After four years with my roomates I've decided it's time for a change. I will be moving into my friend's condo by the end of November.
I love my roomates, they are like family to me, so this was a hard decision for me to come to. The truth of the matter is, that living with them is like being with family. I am content with them. Yes we sometimes get on one another's nerves, but that doesn't change the fact that I truely care for each of them. It's just that even though they feel like family, the reality is that they are not mine. I need to be a little bit more of a "single girl" so I can find the person that I want to start my own family with.
When I told the roomies that I was leaving I burst into tears. The cold part is that I did it seperately, so I bawled twice. I told Mr. Roomie first, and then I told Roomie. Both were very supportive and told me that I am doing the right thing for myself. I know that I am, but it is like the end of an era.
I am also not one to take well to change. I really hate it. So now, I have this huge change in my life, and as I am preparing for it I constantly feel like I am about to have a panic attack. I feel as if I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Not only am I moving, I also feel insecure in my job right now, and the bills still have to get paid. I swear, if I wasn't afraid of prison I would become a drug dealer. I would. It sounds terrible, but my shit would be the best out there. When Gilda was first born and the Roomie was at home all day I tried to get her to start cooking meth. I mean really...who's going to ever suspect that we have a meth lab in the neighborhood that we're in? We live on a golf course for goodness sake! She might have gone along with me, but she didn't want to blow up her house. Jeez Roomie...why do you have to be a dream smasher?
Even though she stomped on my dreams of being the druglord of this town I have to say that I've loved living with her. She stopped drinking after she had Gilda, so she would never go out, but she would always attend my birthday festivities. She would be my DD. The next morning I would wake up and she would start telling stories that I had no recolection of. This year went a little like this:
Roomie- "Do you remember talking to those Mexican guys outside the bar?"
Me- "What Mexican guys? I don't remember any Mexican guys."
Roomie- "The ones outside the bar, before we left you were talking to them. You took pictures with them."
Me- "I did?!?"
Roomie tells Mr. Roomie to get her camera where she then proceeds to show me pictures of me and two Mexican dudes. I'm clearly out of it by the crack head look on my face, the mardi gras beads around my neck and the Boston Red Sox hat on my head. (which then reminded me that I had stolen some guys Red Sox hat, and I still have it to this day. Whole other story though...)
Me- "I do not remember this at all."
The birthday the year before she told me on the way home I told her how much I loved her, and that she was one of the best friends I had. I get really emotional and nice when I'm drunk. My friend J tells me that people's true colors come out when they drink, and since I'm so nice when I'm drunk I'm actually faking being a bitch when I'm sober. Bless her heart.
After my display of friendship she told me we walked into the house and I layed down on the couch while Mr. Roomie and her ate some pizza that we had brought home. She then told me that I suddenly got up. Roomie asked me if I was ok, if I need any help. My response was, "I'm okay, I'm just drunk!" It wasn't what I said, it was more how I said it. Sort of like, "Of course I'm okay, why wouldn't I be?" After I stated this I then started to walk to my room. On my way from the couch to my destination I ran staright into the TV, then I manuvered and ran staright into the desk, then the refridgerator, then the wall, and finally got to my bed.
Mr. Roomie has also been very helpful to me in my drunken adventures. The next day, if I'm super hungover, he would do a Taco Bell run for me. Anyone who's ever been super ridiculous hungover knows how you don't want to even move in that condition, you just want to lay on the couch until your blood alcohol level has returned to normal. For Mr. Roomie doing that for me I am eternally gratful.
I will also miss Gilda. For a person who doesn't hold babies until they develop their neck, I really have grown attached to this little girl. She's the bomb diggity, that's all I have to say about her. She's changed my life. I will always remember the night we played the Move It Move It music video from Madagascar on On Demand for her. It ended and she told us she wanted to watch it again. Then it ended a second time and she threw a fit to see it one more time. I swear we watched that thing 30 times in a row that night. We all were walking around for a week singing lines from that song. Same thing with Backyardigans. I will not miss Calliou. For those of you unfamiliar with Calliou, it's a cartoon about a creepy little boy who's bald. He's the only character who is bald. Does he have cancer? Does he suffer form alopecia? What's wrong with him? Why does literally everyone else in that stupid show have hair but him? It drives me nuts.
I will probably cry about a gazillion more times between now and the time I leave. It's going ot be a long three weeks, but it's been a wonderful four years. As Gilda would say, "Peace Out"
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Accomplishing the dream, or becoming the Cat Lady...
