The only thing we have to fear is spontaneously falling off a really high bridge to our bloody, violent deaths

There are many things in this world I am afraid of - Losing my family, a fire in my home, hairy French Canadian men in Speedos vacationing on Maine beaches - but only one stops me dead in my tracks and paralyzes me like no other.

Heights.

I hate them. Never liked them. Have always been afraid of them. I have no idea from which my fear stems, I just remember always feeling this way. Me + ground = good. Me + not on the ground = I’m going to die, You’re going to die, WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIIIIIEEEEEEE.


I was that kid in gym class who wouldn’t climb the rope or get up on the balance beam. I was the teen who would rather have chanced sneaking out the front door instead of going out the window (on a related note, I was grounded a lot), and I’m the person who always offers to hold the ladder so I don’t need to be the one who goes up it but then does so with one hand because the other is firmly over my eyes. And I will never, ever, get on a roller coaster. Not for all the tea in China. Not for a million dollars. Not for a chance to run my hands over Ryan Reynolds’ ab... Um, well, maybe that? No. No I can’t do it. Uh uh, no way. Ain’t gonna happen. Even if you promise me I can lick those magnificent muscles. Yeah.

Except.

Julia* has been bringing up places like Six Flags and Disney World. And when I say “Bringing Up”, I mean, “Maaaaawwwwmmmm, when are weeeee going to goooooo to Disney Wooorrrlllldddd?????” I blame school for this.

*shakes fist at public school but never for a second considers home schooling*

A number of her friends, mostly the ones with older siblings, have been going to these magical places and then bringing back tales of friendly over-sized rodents and OMG, like, super cool rides that go really really fast, Mom, and REALLY HIGH.

And of course, she wants to go too.

Mr. C and I have already decided that places like Disney World are strictly verboten until we can get some culture into our kids... and satisfy our own world travel needs, but mostly because we believe a trip to, say, Scotland or England or one of the other 25 countries of our dead ancestors would better serve our family than a trip to the happiest place on earth. That and we don’t feel like dropping thousands on a trip where the most fun our children will have will be at the hotel pool. Although, that will probably happen anyway, the ungrateful brats. What was I saying?

Right. Heights comma My Fear of Them.

This debilitating phobia has stopped me from climbing to the tops of *coughverysmallcough* mountains. From going all the way to the top of the Torre del Mangia in Siena, Italy and taking in that magnificent view. From walking across rope bridges at Rock City in Tennessee and taking in that magnificent view. Of Alabama. This fear gave me heart palpitations and had me nearly in tears during the entire 60 minutes wait at Space Mountain.

I was 14 freaking years old! That’s just sad, y’all.

I know my days are numbered. I know there will come a day when I’ll have to swallow my fear, and my heart, and get on a ferris wheel or some other instrument of torture with one of my kids and try to put on a brave face and pretend like I’m not about to throw up. I don’t know how I’m going to do it but it has to happen. Because no one wants to be that mom. You know, the one who screams like a girl on the flying teacups.

Who am I kidding? We both know that will be me.


* That would be Chicky I'm referring to. Just making sure you're keeping up.


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*** Writing prompt courtesy of the lovely and talented Jozet who asked what my favorite amusement park rides were. This is my roundabout way of saying the snack bar.

Whoever said birthdays were all candles and party hats never dared enter my head

Today is my birthday. I'm 38 years old.

Let me start by saying, 38 is not old. I don't feel old, though my knees might think differently, and compared to the lifespan of the average American woman, I'm in the prime of my life. But I can't help but compare myself, and where I am in my life right now, to where my mother was at this age.

My mother was a child when she got married, she was barely nineteen and less than a month after her 20th birthday she had me. Which means, when my mother was my age, she had an 18 year old daughter entering college. Therefore, adding it all up and carrying the one, I am old enough to have a child in college. But fast forward twenty years and I have a daughter entering kindergarten. My mind, it is significantly boggled.

I don't know how to process this. It has less to do with the biological possibility of having a child old enough to be considered a legal adult and more to do with grappling with my feelings about my mom and the way she and my father raised me compared to how I'm raising my children.

