Posts from — April 2010

Josh had to clean out his car before we traded it in at the dealership and in his scouring of all nooks and crannies, unearthed a CD I’ve been looking for since the twins were born (you’d think it would be easy to find something as large as a CD in a space as compact as a car, but alas, no).

It’s a mix I made called “Women Rock!” (get it?  It’s like…women rock because we’re so cool, but also women rock, as in “we rock-n-roll.”  I felt the need to explain that to you as if you were Josh and were not fully appreciating my witty mix CD title).  It starts with Carly Simon’s “Let the River Run.”

It’s asking for the taking.
Trembling, shaking.
Oh, my heart is aching.

We’re coming to the edge,
running on the water,
coming through the fog,
your sons and daughters.

Can you understand why I’m so excited to have this again?  Just for the hope that’s in her voice?  I couldn’t have found it at a better time.  It has a version of “Midnight Train to Georgia” performed by the Indigo Girls and Ani DiFranco and “Blossom” by James Taylor (he’s sort of like a girl…um…I don’t know how he ended up on this CD) and “Uncle John’s Band” sung by the Indigo Girls (the Dead version is one of my favourite songs of all times) and “Lilydale” by 10000 Maniacs.

Finding this CD made me give trying to restore another mix CD a final try.  I’ve been trying to get the music off this disc for years–it’s badly scratched and won’t play in the car anymore.  And I don’t have any of these songs elsewhere.  And miracles of miracles, I got it to work and saved it to my computer and burned a new, fresh copy for the car.  It starts with Mahalia Jackson singing “Wade in the Water” and it has a lot of the music we played at our wedding: “Marry Me” by Dolly Parton (um…yes…we did play that) and “I Love You Too” from Pete’s Dragon (I swear, we played more than one Pete’s Dragon song at our wedding).

We had all this good music, so it was time for a road trip.  Doesn’t good music make you want to drive?

*******

I have to admit that I thought maybe 100 people would participate in the first part of Project IF so I was blown away that more than 300 “what ifs” are on the list.  If you haven’t read the comments yet, you should take a quiet moment to do so.  It is one of the most powerful things I’ve ever read.

The list isn’t closing completely, but Resolve and I are culling out 10 “what ifs” from whatever is on the list as of 11:59 p.m. tonight (going by the time stamp).  So this is your last chance if you haven’t added one.  On Wednesday, the 21st, you’ll find out the second part of the project in time for NIAW.

*******

The Weekly What If: What if you could fluently speak another language other than your primary language?  Which language would you choose and why?

*******

And now, the blogs…

I know this first one was from last Thursday, but since I read it on Friday, I’m counting it for this week (my blog, my rules).  Mrs. Spit has a post that meanders through numerous thoughts.  It is about everything and nothing.  And without being able to put my finger on why, I thought it was wonderful.  I am fond of tiny vignette posts.  And it is a deeply, brutally honest post, and reading that rawness is moving.

Single Infertile Female also has a post about the thoughts that flitted through her mind during an acupuncture session.  What I think is most notable is not only the calm conveyed in the post (despite the emotional thoughts), but the calm she admits she felt while she was thinking them.  And, of course, I had to crack up over, “I’m thinking it must have been the bum needles helping me keep my cool.”

Circus Children has a brief, but breathtaking post titled “Intruder.”  It is about the strangeness that exists, invisibly, amongst the normalcy.

The Lucky Life has a completely non-IF post that blew my mind about the time she spent in a coma.  What seeped into the unconscious state and what she missed.  I just found it a fascinating read.

Lastly, Are We There Yet? has a post about controlling her emotions since her son’s diagnosis, and how it is similar to years of infertility.  I love this thought: “I never got upset about the emotions I felt during our adoption and in-vitro fertilization journeys.  I just allowed myself to roll with the waves as if I were a surfer at the mercy of the tides.”  Read this post not just for the advice and amazing writing, but for the story she tells about the woman she meets at the zoo and the catharsis this stranger brings her.