Most people understand that I'm a little different. I'm a little stuck in the middle. The "middle" being my religion, and my desire to live life and have many experiences. For those of you unaware of my religion, being a latter-day saint is not just a Sunday thing like some other religions, it's a lifestyle. Basically everyday is Sunday for us.
There is no break.
This puts a certain amount of pressure on us members. The main thing we are told to accomplish is to have a temple marriage, without this we are basically screwed. This puts a certain amount of pressure on us.
The men have it easy. All they have to do is go on that damn mission and they can come home and pretty much, as a return missionary they have a pick between at the least 2 or 3 girls that they can marry and start a family with, therefore completing the ultimate task at hand for us. It doesn't matter what they look like either. They could be short or tall, fat or skinny, handsome or ugly. It's sort of like the movie Field of Dreams when the voice tells Kevin Costner, "if you build it, they will come" It's the same thing. IF YOU COMPLETE YOUR MISSION, YOU WILL GET MARRIED. If you come home and are not married after 5 years, I would bet money that you are actually homosexual, which I would prefer, it would make church a lot more interesting since I love the gays. But that is niether here nor there, my point is that the men have it easy. Just round up $10,000, take a two year break from the world where you have a gazillion people praying for you every day, and share the teachings of the gospel with strangeres. Then, come home, pick a girl and give her a crappy diamond and your set. Scudoosh, you're done.
The women on the other hand...oh the women. Where do I even start? I'm entering into the latter years of my twenties, and I have been an old maid since I was 25. At least to the Mormon standards I am. In fact, the theme for my 25th birthday party was my becoming an old maid. I even wore a kiss me, I'm a Mormon t-shirt to the bar. Remember, I'm stuck in the middle, bars are included in the middle. When I state the fact that I am an old maid people look at me like I'm nuts. It doesn't help that I still look like I'm 20 years old. But they're right, it's crazy that I feel that way! Just because the fact of the matter is that most female members get married between the ages of 19-22 does not justify that I am destined to a life filled with cats and eating frosting straight out of the can.
The women have to hope that a return missionary will come back and look at them and say, "I want you to be my eternal partner" and then 3 months later they are getting married in the temple. It is a rare occasion where a non-member makes the dreams come true of a girl that was raised with the hopes of being married in the temple. I did see it happen once, and I have to give props to my girl for making that happen. (She knows who she is.) But for the most part, a return missionary is what a young lady is looking for.
I was never looking for that. I fell in love in high school, he was a real catch. Handsome, kind and a loving boyfriend, if all that is the definition of a douche bag. Because that is exactly what he was, a douche bag. I don't like to get into too many details of the ups and downs of our relationship, but he basically broke me. I had to make the decision between him and my faith, and I picked him. I gave up everything for him. I ended up empty handed when it was over. He also set the stage for the rest of the men I would pick to have relationships with, all another version of him, meaning all were non-members and all were douche bags.
It was partially my fault. When people would ask me if I wanted to marry another Mormon I would tell them I wasn't sure. I wasn't lying. I always laughed, and told people that the reason I never dated a Mormon guy was because they never asked me out. This is also a fact. I'm like reverse kitty litter to Mormon guys. They pretty much just stay away from me. This was fine to me, I never was your cookie cutter Mormon girl, I have this edge to me, and a sense of humor that a lot of members don't get. I'm loud, and opinionated, and my mother isn't friends with any Mormon mother's of single men, so they don't ask me on dates out of obligation either. It is what it is.
Until Mr. Perfect I had never dated a member. And so when he came around I fell down the rabbit hole. I was sucked into the whole thing.
I need to back up, let me explain something. I'm not a big traditional person. Yes, I want to get married, but to someone as independent as myself. In describing the perfect guy I would always say, "I want to marry someone who WANTS me around, not someone who NEEDS me around." I also did not have a strong desire to push children through my vagina. I don't really like kids. They have dirty fingers and I wear a lot of dry clean only. This is where I was in my life when Mr. Perfect entered it.
