Make sure homeowners insurance is up to date. I'm just saying.

- Clean out the fridge because I’m pretty sure there are some things in there that may actually get up and walk out on their own if I don’t escort them to the outside trash soon. Don’t judge, you know you have something in yours too.

- Buy groceries that don’t include neon blue food coloring, drinks in pouches or boxes (wine excluded), sprinkles or nuggets of anything. Also enjoy shopping without arriving at the checkout only to find at least five randomly snuck in, non-approved mom items.

- Find something to sell on eBay to pay for girly bath products and cleaning service. Really wishing I would have taken that John Elway mint condition rookie card I got the ex for our first Christmas together. That Elway bitch could have paid for this stuff. Poor planning on my part, learn from my mistakes.

- Write. In fact, actually leave the house and go to the bookstore or a coffee shop to write. New scenery, new perspective. Not to mention… coffee.

- Watch at least one classic film that I haven’t seen and one favorite that I haven’t seen in a while.

- Have dinner with a good girlfriend. And possibly a cocktail… or two.

- Go through the five million pictures I’ve taken of M in the past five years and finally get them into albums. Toy with the idea of scrap booking the stacks of pictures for M and then after five minutes remember that I’m not the crafty sort.

- Set up the WiiFit that was sent to me more than a month ago and make a fool out of myself in the pleasant privacy of my own home. As you can see, even fun gets pushed to the wayside. I was looking for that thing for months and now I’ve had it for over a month and it’s still in the box.

- Finish one of the three books I’ve started reading over the past few months and just haven’t taken the time to finish.

- Do something nice for M while she’s gone that will surprise her and make her giggle with glee when she comes home. Such as paint her room the bright rock star pink she’s always wanted. Try to keep swearing to a minimum as I have to probably prime five times to paint over the whimsical underwater scene that the previous owner painstakingly had hand painted for their own daughter. Wince in guilt over painting over something so cute but not quite right for M.

- Replace the sofa and develop and put into print the list of new sofa rules which pretty much exclude anything other than M’s body being allowed on, near, around said new sofa. Remind myself this is an impossible mission with a five year old in the house.

- Actually get to time on work every day not having to have morning I-won't-wear-that debate, hair brushing meltdowns, teeth brushing standoff's or mommy-please-don't-leave-yet moments that break my working mom heart at pre-school drop off.

- Every time the silence hurts think back to the times of incessant whining and that at-the-end-of-my-freaking-rope feeling and just enjoy the moment knowing that before long the whining will be back. As will the giggles and the smiles.

- Remind myself daily that taking care of me during the being-gone time is taking care of my child while she's gone too and making me a better parent for the happy-that-she-is-home time.

The "Good" Father

Last year I was having a very personal conversation with a friend of mine about why she was choosing to divorce her husband. My friend is beautiful and intelligent, she is quietly funny and is one of the kindest women I know. She lives her life with unwavering compassion for others, she sails through life on an even keel and she’s cool under pressure. She’s a salt of the earth type of woman who would disagree with everything I just said and even that is part of what makes her so truly amazing. She is in her late twenties and she is one of those young women with an old soul that has the remarkable ability to see farther down life’s path than most with a clarity that many could only wish for before they leave this earth.

She proved this during our divorce conversation when she said the most profound thing I had ever heard a divorcing woman say. The main reason she was making this difficult choice, one that she most certainly did not arrive at easily or without a great deal of soul searching, was that he was a good man but not a good father. You’re probably wondering why that was so profound. You see, it was deeply profound to me as they did not have children yet.

I will never forget this conversation for as long as I live because it was in that moment that I knew the mistake that I had made, I married what I thought at the time was a good man but not a good father. This woman, this beautiful and wise beyond her year’s friend, is a genius and she doesn’t even know it.

A good man alone does not a good father make.

A “good” father is made in the small moments, the quiet moments that no one else will ever see. Sometimes it’s just in the way he pats a child on the back at just the right moment, or a hug that is given before it’s needed, it’s the gift of time and attention and endless fascination in the things that our children love and not just in the things that we love. It is diving into their world instead of expecting them to learn to swim in ours.

Providing for your child does not stop at a roof over their head and a Happy Meal in their belly. A “good” father protects his child’s heart, mind and spirit yet gives enough room for a child to learn to soar. The tangibles don’t make for a “good” father, the “good” is in the intangibles. The things that, as trite and cliché as it may sound, are the things that money cannot buy. They are the gifts of self and the gifts of personal sacrifice.

This is something that my own father knows about because my father is a “good” father. He is rich in his love for his family and under his sometimes gruff, but always handsome to me exterior, he too is wise beyond his years. My father and I are much alike, so much in fact that over the years it has caused us to butt heads more than a few times. I am him, and he is me. He is a smartass, he’s stubborn as hell, he is a seeker of truth and knowledge, he’s tough and courageous and he doesn’t give up or give in on what he believes in to be right. He is loyal and honest and he always has just the right thing to say at exactly the moment I need to hear it. He has a heart bigger than he’d like anyone to really know about. He’s not afraid to feel and to love. After my divorce he told me his biggest wish for me was that I would not give up on love and that I would not close my heart forever. My divorce made us kindred spirits in pain, love and new hope in a way he doesn't even realize. His words touched me deeply.

Growing up my parent’s divorce was difficult. It was complicated, it was not your run of the mill situation by any stretch of the imagination (click the “about me” button above for a hint as to why). My father made hard choices and climbed mountains to do what he thought was best for me as a child. He proved his love as a father just in the fight he showed, not in the winning or losing of the battle. Though I didn’t realize it at the time I do now that I’m a parent. His love fills my heart and during my darkest time it gave me the strength I needed to fight for what I thought was right for my own daughter when my time came as well.

Growing up my dad was always willing to make a complete fool of himself if it meant it would make me laugh and keep me in check. Like my daughter I too am an only child. My favorite memory growing up is one that most of you may not understand or be able to see how a young girl could possibly find funny. At the time it wasn’t funny, I was mortified but now that I’m grown it’s a true classic.

