The past year of my life - sprinkled with pink 25 cent stickers

This is a garage sale weekend. Time to purge our house of all things cluttery. We've lived in our house for 2.5 years now (longer than we've lived anywhere else in our 8.5 year relationship), so it's time to pseudo-move and keep the two hoarders in us from burying us alive.

Unfortunately, I don't have time to dig into the backs of closets, so I'm just ridding myself of everything that has accumulated in the last year or so.

Pregnancy and new babiness has literally doubled the shitpile factor in our home. Afterall, the kid did move into the spare bedroom that doubled as the "oh shit [fill in the blank] is going to be here in 15 minutes" catchall room.

Granted, all things accumulated in the last year have been necessary in their own time. Maternity gear (most of it having been passed down) that - if given to GoodWill would cost someone upwards of $5 a pop, can go for $1 or less on a table to someone who needs it. I'm not a fan of GoodWill for that reason. Yes, in the past I have contributed a lot of stuff to them - simply because I'm too lazy to find other outlets. I just struggle with knowing that my stuff - most of it loved, but still wearable (by someone 2 or 3 sizes smaller than me) - will be sold at a ridiculously high price for used fabric! I'm charitable like that...keep from the poor, sell to the poorer, and keep the change...

GoodWill does have a pile with its name on it in my house right now though. The anonymity of ridding oneself of amazingly outdated styles or late night "ooh, I want a nightgown" internet order faux pas is appealing at times.

So, this weekend, I'll be splaying 100s of newborn and 0-3 month clothes (which my baby fit into for a mere 6 weeks) on big tables with hopes that someone will bite.

Part of me is hoping for a strong return on investment. $200 could go a long way in my pre-vacay splurges on new socks for the fam and mini 3 oz bottles of all things toiletries because I'm afraid of depending on my checked baggage's late arrival to the party. In reality - I'm just hoping to cover my costs - $30 in gas plus the inevitable fast food plus the time it takes to pack, unpack, display, cover from rain., uncover from rain, repack, and drop the remaining shit on GoodWill's front step.

Either way, the baby will have part of her room back so that overzealous grandparents can fill it with stuff to sell next summer.

Time credit...which I'll probably never be approved to receive.

I give my self a "D-" in the learning to say "no" category on this term's grade sheet. I've spent the last (count 'em) FOUR weekends away from my house. Not just doing outings, but literally staying somewhere not in my bed (>2 hour drive away) with my 7 month old daughter. On top of that, she's got a cold or allergies or something that is making her nose cloggy and runny at the same time AND she's teething. fanfuckingtastic.

I haven't slept for four continuous hours in months.

Ok, thanks for coming to my pity party - here is your party favor. Sorry it's a bag of stale cheerios and gooey diced banana hunks -- but that is currency in our house and I haven't been to the grocery store in weeks.

So in my extended driving times, late night "where the hell am I and what the hell was that noise" insomniac episodes, and non-stop nursing sessions, I've decided that time should be sold on credit. I need two extra hours of sleep, and I'll repay by zapping out two hours of driving time when I take to the road yet again this weekend. win win!

Of course, as with anything there is a problem. Credit involves the nebulous credit score. I'm sure it would be based on questions like: How well do you use the time you are allotted in a day? How much time did you spend last night sobbing over the Biggest Loser instead of sleeping when the baby was? How many trips to the kitchen/bathroom/living room does it really take for you to decide that you aren't really hungry but you'll eat the last two toaster strudel anyway? As with anything, I budget time very poorly. Case in point: this blog I'm writing while I should be working AND while the baby is napping. Ok, now that I typed that I feel bad.

I'm going to go work - or stand with the fridge door open until something yummy and sinful makes itself.

My twenties: a decade in review

In the next six months, I'll be closing the door on my twenties. I've thought about this a lot. Not an "oh woe is me" thought but more nostalgia, topped with a sigh of relief.

My twenties were spiked with peaks of joy and pitted with troughs of sadness. Weddings and funerals, finals and graduations, the shifting tide of family and friends.

My twenties (as a whole) are a juxtaposition within themselves.

Racing through college to get the hell out...then sticking around for graduate school.
Going to college for six solid years focusing on an outdoor-based profession...later, to become a computer geek who hardly leaves the house.
Pissing on a stick and praying for one line...later, pissing on a stick and praying for two.
Deciding that I didn't want to be a parent...later, dedicating two years to trying to become one.
Choosing to "earn my wrinkles" in the sun...to later slapping on the wrinkle cream with the most convincing commercials.

I've disproven almost every "I'm never gonna..." statement I have ever made.

In the past decade, I've fallen in love and been engaged (twice over), earned a bachelor and master of science degree, bought a new car, gotten married, held three professional positions, bought a house, and had a baby (and thus fallen in love all over again).

The 10,000 foot view. My life has been sprinkled with experiences - memories made and lessons learned.

I've learned hundreds of latin names for plants that I can't always remember how to identify, I've learned to drive stick, I've held the controls of an airplane in flight, I've ridden horses, I've been kicked by and developed a strong fear of horses, I've driven tractors, front-end loaders, and skidsters, I've herded bulls on a 4-wheeler, I've cared for a wolf and tigers, I've shot an killed a rabbit - and not the dog following behind, I've butchered countless deer on my kitchen table, I've plucked chickens, I own my own bow and arrows (and am not a terrible shot), I have learned to mushroom hunt, I know more constellations than I'd ever dreamed, I've (mostly) overcome my fear of public speaking by doing it repeatedly, I've taught myself Photoshop, HTML and database management, two people are tattooed with my art, I have made over a dozen quilts, I stood beside my cousin and best friend as she married - and then she stood beside me a few months later as I married, I've held my newborn nephews, I met and married a man who is my perfect counterpart, I've kept in touch with those who forgive me for who I was in high school, I've met the most amazing people along my journey - some of whom I consider my dearest, closest friends.

