Monthly Archives: May 2011

If I Told The Truth on my Match.com Profile…

Yes, I still have a Match.com profile, because, like an idiot, I didn’t cancel my account before it rolled over and I automatically bought several more months.

But it isn’t visible, hello…..there’s a Moratorium in progress…..

However, true to form, I got ummmm, bored (or horny or lonely or, whatever) this weekend and decided to just take a little peeksy at the current inventory of men.

I know.  But it is fun to just look!  And if you haven’t ever looked, you really need to.  It’s a laugh riot, honestly.  You would NOT believe the shit people write about themselves and/or the ridiculous pictures they put up for the world to see.  You would also not believe how many people cannot spell.  At all.  And don’t even get me started on basic grammar issues….

Anyway.

As I was perusing Match the other night, I took a look at my carefully crafted (to death) profile.

What a load of crap!

I mean, it’s not like I made shit up when I wrote the profile, but I was clearly in a more positive headspace (and different life circumstances) than I am in, well, right this minute.  The chick that wrote that profile sounded almost perky

Shudder.

I’m a lot of things right now, but perky is not one of them.

If I were to write my profile today, and if I were going to be completely honest, it would go something like this:

Oh hey,  you may be new to online dating, but I’m not!  I’ve been doing this shit on and off for, like, 10 years….which some might conclude is evidence that it doesn’t work, but what the fuck else is there to do?  Leave my house?  Whatever.

Here’s what I’m pretty good at:  fellatio. (EDITORIAL NOTE: It is important to lead with your strengths….) And other sex stuff.  And I’m pretty funny when I want to be.  Other times I can be a stone-cold bitch and/or irrational emotional wreck.  Other than that the picture is, well, grim.  I mean, I’m reasonably attractive and all, but I could lose about 20 pounds.  So there’s that…. Oh, I am a lawyer, but I’m not working right now – mid-life crisis – plus I’m taking care of my sick mother (who I live with!) which is great because my son just graduated from high school and is going to college next year with, as far as I can tell, imaginary money…..  The good news is that my schedule is flexible 🙂  Except when my Mom needs me which can happen at any time, honestly.  Also, she thinks anyone would be crazy to want to have anything to do with me right now, so she would be super supportive if we started dating and would never do anything weird, like call incessantly if we were out “too late” at night.  What else…..I’m not a great cook, I guess.  I don’t really know because I haven’t really tried all that much.  I can clean house.  That is all I’m gonna say about that…. 

What else?  Oh, I read a lot.  And not all of it is hoity-toity “literary” stuff.  Also, if you must know, it turns out that I’m an introvert.  (No, it isn’t contagious)  Which is weird, because I used to act a lot like an extrovert.  But now I’m an introvert.  This doesn’t mean I have no social skills and am a weirdo…I do and I’m not.  It does mean that I need “alone time” to even function, for God’s sake.  Really alone.  Alone!  Which explains why I’m looking for a relationship on the internet….

Anyway.   I’ve lived in Colorado pretty much my whole life, so, naturally, I don’t ski, hike, kayak, camp, mountain bike, rock climb, run trails, or any of the other ridiculous shit every single other person in Colorado seems to do every fucking minute.  Not that I wouldn’t like to try this stuff, well, some of this stuff.  Anyway, it turns out to be a good thing that I’m not obsessed with “nature” and “sports” because it means my life won’t change much after I have my hysterectomy next month.  And then go on hormones that promise to whack me out for a year or two + make my face (more) hairy.  Did I mention I like to read?  I also like to watch Forensic Files, all of the Real Housewives shows, except RH of Atlanta, Teen Mom, Say Yes to the Dress, Hoarders: Buried Alive, etc.  I might have watched a few seasons of The Bachelor.  My favorite color is purple.  I have an iPad.  Mostly I use it for Boggle.  Sometimes I snore.   I’m ugly when I cry and I often snort when I laugh.   I’m kind of a big deal on the internet, on account of my internationally recognized blog.  That keeps me pretty busy and I plan on using whatever tragic or ridiculous thing that happens between us as material for my writing.  So, you know, you’ve been warned.

In a nutshell, if you’re looking for a financially unstable woman with only a vague idea about what she is going to do to make actual money for the rest of her life, and who, in addition to that, lives with her sick mother, needs to lose weight and appears to be a shut-in with a great sense of humor and an unnatural gift for fellatio, I’m your gal!

I would love to meet a man who is reasonably good-looking, likes sex, isn’t a moron, and isn’t obsessed with his car/motorcycle/mountain bike/body/age.  Or anything else.  It would be awesome if he had been divorced/out of a relationship for more than 10 minutes and/or his wife hadn’t just died last month. (I have the internet and I know how to use it — don’t lie about shit that is in  public records, dudes).  He has to be hilarious or at least super funny. And he should enjoy snappy banter with a feisty, over-educated woman.  Note that I said “woman”, singular.  The guy I’m interested in won’t be trying to date everyone with a vagina on Match.com, and, because it actually does need to be said explicitly:  He isn’t currently “in” a relationship.  To avoid any “misunderstanding” gentlemen, if someone else thinks you’re still married to/in a relationship with/living with her, you are, in fact, “in” a relationship regardless of whatever the fuck YOU want to call it…. Shall we move on?  