My parents were so young and naive and without modern conveniences like the internet to help them with their parenting choices (there is some sarcasm in that last part). For better or worse, they relied heavily on their families, specifically their parents from a far more removed generation, to lend guidance and share wisdom.

I don't agree with most of what they did, but here I am today - the first of my family to attend and graduate college. I've never been arrested and have never mixed up in drugs or criminal activity. Whether it was nature or nurture, and regardless of the negative things which I really don't feel like getting into, something went right.

My husband and I have years and experiences my parents didn't have. We have the education and the income they only dreamed of. Time will tell if the outcome is any better but I know what I'll be wishing for when I blow out the candles on my cake.

The search for the perfect pair of jeans. Alternate title: The grass is always greener on someone else's thighs.

I am at war with my body.

After two kids and almost 37 years on the earth, not to mention the winter and long, cold, wet spring we just went through (or as I like to call it, Nutella-Palooza, '08 - '09), things don't look quite the same as they did back in the day. "The Day" being when I was a size 0 and my legs looked like tree branches. Skinny, knobby tree branches. Skinny, knobby tree branches that then were the source of much teasing but are now in style. Fucking tree branches.

I'm having difficulty reconciling the fact that my body is different than it used to be. I was always very skinny, naturally so, and I never had to work out (though I did, it's much more enjoyable when you don't have to) and eating a Quarter Pounder with Cheese with a side of large fries and washing it down with a 10 piece Chicken McNugget was something I never gave much thought to.

(Nary an extra pound nor bout of heartburn to contend with. Ah, memories.)

Do you hate me for writing that*? It's okay, I kind of hate me right about now. More to the point, I kind of hate the 22 year old me (and 19 year old me, and 15 year old me and...) for not liking the way she looked back then. I'd like to go back in time and shake her by her slender neck (the one that didn't have the beginnings of a waddle hanging over it) and tell her to lose the negative body image thing (Because, really? You're 110 pounds and 5'8. Suck it up, Buttercup) and enjoy going into any store she wanted to and buying whatever type of clothing caught her fancy without ever needing to try it on. I'd kind of like to tell the 30 year old me the same thing. I'd also tell her to wear more sunscreen.

My body, though still on the slender side, has changed. Things that were once flat are now bumpy and things that were once firm are now jiggly. Which is fine if you're a jello salad but not so much if you're a woman with body issues.

Pants don't fit the same and Spanx is not something kinky one does in the bedroom. And I certainly don't have the luxury of going into clothing stores and buying things without a trip to the dreaded changing room, with their flourescent lights (very flattering to dimpled thigh fat, by the way. If I wanted a diorama of the Grand Canyon I'd make one out of a shoe box and some modeling clay, thank you very much.) and institutional paint job designed to make sure you don't get all cocky in those new clothes.

But believe it or not, this post is not about negative body image.

(Really Tania? After all that this isn't just you bitching about your body? No really, you should thank me. What I've got on that subject could fill the entire internet and if I did that there would be no more room for videos of cats falling off of pianos, so I'll save it for now. You're welcome)

No this post is about denim. Or more to the point, the search for the perfect pair of jeans.

Like ROUS's, I don't think they exist. (Gosh, that joke never gets old, does it?) At least not for less than the price of a used mid-sized sedan. But still I search. I try on. I squeeze and tuck - you know, got to put the muffin top somewhere - and grunt and groan. And then I get frustrated and pig out on french fries.

All I want is a decent pair of jeans that don't make me look like I'm smuggling watermelons in my thighs. Except for cupcake top around my middle (I know it's a muffin top but cupcakes are sweeter. And they have frosting. And I love them with all my heart. And that may be why I have a muffin top.) I'm still on the smaller (read: medium) side and my hips aren't too bad, it's my upper thighs that always get me. I keep hearing Stacy and Clinton say, Look for a pair of pants that hits you at your widest point and then goes straight down from there. Yeah, THEY DON'T MAKE THOSE.

Two words - Skinny. Jeans.

Two more words - Fuck. Off.

