Car Riders

This morning on the way to school a big yellow school bus came flying up our (narrow) street so fast they nearly ran me into the non-existent ditch.

Me: Gosh!

Boy Child: Bus drivers always drive really fast.

Me: Hmm.

Boy Child: It's true. They hate their jobs so bad they just have to get it over with as quickly as possible.



Then, we came upon a large group of men standing around a orange "MEN WORKING" sign.

Boy Child: That sign is not accurate. It should read: MEN WAITING IN LINE FOR THE PORT-A-JOHN

Me: Perhaps.

Boy Child: Seriously, look at that guy. You can tell he's wishing he didn't have that second breakfast burrito.

Me: I know, right?



Several minutes later.

Boy Child: I'm glad that Port-A-Johns were invented. It's probably illegal to just poop in the wild. Unless you're a wolf. No one's giving a wolf a ticket!

Me: Sweetheart, I'm going to need you to get out of the car and go into the school now.




These are the things that make it worthwhile to wait in the drop-off lane. These are the reasons I never, ever turn on the radio when my children are in the car.

Hey...what's goin' on...

Marvin Gaye. I know, right?

This has been a weird year so far. Yes I know it just started.

My husband is living in North Carolina now.

-We are still married.
-I am still madly in love with him and his mad towel-folding skillz.
-He is still madly in love with me and my obsessive lust for Diet Pepsi and horrible television.

We've been discussing moving for a long time. The reasons behind this are many, and not appropriate for a public forum. I'll just say that I've been hit pretty hard with the whole "what's really important in life" thing, and I tend to take heed when that happens.

Jason was laid off in October. We made the final decision then. My job is just going to be my job no matter where I live and he got a new job in North Carolina, getting out of the horrible field that crushed his soul for so many years. He seems...well, more like the man I fell in love with. Which is awesome.

Not awesome? He lives six hours away right now.

If you've read the news at any point in the last couple of years, you are probably aware the housing market? Blows goats. It's not as bad in our area, and my research indicated that houses typically stay on the market in our town for about 114 days. So we put in new floors, painted everything, made it all look sassy and lovely and put our first home together on the market.

Twenty-two days later? We got an offer.

A really great offer.

A, "We can't not take this" kind of offer.

So we did.



They want to close at the end of February. I cried about telling my children they have to leave their 8th grade year with only a few months left, but they were amazing. My son was like, "FINALLY!" and my daughter, who is in her school play and has been practicing diligently and who is now going to have to miss it, placed her hand on my leg and said, "You know what mom? It's going to be okay. In this market, you have to take a good offer like that." Which, in case there is any doubt, made me cry even harder.


I'm pretty stressed.

I'm kind of scared.

I'm maybe a little sad.


But it's okay.


Well. It's not.



But it's going to be okay.





SOMEONE TELL ME IT'S GOING TO BE OKAY.

Open Letters: What?!-None-Since-November?-Edition

Dear person I actually care about but have a hard time tolerating lately,

If there is one thing I've learned by being a writer and sort-of a blogger it's this:

What is interesting to you? Is often not interesting to others.

I absolutely love certain posts that I write. They are very meaningful and powerful to me and I write them with certainty that they will be meaningful and powerful to others. Generally, I get three comments on those posts and two of them are from people with weird names asking me if I'm satisfied with the size of my penis.

I write a short little piece of nothing about how some dude at the park mooed at me or some other nonsense about how fat I am and I get twenty comments and eleven emails from people telling me how much they enjoyed it.

Go figure.

I am not complaining, honestly. It's just the way things are and what I am trying very hard to help you understand.

If you talk about the same thing forever no one cares anymore. Seriously, have you noticed that when we start talking and you change the subject to your current obsession I always change the subject back to something that isn't idiotic? It's because I don't care.

I care about you. I care about many things that are important to you. I do not care about your freaky and stupid hobby.

It's okay to be passionate about something. I just wish you were passionate about something that actually mattered. Like your children or your marriage or whatever happened to that kid that played Parker Lewis.