My father had picked me up for a weekend visitation and I must have been out of sorts. I was probably ten years old, give or take a year, and at that age where everything your dad does embarrasses you. Well, my dad was having none of it. He decided to get me out of my funk that he was going to grab the first thing out of my overnight bag in the back seat that he could reach and drive down the road with me wearing it on his head. That would get the pre-pubescent crabby out of me for sure right? Unfortunately for me the thing he first grabbed on top of my bag were my underwear. That’s right, my dad drove down the street in broad daylight with my undies on his head. He fit those suckers right on his head like a swim cap for all the world to see. I remember slouching down in the front seat and trying to hide under the floor board. The more I hid the more he honked the car horn at passing cars and waved. I was dying and laughing at the same time. And this absurd scene in the car was something that money couldn’t buy, it wasn’t in any fancy parenting book, it was a gift of self, or even a sacrifice of self, it was embarrassing and humiliating and… Wonderful.

And yes, I’ve taken a thing or two from my dad’s playbook on how to raise a girl and modify behavior through humor and I too confess I’ve put my daughters undies on my head and pranced around the house until she screamed for me to stop and fell on the floor in her own fit of laughter. And I’ve told her she’s lucky, that Papa used to do that to me driving down the road. And she listens, and she smiles, and my heart melts knowing I am my father’s daughter.

And then there are moments that I have that are sad, the ones where I’m mad at myself for not listening to my gut and marrying and having children with a man like my father. A great man. Or where I’m mad at myself for not being as wise and thoughtful as my friend who took the courage to protect the children she doesn’t even have yet, but will someday. She doesn’t know it yet but she’s given her future husband and her future children the best Father’s Day present yet.

And as far as my father goes, I can’t even begin to give him a gift that repays him for the things he’s taught and given to me. The things that matter, the things that money can't buy. Dignity, self respect, common courtesy, loyalty, love, faith, compassion, courage, hope and that the laugh of your girl really is worth whatever it takes to acheive, and yes, it does make everything better.

Un-Plug and Play

Sometimes I need to be reminded to unplug from my world and dive into my daughters world. No phone calls, no texts, no email, no Twitter, no Facebook....   no worries. Just a mom and her girl and no worries in the world. Her world kicks my worlds ass. My world is stress and restlessness. Her world is full of dreams and simple joys like ice cream on a hot summer day. Her world wins.

Take a chance on a flavor you'd never thought you'd try - you may be pleasantly surprised.

Live with joy and no fear of the sweet messes you make.

Give anyone that gets in your way or doubts you this look.

Take time to reflect and be in the moment.

Savor it, every moment of it.

Don't be afraid to dive in to the things you love.

If you know how to see, and not just look, there is happiness and magic in the mess.

And never forget to finish it off with a side of sassy. 

Attitude..... is everything.

How To Date Like A Five Year Old

Sometimes I wonder what my daughter picks up from me attitude wise and philosophically. She just turned five so I haven’t had long talks with her yet about politics, relationships or career paths. I know though that essence of who I am has to leak out in small unintentional ways every day and that she must pick up on it. I’ve wondered… but I didn’t know how until the other night.

I had a humorous, yet quite unexpected, conversation with her about one of her favorite subjects right now. Here is where I cringe because the subject is… Boys. Yes, I know, she only just turned five and the girl is already aware of boys and how cool they are. I don’t get it. I don’t even let her watch Hannah Montana because it’s just a little too…. Well it’s just a little too grown up. I’m going to have to blame Phinneas and Ferb. That’s easier. And yes, this fondness for the boys scares the ever loving shit out of me. I was not boy crazy at this age, I was not boy crazy until high school and even then it was an uneventful tale to tell. It was filled with lots of unrequited teenage love that resulted in dramatic forlorn poetry being written about crushed souls and the deep endless abyss of teenage despair and black pit of loneliness. In other words it was endless journals filled with a whole lot of woe is me bullshit. I was a moody arty mess of a teenager and if I could jump in the way-back-machine I’d bitch slap the shit out of myself and then I’d bitch slap myself one more time to make sure it stuck. Complete awesomeness is a skill that I wasn’t born with. I’ve since been trained in it and have acquired my black belt of awesomeness through life experience.

This kid though – boy crazy at five. I’m not sure if I’ve failed somehow or she’s just wired this way. Either way, say a little prayer for me. By little I mean please pray every night for me and/or send me a healthy supply of buckshot and hot cocoa because I’m going to need it while I sit on the porch when she gets older and I clean a shotgun every time a poor unsuspecting date picks her up. Mental note, must purchase shotgun and obtain firearms permit in ten years as well as find a hot sexy man to teach me how to clean it. Oh please, don’t judge, mommy deserves a hot man too.

So the other night my daughter says to me that she’s no longer going to marry N. N is the boy in her class that she had been telling me for the past year that she was going to marry but wasn’t going to have babies with because “dude, babies are way too much work!” She went so far as to remind me several times that I need to get her a white dress. I told her she wasn’t allowed to get married until she was able to buy her own white dress.

N is a cute kid with adorable red wavy hair, a complete little gentleman and also had a shared a love of dinosaurs with my daughter. Yes, she loves dinosaurs and all things gross so she’s a huge hit with the boys. He is a smart little boy, and quite the charmer. He knew how to work it at four. He would hold the door open for me when I picked up my daughter and he’d say to me, “M’s mommy, you’re reaaaaaalllllyyyyy pretty!” See what I’m talking about – the kid was a freaking master. Look out women of the world, this kid was born with “it” and he already knows how to use it. Evidently the romance is over though. I’ll miss the kid. I mean I’ll still see him at summer camp but something tells me he will not be winking at me and holding doors open for me anymore. And that sucks, those doors at her school are heavy, I liked having a boy hold them open for me. And I’m not going to lie – I’ll take a “you’re really pretty” from a man, even a little one who can’t even spell “pretty” yet any day of the week.