It would be cool if he had a nice dog, I like dogs.  I mean, I don’t want to take care of his dog when he’s out of town or anything sweet like that, I just would be nice to the dog.  This perfect guy isn’t afraid to spend time a-l-o-n-e and doesn’t need to be entertained 24/7.  He doesn’t go out to places just to be seen going out to those places.  He knows how to hang the fuck out.  He doesn’t need the TV on all the time.  He reads things that aren’t solely related to politics,  pornography or sports.  He probably hates George W. Bush, et al.   He needs to be smart — not so smart that I can’t understand a word he says, but smart smart.  And he doesn’t feel the need to prove he is smart by making me look stupid.  Call me crazy, but it’s hard for me to feel like I want to get nekkid with someone who makes me feel like a stupid ass.  And, as long as we’re describing the perfect guy for me right now, let me add that he likes to kiss and show affection. (unless, of course, I’m crabby and don’t want to be touched)  He doesn’t take forever to respond to emails because he’s trying to write something pithy or intelligent-sounding and/or he has a “rule” about how long to wait before responding to an email.  He doesn’t ask questions during movies that neither of us has seen.  He doesn’t do that hot/cold thing.  (Which is rude for one thing and juvenile for another….) He likes to eat regular food.  He might even like to cook it.  He likes to fool around on the couch.  He has a tool belt.  He’s nice to his mother, or at least he isn’t mean to her.  He plays Scrabble, and doesn’t freak out if he loses.  He doesn’t hate women.  He isn’t secretly gay.  (Not that there’s anything wrong with that, except for the fact that I don’t have a penis and don’t like surprises of that nature….)  He likes the mountains and the ocean, but mostly the ocean.  He dives or would be willing to try diving.  He knows something about cars.  He’s irreverent and politically incorrect.  Probably a little contradictory.  He doesn’t even have to be entirely emotionally stable, that can get boring.  He doesn’t quote Caddyshack incessantly, still.  He thinks it’s cool that I want to be (am?) a writer.  He probably has kids and they are probably mostly grown up, like mine.  Which suggests that he may have some actual time to hang with me.  But not a lot of time, because, you know, the introvert thing.   He likes God, but isn’t obsessed.

OMG.  I crack myself up.  And I make myself want to cry.

 Could you imagine if I actually put this up on Match?  I’m kind of tempted to do it and see what happens…. 

What if everyone was this blatantly honest?  Would it make it easier to find someone “special”?  It is kind of refreshing to put all your shit out on the table up front and say “Here’s me, yo…”  But would I really want to meet the man who would look at my shit and say “hmmmm, sounds good on paper!” (The answer to that is, at this point, “probably”….)

In case you’re wondering, yes, it has occurred to me that I may never have a date again if I publish this post on the worldwide interweb and/or Match.com.

Whatever….

xoxo

kim

p.s.  are you as shocked as i am about my blatant use of the term “fellatio” in this post?  if you’re my mom or my son, ummm, sorry 🙂

 

 

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Pomp and Circumstantial Evidence of My Age, Thanks Class of 2011

What I should write about today is how meaningful and special my kid’s graduation ceremony was.  And about how proud I am of him for managing to stay alive and in school long enough to graduate.

And I am uber-proud.  I mean, yes, he managed to graduate from a fancy-pants high school with a respectable GPA, and that is great.  But mostly I’m proud because he is just an  awesome person.  Everybody says so.

Anyway.

That is what I should write about.

But what I’m pretty sure I’m going to write about today is, of course, about what his graduation has meant for, you know, ME.

Surprised?  Don’t be.  It’s my blog.

Let me just put this on the table: Graduation ceremonies are boring.  Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about!  They suck, for the most part.  The only part that doesn’t suck is when they call your kid’s name and you get to yell and try to embarrass them + let them know you’re there for God’s sake.  All the rest is just filling time.  But we all sit there and smile and clap and act like we aren’t all horrified at how grown-up these kids look and how old all the other parents look.

Yes, old.

Aging is weird in a Twilight Zone kind of way.  I mean, I was checking out the crowd when we were supposed to be listening to some 18 year old’s inspiring speech about all he has overcome in his 18 years of life…. and I was thinking, “There sure are a lot of grandparents here today….”  Then I noticed the really old people and realized that they were, in fact, the grandparents.  The other old people were the other parents.  Who, for the most part, are probably my age.

WTF?

All I could think was, “Do I look as old as these other people?”  and, as you can see from the picture above, the answer, apparently is “YES.”

Which is weird because the chick in that picture is not at all related to the one that I see in the mirror every morning.  The chick in my mirror has barely aged.  And her teeth aren’t that weird looking.  And she doesn’t feel anywhere near as old as she looks.

I don’t want to turn this into an entire post about aging……I can write about that anytime.  This post is about how those asshole 18 year old high school graduates, so full of vim and vigor (whatever that means….) with their whole lives ahead of them, have forced us (okay, me) to think about the passage of time. 