Anyway, I love you. Really. Even if I don't like to talk to you.

Love,
Me





Dear oranges,

I find you delightful.

Thanks for that.

Love,
Stephanie





Dear my friend,

Honestly, I'm so bummed.

Because you know? I really thought we had a lot in common. I thought we were a lot alike. But lately I'm realizing that's just really not the case.

Not that we have to be exactly alike. Most of my friends are very different than me. We all make different life choices, you know? Most of us just get to the point that it's no longer important what we drove or wore in high school and become real, honest friends with the people who really get us, even if they're fifteen years older or younger than we are, even if they are single or not, even if they have their PhD and I'm a big dumbass. Even then.

I'm starting to think that we are too different. It scares me and it makes me sad.

Because honey? When you make the decisions that you make? It doesn't just affect you. And the only person you are thinking about? Is you.

I swear, I really try hard not to judge people other than John Edwards, but honestly. You can't just go through life living like you are still single and in your twenties. You aren't.

I say this as gently and kindly as I possibly can.

You need to grow up.

I love you friend,
Stephanie





Dear horrible person who is actually not John Edwards and is someone else,

I was raised to never hate anyone because Jesus doesn't approve and all, but honestly? I think Jesus would give me a pass on this one.

You are a despicable, horrible human being.

Listen, I know what you're trying to do. It's not going to work. Not to sound all Tony Sopranoish or anything, but seriously. It's not going to work. Don't even bother trying. You're just going to lose.

Kisses!
Stephanie





Dear Husband,

I love you and your face and therefore have decided I'm really not all that upset with you for giving me a pair of pajamas pants that are literally five sizes too large for Christmas. It's okay.

I was thinking about this last night as I put on said pajama pants. They were very warm and cozy. It made me think about you and how much I love you and also about that one time, many years ago, that you decided you were going to buy me some lacy underthings and you unfortunately made this decision without knowing what size I wore at that time. You then went to the store and when the salesgirl asked, "Well, does she have my shape?" you responded, "Oh no! She has a much nicer shape than you" and were then very surprised and saddened about how the salesperson responded. That was funny enough, but then later that night you asked me if you could take my measurements and I just thought, "Good Lord, this is the weirdest guy ever. Good thing he's adorable" and let you do it. Because you are the most charming person I've ever met and also because that's just kind of the way it is between you and me.

I really like how it is between you and me.

Love you,
Steffus

Ruthlessly cheerful. I am, I am.

So, okay. Here's a newsflash: I'm fat.

Yes still.

I've lost like ninety pounds. I can walk for miles and miles and miles and I usually say "no" to delicious cake, even when I don't want to.

I'm still fat.


My husband doesn't care. He thinks I'm the hottest thing on two legs (bless him). My kids don't care. They think I'm an awesome mom and hilarious and even though they don't say it, or even realize it probably, I'm pretty sure they are thankful that they don't have a mom who is really psycho about food. I really don't care if they have a cookie after they eat their broccoli. Cookies are delicious. My dog doesn't care. She loves me no matter what I do, even after I scold her for having such smelly farts.


I care, some. I'm never going to be a Supermodel or anything, but I would like to just be around for a good, long while. I really like my husband, children, and dog and it is my desire to be in their lives for as long as possible. That has nothing to do with the size of my jeans.

I do wish the size of my jeans were a little smaller though. So I walk.

There are four or five walking paths within a couple of miles from my house. I usually pick one at random and I picked, for God knows what reason, the "death" path today.

I call it the death path because I feel like death when I'm done. Seriously. There are at least three really large hills. One hill? I would literally sit at the bottom of and cry when I was training for the Avon Walk in 2009. I would sit at the base of a tree and cry and cry and cry because I just did not see how it would be possible for me to get back up it. My car was always JUST over the hill, and I just couldn't possibly see how I could do it. So I would cry and be a big baby and then climb the stupid hill, get in my car, and go home.

There are a couple of houses along the walking trail and today? A man was sitting on one of the benches, close to a house. I guess it's his house.

