the road less traveled

They say that women reach their sexual prime in their thirties.

I am completely willing to believe. There isn’t a day that goes by lately when I don’t see at least one man that I would be willing to jump. It could be the dry spell that has overtaken this house since the rash of angry sex was depleted back in November. Getting none makes you see possibilities everywhere. Not that I’m looking for possibilities. I’m on a diet. A no-man diet. It’s killing me. I want a morning snack so much it hurts.

This morning it was a twenty-something cowboy from Montana. Ahhh… Montana. The land of open skies, the Grand Tetons and hot cowboys. He was everything you would expect a Montana cowboy to be. Dark hair. Dark eyes. A pair of old wranglers worn in all the right spots. He even had a big yellow dog sitting shotgun in his pickup truck. I didn’t try to talk to him, just stared open-mouthed while I pumped my gas. Talk about your dream cliche. It was like driving into a Nora Roberts book at the gas station.

There is also a certain set of debilitating blue eyes that walk into the bank at least twice a week that make me weak in the knees and giddy. Giddy enough that I have to close my eyes and remind myself to breath deeply. BREATH. I swear the air gets thicker when he walks in the doors. I’m not sure how that’s possible. There have been occasions when I thought I might pass out from lack of oxygen. I never allow myself to talk to him either. I just duck my head and pretend he doesn’t exist, so I don’t make a complete fool of myself. 

Honestly, who do I think I am kidding? I am a complete fool.

Then there is John Wayne. Clearly not his real name, just something the girls like to call him. He’s a tall, lean, roper. This is how I know my situation has to do with raging hormones and no actual feelings. He’s a GRANDFATHER for heaven’s sake. He’s shown me pictures of his grandkids. And all I can think is he can tie me up anytime. Not good. I let myself talk to this one because he looks at me like I’m a kid. Which I am. A sixteen year old heathen stuck in a thirtyish body. Peter Pan has nothing on me.

I’m a sick, sick girl. 

I’m contemplating a massaging shower head in my bathroom before things get desperate.

I wrote something earlier today, left it up for about an hour and then took it down. I don’t usually take down posts but this one was a little unsettling when I re-read it. It occurred to me that if I read something similar on the Husband’s blog (not that he has one, but still.) I would be angry. It was a little too personal. A little too raw.

I’ve got enough issues in my life right now without people being angry with me.

Now I need to think of a way to say the same thing without actually saying the same thing. I’ll go straight to the point: I’m a drifter. A kid stuck in a woman’s body. I have no real direction and no real purpose in life. I work at job I took because I didn’t want responsibility. I wanted to show up for work, leave and not look back. This is out of the ordinary for me. Normally I take a job and then feel the pressing need to be the best and the brightest at whatever I am doing. I need to be the Best Receptionist EVER. I need to be the best Barista in the history of Baristas. I wanted a job that I felt no compulsion to take further. Partly because I wanted to feel free to leave at anytime should something spectacular arise, and partly so I could focus on my kids instead of work.

It’s left me searching for something to fill the void. I like my job, but I don’t want a job that will define me. I don’t want people to introduce me by saying, “This is Jen, the bank teller.” In all honesty I would happily be a bank teller forever because it would never be something that took over my life. I’d rather be known because I am a great mom or an amazing painter or an exeptional writer. Except I am none of those things. I’ll be thirty in nine days and I still haven’t figured out what I want to be when I grow up. I’m not as good at being a mom as I should be. Too many nights I send the kids to bed unshowered with their bellies full of cereal instead of a real meal. My marriage is hanging on by a thread. I don’t know if I decided on the right major in school. My poor overdrawn bank account can attest to the state of our finances.

I’m not perfect by any stretch of the imagination. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to be. Perfection must be very hard to maintain. But I would like a bit of direction. I would like to have a vague idea of where I am headed and what I need to do to get there. I need to make some decisions this year. Some heartwrenching and irrevocable decisions. I need to spend some time being a woman instead of a wife or a mom. I need to find out what I want in life and then pursue it.

This is the year of Jen. I plan on doing what ever it takes to find out what that means.

Scene: A three year old girl-child saunters into my changing area just after I pull my shirt over my head and toss it to the floor.

“What is THAT, Mama?”

“Ummm…. Those are my boobs.”

“Oh.”

She pauses to consider this newly acquired knowledge. Then…

“Mama, your boobs hang, mine don’t.”

…

“Great. I think I’ll get dressed now.”

There have been about a thousand moments over the last couple of days where I thought, “Huh. I should totally blog about this.”

Then I didn’t of course because I’ve been too busy watching my girls jump around like maniacs all hyped up on the Nintendo DS and Leapster game crazies or laughing until I need to cross my legs while my brother-in-law slides his truck into a snow bank just inches from a river while I’m in the passenger seat. I’m busy listening to the Nephew whine about his leg cramps from walking for two entire seconds up a hill as the Kid charges in front of him like she was born to run marathons. Silly city boys can’t hang. 