It's as if bizarro me came out and took my place. He wanted six kids, he said he knew he would have six children. I said I wanted four. What? I haven't wanted four kids since I was 10 years old, where did that come from? We would have discussions about the number of our potential offspring until he finally wore me down to agreeing to have six children. I didn't want to change my last name, again, I found myself telling him that of course I would take his last name, nevermind that my last name has done just fine for 20-plus years. There is more, but I won't bore you. I was turning into that cookie cutter girl. I was finding myself changing opinions that I have held strong to for years, all for the dream. Part of me was in shock. I couldn't believe that I had snagged a great catch. He had everything a SMF (single Mormon female) was looking for. I couldn't wait to marry him so I could sort of throw it in all those people's faces. Sort of like, "SUCKER!!! I totally screwed around for ten years and did whatever I wanted, and I still got married to a return missionary, what now?!?" I almost had it in the bag too, I was willing to accept a crappy ring, move out of state and leave everything, including my last name and my childless vagina all for the dream that I have been programed to dream since I was a little girl.
I fell a little short though, we didn't work out, as you all know by previous posts.
So here I am, still an old maid, going back to my old ways. But this time I have that taste of the dream in my mouth. I don't know if I can go back. I don't know if when I get married it will be in the temple. I don't even know if I will ever get married. I guess like Tom Petty says, "the waiting is the hardest part..."
But to all those girls out there still dreaming the dream, if you want six kids, then I know of at least ONE single return missionary out there that is still single. Well, it's been like four months, so he actually might be married by now...
There is no break.
This puts a certain amount of pressure on us members. The main thing we are told to accomplish is to have a temple marriage, without this we are basically screwed. This puts a certain amount of pressure on us.
The men have it easy. All they have to do is go on that damn mission and they can come home and pretty much, as a return missionary they have a pick between at the least 2 or 3 girls that they can marry and start a family with, therefore completing the ultimate task at hand for us. It doesn't matter what they look like either. They could be short or tall, fat or skinny, handsome or ugly. It's sort of like the movie Field of Dreams when the voice tells Kevin Costner, "if you build it, they will come" It's the same thing. IF YOU COMPLETE YOUR MISSION, YOU WILL GET MARRIED. If you come home and are not married after 5 years, I would bet money that you are actually homosexual, which I would prefer, it would make church a lot more interesting since I love the gays. But that is niether here nor there, my point is that the men have it easy. Just round up $10,000, take a two year break from the world where you have a gazillion people praying for you every day, and share the teachings of the gospel with strangeres. Then, come home, pick a girl and give her a crappy diamond and your set. Scudoosh, you're done.
The women on the other hand...oh the women. Where do I even start? I'm entering into the latter years of my twenties, and I have been an old maid since I was 25. At least to the Mormon standards I am. In fact, the theme for my 25th birthday party was my becoming an old maid. I even wore a kiss me, I'm a Mormon t-shirt to the bar. Remember, I'm stuck in the middle, bars are included in the middle. When I state the fact that I am an old maid people look at me like I'm nuts. It doesn't help that I still look like I'm 20 years old. But they're right, it's crazy that I feel that way! Just because the fact of the matter is that most female members get married between the ages of 19-22 does not justify that I am destined to a life filled with cats and eating frosting straight out of the can.
The women have to hope that a return missionary will come back and look at them and say, "I want you to be my eternal partner" and then 3 months later they are getting married in the temple. It is a rare occasion where a non-member makes the dreams come true of a girl that was raised with the hopes of being married in the temple. I did see it happen once, and I have to give props to my girl for making that happen. (She knows who she is.) But for the most part, a return missionary is what a young lady is looking for.
I was never looking for that. I fell in love in high school, he was a real catch. Handsome, kind and a loving boyfriend, if all that is the definition of a douche bag. Because that is exactly what he was, a douche bag. I don't like to get into too many details of the ups and downs of our relationship, but he basically broke me. I had to make the decision between him and my faith, and I picked him. I gave up everything for him. I ended up empty handed when it was over. He also set the stage for the rest of the men I would pick to have relationships with, all another version of him, meaning all were non-members and all were douche bags.
It was partially my fault. When people would ask me if I wanted to marry another Mormon I would tell them I wasn't sure. I wasn't lying. I always laughed, and told people that the reason I never dated a Mormon guy was because they never asked me out. This is also a fact. I'm like reverse kitty litter to Mormon guys. They pretty much just stay away from me. This was fine to me, I never was your cookie cutter Mormon girl, I have this edge to me, and a sense of humor that a lot of members don't get. I'm loud, and opinionated, and my mother isn't friends with any Mormon mother's of single men, so they don't ask me on dates out of obligation either. It is what it is.