My daughter sat on the sofa with me as she delivered the gut wrenching news. It was gut wrenching to me, not her evidently. N decided he didn’t want to marry her after all. He just is not ready for such a big step when there are so many other girls he has yet to fall in love with. I sat there and listened silently as she continued to tell me that he just has not decided who he wants to marry yet. I continued to listen in silence, fighting back a smile while I nodded and just gave her a reassuring “hmmmm”. She explained to me that he wants to be her…. Oh boy, here it comes…. Friend.

Now when I heard my totally awesome, sweet, funny and mini-badass girl was dealt the “friend” card at the tender age of five years and two months I was kind of holding my breath while waiting for her to finish her thought. I mean I wasn’t sure… was she going to be looking for her crayons to scribble her first broken hearted love poem at the age of five? She can’t even spell the words required to write such dark and twisty gut wrenching prose, I would have had to ghost write that shit for her.

Remember how I wondered what little parts of me she might pick up on, the parts of me that exist now that she exists? She surprised and amazed me. She decided instead of getting down about the super cool, super sweet, super charmer N that she was moving the hell on. I asked her if she was ok and how she felt about what N had said to her. She replied with… “there are three OTHER cute boys in my class mommy!”

SHA-FUCKING-ZAM!!!!!

No moping for this girl, no thinking there was something wrong with HER which is what so many of us do when someone decides we aren’t the one for them. She has confidence in herself. She didn’t let what he thought of her affect how she felt about herself. She didn't change who she was or hold back how she felt out of fear of rejection. My girl!! MY GIRL! Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!!! She’s dusting herself off and realizing there are OTHER cute boys in pre-school and summer camp. I was in shock and awe of how cool and confident she was. I was doing the happy-that-a-girl dance in my head. I’m also down on my knee’s praying she can remember this awesome girl inside of her when the hormones hit. Check back with me when we hit the tween years.

In the spirit of fairness though I do have to tell you I know my girl is not perfect and I don’t pretend that she is. One minute later the other shoe dropped as she explained to me her plan for moving on. She has decided that she’s going to marry one boy, then break up with him, then marry the next boy, then break up with him, then marry the last boy in her class and NOT break up with him though because she will have already married and broken up with the other boys in her class. She decided the last one would be “special”.

What?

So that I don’t have to drink myself into a coma I’m going to assume that by “marry” she means “date” or “go steady” or “share crayons with” and not actually “marry”. With that assumption – I think I like her gumption. Screw that kid N, who needs him when she knows she’s fabulous and she has options. You win some, you lose some but you ALWAYS have options ladies.

The One With The Stitches And The Awkward Bath Conversation And Me Rambling

Sunday started innocently enough. That statement right there should tell you this one will be “one of those” posts. I was stuck in my head most of the day. I sometimes do that. Some people may call it “neurotic” however I like to think of my neuroses as a hobby or a pet. Kind of like a Chia Pet. Just take some shit and rub it on, then add a little murky water and watch that fucker grow. Anyway… that’s a whole other post.

In the midst of this I was having a girly moment. I decided to do something I haven’t done in ages. Not since I lost my big beautiful dream garden tub in the old marital house of nightmares dreams. I decided to take a nice long hot bubble bath. Good idea, great in fact, nothing like a cup full of relaxing adult bath spa products to soothe the soul and put the neurotic mind at peace. Yeah….. until you realize the only closest relaxing spa like bath product you have is a giant bottle of Spongebob bubble bath that smells like berry-gum-watermelon-shit. I thought to myself, “self… fuck it, just go with it and make the best of what you have. “ I mean really this is kind of the motto of daily life anyway right? On went the hot water, in went the luxurious berry-gum-watermelon-shit scented Spongebob crap and down I sat. Down I sat on a damn dinosaur I somehow missed getting out of the tub. Don’t ask. Yes, it hurt.

After extracting evicting the dino I relaxed and laid back, getting comfy with the whole berry-gum-watermelon Spongebob shit and it was starting to grow on me. I wondered why I wasn't taking bubble baths more often, this is kind of nice. I'll have to put this on my to do list for the future when the kid is at her dads. That thought lasted about two minutes and twenty eight seconds. And then it happened….

The phone call that every parent dreads, let alone a single parent whose kid is at the ex’s house. The one thing that can snap you out of your own funk and pull you out of your own neurotic head is this kind of call. I saw that it was my ex-husband calling. Now let me say I’ve come a long way. When my daughter used to go to her dads house it was just for 8 hour visits once a week while she was a baby. Then when she was two we moved to one overnight visit a week and then at three she moved to alternating weekends. It was hard for me at first, with her being so young especially. I would break into a sweat just at the thought of something happening to her while she was with him and Whore Waffle. And I don’t just mean that they would do something (though they have gotten a lot better they were not the most responsible kid watchers early on) but that just anything would happen. You know, a car accident, a household accident, a lion would eat her at the zoo because he was too busy making out with Whore Waffle, a hunk of blue frozen airplane pee and shit would fall from the sky off of a commercial jet. Don’t laugh, that crazy falling frozen blue piss thing has happened before. It has, I swear, Google it. But over time I’ve become much more…. Hmmm…. Sane? Yeah that’s probably a stretch, ok I’ve chilled the hell out.

So I answered the phone cool as a cucumber thinking he just wanted to ask if he could bring her home early or if it was normal for her to puke after seeing him kiss Whore Waffle, well Mrs. Whore Waffle now. But no. This was the call my fears were made of.

Me: Hey! (Yes, that’s how I answer calls from people I know, that’s how I roll)

Ex: Hi, uh, yeah, now don’t panic. (I can hear my daughter screaming and crying in the background “mommy – no shots!”) there’s been an accident.

Me: What the fuck do you mean there’s been an accident?!?! (at this point I almost drop my cell phone in the tub of berry-gum-watermelon-Spongebob shit because damn it I was all sudsy and wet and so not prepared for a call like this covered in Spongebob. Shit, you know what I mean).

Ex: Well…… she needs stitches, they think seven. It’s under her… oh wait the Dr is here.