Still, they have to be out there somewhere. I shop, I buy, I come to my senses, and I return. Lather, Rinse, Repeat. That's how I roll.

But let's take this step by step, shall we?

So here is how I shop for the perfect pair of jeans, in 18 easy steps

(Okay I know - 18?? It was 29 but I edited. You're welcome.)

Ahem.

Step 1: Go through your entire wardrobe and try on every pair of jeans you own. Chuck out the old, the tired, the out of style, the "What in the Sam Hell was I thinking?" and the "Not in a million years and an eating disorder will you ever fit in these again". Realize you're down to one pair of jeans that fits and you're only keeping those because picking up your child from preschool whilst nearly naked from the waist down is probably not going to win you any friends.

Step 2: Cry over the death of your youth and then give your children the stink eye for ruining your figure. Then hug your children because you feel badly for thinking that way (Oh, you're totally still thinking it, but with love.)

Step 3: Decide to shop for jeans online because poking at your thighs and squeezing your belly flap is more socially acceptable while standing in your own bedroom. While popping Hershey's Kisses.

Step 4: Ask lovely people on Twitter where they shop. Love the people on Twitter. On Twitter no one knows your thighs aren't as thin as they once were. Unless you tell them. Which you will because it's TWITTER.

Step 5: Take suggestions and then search every website known to man. Make disparaging remarks about the anorexic models and their nonexistent hips. Words "bitch" and "bite me" may be used. Liberally.

Step 6: Put a a bunch of jeans that don't scare you in your virtual shopping cart. You can always return the ones you don't like, right? Gasp audibly upon seeing the total while checking out. Decide you could stage a coup in a small third world country for that amount of money and delete a couple (read: all but two) from your cart.

Step 7: Wait for cute UPS guy to deliver a package. Chuckle over the word "package" in relation to cute UPS guy because you're a 12 year old boy. A twelve year old boy with 36 year old hips.

Step 8: When UPS guy shows up 5 days later with your package (heh) answer the door side ways to give the illusion of smaller midsection and smile winningly. Try to ignore his bemused expression and his quick exit. Take box, slam door (but first, watch UPS guy's butt as he makes quick getaway), and then run to bedroom with box in breathless anticipation for Best. Jeans. EVER.

Step 9: Break a nail opening box. Swear. Lie about what those words mean to impressionable four year old who was helping you open the box.

Step 10: Take jeans out of box. Look at them quizzically. Hmm, they looked different online (after two glasses of wine).

Step 11: Try on jeans. Try to find place to put the jelly roll that is your tummy. Above the waistline? Below the waistline? Decide to try to tuck it in like blousy shirt.

Step 12: Detach flesh roll from zipper. Apply Neosporin.

Step 13: Look in full length mirror. Hmm, kind of tight in the thighs. Typical. Maybe heels are needed. Yes, heels are much better! Makes legs look slim! Grunt while running to closet to find pair of heels that don't hurt your broken toe. Give up and decide pain is worth it. Limp back to mirror. Ah, much better. Excruciatingly painful, but better.

Step 14: Decide to take pictures to send to husband who is in California (or Michigan, you forget at this point) to get his opinion.

Step 15: Look at picture in camera screen. Consider Photoshopping your legs before sending picture. Also wonder if your camera is broken. Or maybe your mirror.

Step 16: Cry while on the phone with your husband. I'm sure they look great, he says. Refuse to send him picture. What does he know? He's in Michigan. Or Florida. You forget.

Step 17: Package jeans to return. Suck up shipping fees both ways. Realize that was your iced coffee money for two weeks.

Step 18: Get frustrated. Feel hopeless. Decide after much denial you have no choice but to go to the Mall.

Oh yes, the Mall.

Sometimes, a woman has to do what a woman has to do.

And that is enough for now, lambs.

Tune in next time for THIGHS. IN. SPACE. Er, MALL.

(Okay not really, just part two of The Search for the Perfect Pair of Jeans. Or, If a 100 pound sales girl is murdered in the dressing room of an upscale department store and she totally had it coming but no one is around to witness it, will anyone mourn the loss?)