And how it happens super fast.  I really can’t emphasize this enough:  TIME FLIES.

And how you can’t get it back.

And how I had no way of knowing about this little fact of life when I was 18.  And how it still hadn’t hit me when my son was born and I was 27.  And how, if I’m being honest, I’m really just now coming to grips with it at age 46.

And about the life I dreamed I would have when I was graduating from high school (“Wild and Free in ’83!”) and the one I’ve actually had.

And about how it turns out that this whole “son graduating from high school” thing pretty much means that I have run out of time to be the Mom I dreamed I would be, instead of the one that I turned out to be.

Thanks a bunch, Class of 2011.

The Mom I dreamed I would be was totally prepared to be a parent.  She knew how to handle a baby who never slept and mostly cried.  She used cloth diapers and made her own baby food.  She lost her baby weight right away.  Dream Mom didn’t have post-partum depression.  She didn’t go back to work when her baby was 6 weeks old.  She didn’t have to study for the bar exam and iron her clothes for work while trying to get him to sleep at night.  She didn’t struggle with her new identities as “Mom” and “Lawyer” – which happened in the same year.  She didn’t miss anyof her son’s milestones because she was at work.  She never went to work with spit-up on her jacket and dark circles under her eyes.   Dream Mom was always a “classroom Mom”, and a Cub Scout leader and a “Team Mom” and she volunteered at the school all the time.  She most certainly didn’t get divorced.  She was a great cook.   She not only had a complete baby book, she had cool scrapbooks for every year of her son’s life.  She lived in the same great house in the same great neighborhood the whole time her son was growing up, so he would never wonder where “home” was.  She didn’t pack Lunchables. She eschewed Capri Sun. Dream Mom made sure their house was the place to be for all the kids in the neighborhood.  She sent care packages during summer camp.  She always knew all of her son’s friends and teachers and coaches.  She was hip, but never, ever, inappropriate.

The Mom I turned out to be, on the other hand, knew all the words to 50 Cent’s “Candy Shop” and sang them, loudly, in the car while driving her son to school.  Until she realized that he was a teenage boy, and that the song is all about sex and, therefore, it might not be the best idea to even allow him to hear the damn song, much less sing along with such enthusiasm.  What else….oh, she used exactly two (2) cloth diapers.  She had post-partum depression but didn’t realize it for way too long.  She got overwhelmed.  She worked a lot and missed out on some big milestones.  She was a horrible cook!  She threw awesome birthday parties but didn’t make scrapbooks or videos.  She relied on Lunchables and McDonald’s more than she should have.  She wasn’t always patient.  She got divorced, more than once.  She moved a lot.  She didn’t send care packages to summer camp.  She wasn’t always hip.  She didn’t know all of her son’s teachers/coaches and she missed a few (very few!) soccer/lax games.  Her house was not where all the kids hung out.  She posted on his Facebook wall (gasp!) even after he forbade it.  And, most recently, she offered to teach him how to “Dougie”….

Real Mom had some good qualities, but she wasn’t much like Dream Mom.

I don’t even really know where I’m going with this except to explore all of the emotional stuff that this graduation has stirred up for me.  Is it weird that I’m feeling all this?  Do other parents question their parenting?  Wonder how all those years flew by?  Wish they could do some of it over?  Wonder who that old person in the pictures is?  Feel happy and sad and excited and scared about what is next for their kids?  Remember how it felt to be 18 and have your whole life ahead of you?

Did any of those other parents know all the words to “Candy Shop”?

xoxo

kim

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Dear Son, Turns out there is no Secret Handshake. Happy Graduation!

My son graduates from high school tomorrow.

It seems like I should have some seriously wise things to say to him upon this momentous occasion.

Some deep truth to reveal.

Maybe teach him the Secret Handshake for “adults”….?

Except I don’t actually know a Secret Handshake for adults, it just seems like something that should exist.  But it doesn’t, I googled it.

And I don’t really have a big truth to reveal.  (He already knows Darth Vader is Luke’s faja…)

Mostly I am just in a state of shock.

And, if you must know, I’ve been bawling all most of the day.

Somehow those unbearably long days of trying to keep a colicky newborn even alive, for God’s sake turned into unbearably long days of chasing a toddler around (this kid never just walked anywhere) while answering “why?” a gillion times, which turned into walking him into class on the first day of kindergarten and having to be asked (politely) to leave already, to seeing his shy/proud smile when he saw me volunteering in the school library, to leaving him at summer camp (but calling every single day to make sure everything was okay), to soccer games, to cub scout meetings (why are mothers in charge of cub scouts?), to his first crush (Haley, who will be graduating with him tomorrow), to his first dance, to the first day he didn’t want to hug me before getting out of the car when I dropped him off at school (OUCH!), to the day he started driving, to the day he announced he was a Republican (I know….), to the day he told me he wanted to live mostly with his Dad, to the day he told me about the girl he really liked and the day he told me that, for some fucked-up reason she decided she didn’t like him the same way anymore, to the day he cried because his Bubba is sick, to the day he put his arm around me and told me he loved me after I told him that I missed him, to the day I paid his registration fees for COLLEGE, to last night when he picked me up at the airport and told me all about his Senior Prom, to today….