Until Mr. Perfect I had never dated a member. And so when he came around I fell down the rabbit hole. I was sucked into the whole thing.
I need to back up, let me explain something. I'm not a big traditional person. Yes, I want to get married, but to someone as independent as myself. In describing the perfect guy I would always say, "I want to marry someone who WANTS me around, not someone who NEEDS me around." I also did not have a strong desire to push children through my vagina. I don't really like kids. They have dirty fingers and I wear a lot of dry clean only. This is where I was in my life when Mr. Perfect entered it.
It's as if bizarro me came out and took my place. He wanted six kids, he said he knew he would have six children. I said I wanted four. What? I haven't wanted four kids since I was 10 years old, where did that come from? We would have discussions about the number of our potential offspring until he finally wore me down to agreeing to have six children. I didn't want to change my last name, again, I found myself telling him that of course I would take his last name, nevermind that my last name has done just fine for 20-plus years. There is more, but I won't bore you. I was turning into that cookie cutter girl. I was finding myself changing opinions that I have held strong to for years, all for the dream. Part of me was in shock. I couldn't believe that I had snagged a great catch. He had everything a SMF (single Mormon female) was looking for. I couldn't wait to marry him so I could sort of throw it in all those people's faces. Sort of like, "SUCKER!!! I totally screwed around for ten years and did whatever I wanted, and I still got married to a return missionary, what now?!?" I almost had it in the bag too, I was willing to accept a crappy ring, move out of state and leave everything, including my last name and my childless vagina all for the dream that I have been programed to dream since I was a little girl.
I fell a little short though, we didn't work out, as you all know by previous posts.
So here I am, still an old maid, going back to my old ways. But this time I have that taste of the dream in my mouth. I don't know if I can go back. I don't know if when I get married it will be in the temple. I don't even know if I will ever get married. I guess like Tom Petty says, "the waiting is the hardest part..."
But to all those girls out there still dreaming the dream, if you want six kids, then I know of at least ONE single return missionary out there that is still single. Well, it's been like four months, so he actually might be married by now...
Monday, October 12, 2009
I love the Red Sox, even thought they suck this year
Because I am a crazy gypsy I sometimes do things that might seem a little odd to the average non-gypsy. One of those things being my red nail polish during the playoffs. Basically I paint my nails red at the beginning of the MLB playoffs and I do not remove that particular coat of paint until the Red Sox have either; A- won the World Series or B- let someone else have a shot at it (translation being they loose)
I prefer the former to the latter to happen.
So this year the Red Sox won the wild card. Playoffs began and I got my red polish manicure.
Today, I got to take it off.
What the hell? I am HELLA mad right now. The Angel's totally shut us out. This is the second year in a row that I am left disappointed. Last year, during game seven once I realized we weren't going to beat Tampa Bay I literally left my house to drive around until the game was over. When I came home and everyone confirmed that, yes Boston had lost, I sat on the ground and cried. That's how much I love the Red Sox.
All I want is two in a row. Two World Series championships back to back. It's not that hard, I know we can do it, and we get soooooo close is what upsets me.
To some of you I might sound a little greedy, since many Red Sox fans, including my dad had to wait a really, really, really REALLY long time just to have them win ONE World Series. 86 years to be exact.
My love for the BoSox started when I was a little girl. My dad took me to Baskin and Robbins. It was when you could get your scoop of icecream in a bowl the shape of your favorite baseball team's hat. I remember my dad made me get the Red Sox. I think I wanted the A's or something, but he simply looked at the cashier and said, "She'll have the Red Sox cup." Damn you dad, you sucked me in.
The year that the Red Sox finally won the World Series was 2004. My mom, who is also a gypsy, but could care less about baseball, said that they would win it because the last time they had made it to the World Series was 1986, and it had been 86 years since they won a world series. It was a sign in our gypsy language, and I had high hopes for my team. So when we were 3 games down against the Yankees I felt a little down. But then game four, we won. And then we won game five, and six. The series was tied, it all came down to game 7, and we won that too. The poor Cardinal's didn't have a chance, the momentum was too strong. We shut them out. It was the best. I remember sitting there, watching the game with all of my friends, and I pointed at the TV and said, "I'M WATCHING THEM WIN THE WORLD SERIES!!!! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!!!" It was awesome.
The next time the Red Sox won was 2007. This was a special year because this year represented when my gypsy powers became stronger than my mothers.