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*And careful about what you say about size in relation to image problems. Many, many years of teasing has made me what I am today. You picking on me for hating the way I look sometimes will only get you a beat down of epic proportions. Also, I'm fragile.

No easy answers

**edited below**

So. Yeah. Knocked up. Preggers. Bun in the oven. Baby on board. Preggo. With child. Damn, Billy Joe, the rabbit done died.

Yeah.

I don't know how I feel about this pregnancy yet. When I found out I was pregnant with Chicky I was so shocked, even though we were actively trying the idea I would actually see a plus sign on my EPT stick never occurred to me until that point. I carried the knowledge around like a really good secret. I was special. I was going to make a baby. Wow.

This time? I took the test while Chicky was eating lunch. I saw the results, called Mr. C at work and shared the news, and then went on with my day. No big deal. We've been through this before.

It's still ridiculously early so I've been able to fight off the nausea and I'm exhausted all day long (Oh My Gaw, I don't remember being this tired) but those are the only indications that I'll be having another springtime baby. There's no excitement. No anticipation. Only dread of the upcoming months of sickness, back pain and swelling.

I am, officially, a horrible human being.

I want to be excited. I want to feel like I'm jumping out of my skin. I want to connect with this baby.

I don't want to feel selfish and undeserving. But I do.

Whether it was the universe or the combination of my husband's super sperm and my slutty eggs (willing to open up wide to the first organism who swam by), something decided that my body would easily accept a fetus. I wish my mind was as open and willing.


** While I was wallowing in my own weepiness (I hate being ruled by my hormones) it seems like I went from being able to fight off the nausea to becoming intimately involved with my toilet overnight. I've been down this road before but I'm hoping there are some nausea fighting tips you know of that I haven't yet tried. And since you're all responsible for making me this weepy, what with your kind comments and all, I sort of figured you'd send some tips my way. I'm weak and woozy. More so than usual. Help me.

On paper wings

I was sitting outside today reading a book, when a dragonfly landed on my bare knee. Normally I would have been freaked out by such a large insect sitting on my bare flesh, but instead I let him lounge there for a moment while I apologized for all of his relatives who were consumed whole and alive for my childish pleasure. Then I slapped my thigh and watched him fly off, good wishes trailing after him.

I haven't been sitting in the sun lately, preferring instead the safety of four walls, but today I had hoped the fresh air and sunshine would make me happy. I haven't been very happy lately. An existential crisis is what my friend Ruth called it, though she was referring to her own. It seems to be going around. Maybe we passed it around in Chicago, like a cold virus.

Aimless is how I would describe myself these days. Aimless and pathless, though not goalless. Goals I have in spades but I have no way of making them a reality. Point A is my sticking point and getting to Point B, C, D and beyond is a circumnavigational route of my own making full of twists and turns. The hilly terrain doesn't bother me but the roadblocks, detours and and potholes do. Don't want to go to grandma's house because I know the big bad wolf is waiting for me, or something like that.

This flitting through life is effecting everything, from my relationship with my husband to my writing (which was never very good to begin with, let's face it) and even my day to day interaction with friends and family. The disjointed feeling hits me even before I wake up in the morning. It seeps into my flesh, like pizza grease into open pores. I'm not a person you would want to be around these days. There's not much joy behind these muddy eyes.

I want the uncertainty to go away. I want to tie it to a big red balloon and let it float up into the clear blue sky. I had hoped the dragonfly would take some of it with her, but dragonfly's have their own agenda and I don't think it stuck to her paper wings.

I read (on Wikipedia of all places) in Japan dragonflies are symbols of courage, strength and happiness. I want to believe it was not coincidence who brought that dragonfly to me. I like to believe in miracles and things happening for a reason. But what I do not know is if my winged friend left for me any of those aforementioned virtues before I thoughtlessly shooed her away.

If you can't find the answers you can always buy them from Wal-Mart

An alpaca farm? Really? What the hell was I thinking?

I know exactly what I was thinking...

"Oh my God, I'm thirty-five and I have no idea where my life is going or which direction I should turn or if I should have another baby or if I should be happy with the one I've got or am I going to get off my ass and start my own business and stop talking about it already and can I do that with a new baby and a pre-schooler but if I don't start my own business what the hell am I going to do with my life?????"