I’ve left Orange County to pack too many people into a cabin in Green Valley Lake. There are family and friends sleeping in every conceivable location. Someone is constantly tripping over someone else and there is enough food to feed an army. In a cozy way, not in a oh-my-god-get-out-of-my-face way. There is three feet of snow piled where the driveway should be and grown men sliding on toboggans down the mountain side. It’s freezing cold and sunny and clear.

I’m busy convincing my brother in law to take me for one more donut in his truck before dark and yelling at my brother for forgetting to bring me a beer from the porch when he comes in. I’m pretending to be inept at cooking while my sister in law prepares enchiladas and shoots me looks of death from the kitchen. I’m laughing at the Husband as he starts teasing my Sister-in-law’s twin thinking it’s her. I’m cuddling my newest nephew until we both fall asleep on the couch and then chasing his big brother around the coffee table threatening One More Kiss.

One moment calm and serene, the next a rambunctious mess. It’s a delight of contradictions. It’s like being twelve again. Every responsibility and worry has faded into a hazy dream while I play in the snow for a few days. And I’m not going to remember anything until I see the lights of Bakersfield again.

It’s no secret that I’ve been underwhelmed by Christmas this year. I haven’t wanted to participate at all. But the good part is finally here. All the shopping and money shuffling and decorating finally have a point.

Not a moment too soon.

The Girls have opened thier presents. Coffee cake has been consumed. The traditional post present haze has set in. We are in Orange County, where shorts and tshirts are acceptable Christmas attire but the girls are properly be-decked in Christmas finery. I’ve only got a few years left when I can dress them up like princesses and watch the awe in their faces when they realize Santa came through again. It’s still makes my heart turn over to see them grinning like monsters over the stacks of gifts and half eaten cookies. The men of the house are huddled in my Dad’s room awaiting the arrival of their favorite part of Christmas (besides the spiked eggnog and mountains of food): the annual Laker game. It actually is rather merry.  I’m loving it.

Not a moment too soon.

Merry Christmas!

I was reading the book Magical Thinking by Augusten Burroughs earlier this week when I had an intense break through.

I am a magical thinker.

I used to think I was psychic. Sometimes I know without a doubt what is about to happen. Now I realize I’ve always been a magical thinker. The idea is that some (crazy) people believe that they have more influence over people and events than they actually have. Just by thinking intensely they can force situations to occur. In essence they are bending people to their will with their minds. A major brainstorm occurred when I read this book. What if all these years I haven’t been predicting the future but actually creating it?

The reason I believe I’m magically thinking instead of just predicting unavoidable outcomes is because of what happens right before the events I’ve predicted. Almost always an event is preceded with the thought, “What if THIS happened?”  Then I clearly picture the event in my head and IT HAPPENS. Obviously this would make me a magical thinker. I haven’t predicted the event. I made it happen.

I can change the future with my brain. I’m not just a psychic, I’m MAGIC. (And crazy. Clearly crazy.)

I’m going to practice this for a few days. I was going to win the lottery but I realized that if I won the lottery I wouldn’t have anything to day dream about during my 45 minute drive into town. I need those daydreams to keep me occupied. I think I’ll concentrate on something less life altering for now. Like winning the contest going on over at Mominatrix. I really want that Good Girls Have Pubes TShirt.

I love email.

I love that you can be all casual and quick. Just whip out a fast reply and send it off without another thought. You don’t have to make a production of it. Email keeps me in contact with people that I might never talk to otherwise. It keeps me from ever needing to pick up my lifelong nemesis- the phone. With email, the phone is redundant.

But the real love of my life is snail mail. I love it for all the opposite reasons. You have to think about real mail. You have to find addresses and stamps. You have to sit down and consider what you are about to send. This mail isn’t going to disappear into the internets. This is real. Someone is going to open their mailbox and read this in their living room with a cup of coffee. This is Important. Normally the only mail I get in my mail box is bills or has my name preceded by something about CARROT sorting. Junk. I don’t even bother opening most of it. I just throw it into the fireplace and forget about it.

So on Friday when I came home from a shopping spree in Visalia  and found my mailbox overflowing I got a little giddy. My mail box was full. Not just full, stuffed! Stuffed with real mail!

I had to tug the biggest box so hard that I thought I would pull a muscle. The Husband looked a little disgusted by the glee in my face over this prospect.

“Oh god- what did you order from Pennsylvania?” He muttered.

Nothing! I ordered nothing from Pennsylvania. Someone lovely decided to send me cookies just because.

Whee! Then came the Christmas cards. Then the book I ordered last week. A whole mail box full of mail that I didn’t have to throw away! Is there anything better?

No. No there is not.

I’m not sure what happened. I used to love Christmas.

Even as an adult I loved the feeling that Christmas brought. I loved searching for perfect presents and watching the faces of my family and friends when they opened them. I loved all the silly, bright colors and lights. I loved the music. While decorating the Christmas tree, I’ve played the same Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton Christmas CD since I was a kid, always followed by the Chipmunks Christmas. Picking that tree was a production. Sometimes I would go to Christmas tree farm after farm just to find the perfect tree. Four years ago we bought a tiny plastic tree. Maybe my Christmas spirit went out with the last real Christmas tree.

