breaking up is hard to do

“A lot can be achieved by way of a little soul searching right now. There's some stuff going on with you on a level that's deeper than the everyday- perhaps regarding an important relationship- and it's definitely worth some thought. Meditating and writing in a journal might help you to get some free-form feelings down- then you can begin to apply your trademark powers of analysis. Clarity is right around the corner.”

so. that’s the horoscope for today. i know- i keep posting these horoscope things. i’m not a big believer in them, but it’s interesting to see how close they can be at times. that is to say, i don’t rule my life by them, i don’t check them every day or base decisions on them but every now and again when i log into yahoo i’ll check it and days like today it’s odd how close it matches up to what’s going on. not bad for some random computer spitting out some philosophical jargon and smashing it into a paragraph.

but. there is some stuff going on with me regarding an important relationship: there is no more boyfriend.

pretty important. especially considering how important it was that there even was one. things never really recovered from the fight. hell, they didn’t recover at all. i didn’t talk to him until friday afternoon when i texted him to see if he wanted to go pick up my new car with me. i got back “sure, but then we need to talk.” -sigh-

suffice to say: much discussion, most of it was my fault (some valid, some not), and that’s all there is, there is no more.

well, except for the part where i keep thinking about it. THINKING though. not heartbroken. not trying to patch it up. just thinking about it. replaying it all. looking at it from every angle. looking for my lessons. it’s what i do. analyze everything even beyond its’ natural death.

and i go back and forth. he was there when i needed him the most. that’s hard to let go. but there have also been issues and little arguments all the way along and those are really draining. not something i need right now. one of those- when it was good it was very very good, but when it was bad it was horrid things. there’s a time and a reason for everything. there’s a reason he found me all the way from iraq at the time he did. if it’s meant to, it will come back around again, but right now is not the right time for either of us. we both have a ton of learning and healing and work to do. he’s made me stronger in different ways, and i hope i’ve made him stronger too. he’s learning to be a grown man and make his own decisions and choices for himself, not what family or culture says he needs to do. that’s a gigantic shift for him. i can’t even imagine how terrifying but freeing that is all at the same time. and me- hell, i don’t know which direction is up right now. i need to get my feet back on the ground, take care of me and the spawns, make sure we’re all healthy and we come out of this stronger, and then MAYBE i can let someone back in. and who knows if that will be him or someone new. i don’t know. i just know that right now it wasn’t right. the fights over nothing. the fights over everything. the arguments, the misunderstandings. his belief of love is that you each give up a part of yourselves to become one. i disagree. i believe you add to each other to become one. i’ve fought too damn long and hard to build myself up. there’s not a piece of me i want to give away for someone else. i would love for someone to add to me, but i’m not giving up one damn part of myself ever again.

but i’ve been thinking about it non-stop since wednesday. since friday night. all ive been doing is thinking about it. did i do what’s right? will i regret it? i don’t believe in regret, so what can i change or learn from it? i need to make sure i know why i did what i did. and i need to know that it was right for me. so i keep looking at it, turning the glass looking at each flaw and imperfection. and the truth is, i know why i did what i did. i know it is right for me in this moment. but you still wonder…

the crazy fight (aka: he's too nice)

welcome to my crazy.

today, on as the word of general (psychiatric) hospital turns through the days of our lives:

the boyfriend and i had a fight last night. it ended with him storming out and staying at his house for the evening. and i haven’t talked to him yet today.

what was the fight about you ask?

he’s too damn supportive.

oh yeah, you read that right. in my crazy world, there’s such a thing as too damn supportive.

see. last night was a bad night for me. as in complete and total breakdown. CRACKERS.

i went to look at a car and test drive it and all that junk. i didn’t want to make a deal right away because i knew that a) you shouldn’t take the first offer, and b) i’m having a fucking hard time spending money that came from my dad dying. YES, i need a new car. mine is starting to make too many strange noises. YES, the money i spend will be for a good, reliable, long lasting vehicle. YES, it’s something my dad wanted to help me do before he died anyway. but DAMN, it’s hard people! and it’s my dad…and it’s this huge- there’s not even a word for it. its this gigantic mess of emotions on so many different levels.

so i tell the sales guy i need to go home and think it over for the night. so i get the kids in bed and the boyfriend goes to see his friends and it’s just me. and i sit down at the little table where i have my dad’s hat and badge and basically all that’s left of him and my brother- the little memorial table in my living room. and i sit down to talk to my dad about it. and i look at his picture. and i just lost it. it hit me SO HARD that he’s not coming back. i know i did the service, and spread the ashes, and i’ve talked about it. but sitting there, looking at his picture, knowing that’s the only way i could see him any more. it hit like a fucking mac truck running down a san francisco hill with no brakes. it just leveled me. and i’m bawling and falling apart really for the first time. i LET myself just feel it. i didn’t have to keep it together for the kids or the boyfriend or family or general people. i just let myself grieve. and be sad. and be angry. oddly enough, that’s the first time through all of this that i’ve just let myself completely go. and it all came out in one giant mess. and i’m crying so hard i’m sick and i’m snotting everywhere and it felt good. to get it all out. to let myself really be sad.

