November the First

Hmm. I don’t write on here so much anymore. This makes me sad. So I shall begin anew.

I suppose I would do well to update you all on everything that’s been happening in the last, well- the last really long time. But in the words of Inigo Montoya: “No, there is too much. Let me sum up.” –

My baby is a seven months and a little bit old. Holy shit.  And even though I lost every bit of weight I gained when I was pregnant with him, I do not find myself motivated enough to lose the extra 50-60 lbs. I had before that. So sadly, I have not yet reached my goal of ultimate M.I.L.F. status. But, ya know- I’m still awesome. And I have the best kid who is so smart and funny and adorable. And I’m not even being biased. Let me prove it:

 

Things between my Rockstar and I have not been the stuff of romantic comedies of late. Unless you’re thinking of the part in the movie when the couple argues and breaks up. No, we haven’t broken up; in fact, I suppose technically we’ve never even argued- you can’t argue with a person who doesn’t respond to your gripe. But in recent times I find myself bitching to myself over his lack of interest and general laziness in the relationship. After having expressed myself to him, I realize I’m kinda over it. A person can only take so much disappointment. And since his daughter now lives with us full-time, I am not in quite as good of spirits as I once was. Boo.

On a lighter note, I now work with an adorable hot chic that says I’m her favorite, and I have been approved for six new credit cards in the last two months, which is something I’m not quite sure is a good thing yet- other than the fact that finally after six years, I actually CAN get approved for things. Sadly, in those six years, I have not learned restraint, and also not-quite-but-almost maxxed out all said credit cards. BUT! I have a beautiful new copper loveseat in my perfect library that’s sitting in front of my very expensive electric fireplace I ordered with my Menard’s card.

Also, my most amazing friend Delightfulness is almost engaged, and apparently has a ridiculously large wedding budget that I get to help her plan with. Such a wedding will have no room for chubby bridesmaids, so I must force myself to not eat in the coming year, which will help with the whole M.I.L.F. thing.  Life is good.

Too, I am completely re-inspired to finally finish writing my book, though since I have an adorable little boy who has inherited my need for attention, the only time I have to write it is after work, when I sit down in front of my computer and get distracted by Facebook and Pinterest. Aye, me.

XOXO

Some Days Just Suck

Sometimes there’s no eloquent way to say “Life blows” and “Fuck this shit.”

Yesterday was one of those days.

You would think, wouldn’t you, that being asked to paint a 101 Dalmatians mural on a yet to be born babe’s nursery wall would throw One into pleasant hysterics. I must admit I was flattered and excited that a coworker trusted me enough with such a task without ever having seen any of my artwork.

Sadly, my day began badly when my Rockstar decided to go to work without presenting me with the obligatory kiss goodbye as I slumbered merrily on. I awoke to hurry on my way to begin my Disney masterpiece, with a irritated text to my Rockstar asking him exactly what he wanted from me, since we seem to be in the exact same place as we were three years ago. (Minus the three-times-a-day- mindblowing sex and the endless back and forth flirty texting.)

I had one Dalmatian puppy nearly complete when I received a reply- “I can’t get you to engage with or act like a stepmom to my kid, so you figure out what the hell you want.”

Clearly, the man is delusional and must be immediately  incarcerated in a comfortable and well-monitored padded cell. (The padding is for his own safety, as the ass-kicking he so rightly deserves from me is near to fruition.)

In the last three years, I have cooked for my Rockstar and his child; I have entertained her when I’m not at work so he can sit on his ass and watch NASCAR or the retarded Vikings; I have attended every school program and awards ceremony her school has had; I have drawn pictures with and for her, written stories for her to practice reading with, bought her an endless supply of books she could not possibly get through, explained (in short) where babies come from, and I have taken the time to listen to her tell me what she so secretly has written in her diary, and that she prefers the name Jessica over her own given name because it sounds more “grown-up.” It is true I have not always treated her as my own child (mainly when she is reminding me that she is NOT my own child and doesn’t have to listen to me) but I have been around enough to realize she is very like me- a fact that she herself has been quick to point out. If these things are not “stepmom-ish”, I do not think this ten year old child would have just a few weeks ago asked me to “be her mom, because my mom sucks.”

I am stubborn; I promise you that you have never met someone more stubborn than I. So it is not a small thing that I fully and completely have given up on my Rockstar. It is crystal clear that in his eyes, I will never be the “perfect” stepmom he thinks I should be. (Or the perfect cook he also thinks I should be.)

I am sad enough about my decision that I broke down in the middle of my one-on-one meeting with my boss this morning (to which his response was “Do you need a hug?” The man knows me well.) Yet I do not doubt that my decision is the right one. I am amazing (at least a little bit), and I do not have to prove my worth to any man, woman, or alien.

I am sad for my former Rockstar, for he has reached that stage that so many burnt out Rockstars reach- that of finding out what it’s like when the party is over and they are left all alone. All I have to say is it was once an awesome song.

What Thou Hath Received

Here are just a few things I got for Christmas:

A gift of money from a member of the congregation at the church where I play piano, accompanied with a note that said, “Merry Christmas, Sparkle. Please do not spend this on shoes.”

An ornament from a member of the congregation where I play piano. The ornament was a tiny replica of the shoes I wore today to church. (I sense a theme here)

Another gift of money from an anonymous member of the church where I play piano, NOT accompanied by a note with restrictions.

A shocked and disturbed look from my Auntie when I plowed into the Christmas cookie plate.

An offer from my shocked Auntie, “You can take a doggy bag home with you”, when I attacked said cookie plate.

Hugs. Lots of hugs.

The satifaction of finding that I lost 3 pounds today, despite having eaten 500 cookies.

An admonition from Gramma telling me not to post rantisms about my father on Facebook. (I have no idea what she’s talking about.)

A shake of my mother’s head when Gramma admonished me, and a reassurance that Gramma doesn’t know what she’s talking about.

An almost-dance with Grampa when he stood up to hug me and we both tripped.

Scratches on the back of my thighs from the tulle on my Christmas skirt.

Approval from the two beagles at my Auntie’s house when I sprayed my new banana-coconut body spray from Gramma.

Sparkly (picked out just for me) picture ornaments in which I may place pictures of my beloveds.

A bass amp that I still haven’t figured out how to plug in properly. (Some rockstar I will make.)

The reassurance that I “have flair”, given because of my lovely outfit.

Heartburn from the plethora of cookies I partook of.

Goodnight and Merry Christmas. XOXO

 

My Rockstar

In case you ever wonder what a Rockstar looks like to me…