I called that they would win in February. 2007 was the year of the boar in the chinese new year. Not only was it the year of the boar, it was the year of the Golden Boar. This only happens every 600 years, and it is a lucky year for anyone born in the year of the boar. Well, I'm born in the year of the boar, so 2007 was my year, and since the BoSox are my team they were for sure going to win. Hands down.
Then later in the year I was at work and someone pointed out that I had blood on my ankle. I had cut my ankle and was bleeding and I didn't even know it. I was walking around with a bloody ankle. A bloody ankle! Someone else had a bloody ankle when he helped win the World Series in '04. It was the ultimate gypsy sign, and at that point I was convinced that the Red Sox would win that year.
My mother decided that the Rockies would beat us since they had come back to win like 21 games or something to make it to the end. I looked at her when she said that and told her that she must be getting old, and that she wasn't allowed to even glance at the TV during the games.
I of course was correct, and that's when I got wrapped around the idea that I really want 2 in a row. But when we didn't win last year we had to start all over. It's very stressful on me, and I get a little emotional. I taught Gilda how to cheer properly for the BoSox this year. It is adorable. She sings, "let's go Red Sox" and does the little clap. She is so born into it.
So my nails won't look like a hot mess the entire month, I guess that's the silver lining in the situation. Until next year, here's to anyone but the Yankees winning it all! Nothing but love for my husband, Jason Varitek, my boyfriend Jonathan Papelbon, and my honey bunnhy bear Jacoby Ellsbury.
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I prefer the former to the latter to happen.
So this year the Red Sox won the wild card. Playoffs began and I got my red polish manicure.
Today, I got to take it off.
What the hell? I am HELLA mad right now. The Angel's totally shut us out. This is the second year in a row that I am left disappointed. Last year, during game seven once I realized we weren't going to beat Tampa Bay I literally left my house to drive around until the game was over. When I came home and everyone confirmed that, yes Boston had lost, I sat on the ground and cried. That's how much I love the Red Sox.
All I want is two in a row. Two World Series championships back to back. It's not that hard, I know we can do it, and we get soooooo close is what upsets me.
To some of you I might sound a little greedy, since many Red Sox fans, including my dad had to wait a really, really, really REALLY long time just to have them win ONE World Series. 86 years to be exact.
My love for the BoSox started when I was a little girl. My dad took me to Baskin and Robbins. It was when you could get your scoop of icecream in a bowl the shape of your favorite baseball team's hat. I remember my dad made me get the Red Sox. I think I wanted the A's or something, but he simply looked at the cashier and said, "She'll have the Red Sox cup." Damn you dad, you sucked me in.
The year that the Red Sox finally won the World Series was 2004. My mom, who is also a gypsy, but could care less about baseball, said that they would win it because the last time they had made it to the World Series was 1986, and it had been 86 years since they won a world series. It was a sign in our gypsy language, and I had high hopes for my team. So when we were 3 games down against the Yankees I felt a little down. But then game four, we won. And then we won game five, and six. The series was tied, it all came down to game 7, and we won that too. The poor Cardinal's didn't have a chance, the momentum was too strong. We shut them out. It was the best. I remember sitting there, watching the game with all of my friends, and I pointed at the TV and said, "I'M WATCHING THEM WIN THE WORLD SERIES!!!! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!!!" It was awesome.
The next time the Red Sox won was 2007. This was a special year because this year represented when my gypsy powers became stronger than my mothers.
I called that they would win in February. 2007 was the year of the boar in the chinese new year. Not only was it the year of the boar, it was the year of the Golden Boar. This only happens every 600 years, and it is a lucky year for anyone born in the year of the boar. Well, I'm born in the year of the boar, so 2007 was my year, and since the BoSox are my team they were for sure going to win. Hands down.
Then later in the year I was at work and someone pointed out that I had blood on my ankle. I had cut my ankle and was bleeding and I didn't even know it. I was walking around with a bloody ankle. A bloody ankle! Someone else had a bloody ankle when he helped win the World Series in '04. It was the ultimate gypsy sign, and at that point I was convinced that the Red Sox would win that year.
My mother decided that the Rockies would beat us since they had come back to win like 21 games or something to make it to the end. I looked at her when she said that and told her that she must be getting old, and that she wasn't allowed to even glance at the TV during the games.