The roundup to the Roundup: Mix CDs + good weather = road trip.  Last chance to add a “what if” for Project IF.  Answer the Weekly What If.  And lots of great blogs to read.

A few weeks ago, BlogHer asked people to add a strange fact about themselves to their profile.  I added my fear of mayonnaise (you didn’t know this because you’re a new reader?  Deathly afraid of mayonnaise.  As in, I don’t even walk down that aisle in the food store).

After that was done, BlogHer rolled out the second part, which is an online scavenger hunt.  Knowing it would be too difficult to have people comb through the 44.8 milli0n blogs on BlogHer (I may have made that number up.  But it’s a lot of blogs), they made the game an easy guess between two choices.

But the fun part was reading these crazy facts about random people (one person wrote her first kiss was with Scott Baio, another admitted that she has played poker with Brad Pitt more than once, and another was a standardized patient for hospitals).

So, in honour of that game, I am proposing my own game at the Lushary.

Here’s how you play:

1. Leave a comment below telling either a truth or a lie about yourself along with your monthly update about yourself (don’t forget to post about yourself–last month the first few people posted mondegreens and then didn’t write anything about their own month).  It has to be one or the other, not a partial truth or a sort of lie.  If you’re going to lie, make it a good one.  And if you’re going to tell the truth, make it a damn fine one too.
2. Make sure you enter the url for your blog if you have one when filling out your comment so people can find your blog.
3. Either go back to your blog and publish a brief post about your truth or lie, expanding on the story OR if you don’t have a blog (or don’t want to write a post), wait at least two hours to return and write your answer in the comment section below (hence the “bounce” in the title.  You will either have to bounce over to their blog to find out whether it is a truth or lie, or bounce past the other comments to find their follow up).
4. Make sure you follow up in some way.  Hearing the larger story or finding out that it was just a damn good lie is the fun part.
5. Keep self-score at home seeing how many you get right.

And don’t, don’t, don’t forget to tell us what is happening in your life too.

As always, it has been about a month since we met, bitched, cried, comforted, and caught up each other on our cycles and lives. Pull up a seat and I’ll pour you a drink. Let everyone know what is happening in your life. The good, the bad, the ugly. My only request is that if a story catches your eye, you follow it back to the person’s blog and start reading their posts. Give some love, give some support, or laugh with someone until your drink comes out of your nose.

I have a ton of assvice in my back pocket and as a virtual bartender, I will give it to you unless you specifically tell me that this is simply a vent and you do not want to receive anything more than a hug.

So if you have been a lurker for a while (or if this is your first open bar), sit down and tell us about yourself. Remember to provide a link or a way for people to continue reading your story (or if you don’t have a blog–gasp!–you can always leave an email address if you’re looking for advice or support. If not, people can leave messages for that person here in the comments section too). If you’re a regular at the bar, I’ll get out your engraved martini glass while you make yourself comfortable. And anyone new, welcome. I’m glad you found this virtual bar.

For those who have no clue what I’m talking about when I say that the bar is open, click here to catch up and then jump into the conversation back on this current post.

So have an imaginary cocktail and tell us what is up with your life.

This morning, the ChickieNob had numerous items that had to be brought to school so I grabbed down an extra bag by the front door, one which we use for grocery shopping or bringing things to work, and opened it to stuff inside the mermaid Barbie and hand-me-down American Girl doll.  Balled up, at the bottom of the bag, was another woman’s panties.

I unrolled them and placed them on the steps, silky fabric, brief-cut.  Made for a body entirely unlike mine.  Josh had left five minutes before the discovery.

I could hear the kids talking through breakfast in the kitchen, and I walked into the living room, not even capable of making it up the stairs to confront him.  I dialed his cell phone.  I thought about what my parent’s faces would look like when I showed up at their door with the kids in tow and my own suitcase.  I thought about changing the locks before he could get home tonight.

