Sometimes It's Easy to Make a Hard Decision

They had pretty pink bows in their hair.

Running through the grass and falling on top of each other, the two little toddlers were oblivious to their mothers’ watchful eyes. Their playful giggling drowned out any adult conversation coming from the bench only a few feet away. As I walked past them I wondered. I wondered if their children were adopted or if they had them the good ole’ fashion way.

I’ve been having conversations like that a lot in my head lately. It seems I’ve not only noticed children more than usual, but I have found myself caught in conversations about people’s children. I’m sure this has always been the case, but in light of my recent doctor’s appointment the thought of children seem to be more front stage than usual.

I don’t have any children and my scheduled hysterectomy on April 1 permanently closes the deal. Sure, I can adopt. I have no problem with that. But there’s something about the birth of a baby. Your baby. The one who has your green eyes or your curly red hair. The child who has your smirk. Your laugh. Your bad math skills, but your artistic flair. A little you… as good or bad as that may be.

I was a little girl once.

And I had dreams. As a child I always assumed I would get married and have children. You know, the white picket fence and children’s artwork on the fridge. I’ve never married. I’m in no hurry for a bad marriage and so I’m more than willing to wait on a good one. But the children. I’ll be 40 next year and I have never, never wanted to have children in my 40’s. I applaud those who do, but it’s not something I want.

My mother asked me to put off the surgery and see if I could have a child. God bless her. She’s probably the only mother in history to ask her unmarried daughter to get pregnant. I can’t. I never wanted to be a single mom. And I can’t ask my boyfriend of less than two months to be a daddy. Plus, the real humdinger is that I’m most likely infertile anyway.

Part of me wishes I could give her a grandchild. Even though my parents would strongly disagree, I do feel like I’ve short changed them. I have never given them something that would bring them such incredible joy. I would love to be able to do that for them. But I can’t. And it hurts.

I explained to my mother my decision for having the surgery. I told her as deep as the emotional struggle is to permanently end the dream of having children, the relief I will get from having no more pain is stronger. The unbearable pain has to go. And out of this decision comes the guilt over a child that has never been born. My child.

I would be lying if I said the doctor’s suggestion was a shock. I had been contemplating it for the past couple of years. It was always in the back of my head, but I was too scared to say it out loud. The “what if’s” kept my mouth shut. The “could be’s” kept the dream alive. It took the doctor to say something for me to actually acknowledge it. To realize it. To absorb it.

And it made me feel justified.

I’m not one for radical surgeries just for the hell of it. I don’t have cancer and so this isn’t an emergency. But the early April date works in my busy schedule. I’m not looking forward to the cabin fever, but I am looking forward to after the recuperation period. I think I’ve forgotten what it was like to feel healthy. They say you never know the actual level of pain you’ve lived with until it’s gone.

As of today – Friday, March 6 at 7pm – I’m happy with my decision. I reserve the right to break down and cry at any moment. But right now as I type this… I’m okay.

It doesn’t matter if they were adopted or not.

Those two little girls I saw playing were having the time of their lives. Their grass-stained pink shirts and their messed up hair were the furthest things from their minds. All they cared about was each other and how loudly they could laugh. They don’t know how they came to be. They don’t know if they were planned or an accident.

And it surely didn’t matter at that moment. To anyone.

Milli Vanilli blamed it on the rain.

I blamed it on the writer’s strike.

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged. It’s been a while since I’ve felt the need to express my thoughts. Well, that’s a lie. I’ve actually had many moments of overwhelming desire to sit down and tell all. To let it all out without care or censorship. But the truth is… I needed a break.

I received many emails asking about my silence. It was a convenience to blame it on the writer’s strike. No, I don’t belong to the Writer’s Guild. However, as an amateur writer, I did support their platform. Plus, it seemed like a good excuse. But that excuse is now old and unusable since we’ve all happily returned to our lazy television addiction. Even though I don’t watch The Bachelor, I am glad it aired for your entertainment.

My life in a nutshell. Ok, maybe two nutshells.

It’s been a year to the date that I purchased my new home. I can honestly say it has been the best decision I have ever made... although there haven’t been a whole lot of good decisions. Like the night I drank too many homemade kamikazes while attending a midnight bon fire in some rice fields in the middle of nowhere with people I didn’t know. But that’s another story for another time.