The day before his graduation. 

And, apparently, the day when it finally hits me that 18 years have come and gone in a flash.

Anyway.

Son.

I don’t have much in the way of wise words for you, but I would like to take this opportunity to tell you some stuff that I wish I would have known when I was your age (or at any time before I was, say, 45).  And, here’s a shocker:  I really was your age at one point and I’m pretty sure someone mentioned most or all of this to me, but, ummmm, I probably thought they were too old to understand what it was like to be my age and therefore discounted everything they said.  Sound familiar?

First, sweetest of sweet peas, you’re not “preparing for a career” right now, you are “HAVING A LIFE” right now!!  So, please, please, please have it.  Live it!  Drink it up!  Soak it in!  Seize the day and all that crap!  Take chances.  Make mistakes.  Be curious.  Love to learn new things, meet new people, open to new possibilities.  Have adventures.  Explore.  Play.  Risk your heart.

(and be safe, don’t drink and drive, use protection, say no to drugs, avoid meth, wear sunscreen, no motorcycle riding, don’t forget to call me and please don’t die before me…..)

I know it’s hard to believe right now, but you are really still at the very very beginning of your life and anything is possible.  You have a gillion choices to make ahead of you and, trust me on this one, most of them will be good choices.  Most things will work out.  Some won’t.  Sometimes you will put up a good fight and lose, only to discover, much much later, that it wasn’t a matter of winning or losing after all, it was just a thing

Life is chock full of things, sweet pea.

A college major is a thing.  If one isn’t right, another one will be.  Same with a profession/career/job.  Choosing one doesn’t mean you can never choose another.  You will never be stuck, really.  You may (will) feel stuck, but try to remember that there is no such thing and there are endless ways to get from here to there.  You just have to remember to move, even if it’s a teensy-weensy baby step.  Then one day you will find your perfect thing and suddenly all those things that you thought were “wrong” and a waste of time, will end up looking like a very interesting path called “life” that took you from then to now.

Shall we speak of love?  (Stop rolling your eyes…)  Here is the one thing that I know for sure: you cannot convince someone to love you.  No one will ever give you love just because you love them.  Even if you love them with all your heart.  And you can’t convince yourself to love someone just because they love you.  Even if they love you with all their heart.  I don’t believe that we ever truly “waste” time, but I do believe that time spent trying to convince someone to love you, or to convince yourself to love someone is helping no one.  The people who are going to love you will know it pretty much at first sight.  They will not need to be convinced. 

(They will, however, need to be approved by your one true love, moi….)

Most importantly, no matter where you go, or what you do, know that you are loved so very much and you always have a place to come home.  It’s not a town or a house, it’s family. 

I will try not to cry hysterically and/or snort during your graduation ceremony tomorrow, but, to be honest, I can’t make any promises at this point.  Are you sneaking alcohol in?  Maybe I could borrow some….  TOTALLY KIDDING.  I’ll bring my own 🙂

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

MOM

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There’s no end to what I can do with gauze, really.

Gauze help me….

I have a problem.  Or two.

Okay, more than two. 

 But the problem right now is gauze.  Or, more specifically, the word “gauze”…  I can’t get it out of my head! 

All I can think about are gauze-related headlines:

 Oh My Gauze.

Gauze Almighty.

Praise Gauze.

Mary, Mother of Gauze.

Gauze Only Knows.

Let Go and Let Gauze.

Gauze Willing.

Gauze-ess of Love.

For the Love of Gauze.

Gauze in Heaven.

SEE WHAT I MEAN?

It is never-ending, the things I can do with the word “gauze”.  I feel a little better having said some of these “out loud”, but I am afraid my gauze-issues are far from over.

 As you may recall, I had a conversation with gauze the other day.  This was prompted by a nightmare involving a gauze super-store from hell, a fiery auto crash, a biker dude, a meth addict and my Mom, of course. 

The conversation itself was mildly useful/helpful/meaningful in that it turns out that Mom’s gauze obsession (Hey, did I mention the harem pants?  She’s 67.  And short.  But they are gauze so I guess fashion rules don’t apply….) kind of represented her other obsessive behavior (no value judgments, most of her obsessions have been art-related and she has created some amazing stuff) which triggered icky memories of being a kid in the midst of her obsessions and, probably more painfully, of being an adult/parent and having my own obsessive behavior.

 Lots of shame.  Lots of guilt.  A sprinkle of anger.  An appreciation of the good things that came out of some otherwise questionable obsessive behavior.

 Gauze suggested that perhaps I might consider forgiveness as an alternative to wasting one more minute of my precious life feeling angry about stuff I can’t change.

 Right.

 That would require me to give up my story. 

 (Flash of Painful Insight) 

Ohhhhhhhhhh.  Ouch.

(And away we go…..) 

Gauze:  “I know, right?”

Me:  “Well this sucks.  I keep yapping about how other people should change their story and I am still holding onto mine.  Color me blind to my own issues.”