Whore Waffle: Hi, it’s Whore Waffle (ok, she didn’t call herself that but I can’t use her name so just work with me here, this is our first phone conversation ever mind you and it’s been five years) yeah it looks like she’ll need stitches but the Dr just got here.

Me: W H A T happened???

Whore Waffle: Well it’s just concerning me because I can see down to the bone. (At this point I’m freaking the fuck out on the inside, whore waffle can see bone? Now I’ve completely forgotten about the “what happened” part, good job waffle. I mean seeing my ex-husband’s bone when we were married is one thing but seeing my childs bone through a wound – NOT THE FUCK OK!!!!)

Me: WHAT????????????????

Whore Waffle: Yeah we’re at (insert name of hospital that is like 1 hour away from me here) so I don’t know if you want to come here?

Me: (now completely freaking the fuck out because I don’t feel like I have any idea what happened and I’m on the phone with fucking Whore Waffle and not someone that can verbalize what actually happened) Yes, I’ll be there. I’m soaking in a bubble bath as we speak so I need to shower real fast and I’m out the door. Oh, and I realize that was a bit too much information telling you I was naked and in a bubble bath so let’s just put that behind us and forget that part happened?

Whore Waffle: Ok….. Ummmmmmmm how about I call you back in ten minutes? (sensing she doesn’t find this awkward in the slightest, fuck my life)

Me: Yes! Call me back. I have to get all of the bubbles off of me. (again, awkward… in the meantime I’m draining the tub and taking the worlds fucking fastest chick shower that has ever taken place and of course at this point I used all the hot water for the fucking berry-gum-watermelon Spongebob dinosaur up my ass bath so I’m showering in freezing water)

Phone….

Me: HELLLOOO!!!!!!

Whore Waffle: Ok the Dr is here sewing her up now so I don’t know if you want to meet us here or how about you come over to our house and… hey…. stop… no! (I have never been to their house, for obvious reasons)

Ex: (out of breath from the momentary struggle to remove the phone from whore waffle’s hands) I’ll bring her home to you as soon as we’re done here.

Me: (having given up on getting a complete answer as to what had really happened at this point) Ok thank you, does she need anything special that I need to run out and get before you get here? (because I’m thinking at this point mommy may need a motherfucking cocktail)

Ex: I’ll find out and call you when we’re in the car on the way. (this is also code for when-his-wife-isn’t-around)

And that’s about how that went. So then I sat there for another two hours waiting for her to get home, or it could have just felt that way. I’m pretty sure I could have driven to mars in that time but decided to wait it out for the call that they were done and on the way to me which I knew would beat the time in which it would take me to get there.

Once that call came I felt much better – it was calm and I got answers (she was standing on a chair at a kid’s park and fell forward and whacked the underside of her chin on a metal table). There was no longer any screaming just my daughter in the back of the car asking to talk to mommy. My brave little trooper told me all about how she didn’t cry or have to be held down when she got her big girl stitches and how proud she was that she got not just one but four stickers and a hand puppet from the nurses. Most importantly she was thrilled to report how she didn’t have to get a shot.The early crying was over the thought of a shot. Go figure, not the stitches or the gaping wound.

I’m pretty confident that had I been there I would have been calm, cool and collected like I usually am in a crisis. It was however a horrific moment hearing it and not being there to comfort my child. The not being there part is the hardest. I normally have it together but I really lost my mommy shit in that moment. Having to count on someone else to do the right thing by my child was a first. Not only do I have to trust him, I have to trust Whore Waffle. Letting go of that control is hard, it’s a process. One that you don’t go through until you have to and this was just another catalyst for co-parenting growth - I had to. Though I do have to say I understand it’s supposed to take a village, but does every village have to have at least one idiot? I shouldn’t be hard on Whore Waffle, she was calm and she called me and tried to keep me posted best she could. Everyone did the best they could. This was not a drill and we all came out fine. Still, wish I could have been there for her first stitches. Twisted, I know.

When my ex showed up I ran out of the house, in a cool and calm way of course, to greet my girl. I could see the look on his face coming towards me. It was the “oh sweet baby Jesus don’t let her punch me in the balls” look. You see I’m not a yeller, I’m a stern, calm, say it slowly so when I tell you I’m going to nail your fucking balls to a wall you really take the words in and understand what I’m saying to you. When a woman yells it tends to remove that fear factor or serious tone and all men hear is blah-blah-blah so when I mean business…. I don’t yell. So I could see that look on his face, where he thought it was coming and I actually felt really bad for him. I realized at that moment that not only was he worried about our daughter but he felt horrible it happened on his watch and in addition to that he was scared I was going to be calm – not livid – but calm. His face said it all. But instead I did what I do best – I crack completely un-funny jokes to try and break the seriousness. Kids do stupid things and when you have three like he does now then shit happens. He reacted and did all the right things once it had happened.

So now when my kid goes to her first day of summer camp tomorrow I’ve told her to just tell everyone when they ask what happened to her that that’s nothing, they should see the other kid. Of course I told her she had to do it slowly with a calm and serious tone and look them straight in the eye. Don’t judge – this is an effective way to keep the camp bullies away right from the first day and I believe in seizing the moment. Please, I’m a single parent…. Two birds, one stone.

PS. Mom, for Christmas will you please send grown up bath products so I don’t have to take another Spongebob bath of shame. OK? Thanks!

The One Where I Get Kind of Sappy and Crap

This is a kid free weekend and I can’t sleep, so here I am hanging out with you. I took a nap today, yes it was a luxury and yes, it was good for me. I slept like the dead. It was one of those naps where I woke up and wondered for a minute what day it was and holy shit where was my kid and what was she doing. Then the silence hit me and I remembered, kid free weekend. So now it’s late and I’m paying the price for that nap with a sleepless night.

This actually works out though. I’ve been meaning to write this post and just haven’t gotten around to it. Or, maybe it’s that it’s uncomfortable for me because sometimes nice or things that make me go to the mushy place are just a little uncomfortable for me. This post is for you, my readers, because I love you in all kinds of crazy ways.