and i finally make it through a good mess of all that, pull myself together, drag my backside to bed, and the boyfriend comes home.

so. he sees me in bed, looking like a rabid raccoon. and he gets upset. he wants to know what’s wrong. he wants me to talk to him, he’s in my face and hugging me and staring at me and asking me every 30 seconds to talk to him. now. this might not sound too bad. nice guy, right? how can i be mad at him for being worried about/concerned about me?

well. i’m a freak. so. you know. there’s that. i don’t like big hugs. i’m an in and out type person. i don’t like being stared at. forever. i don’t like someone bugging me every 30 seconds to talk. TRUST: when i’m ready to talk you won’t be able to shut me up. bugging me like that is only going to piss me off. and i try to tell him- i can’t talk right now. i don’t have words. i’m just sad and i just want to be sad for a while. but that’s not good enough. and i’ve told him before that i don’t like people all up on me and all over me. it makes me feel claustrophobic like i’m suffocating. i don’t like the touching, it’s too much for me. i go on sensory overload. if i want touch, i’ll come to you. and when my little charge port is full, i’ll back off. is it selfish? is it all about me? right now, fuck yes it is. sorry. that’s just what’s going down right now.

but he gets all offended that i won’t talk to him and keep pushing him away. so i leave the bedroom, i go to the living room to be alone. i’m trying like hell to not explode and freak out on him. trying to keep it all to myself and contain the crazy a little. but he follows me. and keeps poking the bear.

-sigh-

i KNOW, i KNOW. he’s just worried and trying to help. and i know some women would kill for a man so attentive and worried. but jaysus fuck. BACK OFF. and it just keeps getting worse. and he keeps getting more offended. and IT’S NOT ABOUT HIM RIGHT NOW. it’s about me. and i’m worried about trying to keep my sanity together. i’m sorry he’s offended, but i’m not going to focus on that right now. and he decides to go pack his shit and leave for the night and storm out. and part of me wants to stop him and make him feel better, but fuck it, _I_ need to feel better first. I AM ALLOWED TO BE UPSET. and he kept telling me to calm down. WHY? i’ve been calming down since august 16th. i’ve been being nice. i’ve been keeping it together. I AM ALLOWED TO BE UPSET AND FALL APART. I AM ALLOWED TO FEEL MY PAIN AND EXPERIENCE IT. i’m allowed to be hurt and be angry. I DON’T HAVE TO CALM DOWN.

so. he packed up and stormed out without saying anything. and i felt like an ass not trying to stop him. but i also felt like it didn’t need to stop him. if he was offended, that’s not on me. those are HIS feelings, and i’m not responsible for them. i tried to tell him. i asked for my space. i asked to be left alone. i asked for him to stop sitting and staring at me like a fucking crazy animal in a zoo.

so. he left. and i watched an episode of dexter to calm down and fall asleep. cause nothing says sleep like watching a serial killer hunt serial killers. and i haven’t talked to him yet today. and i’m not sure i want to. and i know it would be silly to end something over him being too worried about me (there’s other issues too). but part of me is already out the door. and part of me knows there probably wasn’t a right thing for him to do when i was feeling like that, but of the not right things to do, he really did pick the worst option and run with it. or…you know…sit and stare at me with it.

so. you know. welcome to my crazy.

is there such a thing as TMI?

there’s not even a good title for this one. i would call it a TMI post, but this goes WAY BEYOND even a TMI. i will throw a warning up here: PLEASE, for your own safety, PLEASE do not consume hot beverages while reading this posting. also: please make sure you pee before reading as i will not be held responsible for any wayward puddles that may result.

oh lordy.

you’ve been warned. and i’ll warn you a few more times: i’m EMBARRASSED. and for _ME_ to say that…

let’s just say THANK HEAVENS there are no cameras allowed in bathroom stalls.

scared yet?

ok…i told you there would be a few more warnings: here’s one: TMI AHEAD. STOP READING NOW IF YOU ARE FAINT OF HEART.

confession: i like to have sex. i happen to have a boyfriend currently who also enjoys the same activity. last night we happened to enjoy the activity together.

still hanging in there? i know…that wasn’t TOO much of a shocker, but sometimes there’s things you like to pretend you never know…that may have been one of them.

another warning: EVEN MORE TMI AHEAD. again, if that last one set you on edge, you should REALLY stop reading now.