I love my house. I love everything about it. I love it’s potential and it’s location. I have my dream list of things I will do once I win the lottery. But until then, I will continue to slyly take advantage of my friends by using them for my better good. That’s what friends are for, right?

For those who ask or wonder, I’m still unable to catch and maintain a relationship. I realize this is no shocker to most of you. If you’ve read any of my blogs, you are very much aware that I’m just not all that lucky in love. I’ve gone against my victimized instinct and have ventured out into the dating world, but to no surprise none have worked out. Once again the fear of the inevitable rejection has caused me to crawl back under the “no way in hell” dating rock. Here I will stay until someone much stronger than I comes along and proves to me that it’s okay to trust again. Until then, overdosing in chocolate and staying in my pajamas all weekend will have to suffice.

I apologize for my non-blogging activity.

Since I’ve most likely lost my Blog Queen title, I will need to come up with a new marketing tactic. Maybe a few vacation give-a-ways or gas gift cards. Of course I can always sink down to the begging and pleading level. It may work since I have no pride or shame.

I hope you welcome me back into this blogging world. I cross my fingers and pray that I my writing rhythm and witty words will win you over with it’s honesty and candor.

- Just a crazy woman

From the Kentucky coal mine to the California sun

Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.

I wish I had written that lyric. A simple phrase big enough to live your life around. Something that everyone – no matter who you are – can not only relate to, but believe in. Agree with. Strive for. Wish for.

Kris Kristofferson may have written the song, but Janis Joplin is the one who gave it life. It’s her voice that makes you feel the words. Hearing about her traveling cross country with her companion Bobby would make anyone want to pack it up and head out into the sunset. See the world without a watch. Tossing your schedule out the window as you go full steam ahead into the unknown.

What is your freedom?

We all express our own freedom in different ways. And there are those who are so strapped down to life’s demands, they don’t allow themselves to even dream of their own freedom. One person’s freedom is another’s luxury.

I’ve stood at the top of the Eiffel Tower and peered into the night sky viewing the beautiful Paris lights. I’ve floated down a river in Bangkok visually taking in the enormous gold encrusted mansions. I’ve visited a small German village, rubbed elbows with the locals and walked through a several-centuries-old castle. I’ve relaxed on a beach in Grand Cayman mesmerized by the bluest ocean I’ve ever seen.

Freedom? Sure, I have had the freedom to live these experiences in a world where others may not be so free. I also have the freedom to work, drive, and vote… all of which are unfathomable in some countries.

As free as these things may make me, they are not my freedom.

My freedom is internal. My freedom is the ability to sort through my feelings and own them. To express my thoughts and not be judged. To not be controlled by someone else’s games and expectations. To show love and to be loved without being under the umbrella of fear.

This is my freedom because I find it hard to achieve. If freedom came easily it would not be called freedom. We have to paddle through treacherous rapids before we can truly experience the calm essence of freedom.

If freedom truly is another word for nothing left to lose, we have to actually get ahead of our life, turn around, see everything as it is, accept it and own it. It’s impossible to move forward in freedom when you still have strings attached behind you.

Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.
Nothing, and that's all that Bobby left me, yeah.

She loved her life with Bobby. They shared the love of the road as well as an emotional connection. But no matter how much they had together, it wasn’t enough for Bobby. He left in search of his own freedom. His own home. To satisfy his own internal need for something else. Something better.

I guess Bobby felt he had nothing left to lose. Nothing, including Janis. Even though she was left behind, she loved him. She said she would trade all her tomorrows for one single yesterday.

Sounds like Janis needed to have learned a little bit about freedom from Bobby. I think she always knew his placement in her life wasn’t permanent. The part of him she loved so much was the same part that caused him to leave.

Funny when that happens.

Spewing expletives would have made me feel better.

I believe her apology, but I don’t believe her reasoning.

I can be crass at times. I’ve been told I have a sharp tongue. My humor is expressed through insults, sarcasm and harmless physical interaction. And one who carries these attributes can generally recognize others who do as well.

I love bantering with those who share my humor. I’m open game to your comedic insults and am prepared to bounce them right back. To be granted a front row seat in my life, quick wit will get you there. You either have it or you don’t. And if you don’t, the backfire can be a bitch.

Insulting someone without the backdrop of humor is very dangerous. But what is worse, is insulting someone just to be mean and then later using the excuse of humor as a way to dig yourself out of a self-inflicted hole. It doesn’t work. The table is then turned and you end up looking like an idiot. Sweating under that hot spotlight, you realize your wiggle room is rapidly decreasing.