When I started this blog it was really an outlet for me to scream at the universe. It was a way for me to have a voice when I felt like I didn’t have one in any other way. When there was nothing else in my life I felt like I could control I could control these – I could control the words I typed. There was so much shoved into my head and heart when I started this and it was all locked up tight. This blog allowed me to let it out.

I started out wanted to write as a way to work through my shit. Trust me, there’s a lot of shit. You’ve only seen the tip of the ice berg that sunk this titanic. When I started I didn’t know if anyone would actually read it. Anyone other than my mom (hi mom, I love you) and maybe a couple of my close girlfriends (you know who you are). Oh, and my favorite Uncle, he reads it too. Hi Uncle J, I love you and miss you too. But honestly I didn’t know if anyone else out there in the universe would see my words, let alone really take them in and connect with them. And you have.

I’ve recently over the past couple of weeks started receiving emails from my readers. Even the words “my readers” blow my mind, the fact that I can say that. The emails I’ve received have touched me in so many ways. There are so many strong men and women out there. Single parents, non-parents, just people who stumble across this little world of mine. There are so many people struggling as well, struggling as I do some days. And you inspire me.

My day job, well, it’s just that. It’s a corporate gig for a mega corporation that you have absolutely heard of and I’ve been doing the same thing for eleven years this month. It’s not very fulfilling to me as a human being. I mean I make great money, please don’t get me wrong. I’m very lucky in that regard. I work with some crazy people that I love and adore and keep me going because they are just so funny and fun to be around. I’ve made true friends there over the years. But I’ve always wanted to do and be more. I always say at work when people freak out (which is a lot, it’s high stress) “it’s not a heart in a cooler we’re handling here people”. By that I mean it’s a corporate gig. We’re not saving lives, we’re not making a difference in any important way, we’re not inspiring or motivating or bringing hope and joy to people’s lives. We’re not lifting up the fallen, we’re not curing cancer or moving mountains or helping humanity. We’re selling shit. Billions and millions of dollars of… shit. Seriously, you should see my quota, it’s frightening. It’s frightening in millions of ways. Eeek! But you get my point.

This blog though has morphed into something more for me. Something I didn’t anticipate at all when it started. It’s starting to make me feel like I’m making a difference for at least a few people out there. It’s not about me anymore, it’s about you. And it’s because of those of you who have left comments and sent me emails that I feel this way. When I read that one of you has had a moment of recognition, a connection with something I’ve said or ranted about, it makes me… happy. When I get messages from people saying thank you and that they don’t feel quite as alone in it all now it moves me in ways you could never imagine. It’s bliss. It compensates for that horrible feeling that I have when I know I’m spending my life in a profession that doesn’t help others and I feel horrible about myself for that. I mean this blog is still not curing cancer but it’s helping some of you even if for nothing more than a laugh from time to time.

I’m an open book. I’m this way in “real life” as well as in this blog. I wear my heart on my sleeve, I say what I think, I don’t cover up the bullshit and I share my story with anyone that wants or needs to hear it. I don’t live in the shadows, I have no shame like that I guess. I’m not embarrassed or mortified by what I went through, what happened or how I’ve dealt with it. When you’ve been thrown on the ground of rock bottom and sat there looking up and wondering how the hell you’re going to pull yourself out of that hole you don’t hold back once you reach the surface again. You take on a new perspective, a new voice that you will not let be silenced ever again. And that’s where I’m at now. I have bad days, sure, but I want to be there for those who are back where I was as well as those who are where I am now. Nobody should feel alone in the bottom of a hole. And that is why I share my story and journey. So when you send me emails and leave comments and I know that you’re out there you’ve made every step of the struggle I went through before starting this blog completely worth my while. And I know, for a fact, because of that alone that everything has a reason and a purpose. You are my good karma.

So though this blog isn’t a “heart in a cooler” either, it’s pretty damn close. I get more from my readers than you will ever know. Sometimes it feels unfair to get more than I give from so many truly awesome people – people I don’t even know. I guess what I’m trying to say is…. Thank You.

PS. If you have any fun, or not so fun, questions or suggestions for my blog feel free to send them to me. Maybe I’ll start an “ask the crazy divorcee” section! No pressure. And to the reader who asked for the RSS feed…. Wish granted. See how easy I am! Send me your wish, I'll see if I can grant it. You might have to rub me a little though. I'm just sayin'.

PS. I Hate You

Dear You (and you know who you are),

I hate you. I know these words are harsh and hard to hear but it is sadly true. I hate you with a passion that takes over my whole being. I hate you more than when I drive through and order a taco and they forget the fucking hot sauce. Yes… it’s true, I hate you more than that even. You know me well enough to know that means I really really really really fucking hate you.

When we first met it was love at first sight, or maybe it was just empty lust. I took one look at you and I knew you were the one. I had to have you. I just wanted to lay on you, rest my head on you, tell you my secrets. You had everything I ever wanted. You were the first major new thing in my life after my split with my ex-husband and you were there for me as I started my life over. You were the first decision I made without my ex and I adored you, every square inch of you.

You were beautiful and comfortable and the thought of spending hours with you made my tired little heart go pitter-patter. Pitter-patter… motherfucker.

And I did, I spent hours with you for a long time but now the magic is gone. It’s fizzled and faded and you’ve broken my heart for the last time. You’ve let me down. You’re destroying my happiness and I’m allowing it. My inner peace. My zen. My happy place is sucked into a black hole every time I look across the room at you. Yes, I mean it so don’t give me that look because I am serious. I’m serious as a motherfuckin’ heart attack. Well, medicine has improved these days so maybe I'm more serious like a case of crabs.