All silliness aside, I am at a major crossroad in my life. This is definitely one of those times when I wish someone could take me by the hand, treat me like a five year old, and tell me what to do. What's the right path? What is the right decision? Are you there, God? It's me, Mrs. C.

God wasn't listening, so I asked the Magic 8 ball if I should have another baby. It said, "No way!"

I asked it if I should start my own business. It said, "Ask again later."

I asked it if I should hide under the covers with a bag of M&Ms. It said, "Yes."*

You don't have to hit me over the head with a brick twice. If you're looking for me, you'll know where to find me.


*The questions and answers asked of the Magic 8 Ball are real. They were not made up for comedic effect. The Magic 8 Ball is all-knowing and all-powerful. We used to have religion, now we have plastics.

If you have problems of your own that require real answers, consult the Magic 8 Ball.

Warning: Side effects may include - dizziness, vomiting, diarrhea, changes in mood, Oprah and Dr. Phil marathons, self-flagellation, chocolate binges and alcoholism. If you experience any of these symptoms, get your head out of your ass and take control of your life. It's a toy. If you're allowing the Magic 8 Ball to control your life, perhaps you should also consult a psychiatrist.

Thoughts on grieving

I'm fine.

No, really, I'm fine.

Oh, thank you. But I'm fine.

Yes, fine.

Well, I'm okay. But don't worry about me. I'm fine.

Fine.

That's what you're supposed to say when someone you love dies, right? Sure, you get a grace period, an undetermined number of days to mourn, but after that you pick yourself up by the bootstraps and get on with your life. Life is for the living and all that. But how many days do you get to wallow in your own self pity because yet another person who was close to you goes toes up?

I may sound flippant about the whole ordeal, but this is me being serious. I've had too many people die on me in the past few years - my Mom, two grandfathers and now my maternal grandmother - and I'm tired. I'm so very tired. My protective armor comes out whenever the subject of death comes up, shielding me from the pain, pushing it back so I can see the pain waving to me but far enough away so it can't touch me. I was like this after Mom died. I gave myself, what, a week? Two? And then I went on with business as usual. Except it was business unusual. But to see me you never would have known, because I was fine.

Fine.

But there seems to be a chink in my armor. Since my Gram passed every morning has been a battle to get out of bed, and then the day lingers before me with its promise of sunshine but all I see is another opportunity for someone to leave me. I get jumpy when Chicky gets too close to our pool, I get anxious when Mr. C comes home later than expected. You'd never know it by looking at my face because I'm really good at hiding it, but it's there.

I'm having a bad week, as you can tell. Having to come off the extreme frenetic high of Blogher and straight to a loved one's death bed is not an easy transition and it seems to have thrown me all out of whack. I might feel stronger next week after the service is over and all the receiving lines and sermons and luncheons are over, but today I'm fragile.

I told myself at Blogher that I was going to start getting real with my blog posts (please save your Real World jokes for a later date) as a way of therapy. So here goes nothin'... Hi, I'm Mrs. Chicky and I have a problem with avoidance. I come from a long line of avoiders, most of whom are dead now, and it's time to break that cycle. There's a little piece of me playing with blue Play-Doh at my feet and she doesn't deserve to live like this. Pretending she's a butterfly or a monkey or a purple fairy - that's fine. Pretending that life is fine even when it's not? Not fine. As a matter of fact, I'd like to work on removing that word from her vocabulary.

Next week will be better. I hope. As a kind woman just said to me in an email (and I really hope she doesn't mind me quoting her), "I don't like the netherworld between death and funeral. There's something about having the ceremony that puts the stamp on death that I actually find very helpful in that it allows me to start grieving." I concur. Next week I should be fine.

Bloody hell.

This is going to be tougher than I thought.

More than me(me)

(I will warn you now - this post is long. Sorry but it's about my feeeelings and I tend to ramble when it comes to my feeeelings.

If you've already read this post then you know that that last sentence is totally laughable.

If you haven't you'll just have to read to find out why.)