My twenties were fantastic in some aspects and heartbreaking in others. I've survived, and could probably write three books that no one would believe were true. My twenties were tumultuous and full of moves (I moved eight times in 10 years), new jobs, and new experiences. I love that about my past, but I'm happy to settle into my thirties in MY house, with MY car, doing MY job, and raising MY daughter with MY husband.

Life is good, and you couldn't pay me to go back and do any part of it differently...

Ok, the impulse baby puff the magic dragon-ish tattoo on my ankle that never quite covered when I had a new tattoo put over it...I'd go back and NOT spend that $40...

If I wanted the hair on the back of my neck to stand up, I'd watch a scary movie - not go grocery shopping.

Today was creep day at the grocery store. Not unrelated, it was dude day.

I went in at 4pm. It wasn't crowded, but in every isle there was a guy - in work clothes - shopping. Guys have to eat, too. That's fine. I'm not against guys in the grocery store - especially those that know they need to move the cart out of the center of the isle when deciding which pack of rice-a-roni they're going to devour in an hour.

It just felt a little odd that so many (obviously) single guys were shopping. Apparently, it was payday (Friday) and they're out getting the goods. No biggie, right?

So, I'm walking down the isle having a conversation with my 6 month old about why she was not allowed to have my shopping list to eat. I walk past one of the flannel-clad men parusing baked beans and head down the isle to the pasta. When I stop my cart - I realize the dude had to stop short to keep from running into me. He was right there. Walking silently - which a guy that big has to try to do. He instantly turns and begins "shopping".

I'm freaked. Well, freaked in the momma bear sort of way that has become my norm. Kind of the combination of my new-found agoraphobia with a side of germaphobe with a splash of crazy mommaness to add the zing. What do I do? I don't want to look scared. If you look scared, then the bad guys have already won. I continue cooing to the baby, slyly grab a hold of the strap of my purse perched beside her in the cart, and calmly walk away. I pulled it off.

Out of body reality: I'm sure I looked like a freak. Like if I'd looked up and seen one of those bulging convex isle mirrors, I would have seen a nuts woman leaning way too close to her baby, talking too loudly, clutching her purse like it just tried to escape, taking huge steps and pushing the cart super fast out of the isle - nearly tipping it as she makes the corner.

It's one thing if that happens once. Or even more than once with a really obnoxious guy, but I had 3 different men invade my personal circle. THREE. Seriously, I was not ok. I felt threatened and weak.

So I did what any self-respecting, slightly paranoid, confused and oh-so-alone momma in a grocery store would do...

I found refuge in the tampon isle.

Guys can't linger in the tampon isle. It's a no fly zone for the most part. And even if a guy is being superman, saving up sex credit for after Aunt Flo's visit ends, he doesn't go into the isle while a crazy ass mom is in there wiping her brow and snarling at passers-by.

When my Craz-dar pinging had slowed to a tolerable level, I grabbed the last few list items and shot over to the checkout. Even while I was loading groceries into the car, I saw two different men staring at me in the lingering sort of way that a cartoon prey is dotted with butcher markings.

At this point, do I hock a loogie and scratch myself? I can belch with the best of em' but I'd been nervously on edge for so long that I wouldn't have been able to perform anyway.

I sped through the grocery loading. Grabbed the keys from my purse. OB-VI-OUS-LY locked my car door (with baby inside) to return the cart to its home a couple spots down. Then practically ran back to the car - under the guise of disgust from the drizzling rain.

And got the hell out of dodge.

I later confirmed that I didn't leave a flap of my nursing bra down. No boob waving in the breeze. Assholes like that are why I don't leave my house.

Thanks 80's and 90's, now I need Botox because of a hair style faux pas

I'm a child of the 80's and 90's.

With that statement, you can accurately assume several things:

• I can tight-roll a pair of jeans like nobody's business.
• I can "scrunch" curl into otherwise stick straight hair.
• I have stuffed double layers of socks into Keds decorated with puffy paint.
• When mentioned, a bat wing has nothing to do with a furry, flying mammal.
  

I recently chopped my hair off. It is not an original act for a new momma to realize that hair down to her shoulder blades is just asking for a tangled fight with drooly, sticky hands. It's like a moth in a spider web - the more you struggle, the more entangled you become. So, it's gone. Off. Like it will grow out to be chin-length. I don't screw around folks.

Every once in a while, like about as often as Haley's Comet swings by, I leave the house. In theory, I can blow dry this hairstyle into perfection. Of course, that gets blown out of the water when I have to jump straight from the shower into momma mode and my hair dries before I can do anything with it.

I've resorted to pulling out the curling iron for assistance. The big barreled curling iron I've used for years doesn't work with short hair, so I've been forced to pull out an antique. The curling iron with which I perfected bang art in 1990.

Ahhh...I can hear the crisp of hairspray soaked hair frying now!

Luckily, this current hairstyle allows me to tuck - or pin - my bangs away from my face. You see, this particular curling iron has a curious magnetism to my forehead. On dozens - if not hundreds - of occasions I ended up burning a line into the center of my forehead. I have several yearbook photos that can vouch for this.

I'm convinced that it is this repetitive scorching of my forehead that has caused my forehead to wrinkle at an early age. It is absolutely not the hours spent tanning or the semi-annual face burn that peels to a supple pink. No way is it from obsessively worrying about things out of my control or genetics.

It must be a result of the chemical reaction between Aqua Net and skin when exposed to extreme heat.

The memories just come alive each time I pull out that hairspray encrusted appliance!

(Just keep that thing away from my face...)