Although I now find the humor in the following story, it still hits a sensitive nerve that I cannot shake.

It was beautiful outside. Standing on the sidelines of a little league football game, I felt the cool breeze and realized that autumn was well on its way. Good weather, good friends, a good game and my loyal companion ChaCha by my side. Not being a sports-kinda-gal, I didn’t know the rules of the game. I may not know what a fumble is, but I cheered on the team as if I were a football fanatic. Life was good. Spirits were high. We were living out a Norman Rockwell painting.

That is until she walked over.

The Scene: I’m standing next to a long-time friend watching his nine year old son push people down on the football field and ChaCha is sweetly sitting at my feet. My friend’s 72 year old mother is there. Although one would assume she’s there to watch her grandson play football, turns out she was there to irritate the hell out of me.

She walks over to me and stands right in front of me looking me straight in the eyes…

Her: Your dog is ugly.
Me: ---
Her: ---
Me: Excuse me?
Her: He’s ugly.
Me: No she’s not.
Her: Yes he is.
Me: SHE is NOT ugly.
Her: Yes he is.
Me: (giving her “go straight to hell” look)
Her: I guess he’s nice, but he’s ugly.

It was at this point I had a decision to make.

I could either call her a variety of words that would make even a sailor blush… or I could walk away. I thought about the first option. I already had the words picked out and in what order I was going to say them. Cussing out a 72 year old woman didn’t bother me. Cussing her out in front of small children didn’t even bother me. What bothered me was cussing out my friend’s mother. I respect my friend. I love him dearly and I felt verbally assaulting his mother right in front of him might cause some sort of wrinkle in our friendship. Especially since he didn’t hear her verbally assault me first because he was too busy rooting on his future NFL player.

So I chose option B. Not the most fun out of the two options. However, before I jetted off with my ugly dog, I did give her the meanest look I’ve ever given anyone. My evil look reached through her pupils and so deep into her soul I know it had to have caused her physical pain. I swear she turned to stone and crumbled as I pivoted away.

Let’s break this down…

I may think your dog is ugly. I may even talk to my friends about it and snicker behind your back. But I would never – NEVER – tell you to your face “Your dog is ugly.” Never. There are just certain things in life you don’t have to be honest about. It’s okay to have an opinion and NOT share it. Plus, ChaCha isn’t ugly. I think that’s what peeves me the most. She’s not. Here’s proof and here’s proof.

Later that evening I discussed the hateful situation with my friend. I told him his mother was rude and I felt she owed me an apology.

Flash forward two days later…

I’m walking out of my garage to water my soon-to-be-dead flowers and I find this irritant of a woman on my front porch. She’s looking for me. Great.

Her: Becca, come here I want to talk to you.
Me: Well, I’m kinda busy. Why don’t you come down here.
Her: I was told I hurt your feelings.
Me: Uh, yup. You sure did.
Her: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I was only playing.
Me: Playing? You weren’t playing.
Her: I’m sorry.
Me. You know, there are certain things in life you DON’T do. That’s to say to someone’s face that their kid or pet is ugly. It’s just rude.
Her: Please accept my apology?
Me: It’s accepted. This is over.

She said she was “playing.” That’s crap.

I can’t believe she pulled out the humor card. She obviously doesn’t realize she’s talking to the Queen of Sarcasm. I invented sarcasm. I own it. And she’s no where close to it. Plus even if that were the case, she would have apologized a second after she said it due to the crushed look on my face. You don’t play like that. At least not with me. I know how to play and that ain’t playing.

I’m sure I’ll get over this eventually. Surely. I mean, if someone told me this story, I would find it quite humorous. Getting all in a huff because someone said your dog is ugly sounds like a Seinfeld plot.

Even though I’m sure I don’t have to prove to anyone again that ChaCha’s not ugly, here’s more proof.

Ok, I’m done. I’m totally over it now. Time for me to go feed my ugly dog.

My First Flower Bed: A Sad Tale

I stood there staring at the big heap of dirt in my front yard and thought, “Well, what am I going to do with this crap?”

There used to be a bush there. Or maybe it was a tree. However a crepe myrtle is categorized, it was gone by the time I crawled out of bed Saturday morning. I know a man who was in need of a crepe myrtle and I was in need of getting rid of one… so together we made a perfect match. My pain-in-my-butt trash was his treasure. Hallelujah.