As I walked by, I smiled at the man and said, "Mornin'!" Cause I'm Southern and we do things like that.

He said nothing, until I was just past him.

Then? He mooed at me.


Now, had he not made bovine noises at me, I would not even note this...but this guy? Was quite large. He literally took up the whole bench he was sitting on.

And he mooed.

At me.


I kept walking.

Because, really. I am quite well aware of the fact that this guy could never, ever get a woman as intelligent, kind and witty as I am. I am further aware that he probably feels really bad about himself, which is why he has to make fun of me. Either that or he's completely delusional about what he actually looks like...sort of like when Homer Simpson wears the "No Fat Chicks" shirt.

Either way. He's pretty flipping sad.

So I kept walking.


I didn't cry when I got back around to the base of that big hill. I powered right up and I was gasping for breath (literally) when I came upon that same man. Still sitting on the same bench, alone.

To his credit, he apparently likes to mix things up. This time as I went just past him, he made an oinking noise, like a pig.

And being the good Girl Scout that I've been since the early 80's? Well, I couldn't let that pass. I whirled around and walked right over to him.

"Are you okay?" I asked, sweet as pie.

"Whu?"

"Are you okay? You just made a terrible noise and I was concerned for your breathing. Should I call someone for you? Do you have a doctor?"

He stared at me and I could tell he was trying to decide if I was a) a huge bitch or b) genuinely concerned.

I smiled again. I do that.

"I'm okay," he muttered.

"Good!" I said. "I thought you were having a heart attack. Maybe you should join me on the trail soon. Walking is really good for you."

And with my biggest, brightest, sweetest smile I left him sitting there.

In the rain.


Alone.








It felt really good.

To my daughter, on the occasion of her baptism

With apologizes to your brother, you are the child I always wanted.

Don't get me wrong. I adore your brother. He's the funniest little sack of something I've ever met and once he (around age two) stopped hating me and wanting me dead all the time? He was pretty fun. I never, ever thought I wanted a boy so your brother has been, among other things, a really delightful surprise.

I just always wanted a girl.

I always wanted you.

Specifically you, even though I didn't realize it at first. As you've probably already figured out, you've befuddled me for many years.

It's not your fault, honestly. I mistakenly believed that I would have a daughter much like me. A little socially awkward, a little ridiculous. At thirteen I was fat, had a horrible mullet and was completely obsessed with a boy who didn't know I was alive. You, at thirteen, are thin and beautiful with gorgeous hair. Plenty of boys know you are alive, but I don't think it's possible for you to care any less.

You're an unapologetic nerd, love Peter, Paul and Mary, wear your purple glasses with pride, and can make "That's what she said" jokes with the best of them. You make me laugh every day and you have the sweetest, kindest, most generous heart of anyone I know. You are...grace.

I've tried so very hard to explain you so many times and "grace" is the only appropriate descriptor. Grace, by definition:

Seemingly effortless beauty or charm of movement, form, or proportion.
A disposition to be generous or helpful; goodwill.
The state of being protected or sanctified by the favor of God.

I can't think of a more appropriate way to describe you. You are so good, so sweet, and so loving. Even when you disagree, even when you are mad, even when things don't go your way, you are polite, firm, and fair. You have the absolute best of me, and the absolute best of what I wish I could be.

I admire you more than I will ever be able to tell you.

I was not surprised when I got a call from the church telling me that you had sought out the people who would make your baptism happen. They tentatively asked me, "Is this okay with you?", as I suppose most of the time the parents are the ones who make the arrangements. But not for you. Not my daughter. Not the girl who makes up her mind, follows her heart, and, most importantly, follows through.

I got a little choked up when I saw you step into the baptismal with your beloved youth pastor. I got further choked up when I heard your sweet little voice reply that you believed, "Jesus is Lord". You probably didn't hear this, but after you came up from the water and everyone clapped, the pastor said, "Thank God for Girl Child" and I had to wipe my eyes.


Thank God for Girl Child.



He has no idea how much I thank God for you. For God's grace.


Every day of my life.