And I thought that I was such a fool.  This woman who thought she had an amazing marriage and it could all be undone with a pair of panties.  When I talk about Josh and tell you how wonderful he is–how lucky I am to have found him–I still pause to reflect on my own words so I don’t take them for granted.  He wakes up with the twins at night, allowing me to sleep.  He has given me the life I wanted, never making me feel guilty for not contributing financially to the family in my desire to stay home with the twins.  He is funny and charming and outgoing to counterbalance my introversion.  He is a wonderful father, he makes me feel safe, he pushes me to be a better me.

And all things I believed about our marriage were false because on the floor in front of me was evidence to the contrary.  That this person didn’t love and respect me at all.

When he called back, I croaked, “why are there a pair of another woman’s panties at the bottom of your work bag?”

He was dumbfounded and told me that he didn’t understand or know how they got there, but he was coming home.  I stood in the kitchen, watching the front window for his car, tuning out the kids who were now going to be late for school, but I didn’t have the energy to goad them along.

And my thought in that moment is different than anything I had ever said when jokingly telling Josh what would happen if I caught him cheating.  I told him the marriage would be over.  That there would be no second chances, no do-overs.  That we’d work out visitation arrangements with the kids, but he wouldn’t be part of my family anymore.  And I meant that when I said it.

But standing at the table, my eyes looking out the window, all I could think was how we would need to find a counselor.  That we’d need to work to fix this.  To build trust again.  That forgiveness would have to happen.

When push came to shove, I made the opposite decision of what I thought I would make from the comfort of my little glass house.  It is the second time in my life that this has happened and you’d think that first case would have taught me not to be so sure of myself.

He came home and we walked upstairs to talk away from the kids.  He promised me that he didn’t know how they got there, whose they were.  He promised me that he wasn’t cheating on me, that my whole life was not a lie.  That what I saw was what I got.  And I believe him.

He asked me if I had lent the bag to my cousin, and as I tried to remember if she had borrowed a bag during her stay, I suddenly remembered a night when Lori went over to Lindsay’s and took with her a change of clothes, leaving the rest of her luggage behind at our house.

A quick call to Lori confirmed this, much to her embarrassment, that she would be receiving a pair of her dirty panties via the mail at the end of the week.  But even after the crisis was solved, that the world was set right, that my worst fears didn’t come true, I couldn’t stop crying.  In fact, I can’t stop crying as I write this to get it out of my head.

Because for ten minutes this morning, life felt so fragile that two beings could be cleaved apart by a bad choice.  That there are no absolutes in determining what one should do; we are left feeling our way through the dark.  My heart broke all over again for every friend and family member who has experienced divorce because even feeling the heat from the figurative flame burned so badly and deeply that it was excruciating.  I cannot imagine how it feels to actually stick your whole hand into the fire.

And it’s terrible to see what you hold as the truth from the comfort of your living room be put to the test and come out scathed and changed.  No one should ever be able to cockily say, “what I would do” and be taken seriously.  Because we never know what we’re going to do until we’re in the moment.

The first time Cali met the ChickieNob, she jokingly told her that she was staring because it was like seeing a unicorn.  When we got home, the ChickieNob asked me if there were people out there who knew her even though she didn’t know them.

And we had a little talk about how I sometimes tell small stories about her, though never embarrassing ones, and I limit how much information I give about her because she is entitled to a boatload of privacy if she wants it.  I explained that this was how sometimes people knew her when it was the first time meeting them, and how they didn’t really know her, per se, they knew a story about her.  I asked her if it bothered her that her parents write about her from time to time and she shook her head.  The topic was sort of dropped.

This week, I heard her telling other kids that she’s famous.  That she’s a star; that thousands of people read about her every day and they get excited to meet her.  I pulled her aside and asked her what being famous meant to her.  Why she was even excited to believe that she’s famous.

And with eyes shining brightly, and the largest, most hopeful smile plastered across her face, she cried, “it means that I get to be the guest host on the Muppet Show!  Because they always have a famous guest!”

There was a gentle discussion about how the Muppet Show went off the air in 1981, and how they don’t really count the offspring of bloggers as “famous,” and how she might never get to hear Kermit announce, “and our very special guest…CHICKIENOB!”

This was a massively disappointing discovery for someone who thought she just might be the most famous little girl in the world.