I don’t know when I lost it. Or why. It may have been too many years working retail. Watching people hurry around without dignity, throwing unimaginitive gifts decorated in red and green plastic packaging into their carts. Too many grumbling husbands trying to buy their wife’s affection with diamond chip necklaces and pink fuzzy slippers. It’s depressing.

Nowadays it’s only for two little monsters that I bother with Christmas at all.

I didn’t want to decorate this year. I wanted to let Christmas wash by me and forget all about it. Lack of money and inspiration made me want to forget that there has ever been such a thing as Christmas. But the girls begged for a tree with lights. They wanted to see their stockings and try on their Christmas dresses. Somewhere deep down I felt the stirring of Christmas memories. I wanted to see them smile and laugh over ornaments from their babyhood. 

They demanded to know the story behind every ornament. Each colorful bauble needed to be identified by giver and recipient. 

Their joy rescued me from my decorating blahs.

If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t have bothered decorating a single cookie.

It was actually the Husband’s idea. He still manages to surprise me sometimes.

He has always hated Christmas. He gets overwhelmed trying to buy presents and it ruins the entire season for him. I place part of the blame on him for my ambivalence this year. You can only live with a bone-a-fide scrooge for so long before it starts to rub off on you. But he wanted cookies. Not just cookies- cookies cut out and decorated by little hands.

Watching my girls cut out pine trees, reindeers, and dinosaurs (we don’t cotton to traditional shapes around here. It’s a free for all of Christmas, Halloween and Valentines days cookie cutters) gave me hope that I could at least grasp a couple days of Christmas spirit.

I think it is the complete amazement with which they greet every unfamiliar experience. Cookies cut into shapes and covered WITH SPRINKLES? Holy cow. Heaven on earth.

So we decorated cookies. We set up the Christmas tree. We listened to Kenny Rogers croon about making this a Christmas to remember. We sang along while the Chipmunks begged for their two front teeth. I almost felt it again.

These two are saving Christmas for me.

There is snow on the ground today.

This is a momentous occasion ’round these parts. I tried to be the Good Mommy and let the Kid stay home from school but she pouted. I guess school still holds some appeal to a six year old. So, I told her she could go to school if she wanted. Her reaction? Pouting. Tears.

Enough of the Good Mommy treatment. What do you do with a kid that pouts about staying home and then pouts about going to school? Apparently you lose it. I did. I told her she was going to school. No choices for little girls that whine and pout. No more pouting, no more tears, no more Good Mommy. She cried some more. Then I said it. THE words:

“If you don’t stop crying, I’ll give you something to cry about.”

Ack. I am my mother.

I cringed as I walked away. So cliche. But she got dressed. She ate. She brushed her teeth. I bundled her up in layers upon layers of clothes. We forgave each other our horrible morning as we crunched our way down the driveway, leaving no footprints on the slick ice. We waited.

And waited…

And waited…

No bus. 

As we stumbled back into the house, the phone rang. “So Sorry! There’s no bus service this morning!” the school office exclaimed. I certainly wouldn’t drive on those roads. I suppose it’s too much to expect the bus driver to navigate them. Crap. She’s staying home afterall. Punishment ruined.

Good Mommy and Bad Mommy both lose today.

I’m not even going to bullet point this list. I’m sick and my head is all fuzzy. You’ve been warned.

Here’s an important news break for you:

If your nose has been running for three days straight perhaps it isn’t in your best interest to pump yourself full of hotsauce at dinner. You will gush. Not in a good way.

I lied when I said I was giving up Starbucks. I’m a failure. Why can’t I be addicted to something that will be make me skinny? Like lettuce. Or crack. I bet crack would be cheaper.

I’ve met my nemesis. Only she doesn’t know it yet. I’m plotting ways to destroy her without her finding out until the last minute that we are at War. Will update the status of these plans later.

An interesting thing about living here is the famous people. For some reason this area is crawling with them. I guess it has something to do with being far enough away from Burbank to be really away but close enough to get back in a hurry. Recently I befriended a composer. He’s buddies with Paul McCartney and Pete Best. On the Kevin Bacon scale of knowing people I am only TWO DEGREES away from knowing Paul McCartney.

I’m almost a rock star, mah peeps. Don’t hate.

I bought a Nora Roberts book yesterday. I’m not proud. I’m especially not proud that I liked it. But I did. I’ve also been reading Janet Evanovich’s reprinted loveswept books and Jennifer Crusie’s reprinted books. I’m pretty certain Jennifer Crusie’s books started out as Harlequin novels. I think this puts me two degrees away from being a Harlequin romance reader. I’m so ashamed. Although- I have no intention of stopping. They are funny. If you see me at the book section of Walmart just keep walking. Pretend you didn’t see me.

Does this knock down my Rock Star status?