Gauze:  “Oh good, you’ve found something else to beat yourself up about.  That is useful.”

Me:  “Bitch.”

Gauze:  “Takes one to know one.”

Me:  “Good point.  Now what do I do?”

Gauze:  “Seems fairly obvious from where I stand.”

Me:  “You’re not real. And you’re fabric.  In my head.”

Gauze:  “Like I said, it seems obvious.”

Me:  “What?  Just snap my fingers and give up my story?  Poof?”

Gauze:  “It’s easier than that, you don’t even need to snap your fingers.  Just give it up.”

Me:  “I don’t know why this scares me so much.  I feel like I need to hold onto my story with everything I have.”

Gauze:  “What would have to happen for you to feel safe letting it go?”

Me:  “I can’t even get to the feeling safe part because I can’t let go of my story unless I forgive myself first.”

Gauze:  “Is that true?”

Me:  “It fucking feels true.  How else could it work?”

Gauze:  “Now we are getting somewhere….”

Me:  “I don’t want to do this right now.”

Gauze:  “I know.”

Me:  “But I guess we are going to do it anyway?”

Gauze:  “Yes.”

Me:  “Fuck.  Okay, now what?”

Gauze:  “Is it true that you can’t forgive yourself?”

Me:  “Yes.”

Gauze:  “What else is true?”

Me:  “I don’t want to forgive myself.  I don’t feel forgive-able.  It seems like a luxury that I can’t afford to give myself.  It doesn’t seem good enough to just say “Well, I did the best I could and I’m only human, so I should be forgiven.”  I mean, couldn’t Hitler say the same thing?  Or Jeffrey Dahmer, “Nobody’s perfect, sorry…”

Gauze:  “So now you’re likening your past to a mass murderer and a serial-killer/cannibal?  That seems a little far-fetched and dramatic…. Now, what else is true?”

Me:  “Well.  I don’t even want to say this out loud.  Maybe it is also true that I haven’t forgiven people who have said to me “I did the best I could, but I’m only human, sorry…” and so how could I possibly forgive myself on the same basis?”

Gauze:  “People?”

Me:  “Yes.”

Gauze:  “Can you be more specific?”

Me:  “Not right now.  It’s too much.  Oh, alright.  My parents.  But my Dad is dead, so he kind of got off the hook.  So, pretty much my Mom.  But how fucking ridiculous is it that I even have one single complaint about them?  In the whole scheme of things, I have had an exceptionally good life.  Better than most people on this entire planet, actually.  Unlike the kids I’ve worked with, my parents didn’t beat me, starve me, sell me for drugs or lock me in a closet for days.  I never had to wonder where my next meal would come from.  We always had shelter.  I didn’t have to beg for money on the street.  I wasn’t stoned to death when they found out I wasn’t a virgin before I got married.  What kind of lunatic am I to complain that my parents had substance abuse issues and bad boundaries?  Seriously?  What kind of person am I to not be totally grateful every day for the piece of cake life I was handed on a silver-fucking-platter? 

Gauze:  “Oh goody, you found another reason to beat yourself up!  Now you’re a whiny, ungrateful mass murderer/serial killer/cannibal-type person.  Bravo!”

Me:  “Fuck you.”

Gauze:  “You used to have a sense of humor.”

Me:  “You used to be fabric.”

Gauze:  “Touche.”

Me:  “Now what?”

Gauze:  “Is there any other way to look at this?  As it stands now, you aren’t even entitled to have the feelings about your parents that are the basis for your need to forgive them in order to be able to forgive yourself.  Seems like a dead end.”

Me:  “I don’t even remember why we are talking about this.”

Gauze:  “You were considering letting go of/changing your story.”

Me:  “Right.  My brain is all jumbled.  I can’t go any further right now, go on without me….give my love to my motherless child.”

Gauze:  “Again with the dramatics.  We can stop, for now.”

Me:  “By the grace of gauze….”

Gauze:  “But think about this:  What would it be like if it was okay to have the feelings you have about your parents?  If no one, and especially you, could judge you.”

Me:  “I guess then I would have my feelings.  Maybe if I really felt them, then they could go away or be less…problematic?”

Gauze:  “Let’s pretend you’re in a safe place where you are totally and 100% entitled, nay, encouraged and expected to have your feelings.  Not only that, you are pretty much required to acknowledge them out loud.”

Me:  “That doesn’t sound safe, at all.”

Gauze:  “You get to create this place and it will be as safe as you need it to be.  No one else ever has to know what goes on in there.  It’s yours.  Say what you need to say.  Stay as long as you want.  Scream out loud and pound on the walls if you need to.  You can’t be judged, even by you.  It’s a no judgment zone.”

Me:  “So, I create this safe place and then I go in and acknowledge my unjustified and selfish feelings and then what?”

Gauze:  “I don’t know.  But I do know that it can’t be worse than this dead end you have created.”

Me:  “Can it be a pink room?”

Gauze:  “Yes, Kim, it can be pink.”

 So. 