But it did raise the question amongst friends this weekend about how much we write about our kids, how much we write about our spouses, or other family members.

How do we determine where our story ends and their story begins?  And at what age would you change the way you write about a person–are you as circumspect in writing about a three month old as you are about a three year old as you are about a thirteen year old?  Do you ask people before you write about them?

It was an exciting week–I sold the book, launched the Resolve project, and I saw my worst date ever man–Abortion Man–at a restaurant.  Just to relive the experience because the date was just that good:

I’m on a great first date on the National Mall. We’re watching an outdoor movie at Screen on the Green. We’ve spread out a picnic blanket and we’re half-watching the movie, half-talking through the movie. Afterward, we get back in his car and he starts driving me home. We’re stopped at a light and in typical D.C. fashion, a group of protesters are standing close to the Mall. These happen to be Pro-Lifers.

“We should get out and join them,” the man tells me. We can call him Adam.

I laugh. “Yeah, sounds like a great idea.”

“Do you want to?” Adam asks, turning on his signal so we can get over one lane to park.

“To heckle them?” I ask in confusion. “No. Why would we want to do that?”

“Not heckle them. Why would we heckle them? To join them. To spread the word.”

“Oh…wait. No. I’m not. I’m actually pro-choice.”

“I didn’t know that,” Adam says tersely. He turns off his turn signal and begins driving again.

“It’s not really first date conversation,” I say.

“I actually think it’s something very important,” he says. “So, yes, I think it’s first date material. So, Melissa, I guess this means that you don’t care about the lives of poor, innocent babies.”

“I do care about babies,” I say defensively. “But I also care about each person having a right to say what their body endures.”

“And you believe the solution is to allow women to be murderers. Cold-hearted, ruthless, irresponsible murders.”

“You know, it always bothers me when men have an opinion about this considering they will never have to carry the child in their body. Until you are biologically equipped to be affected by the situation, I don’t know how you have any say. I really think we should drop this topic. Why don’t you just drive me home.”

He purposely makes a wrong turn and loops back through the Mall several times, passionately explaining why women who have abortions are murders, asking about my reproductive history, and telling me all of the plans he has to work towards overturning any protection afforded to doctors who perform abortions. He rabidly spouts a 45 minute monologue about abortion while I stare out the window. We finally pull up in front of my apartment and I have my hand on the door handle before the car has come to a complete stop.

His voice softens and he smiles for a moment. “The whole abortion thing aside, I had a really good time tonight. Can I call you again?”

“No. Definitely not. Please do not call me.”

“A goodnight kiss?” he asks hopefully.

I slam the door.

A few days later, I get an apologetic phone message. He truly is sorry. He was so nervous that night that he couldn’t stop himself from going on and on about it. And he didn’t even have any strong feeling about abortion in the first place. He totally didn’t care. But he was so nervous that he heard himself spouting all of that garbage and he couldn’t believe how he drove me in circles around the Mall. Please, could he make it up to me.

I call him back and he apologizes again. He is really really sorry. Did I want to go to the county fair this weekend. We’d go on the ferris wheel, see some animals, eat some funnel cake. I agree.

That weekend, he takes me to the fair. He buys me cotton candy. We go on some rides. I get to hold a baby rabbit in the 4-H barn. Adam is actually quite sweet. We wander down the fairway and he says, “I have a friend over there. Let me introduce you to him.”

We go over to a table towards the back and I am immediately greeted by large posters showing pictures of aborted fetuses. The man behind the table smiles at me and asks if I’d like to get involved in the Right to Life movement. “I just want to save you,” Adam tells me as I begin to walk away.

Instead of being saved, I get mono. From the kiss I gave him after he bought me cotton candy.

*******

Wasn’t that the BEST worst date ever?  I was giddy seeing him across the restaurant, eleven years later.  I almost went over to talk to him, but it seemed out of place to go clap my hands excitedly by his chair and say, “do you remember our godawful date?”

Your turn: tell your best worst-date-ever story.  The date that just begs to be retold. And what would you do if you saw them eating pizza eleven years later?