I of course was correct, and that's when I got wrapped around the idea that I really want 2 in a row. But when we didn't win last year we had to start all over. It's very stressful on me, and I get a little emotional. I taught Gilda how to cheer properly for the BoSox this year. It is adorable. She sings, "let's go Red Sox" and does the little clap. She is so born into it.
So my nails won't look like a hot mess the entire month, I guess that's the silver lining in the situation. Until next year, here's to anyone but the Yankees winning it all! Nothing but love for my husband, Jason Varitek, my boyfriend Jonathan Papelbon, and my honey bunnhy bear Jacoby Ellsbury.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
That pink ribbon affects us all in some way
Everyone loves my mom. My mother is nice and pretty and always pleasent to people. She can bake yummy delicious treats and always loves to give people gifts. She's also funny and can keep a secret. Everyone loves her, and wonders how she got stuck with a daughter like me.
The truth is, in my defense, my mother is a nag. If she's not yelling at me about one thing it's another. My favorite line to throw in her face when she is bitching at me about why I do this and that is, "I do it so you have something to nag at me about!" I say this because I honestly think that if she didn't have something to nag about she would die.
When I was younger, between the ages of 13-20 I couldn't stand my mom. I didn't like talking to her, listening to her, anything she said or did was retarded to me. I was your typical teenager that hated her mother. I felt like I had nothing in common with her, she knew NOTHING about my life and how I felt or what I was going through. My mom grew up a military brat and was constantly moving. She never went to the same school two years in a row, she went to 4 different high schools in 3 different states. My mom never had the time to make real friendships with anyone The moment she really started to bond with someone, her family moved away. She never had a real best friend. This made her very independent, and a little bit of an introvert. She doesn't really like social situations and having to mingle with large groups.
She also is very private. I know very little about her life before she married my dad. I don't know of any previous boyfriends, or what she did for fun, nothing. It isn't like I haven't asked her, I have...she simply tells me it's none of my concern. All I know is that she fell in love with my dad and they have been married for almost 30 years now.
My mother gives me everything, but the one thing she couldn't give me was being a member of my church. She has taken the discussions over a dozen times, but she just does not believe. She told me when I was younger that she would join if I wanted her to, but I knew she did not believe. I always stood by her with this decision. I agreed that for her to be a part of something she had no belief in would be disrespectful. I am only now starting to understand that I might have taken a different path had I might of had my mother sitting with me in church all those years....
I say these things in preface to the real story I want to tell.
October is breast cancer awarness month, and I was sitting watching an episode of LA Ink that was really focused around breat cancer, and survivors getting tattoos...yada, yada, yada.
As I was watching and listening to all the stories of people finding out they have cancer, or loved ones dying of cancer I thought, "gosh, I don't relate to these people at all..."
But then I really thought about it. Cancer has been in my life a few times. My grandfather died of lung cancer 10 years ago. It was horrible, but it was only a matter of a month from the time we found out to the time he died. One of my mom's closest friends passed away from breast cancer after battling it for years. I know a handful of my friends that have had a cancer scare as well.
And then I remembered my mother's experience.
When I was ten years old my mother had to have a lumpectomy on one of her breasts. It ended up being nothing, and I was young so I didn't understand.
But now that I am an adult the memory disturbed me.
I remembered the day she went to the doctor and they told her she had to have the lumpectomy. She was wearing a white blouse and a blue and white checkered skirt. It was a sunny day and I remember my dad took me somewhere while she was at her appointment. I remember her standing on the sidewalk as we walked up to her. I don't remember what she said to me, but I remember being happy to see her. After that the only memory I have is her being in bed after the lumpectomy and seeing her bandages, and that's it. That was all there was to it. Because the lump ended up being benign, nothing was ever said about it again. I don't even think they really said anything to me about it at all.
I can't stop thinking about what would have happened had the lump been something? What if my mom did have cancer all those years ago? What if she had died? Who would have nagged me for all these years? Who would have been here as a constant reminder that I could be so much better if I was only like my mother?
Life might have been different for me had my mother joined the church along with my dad. I might be married and have a minivan full of snotty nosed children by now. I might not be in this no man's land of wondering where I belong or questioning every decision I make when it comes to certain aspects of my life.
But then I think of how life would be without my mom, and I am thankful to my Heavenly Father for reminding me of how blessed I really am to have her as my mother. I wouldn't trade her for anything. I know that I am lucky, and the older I get the more I try to be just like her. I know some girls would hate to hear, "you sound just like your mom" but I don't, because if someone thinks that I sound like my mom then I must sound like a really great person. I love my mom, she is the classiest, prettiest, funniest person I know.