Every time I see you I throw up just a little in my mouth. Not a lot, just a little, that would be gross. I’m afraid of you, you make me itch and crawl out of my skin just looking at you. I’m pretty sure that if I spend any more time with you that I’ll need some sort of exotic shot that I’ll have to take 20 times in my ass. And that’s not cool man. So with that said I’m replacing you with something less fancy, less complicated, something more comfortable that doesn’t make me want to scrub myself down in a hot shower. Something solid and real and… new. And I will not miss you. You're a dirty, dirty, dirty bastard and you deserve everything you get.

xoxo,

Me

PS. Sorry about my kid peeing on you, her secretly spilling nail polish, cereal, soup, milk, water and chocolate syrup on you. Oh, also… I’m especially sorry the cat puked on you. Five times. But who is counting? I’ve decided your replacement is going to be red, or green, I don’t know I’m still playing the field. And Scotch Guarded.

***ADDED AFTER POSTING*** It has been brought to my attention that my "PS" portion may not have been "clear" and I might have been a little "vague" and I may have over "brilliantized" (that was my personal favorite) this post. So after a frantic call from my mother because she was worried I was about to go postal and punch someone in the face (I don't really do that, I just talk about it) let me make it clear since I might have been a little "too creative" with this post. This post is about my sofa people. My couch of shame. The dirtiest sofa on the block. No, those are also not creative euphemisms for anything "dirty" or "off color" or how shall I say... "whorish". My life is not that exciting people, really. Sigh.....

Something's Happening in Oz

I sat down tonight to write. This is my safe place, my anonymous (relatively speaking) place to unleash my inner bullshit, my inner Elpheba. I've been struggling this week and I'm tired.

I work. I parent. I work. I parent. I work. I parent. I work. I parent. I work. I parent. I work. I parent. You get the idea. And I realize that this is what I signed up for and I wouldn’t take it back. Ever. But I'm screaming on the inside. And I'm tired.

I’ve been fine for the past five years with this. It was safe, it was comfortable. Isolation works that why ironically enough. When you build a bubble and don’t let anyone in to that safe space the status qou is pretty reliable. Monotony had become my security blanket. No one in or out. Safe. But I’m tired. Solitude is exhausting. And I'm burning on the inside.

A switch has been flipped, a switch that can’t be un-flipped. I think it started in January when I decided to start working on me and stop ignoring me. It’s easy when you’re a single parent to push yourself aside. It’s a natural instinct as a parent to do that during that new single parent period, when you’re focused solely on your children's physical and emotional survival and just making it through each day with your own mental wherewithal intact. But something has changed within me and burning that security blanket is a sometimes painful and often exhausting process. But I'm doing it. And I'm screaming on the inside.

I’m not always a badass. I'm a badass 99.5% of the time now but not *all* the time. Shocking, I know. I’m human. I’m tired. I'm screaming on the inside.

Today’s been a hard day. I have a lot of shit on my plate. I have a health thing going on (and yes, I know mom, I haven’t called you about this and when you read this you’ll call me and yell so I’m sorry). I’m also sick right now, sinus infection. Possibly that’s causing my mid-life-night moment but I doubt it. It doesn’t help tonight though. I’m tired. And yes, again with the screaming on the inside.

In four or five months I’ve had this growing feeling of restlessness and I feel it getting to the boiling point. I have this feeling that I am shoved in a box that I’m trying to claw my way out of. Admittedly I put myself in that box and stayed there for five years. Safe.

I have guilt that I want more. That I want more than just surviving. I don't want to just be Single Mom Survives. I want to be Single Mom Kicks Motherfucking Ass and doesn't take names because she doesn't need them where she's going. However.... that bitch guilt is back. I feel guilty that I want more than just work and parenting. Being a mom means the world to me, it was my biggest dream and wish in life. I've said that before and it holds true. I didn't want to be a doctor or a lawyer or a florist. I wanted to be a mom, everything else was icing. I'm ready for some goddamn icing.

Doing this alone for five years now I’m not looking for a co-parent but I am looking for more for me. I feel guilty that I want more for me. Guilt Guilt Guilt… Just using the word “me” makes “me” feel selfish. And guilty. And tired. Ugh. Cue the screaming on the inside again. The thrashing, clawing and get-me-the-fuck-out-of-here-every-now-and-then.

Parenting alone is a long road with enough bumps and twist and turns to make the most seasoned adrenaline junkie want to puke. It just is. And this ride stops every now and then. It stops every other weekend for two days and I get off. And when I get off the silence is deafening. Sometimes I drive home on the weekend when my daughter is at her dads and I take the long way, the scenic route. I do it because the silence in my car is less worse than the silence at home. That’s how I know something is changing in me. Even the silence makes me tired. Listening for myself in the silence makes me tired.

I yearn for something to look forward to, something that is more. I think I find it, then I think I don’t. I’m a fucking mess. I’m screaming to get out of this box and have something more. Something fun. Something happy. Something to look forward to. I’m tired of the status quo. The status quo is… tiring. I want to defy gravity.

All of me in the pages of this blog are real. There's no wizard behind a curtain. I don’t bullshit. If every post were me kicking ass and taking names while blowing bubbles and filing my nails then that wouldn’t be real. And I’m about being real. The good, the bad and the ugly. Real. I don’t bullshit myself and I don’t bullshit others. Who has time for bullshit with all of that work, parenting, work, parenting, work, parenting. You get the idea. I’m ready to soar and I’m not sure how.

So is it ok to have something that’s sole purpose is just to make you happy when it can? Or are we bound by the covenant of one hundred percent self sacrifice of single parenting? There has to be a middle ground. Right? I’m too tired tonight to answer this question myself. And don’t worry, I still have the fire within me, maybe too much right now. I’m just having a suck ass week. I would love your two cents. In exchange I’ll leave you with this…. This pretty much sums up how I’m feeling on the inside. This is for the inner Elpheba in all of us. How are you defying gravity?

One Month of FREE Medifast. Yes. For Real!

Back in January when I began my “me” project I only believed in my ability to change my life half way. I mean I truly wanted to change my life, I wanted to be the best me I could be, I wanted to take charge. I felt like I could do it but I wasn’t one hundred percent convinced yet. I mean let’s face it, if you’re someone who has had a lifelong battle with weight then you know that constant feeling of failure that I’m talking about. You see other people losing and winning and being the hero but you never quite believe that you have it in you. Guess what? You do!