I've been composing this post in my mind for days, mentally writing and then discarding each draft. Not one word actually made it on to the computer screen in front of me until now - such as they are.

Julie tagged me for the "Evolution of Blogging" meme, or more specifically the "Evolution of your blogging" meme. At first I was thrilled by the idea - finally, a meme that had nothing to do with how I fell asleep every night (rubbing my ankles together like a cricket, just so you know) or what was in my bag (diapers and cracker crumbs mostly) - but the more I thought about it, the more I realized what this particular meme meant to me (and, yes, I was over thinking - again), the more terrified I became of the question how has my blogging changed and evolved.

I don't know if it's evolved. To the contrary, I think it may be going the other way. Because, you see, if you think about it I don't really talk about me on this blog.

(Go ahead, mull that one over for a minute. I'll wait. But first read the next paragraph.)

One of the things that fascinates me about blogging is the perception we have of those we read on a regular basis gathered from the nuggets of information that can be gleaned from one's blog. I've never met many of you but I have a mental picture in my head of who you are: what you sound like, how tall you are, how you walk, hell even how you laugh. It's all crap, I'm sure, and when I finally meet some of you this summer in some cases my mental image will be shattered. Yes, I have drawn assumptions. Will I be disappointed? I don't know, but that could certainly happen, and you, in turn, could be disappointed when you meet me.

(It's okay. Just keep it to yourself and I won't be hurt.)

(I wound very easily. Have I ever told you that? Probably not.)

From reading this blog, having never met me, you know that I like a good joke. You know that I love wine. You know that I work with dogs and I have two of my own that drive me crazy, that I have one (devastatingly adorable) toddler whom I love, and that I have a husband who occasionally does stupid things but whom I also love. You know that I lost my mother to cancer and I miss her very much. You know that I can overreact to things and then overreact about overreacting. And you may know that women, as a group, usually freak me out. But is that it? Is that all of me?

I'll answer my own question: No.

The reason why you, as a reader, don't know more about me from this blog is because by nature I am an incredibly guarded person. I really do not share that much of myself with others. I keep my cards close to my vest, I rarely wear my heart on my sleeve... Blahdee blahdee blahdee.

Which leads me to the evolution - or the de-evolution of this blog.

(And for the record I know the opposite of "evolution" is "regression" or "deterioration" but that seems a bit extreme, don't you think?)

(And and... Don't you think it's about time I got to the reason for this post? I mean c'mon... get to the point already.)

When I began Chicky Chicky Baby I had hoped that the (perceived) anonymity of the internet would help me open up about certain pieces of my life - and it has, a bit, but it has also made me more aware of what I talk about and, in turn, even more guarded. For one reason - I let my husband read this blog. And then I shared it with my sister. The two people, besides Chicky, who mean the most to me in this world now have access to my inner-most feelings. And speaking of Chicky, she could read these posts one day. Do I really want them to learn certain things about myself - things I might not feel comfortable bringing up to them in person - through a blog? Where complete strangers can read it first? Uh uh, don't think so. That's not fair.

And I will not even think about other parts of my family or friends who may stumble upon this one day. I've said a more than a few embarrassing things but so far nothing too damning that I couldn't recover from.

But I have to admit, I sometimes long for total anonymity. I do wish that no one I knew had learned about this blog. Not that I would share stories of elicit affairs or second lives (if you knew what my life was really like right now you'd laugh at preposterousness of that last statement. Affairs? Who has time or energy for affairs??) but because I really have no trouble with people knowing that my life is messy. To what level of messy is what I have trouble with, but I would like to learn how to open up more. Therapy without the co-pay.

And lest I forget, for some reason there are people out there who seem to like this blog. People (you?) who read what I write on a regular basis. How bizarre is that? I'd be lying if I said that my stat counter has not affected my way of writing one bit.

I'd like to open up more. I'd like my voice, my true voice, to be heard through the din. But not now. At least not today.

The bottom line is I have to remain true to myself, on this blog and in real life. If I'm not going to sit on a playground picnic table and share my innermost thoughts and feeeelings with you then why would I on an internet page?

However...