confession: during said sexual activity, sometimes additional *cough* items are introduced. like…say…vibrators. like small bullet vibrators. like small bullet vibrators that are *cough* inserted (more for his pleasure than mine).

just to be clear: small bullet vibrators inserted into _ME_ (not him) for his additional sexual pleasure.

still hanging in there?

oh crap. ok. if you made it through that…

so. last night happened to be one of those nights where fun was had and toys were brought out and enjoyed. yes, on a tuesday. we’re rebels like that. so. if you happen to know anything about the female anatomy, you know that after a good orgasm, certain muscles tighten up. this can, at times, make toy retrieval particularly difficult. especially when the boyfriend grabs the smaller of the two bullets for play time. there’s a reason there are TWO of them, they each have their own purpose. small ones are NOT intended to go inside. and these bullets happen to be wireless. and loopless. so. you know. you have to have a BIT of know-how to recover them. well. last night between the particularly good muscle tightening and the inadvertent use of the smaller toy, things got a little *cough* stuck. so. yeah. no amount of coaxing, muscle work, anything was helping. the only thing to resort to was a bit of yoga breathing, waiting for the muscles to relax, and then trying again.

well, here’s the thing about yoga breathing. it’s really calming. like…i don’t know…make you fall asleep calming.

and here’s the thing about sleep: it tends to make you forget things. like. i don’t know…certain search and rescue missions that were supposed to be on the schedule.

*cough*

so.

um.

i was reminded today. this afternoon actually. *cough* at work. umm…yeah…

turns out if you forget to do a search and rescue, it will eventually rescue itself.

*cough*

so. you know. umm…i’m “in the library” at work, the think tank, the power room, the loo…going about my business and suddenly i’m not so gently reminded of what i was supposed to do last night.

by a splash.

-sigh-

how’s that TMI thing working for you right about now?

so.

you can’t make this shit up.

there may or may not have been a fishing expedition that happened instead of a search and rescue mission.

YOU CAN’T FLUSH A SEX TOY DOWN THE WORK TOILET. i mean REALLY? my luck it would be the final straw on the camel’s back that screws up the whole work plumbing situation and causes every pipe in the building to burst and one little tiny silver bullet to go shooting through the air stabbing some unsuspecting person IN THE EYE and making them wear a patch and be a pirate for the rest of their life and making EVERYONE in the place turn and look at the girl with blue hair and tattoos because OBVIOUSLY she would be the person that would cause something like this and then EVERYONE WOULD KNOW and then i would get the nickname vampire killer (silver bullet, get it?) and would forever be branded at work. and while it _MAY_ initially improve my dating life (well, except for the whole already having a boyfriend that cause dthis whole mess thing) it would eventually just make people start avoiding my desk and looking at me strange and making sure i ALWAYS had hand sanitizer on my desk (if you were curious, washed my hands approx 4 times with DOUBLE soap and used half a bottle of purell).

long story short: i need to start doing more kegel exercises.

my healing process

so. in the middle of everything there’s one thing that keeps coming up, one thing everyone keeps saying, one recurring theme: it will get better, i’ll heal and get back to normal. i’ll move on.

i get it. you know? i know it will happen. i know it’s inevitable. it will get better. i will begin to heal. i will eventually move on. but normal? there is no normal any more. normal is long gone. there will be a NEW normal eventually but there is no normal to go back to. nothing will ever be the same again.

NORMAL was talking to my dad every week. it was him checking about my car, asking how money was, what the boys were up to, when i was going to come see him again. it was listening to him talk about football games or golf or fifty cent taco night at the bar. normal was my dad being upset every time i moved that my house wasn’t good enough. it was grandpa showing up at every birthday or holiday with WAY too many presents- there was no such thing as getting a few things on the wish list- it was EVERYTHING on the wish list. normal was great big grizzly bear hugs and snoring that put old school cartoons to shame. normal was having a dad i could call any time for help or love or laughs. there will never be a normal again.

so what do i go back to? i guess the answer is that you don’t go back to anything- you have to move forward. but it’s fucking hard people. it’s hard to move forward. it’s hard to move. it’s hard to breathe. it’s hard to know that all the things that were so special, the things i took for granted are just gone. they’re memories now. and i’m TERRIFIED that memories will fade with time.

i don’t want to move forward. i don’t want to have a new normal. i don’t want to forget.

i know that eventually i’ll have to. i know that time and life will force me to. but for now i need to hurt. i HAVE to hurt before i can heal. i have to ask my questions. i have to be angry. i have to cry. i have to rage against the universe and curse the unfairness of it all. i have to find time to let myself feel all the different things.