I took a chance on Medifast as my tool for change. When I first started the program back in January I wasn’t fully convinced. I only ordered two weeks of food and thought I’d just give it a shot but I didn’t have high expectations after trying other programs. You know the one’s I’m talking about… the one’s with celebs in their ads that you know are being paid to tell you what you want to hear and have the support of paid professionals and trainers and everything money can buy. So for me it was a leap of faith and it has been the best leap I have ever taken. Sometimes a gamble does in fact pay off. I'm not a highly paid celeb, I'm a single mom just struggling to truck it through each day. Take a chance and believe what I'm telling you.

Medifast has given me something I never thought possible…. Hope.

And now, because I have no shame and have blogged about Brian the super cool PR dude at Medifast enough that I’ve turned him into a little pool of kind gooey generosity, I have something to pass on to one super kick ass awesome reader. Here’s where you’re supposed to cue the trumpets Brian… sheeesh. Do I have to do all the work? Just kidding, big hugs.

WIN A ONE MONTH SUPPLY OF MEDIFAST !!!!

To learn more about the Medifast program please CLICK HERE.

 I know right? How freaking awesome is this?!?! I am emailed with offers from companies to do blog giveaways and reviews all the time but since it's not the reason I started this blog I have never jumped on them. With that said, for me to do this means it's something I really believe in and it’s BIG. I'm picky as hell. I have to believe in something enough that I would recommend it to my own mother and I believe in Medifast.

If you want to do this with me I will be here to cheer you on all the way! I want you to know though that while Medifast is the tool you do the work. I believe in you! Nothing in this world makes me happier than the thought of passing this Medifast experience on to someone else.

Here is how to enter:

1. Enter a comment in the comment section of this post and tell me why you want this. What is your story? How much do you want to lose? What would winning this mean to you? What is your commitment level to staying with it after this one month challenge? You get the idea, just let it all out! Make me laugh, make me cry, make me say YES!! Most of all, be real and honest. I will choose the winner based on these comment entries.

2. If you are on Twitter please follow me @snglmomsurvives as well as @Medifast and RT my giveaway tweets (please).

3. If you are on Facebook please "like" Single Mom Survives and Medifast and re-post the contest link from my Single Mom Survives fan page. You don't have to really like me, just click the "like" button anyway. :)

Here is the short list of rules:

1. If you are related to me or a friend of mine in real life then you're out. Sorry. The good news though is that you get to be related to me and a friend of mine and lets face it that's like winning the freaking lottery because I'm full of awesome.
2. This offer is intended for someone that is new to Medifast. Someone that hasn't already experienced the full and complete awesomeness that is Medifast.
3. I make the rules. If you have any questions at all please contact me at singlemomsurvives(at)yahoo(dot)com
4. This contest begins Sunday, June 6, 2010 and ends Tuesday, June 15, 2010 at Midnight Pacific.  
5. No, I do not accept bribes. I do however accept hugs, fist bumps, chest bumbs, ass slaps and fan mail.
6. I will choose the winner based on comment entries received by Saturday, June 19, 2010 and will notify you by email at the address you've used when entering your comment.
7. Medifast will ship the one month starter pack to you directly.

I Am Cougar, Hear Me...RUN!

This is the post that doesn’t really have a point. It’s also the post where I bitch a little. And by a little I mean probably quite a bit. And by quite a bit I mean what the mother hell is going on with these online dating dudes?


Ok here’s what I don’t get. I’m now thirty eight years old. My birthday was last week, and no, I didn’t have any cake cause I’ve given up sugar which means not having any birthday cake on my own birthday makes me a damn rock star. But that’s a whole other topic we can file under my "me" project.


So I’d like to think I have 85% of my shit together and I’m only %15 pure-grade-A-fucked-up-post-cheating-husband-divorced-with-a-few-fear-of-commitment-and-trust-issues-hot-mess. I might have to change those calculations though after reading through all of the online dating winks, messages and big red warning flags that I’ve received over the first couple of months. This could get complicated because, I won’t lie, I had to take Algebra twice in high school. There was a boy in my class I totally had a crush on and who can focus on something as lame and completely not needed later in life as math when your teenage hormones are raging and there’s a total bad boy hottie sitting in front of you? I would never let this shameful thing happen today but those teen years are all kinds of hard. And if my daughter did this I would smack the stupid right out of her. Oh shit, I do need math skills to recalculate this mess. The math Nazi, I mean teacher, was right. Damn her wherever she is today!


Let me start with this one guy who emailed me. The dude actually says in his profile “do I believe in love, no, would I like to be with someone, yes, but everyone leaves me eventually.” Ok, now why they hell is this guy on a dating site? I am not Florence Fucking Nightingale, or a vet, and I cannot mend someone’s broken wing. This poor dude is not ready. I feel like this site should review that shit and send the poor hopeless dude back his money. I don’t mean to be harsh but… really? Why would I waste my time talking to a man if even he didn’t believe in himself? I’d rather see a little cockiness in a man than that pathetic shit. I’m not a big drinker, as I’ve mentioned before, so I think it’s safe to say I couldn’t have been able to consume enough cheap boxed wine to deal with that. I half wanted to send the dude an email back telling him that he would not be getting any kind of woman that was going to be sane in any way, shape or form with that kind of intro but then I was afraid I’d make him cry. Delete.


Or there’s the dude that I had talked to a while back who seemed nice enough but then revealed he wasn’t divorced yet because he was a good guy and was waiting for his wife’s cancer treatment to be over. Yeah, I know right? I’m not making this shit up. I’ve got a crisp hundred bucks that says that wife of his has no idea he’s even on a dating site. Tool. Delete.


Then there’s the dude that emailed me and I needed a motherfucking magic decoder ring to decipher what the hell this dude was saying. It’s like he was Captain fucking Hook and typing with his shiny little arm accessory. No offense to hook armed people. Hooks are quite fashionable and I already feel like a complete asshole for saying this. Really, it was the dude that was dumb. Not his imaginary hook arm. I’ll walk the plank of shame now. Delete.