I guess I’m going to create a safe place and then go inside and have some feelings, for gauze sakes.

 xoxo

kim

p.s.  note that i even have the nerve to complain when i’m in mexico, on the carribean, on vacation from the job i don’t have.  is there no end to my wickedness?

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Conversations with Gauze.

My Mom loves gauze.  More specifically, gauze clothing.  If it is made of gauze, she will wear it.  And she has the baby-poop-colored gauze harem pants to prove it.

It’s an issue.

So much so that I had a nightmare about it last night.

It’s a little fuzzy (well, I’m in Mexico, so it’s a leetle fuzzy)(c’mon people, it’s a joke), but, we were driving around Vail (as in Vail, Colorado) and all of the sudden we saw a truck fly over a guardrail and off a cliff-thingie, while I was focused on the ball of flame and twisted metal below, she noticed a store having a sale.  And went in.

So, after parking the car out of the way of the emergency vehicles arriving at the scene, I followed her into the store.

You know how big Costco stores are?  This dream store was at least that big.  And it was full of gauze clothing.  Exclusively.  All gauze, all the time.  In every color imaginable.  It was gauze heaven, dream Mom was ecstatic.  There were at least two other people in the store – a big biker-looking dude and his skinny meth-addict looking girlfriend.  No idea where they came from.  Anyway, turns out, the biker dude also loved gauze…?

And because he was in the store and he was not her, Mom put him to work.  The meth-addict chick and I made ourselves scarce while biker dude assisted Mom in her effort to add to her gauze wardrobe.  I don’t know what the meth-addict chick did, but I was crouched down behind a display counter looking at a display of super cheap jewelry.

I feel like a dream analyst could make a career out of interpreting this one.  And I can’t even write about the really juicy stuff.  Just kidding, I would totally write about it if there were any. 

What does this dream say about me and my state of mind?  My brilliant friend Marie says that when we dream we are all parts of our dream.  In this case that means I am me, Mom, the people in the truck that crashed, the meth-addict, and the biker-dude.  Fewer personalities than when I am awake, but that is another blog post altogether.

The truck going over the cliff is disturbing, but probably not that hard to interpret.  Could be my legal career, my love life, my looks, my health, my sanity — it’s a toss-up, really.  Mom not really noticing it/being concerned about it is….troubling.  The fact that I am Mom and not noticing is weird.  Everyone knows I love a good disaster.

But the gauze?

What is that all about?  I hadn’t even really thought about it, at least consciously.

Me:  “Gauze!  Why are you haunting me?”

Gauze:  “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Me:  “Probably, then again I’m talking to a fabric, and the fabric is talking back, so drama is warranted.”

Gauze:  “Good point.”

Me:  “Oh My God.  I just realized I’m wearing what could be described as a gauze sundress today!  WTF?”

Gauze:  “I’m a light and airy fabric, perfect for the beach.  Especially good for someone who fried her back on her first day in the sun.”

Me:  “Whatever.  It was a rookie mistake and I’m paying for it.  Thanks for reminding me.”

Gauze:  “Why do you think you are dreaming about me?”

Me:  “Well.  I guess you represent obsession.  Mom’s obsession.  Do you represent Mom?”

Gauze:  “What if I do?”

Me:  “I don’t know.  I guess it makes sense that I’m dreaming about her.  But I have a bad feeling about this dream.  I don’t want to have bad feelings about her.”

Gauze:  “Hmmmmm, interesting…”

Me:  “What does that mean?  What do you know?”

Gauze:  “I’m flowy and pretty and airy and that is about all I know, it’s your dream. What do you know?”

Me:  “Oh good, more work.  Okay, I know that I get frustrated with my situation, but I don’t think that I am allowed to be frustrated.  And I know I’m struggling this week.  I’m wearing her clothes, living in her house, surrounded by her art, driving her car, meeting up with her friends.  I’m living her life and it isn’t one that I created.  There is nothing of me here.  Even though I “found” Puerto Morelos and have history here, it is mostly with her.  Plus I feel the pressure to move here.  Which my inner fuck you hates, even though I’ve been dreaming about it for over 10 years.  I don’t want it to be Mom’s idea, her plan, her house, her life.  And I don’t want to imagine being here without her.  Everything is so jumbled and contradictory.  Do I have to sort it out right now?”

Gauze:  “No.  But you are further along than you were before we began this conversation, so that is a plus.  Why is gauze bothering you?”

Me:  “Ugh.  I guess it’s just another one of her obsessions.  I’m surrounded by them.  It’s oppressive.  Everything about this place is a reflection of obsession.  And it’s nice, so I don’t know exactly what is bothering me.”

Gauze:  “Yes you do.”

Me:  “Fucking gauze.  I’m ON VACATION, why now?”

Gauze:  “What part of this is vacation for you?”

Me:  “The part where I’m not in Colorado.  The part where I get to sit on the beach and stare at the ocean.  Other than that it is pretty much just like at home, except there are fewer people around to give me a break.  As in none.  Could explain my mood.”

Gauze:  “Go back to obsession, what is true for you?”