(I said bottom line, but I didn't really mean it. Do I ever?)

I know that being guarded is not necessarily healthy. I've made things very difficult and unpleasant for myself these past few years in the name of privacy and I need to fix that. So you may just find yourself on my site one day learning about any manner of juicy details about me.

Especially if I'm drinking and blogging. I've been known to do some silly things when I've got the drink in me.

Just don't tell my husband or my sister that.

Shit, I guess I just did. Hey! Maybe I'm evolving!

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Now I have to tag people for this meme. This is the part that I hate the most, even more than talking about my feeeelings (whoa whoa whoa Feeeelings). Let's see, who can I piss off with a tag... How about Redneck Mommy, Motherbumper, and Jen. Have at it, betches.

Paging Dr. Freud. Dr. Jung? Dr. Doug Ross??

I found out today that my ex-husband is divorcing his second wife. Or she's divorcing him. Either way in the game of marriage he'll be a two-time loser and I don't know what to think about that. I'm conflicted.

On the one hand I don't wish him any ill will as he is, and always has been, a really good guy. Mister Excitement? No. Mister Always-Has-The-Right-Thing-To-Say? Uh uh. But Mister Would-Give-You-The-Shirt-Off-His-Back? Oh yeah. And he doesn't deserve to be divorced twice before his fortieth birthday.

However...

(You knew that was coming, right? C'mon, even if I hadn't set you up with my previous comment about being conflicted you had to know that if I'm talking about my ex it isn't going to be all sunshine, ponies and rainbows. Or rainbow colored ponies who shoot sunshine out of their asses.)

He married a twit, plain and simple. No, not me - although, I'm sure he has called me worse than that in his darkest moments and probably out in broad daylight too - but the woman he married after me. I believe their relationship was a knee-jerk reaction to our break-up. I don't think he was really thinking straight when he decided that she was going to be The One.

(If you've ever been divorced and remarried you know that you never, ever (ever ever ever ever ever), want to go through that again. So, if the first one doesn't take then the second one should be the charm. Right? Right??)

(I've already told Mr. C he'd have to do something really horrible to get rid of me 'cause I ain't goin' nowhere, baby. Uh uh.)

So, about this woman. She's got three kids by two different guys - none of them being my ex's - but that's not what makes me think she's a twit. Entirely. It's the other small tidbits of information that I know about her, combined with the kid thing, that made me scoff when I heard they were getting married in the first place. Tidbits of information that I will not share here on this blog because I? Am a lady.

Stop laughing. I always cover my mouth when I sneeze and I almost always feel horrible when I take the Lord's name in vain.

But Jesus H. Christ...

When you marry someone, you profess your undying love and devotion to someone, even if you're fibbing a bit, you hope that the other person is happy in their decision to legally wed you for ever and ever, Amen. You'd like to think that because they picked you their taste is impeccable. You're a catch, dammit.

And by "you" I mean "me".

I'm a catch, dammit.

I may not be sushi-grade tuna but I'm choice salmon. Haddock? Scrod? You'd be lucky to serve me in your restaurant and not as an early bird special.

What was I saying?

My ex went ahead and married this woman and it didn't work and I feel badly for him - but I wonder why, if he had such great choice in women (women that would rip his heart out and stomp on it, but still) why he chose her?

And why am I concerned about this?

Because I care? Sure. Because I was right about their marriage? Okay, yes. Because it's one more thing to question about my twenties and the choices I made?

Uh.........

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And, yes, I'm avoiding the meme that Julie tagged me for. Mainly because it's freaking me right the fuck out. But I will get to it soon, pinky swear.

Also, thank you (again and again and again) for all your kind words and encouragement about Chicky's appointment with EI (didn't I already say that once?). I especially thank those of you who sent me private emails with stories about your personal experiences and those of you who said you had the same fears about your kids but haven't yet contacted the experts. I promise to keep you posted.

(Yeah, like I have a choice. My insecurity trumps my good sense. And my pride.)

Oh! (Christ this is getting long) If you have any interest in how old I think your kid should be before getting a puppy you can go here. Or not. Eh, whatever. I'm flexible.