The above is just a small sample. The ones that really get me, and this is what is prompting this befuddled rambling, are the young lads. The twenty-something’s. The ones that clearly list their age preference as nothing over thirty (again, I’m thirty eight now, happy freaking birthday to me) or typically anything over their own twenty-something age. This means that I am typically at least ten years over their maximum desired age. You know what a ten year age difference makes me don’t you? That’s right! A COUGAR! What the?!!? I’m not a…. Cougars are…. Damn.


What is the twenty-something man’s obsession with the, here is where I cringe, older woman? I mean I do write a pretty fucking kick ass dating profile with just the right balance of intellect, charm, sparkle and almost-pee-your-pants-funny. I’d totally date me. But what the hell is up with these twenty-something, never married, no kids, no real responsibility dudes sending emails to a late thirties single mama?


Since they list their maximum age on their profiles I am baffled at the vast amounts of secret ninja cougar hunters out there. Dudes, if that’s what you’re after come on out of the cougar craving closet and let your freak flag fly high baby. And yes, I am absolutely flattered by this, so incredibly flattered. I just never saw myself accepting the role of Mrs. Robinson or even being in the Mrs. Robinson position. Wait, that sounds like a dirty position. It’s not, that’s not what I meant. I mean there may be one called that but I’m out of practice so I wouldn’t know about it. Shit. I’m just making this worse. Damn it, don’t read that last paragraph mom. Fuck. Awwwwwwkward.


Now one or two of these emails and I say “oh look at how cute that is!” But I get a lot of them. I hit the delete button. I’m not looking for a twenty-something boy-man who has no experience with life, absolutely baggage free. There’s something to be said for a little baggage. Anyone that is baggage free is full of shit and I don’t care what anyone says.


Your baggage is where you carry your life experience, your lessons learned, your hope for better things because you’ve already traveled through the badlands. God invented the overhead compartment to hold our baggage because you can’t travel through life without a few bags to hold the mementos of who you have become along your journey in life. If you pickup nothing along the way then you haven’t been paying attention in life. I much prefer a man who has lived, loved and lost, knows the highs and lows of being a parent just as I do and appreciates that the small moments of joy are blessings beyond compare just in and of themselves. And most importantly that children are never, ever, baggage. They are the bling.


So I’m sorry hot- young-stud-muffins-who-are-secretly-fantasizing-about-landing-a-ride-on-the-Mrs.-Robinson-express because to this mama you’ve got nothing on the sexy and experienced middle aged single dads out there. I’ll take substance over style any day. Thank you for playing, better luck next time.

"S" is for Smartass

Most days my daughter is a “good girl”. She’s well mannered, sweet natured and affectionate. She says please, thank you, excuses herself when she needs to and plays well with others. She’s got her shit together. She does have moments though where her inner smartass shines through and I absolutely see myself in her.

For instance the other night I leaned over and gave her a wink and a smile and said “I’m hungry, what should we have for dinner?” Then she hit me back with a “Hi hungry, my name is M, nice to meet you.” See what I’m talking about? Smartass!

Or the time I told her to eat her dinner despite her protests because there are starving children in the world that would love to have her dinner. She asked me where they were. I said Africa. Five minutes later she brought me her plate and told me to tape the box real good before I sent it to Africa. Smartass!

Or the time she hid my car keys so she didn't have to go to school and I couldn't go to work and I asked her if she did it and she said yes and I started to flip out because I really had to get to work and she stood there with one little hand on her hip and told me to pull myself together. Ugh... Smartass!!

Of course as much as I have to admit that I love a good smartass I’m pretty sure this will bite me in my own smartass in about ten years and won’t become funny or cute again for another ten years after that.

Recently she let her inner super smartass shine through when we were at the playground. Eighty percent of life's lessons are learned on the playground when we're kids.

A cute, obviously older, little boy came over to swing next to her. I could see her body language change and how she lit up immediately at the prospect of making a new friend. She has my chatty nature and was trying to strike up a conversation with this cute older boy. Come to think of it she may have my flirty nature too. I’ve got a convent and a therapist at the ready and on speed dial just in case.

As M swung side by side with her new handsome little stranger she leaned over and gave a friendly “hi” to the new cutie on the playground. This kid was clearly trying to impress her as he swung higher and higher and just kept giving her the stink eye. She told him her name and that she was five. He smiled and flashed his big I’m-too-cool-to-be-talking-to-a-five-year-old-chick smirk and boasted about how he was six… and a half. He did it with that snarky tone that just didn’t sit right with me. Part of me wanted to tell him to check himself and try being nice but I decided to sit this one out and just watch what was about to go down. I wanted to see just how much like her mama she is. This girl needs to learn to fend for herself and this was my chance to see how she’d handle herself with a mouthy little boy.

Evidently the flirt doesn’t fall far from the tree either. She was determined to be sweet to him and she didn’t give up. She smiled back sweetly and ignored his snarky tone and tried one more time by complimenting his uber high swinging abilities. Instead of being a little gentleman he replied with even more snarky oomph this time and said “uhhhhhhh yeahhhh, I can swing higher than YOU because I’m six and a half!”

Damn that half is important to this kid for some reason. The mom in me wanted to step in and take this kid down for my daughter but it was in that moment that I knew I had done something right because she beat me to the punch. She was sweet, sweeter and then finally she laid the smack down on this obnoxious kid. She piped back, without missing a beat, “really, because you look more like five to me.”

I was so proud of my girl for in that moment not taking any crap from anyone no matter how much she wanted to know this kid. I thought it was over at this point but this kid wouldn’t give up! He clearly had no idea who he was fucking with. Must be the half thing fueling him on. He comes back again (clearly not recognizing that my girl can verbally whip his ass with both hands tied behind her back) and said “yeah no, I’m six…. and a half.” This little kid just will not let that half thing go so she popped him again with a “yeah, no, you look five to me.” And off he went into the wild blue yonder. Evidently the kid didn’t have a sense of humor about these things.

Come to think of it sometimes being a smartass *is* being a “good girl.” Go get 'em tiger.