Me:  “Oh alright.  Everything about this trip is triggering me.  It is reminding me of a time when I was off my rocker.  Obsessed.  Making bad choices.  Fucking up.  On the wrong medication (for like a decade) and not dealing with it.  It wasn’t healthy.  I hurt a lot of people, including myself.  I was selfish and short-sighted.  I was also running scared.  I was manic/depressed/manic/depressed.  Just like Mom.  Or my experience of Mom.  My obsessions weren’t as pretty as some of hers have been.  Plus she is self-medicating.  And I totally understand wanting to self-medicate in her situation.  And I’m not judging her.  I am, however, totally and completely triggered by it.  I feel like running away.  Or blowing up at her.  Or both.  And I’m not going to do either of those things, I will go back home and make her dinner.”

Gauze:  “That is a lot.  Have you considered forgiving yourself?  Other people?”

Me:  “Fucking gauze.”

THE END

So, once again, I didn’t see any of that coming.  Is it too early to start drinking?  Kidding.  Did any of this make sense?  Am I just revealing my horrible soul to the world?  I’m running out of battery and the Mexican band is now singing “Feelings”.  I wish I were kidding.  I don’t even have time to edit.  Battery dying.

Hasta la vista, bitches 🙂

xoxo

kim

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Yes, I broke the cardinal rule, again.

Not that cardinal rule.

The cardinal rule about setting up a blogging schedule and sticking to it, no matter what.

I broke it.  Big time.

I don’t even have a good excuse.  Last week sucked. (so?)  I didn’t feel like writing. (what’s new?)  I was sick. (the whole week?)  I had writer’s block (liar.)  I was overwhelmed.  (again, what is new?)

See?

Here is what is true about last week and me:

(1)  On Monday, Mom had a Gamma Knife procedure, which, it turns out, doesn’t involve a knife.  It’s radiation surgery (?) that is supposed to have absolutely no side effects.  Except maybe a little swelling and headache right after the procedure.

Well.

It’s true that there is no “knife” involved in Gamma Knife….but what they don’t tell you (until you get there) is that they BOLT a large metal cage looking thing onto your HEAD to hold it still during the procedure. 

This seems like something they should have prepared us for.

It’s scary.  It hurts.  It look ridiculous.  And it is kinda major.

After the procedure, the neurosurgeon came out to say that it all went well and that Mom will need to have a follow up MRI in about four weeks.  And then she will need to keep having regular follow up MRI’s because, in all likelihood, there will be more tumors.  Oh yes, another thing all of the other Doctors failed to mention, once your cancer has metastasized to the brain in more than one spot, it’s pretty much just a matter of time until more “mets” show up in the brain.

Super. Good. News.

The bright side of all this, according to this guy (who clearly has never had brain surgery +Gamma Knife) is that you can just keep getting Gamma Knife as many times as is necessary.

Because there are no side effects.

Unless you are my Mom.

First there was the utter exhaustion after the procedure.  That lasted all week, literally.  Then the matter of the holes drilled into her skull.  Ya, those HURT.  And the little bit of swelling around the puncture wounds?  We are 9 days post procedure and the swelling is still making its way down her face.  She could barely see for a couple of days right after the procedure due to swelling.

2.  Then, on Wednesday, we went to see the Clinical Trials people.  This was a mixed bag.  The good:  OMG finally a Doctor who seemed to care about my Mom.  This is unheard of: she read Mom’s file before we got there.  She was caring, concerned and honest.  Mom felt heard for the first time in the two years this has been going on.  The less good:  It’s hard to qualify for a clinical trial.  Almost impossible when the brain is involved, since these are (by definition) new and unknown drugs/treatments that aren’t geared for the brain.  Plus, apparently someone told this Dr. about the likelihood that the brain mets will continue to be an issue, because she said that even if Mom were to start a clinical trial, she would have to stop it if she had more brain mets, so it didn’t make a lot of sense in her case.  So, the clinical trial idea is pretty much off the table.

3.  Then we talked.  And it went something like this:

Us:  “Shit.  This cancer thing is real.”

Me:  “I’m sorry.  What do you want to do now?”

Mom:  “I’m not ready to go.”

Me:  “I know.  I’m not ready for you to go either.  What can we do to make the rest good?”

Mom:  “I want to be at my home in Mexico.  I always feel better there.  That is what I want.”

Me:  “Let’s do it.”

4.  Then I got food poisoning or a virus and spent a day and a half in bed or on the toilet.

5.  Then I sent out graduation announcements, sent out graduation party invites, took Awesome Son to pick out his prom tuxedos (he’s going to two proms this year….stud), cleaned house, did laundry, went to a Mother’s Day BBQ at my brother’s house, held Mom while she had a total breakdown after the BBQ (she was beyond exhausted and the thought of travelling put her over the edge), helped pack her stuff, somehow got all our luggage (she is going for almost 3 weeks, I’m going for 2 = lots of luggage) down three flights of stairs and into the car (thank god my brother sent a car/driver for us), got through the airport (it’s much quicker when you’re handicapped, fyi), got on the plane, got off the plane and through the Cancun airport (thank god for wheelchairs), met our friend Magaly who brought us to Mom’s house in Puerto Morelos, crashed, woke up the next morning and had my own emotional breakdown (didn’t see that one coming), then got a message from my Doctor who had reviewed my pelvic ultrasound and, long story short, looks like I will be having a total hysterectomy pretty soon (haven’t had a breakdown about this yet, stay tuned), got cramps (for real, it’s that time), took some prescription pain pills that are not prescribed to me, zoned out, slept, read, etc. etc. etc.