I know that some people say that their mother's are their best friends, but mine isn't. She's so much more than that to me, she's my mom...nagging and all.
Now that you've read my story, if you're lucky enough to be able to, go tell your own mom how much you love her.
The truth is, in my defense, my mother is a nag. If she's not yelling at me about one thing it's another. My favorite line to throw in her face when she is bitching at me about why I do this and that is, "I do it so you have something to nag at me about!" I say this because I honestly think that if she didn't have something to nag about she would die.
When I was younger, between the ages of 13-20 I couldn't stand my mom. I didn't like talking to her, listening to her, anything she said or did was retarded to me. I was your typical teenager that hated her mother. I felt like I had nothing in common with her, she knew NOTHING about my life and how I felt or what I was going through. My mom grew up a military brat and was constantly moving. She never went to the same school two years in a row, she went to 4 different high schools in 3 different states. My mom never had the time to make real friendships with anyone The moment she really started to bond with someone, her family moved away. She never had a real best friend. This made her very independent, and a little bit of an introvert. She doesn't really like social situations and having to mingle with large groups.
She also is very private. I know very little about her life before she married my dad. I don't know of any previous boyfriends, or what she did for fun, nothing. It isn't like I haven't asked her, I have...she simply tells me it's none of my concern. All I know is that she fell in love with my dad and they have been married for almost 30 years now.
My mother gives me everything, but the one thing she couldn't give me was being a member of my church. She has taken the discussions over a dozen times, but she just does not believe. She told me when I was younger that she would join if I wanted her to, but I knew she did not believe. I always stood by her with this decision. I agreed that for her to be a part of something she had no belief in would be disrespectful. I am only now starting to understand that I might have taken a different path had I might of had my mother sitting with me in church all those years....
I say these things in preface to the real story I want to tell.
October is breast cancer awarness month, and I was sitting watching an episode of LA Ink that was really focused around breat cancer, and survivors getting tattoos...yada, yada, yada.
As I was watching and listening to all the stories of people finding out they have cancer, or loved ones dying of cancer I thought, "gosh, I don't relate to these people at all..."
But then I really thought about it. Cancer has been in my life a few times. My grandfather died of lung cancer 10 years ago. It was horrible, but it was only a matter of a month from the time we found out to the time he died. One of my mom's closest friends passed away from breast cancer after battling it for years. I know a handful of my friends that have had a cancer scare as well.
And then I remembered my mother's experience.
When I was ten years old my mother had to have a lumpectomy on one of her breasts. It ended up being nothing, and I was young so I didn't understand.
But now that I am an adult the memory disturbed me.
I remembered the day she went to the doctor and they told her she had to have the lumpectomy. She was wearing a white blouse and a blue and white checkered skirt. It was a sunny day and I remember my dad took me somewhere while she was at her appointment. I remember her standing on the sidewalk as we walked up to her. I don't remember what she said to me, but I remember being happy to see her. After that the only memory I have is her being in bed after the lumpectomy and seeing her bandages, and that's it. That was all there was to it. Because the lump ended up being benign, nothing was ever said about it again. I don't even think they really said anything to me about it at all.
I can't stop thinking about what would have happened had the lump been something? What if my mom did have cancer all those years ago? What if she had died? Who would have nagged me for all these years? Who would have been here as a constant reminder that I could be so much better if I was only like my mother?
Life might have been different for me had my mother joined the church along with my dad. I might be married and have a minivan full of snotty nosed children by now. I might not be in this no man's land of wondering where I belong or questioning every decision I make when it comes to certain aspects of my life.
But then I think of how life would be without my mom, and I am thankful to my Heavenly Father for reminding me of how blessed I really am to have her as my mother. I wouldn't trade her for anything. I know that I am lucky, and the older I get the more I try to be just like her. I know some girls would hate to hear, "you sound just like your mom" but I don't, because if someone thinks that I sound like my mom then I must sound like a really great person. I love my mom, she is the classiest, prettiest, funniest person I know.
I know that some people say that their mother's are their best friends, but mine isn't. She's so much more than that to me, she's my mom...nagging and all.
Now that you've read my story, if you're lucky enough to be able to, go tell your own mom how much you love her.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Mr. Roomie
Sometimes in life we take for granted the people we care about. Why do we do this? Isn't it odd that we treat complete strangers better than we sometimes treat the ones that really matter in our lives?