At 7:30am I walked down the front steps of my new house to get a closer view of this large hole in the ground that used to house the overgrown plant. Tree. Bush. Whatever. Standing there with really bad bed-head and wearing my Elmo pj’s, I stared at the massive crater trying to decide my landscaping options. I’m not a landscaper. I’m not a gardener. I don’t even play one on TV. Scratching my bed-head, I decided no matter what… it’s time to get dirty.

After slapping my hair into the typical ponytail and changing into some unofficial landscaping clothes, I returned to my hollowed yard. It was while I was unproductively rearranging dirt when my neighbor’s six year old daughter came running over. When she started digging up rocks and tossing them in a pile, I realized that the child had a plan. A good plan. I gave her the title of Project Manager and I followed her lead.

Even though my new Project Manager became occasionally side tracked by squiggly worms, we managed to build up a pretty good collection of rocks. It wasn’t too much longer when the mother of my new young boss walked over to make sure I wasn’t being bothered. Little did she know I was relying on her six year old child for guidance.

My neighbor loves yard work. She’s kinda freaky that way.

I think the sight of the dirt, worms and rocks got her a little excited. She actually wanted dirt crammed in her fingernails. This is unfathomable to me. I was out there out of necessity. She belly flopped into the dirt out of desire. I quickly realized if I wanted more than a worthless heap of rocks, I better demote my Project Manager and bring this dirt-lovin-woman on as Director of Operations.

The more we dug, the dirtier we became. I swear the dirt multiplied. And so did the rocks. My red flipflops were now unrecognizable and my half way decent nails were breaking one by one. I think it was when we were a few miles away from hitting China when we discovered a hidden treasure of bricks. A lot of bricks. A crap load of bricks. All lined up as if they once were a pathway. I found it odd that someone - however many years ago - would cover them with such a huge layer of dirt.

I consulted with my Director of Operations and it was decided we would use the bricks to build a retaining wall to aid in our landscaping design. An idea that I openly credit her. If it weren’t for her, I’d still be standing there clueless with no direction. Like a captain of a ship with no idea where to go or even how to turn it on.

The fate of the bricks began an ongoing argument between the Director of Operations and the demoted Project Manager. It seems the six year old wasn’t aware of the staff change because she had other plans for the newly found bricks. Something about building a “Bridge to Terabithia.” This is apparently some sort of child-speak I’m not familiar with. She eventually lost the argument and we pressed on.

As we continued our hard labor, we had the typical female-to-female conversation:

Me: I’m sorry my legs are hairy.
Her: Girl, so are mine.
Me: The hair is just so black against my white legs.
Her: I noticed mine glistening in the sun when I was walking the dog earlier.
Me: I need to shave.
Her: If you’re like me and you’re not in a relationship, there’s no need.
Me: Girl, I know what you’re sayin.
Her: Sometimes it’ll get so bad that it’ll bother me when I’m trying to sleep.
Me: You know it’s sad when you’re forced into shaving your legs because your long leg hairs hurt you when you’re trying to sleep.
Her: So sad.
Me: I haven’t even brushed my teeth today.
Her: You know, me neither.
Me: Well, aren’t we an attractive pair.

About 3pm we completed phase one of the landscaping project.

I swear I’ve never been so filthy. My dirt-lovin neighbor enjoyed becoming one with the earth. I, however, felt less enchanted. Nevertheless, it did feel good to be productive.

Phase two would involve a field trip to the local Home Depot to purchase random flowers with 26 lettered names and vague instructions. I felt the overwhelming desire to scrub the earth’s soil off my incredibly dirty body before venturing out. And yes, I shaved my legs and brushed my teeth just incase I ran into “Mr. Right Now.” Which of course I didn’t. And I could bet a year’s salary I would have if I hadn’t.

My neighbor didn’t comment on my freshly shaven legs and fresh breath when I returned with the botanical goods. I was insulted. Saddened. Disappointed. But then decided I was being pretty pathetic. Shocker, I know. But when one’s hard up for a compliment, they’ll look under the dirtiest rock to get one.

I’ve learned a lot from my roll in the dirt.

One: trim your fingernails before you dig. It’ll save you in heartache later.

Two: mulch AFTER you plant. I now have to remulch the mulch.

Three: hairy legged neighbors sure come in handy.

Four: prepare for your flowers to die. I’m sure mine will. Soon.

And five: I still hate yard work.