6.  Right now I’m at Ojo de Agua in Pto. Morelos.  Sitting at a red plastic “Coca-Cola” table under a palapa facing the amazing Carribean.  I see at least 5 shades of blue and green in the ocean today, plus the white foam of the waves hitting the reef about 100 yards offshore.  My feet are in the sand.  The nice waiter gave me the password to their wi-fi.  He has a lot of product in his hair, but I like him.  Mom is at home napping in a hammock on her patio. (NOTE:  it’s the hammock that is in my blog picture above…)

7.  I am here.  In this moment life is good.

Hopefully I will keep writing this week 🙂

xoxo

kim

p.s. the picture is the view from my table.  not bad, huh?

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Book of Me: Permission to CrazySexyRetreat!

 Time to supplement the Book of Me with some ideas about taking time off. Well, not just taking time off, actually going on a retreat, i.e.,  getting out of my environment and away from my role as primary caregiver/partner in crime for my creative genius mother (with great hair) for more than a few hours. 

 Not just a retreat, a CrazySexyRetreat!  

Why CrazySexy?  It’s psychological.  It is one thing to skulk away and collapse in utter exhaustion for a day or two.  And, frankly, I’m not opposed to doing that every once in a while.  But I would prefer to see my “retreat” time as an opportunity to not only rest, but to get back in touch with my life.  To reclaim the juiciness and color and oomph! of my life, of me.  To recharge physically and emotionally.  To recharge my creativity.

Read This Before You Embark on your CrazySexyRetreat!

Oh, sweetie, you’re thinking about running away and going on retreat?  Is it an emergency?  If so, skip this part and go straight to the Woo-Hoo! section.  And have a good time.

If it is not an emergency, Yay!  No Emergency!  You aren’t waiting until you’re on the brink of a breakdown to take care of yourself!  Progress!

Here are some  thoughts about preparing for your CrazySexyRetreat:

  • Give yourself permission to take time off.  Write it down.
  • Plan ahead as much as you can.  Minimize expenses.
  • Don’t leave any big projects hanging.
  • Don’t schedule anything involving a lot of interaction immediately after you get home.
  • Don’t get all stressed about packing, you will be fine.
  • If you’re taking electronics, take a power strip!
  • Art supplies are almost always a good idea.
  • If you’re taking food, try to make healthy choices.  And chocolate.
  • Take your journal.
  • Make sure you tell someone where you’re going.
  • Leave already.

Woo-Hoo!  You’re on a CrazySexyRetreat!

  • You didn’t run away, you’re taking time off.  You’re recharging.
  • Did you bring your permission slip?  If not, prepare another one and put it somewhere you will see it.
  • Give yourself permission to not “accomplish” anything while you’re on retreat.  Write it down.
  • This is not a conditional retreat, you don’t have to accomplish anything to justify taking it.
  • Read that last sentence again.  It’s true.
  • It is a good idea to have some kind of ritual to signify the beginning of your retreat.  Practice a few minutes of yoga/meditation, light a candle, do a few minutes of journalling, listen to some soothing music.
  • Try to stay mindful of your choices of food/drink.  Do they support your intention to recharge?
  • Protect your retreat experience!  Avoid the news, set limits on internet use, turn off your phone ringer.
  • Set up a force field!
  • Create intentions for your experience, what qualities would you like?  Peace, safety, courage, playfulness, hope, compassion, laughter, ease, flow, lightness….
  • Look around you, feel your feet on the ground, notice that you are present.
  • Appreciate the alone-ness.  You need it.  Period.
  • Don’t have an agenda.
  • Everything you do is part of your process and therefore nothing is wasted.
  • Listen to your body.
  • Make time for Shiva Nata!
  • Write.  It always helps.  Always.  Especially when you don’t want to write.  Just do it.
  • Have a ritual to signify the end of your retreat.  Thank the space for holding you and your experience.

Preparing for Re-Entry. 

  • Force field!
  • Remember that you don’t have to justify taking a break to anyone.
  • You don’t have to tell anyone what you did or didn’t do.
  • Try not to look ahead for things to stress about.
  • Don’t immerse yourself in the noisy world all at once.  Protect your experience.
  • Try to time your arrival home so you don’t have to immediately interact with anyone.
  • What qualities do you want for re-entry?  Ease, flow, gentleness, compassion, strength, renewed compassion, confidence, playfulness, sovereignty.
  • Do some journalling as soon as possible.
  • See your home in a new light.  See your Mom in a new light.
  • Remember gratitude for having the opportunity to go on retreat, and for having a home and Mom to come back to.

xoxo

kim

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