I have to give a shout out to Mr. Roomie today. Mr. Roomie, you're the bomb diggity.
Why you ask is Mr. Roomie the bomb diggity?
Answer-Any man who can live with 3 women and a little girl and not go crazy and stab us all in our sleep at night is a strong person.
Mr. Roomie is not perfect, he is loud and obnoxious at times. He always interupts when I am trying to watch something on TV. He always asks a question instead of just watching when they tell you the answer 5 seconds later. I've finally trained him to be silent during Big Love and Mad Men. He knows all questions are saved until the end of the program.
Mr. Roomie also throws things away. A lot. He is a uber clutter freak. I say clutter because he isn't so much a clean freak, he just doesn't like clutter. So we have one cupboard in the kitchen that is jam packed with anything he feels should not be left in eye sight. This cupboard is like the burmuda triangle of mail and paperwork, pens and anything else you can think of. He also throws away food. One morning I woke up and knew I had one bagel left, and was super excited to eat it. I open the fridge to see that he had pretty much thrown everything out. Including my cream cheese. Ugh.
Mr. Roomie also likes to think that he knows everything, and he doesn't. He listens to his co-workers and their retarded theories about the economy and politics and then spits that stuff out to us here. We always end up shutting him down.
I used to enjoy most sports, until Mr. Roomie and his crazy obsessivness with all sports. Take for example football season, we have to watch all day Sunday and Monday night. Why? Why can't you just watch your team and then tune into ESPN for the highlights from the other games? It drives me bonkers.
This hasn't been much of a shout out yet...but I'm glad you stuck through to the end to hear it.
Mr. Roomie is a good dad. He loves his daughter, even though she has him wrapped around her little finger and doesn't like to discipline her, he is still a great father.
He loves his wife. He works hard to be the man that she deserves to be with.
He is a wonderful friend. He would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it, no questions asked.
He is forgiving. He believes the past is the past and all we can do is move forward.
He puts up with all the women in this house giving him crap, which like I said previously would usually drive a man crazy, becuase us women, we can be mean.
All in all I wouldn't trade Mr. Roomie in for anyone else. So here's to you Mr Roomie, I'm glad that you're around.
I have to give a shout out to Mr. Roomie today. Mr. Roomie, you're the bomb diggity.
Why you ask is Mr. Roomie the bomb diggity?
Answer-Any man who can live with 3 women and a little girl and not go crazy and stab us all in our sleep at night is a strong person.
Mr. Roomie is not perfect, he is loud and obnoxious at times. He always interupts when I am trying to watch something on TV. He always asks a question instead of just watching when they tell you the answer 5 seconds later. I've finally trained him to be silent during Big Love and Mad Men. He knows all questions are saved until the end of the program.
Mr. Roomie also throws things away. A lot. He is a uber clutter freak. I say clutter because he isn't so much a clean freak, he just doesn't like clutter. So we have one cupboard in the kitchen that is jam packed with anything he feels should not be left in eye sight. This cupboard is like the burmuda triangle of mail and paperwork, pens and anything else you can think of. He also throws away food. One morning I woke up and knew I had one bagel left, and was super excited to eat it. I open the fridge to see that he had pretty much thrown everything out. Including my cream cheese. Ugh.
Mr. Roomie also likes to think that he knows everything, and he doesn't. He listens to his co-workers and their retarded theories about the economy and politics and then spits that stuff out to us here. We always end up shutting him down.
I used to enjoy most sports, until Mr. Roomie and his crazy obsessivness with all sports. Take for example football season, we have to watch all day Sunday and Monday night. Why? Why can't you just watch your team and then tune into ESPN for the highlights from the other games? It drives me bonkers.
This hasn't been much of a shout out yet...but I'm glad you stuck through to the end to hear it.
Mr. Roomie is a good dad. He loves his daughter, even though she has him wrapped around her little finger and doesn't like to discipline her, he is still a great father.
He loves his wife. He works hard to be the man that she deserves to be with.
He is a wonderful friend. He would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it, no questions asked.
He is forgiving. He believes the past is the past and all we can do is move forward.
He puts up with all the women in this house giving him crap, which like I said previously would usually drive a man crazy, becuase us women, we can be mean.
All in all I wouldn't trade Mr. Roomie in for anyone else. So here's to you Mr Roomie, I'm glad that you're around.
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