i’ve been told over and over “this is the life” but i say BULLSHIT. BULL. FUCKING. SHIT. this is NOT the life. it is NOT normal to lose your brother and your grandmother and your father and your step mother all in less than a year. YES, loss happens. but holy fuck universe- give me some fucking room to breathe and deal with things. can we space these out a little more? you know...like...NEVER? and yes, i understand how unreasonable that is. i understand life and death and eventually we will lose people. but FUCK. not all at once, you know?

so. the questions really are: HOW DO I HURT? and HOW DO I HEAL? i know that i have to do both. and here’s what i’m attempting (poorly, but attempting):

talking about it: friends and sounding boards and therapy and hell, even perfect strangers are all hearing little bits and pieces of what i’m going through right now. there’s several reasons for this: #1- it validates my feelings. wait...validates isn’t the right word- it makes them real. when you’re forced to put words to things you have to know what you’re saying. you have to be able to call it by name and once you’re able to do that it doesn’t seem so big and scary. it makes me really think about what i’m feeling so i CAN say it. #2- every person you come into contact with is there for a reason and at a specific time. i believe that with every part of my being. every person is there for you to share something with or to share something with you. you never know what you will take away from an interaction, or what you may be able to give them. whose to say that the checker at the store didn’t also recently experience a loss and by my talking about mine it lets them know that they’re not alone in the shit-pile the universe is shoveling out? maybe they can tell me how they’re getting through it or i can tell them how i am. maybe it’s something as simple as making another human connection. maybe it’s an opportunity to learn something new or laugh for a minute or be reminded and one of a million things. TALKING IS GOOD.

writing about it: if talking is good, writing is fan-fucking-tastic. as much as you can talk about something there’s a sense of finality to see it in front of you. writing has always been my core self. it’s what i ALWAYS go back to when shit hits the fan. i have journals from every hard part of my life. it’s my chance to talk to myself and talk to other people without being interrupted or thrown off track or forgetting what i was trying to say. i can organize it, tweak it, work it through until i really know it’s exactly what i want to express. it also gets it out of my head- there’s something about writing for me- i can think about it forever, i can talk about it, but until i put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) it won’t be OUT of my head. once it’s written i can finally put it to rest. i can know i’ve said my peace. i can know that it’s there. it’s a tangible thought. it’s no longer just my own voice in my head, it’s out there- if this makes sense to you, you’re probably also a writer. if it doesn’t make sense- trust, it really helps me.

and i'm finding new ways to write. ways to force myself through it. i'm making myself write on my lunch breaks at work- it makes me get through things and feel it all without being allowed to fall apart. i tried to write at home one evening and just found myself staring at the wall and getting lost in emotions and getting NO writing done. when i write at work i have to focus, i have a time limit, i have to get it out and still be able to function for the rest of the day. i make myself write about the hard things that i know i wouldn't be able to face otherwise. it's been very helpful.

ink: i waited until i was 27 to get my first tattoo. every single one of my designs is something i picked, something that represents a part of me, something that helped me deal with a different part of my life. a tattoo on my foot for my kids. “destiny” on my wrist to remind me every day that there’s a time and a purpose for everying. the flowers growing up my calf to remind me of all the battles i’ve made it through. the vw for my brother. and now my dad’s badge on my shoulder to never forget who he was and what he meant to so many people.

i went in a week or so ago and had this new one done. and it’s my dad. it’s his badge, his badge number, hell, my artist even mixed some of my dad’s ashes into the ink for me. it’s as much of my dad as i can get and keep forever. and there’s something about the pain of getting ink- it puts a REAL pain to the pain in my heart. as i was on the table for this last one i started crying- something NOT ALLOWED on tattoo tables. you know how there’s no crying in baseball? there’s no crying in tattoos too. so there i am on the table, all of 5 minutes into the ink, and i start to cry. IT DIDN’T HURT (which was surprising given the placement). that is to say the INK didn’t hurt. but it hurt to the very core to think of why i was getting the tattoo, what it meant. it made me really face it again- you can’t deny your father is gone when his ashes are being put into your skin. you can’t say he’ll come back one day when you’re holding his burned badge in your hand for the artist to get the design from. you can’t pretend it didn’t happen any longer.

and you know that thing about talking that i mentioned? how each person is there at a certain time for a certain reason? turns out my tattoo artist was law enforcement. he worked as an EMT for years, had been recruited for the WSP, had tested for Kootenai county- all places my family of cops has been. my dad studied to be an emt back in the beginning and was a WSP. my brother started his career in Kootenai county. my artist UNDERSTOOD. he knew what it meant to put this badge on me. he had read the news and followed the story. it meant as much to him to be able to do the ink for me as it did for me to receive the ink. it wasn’t just some random person all...whatever...with the gun. we were able to talk about it through the process. he understood the tears and made an exception to the rule for me on his table crying.

and it really did help me start to heal. going through the pain, working through the meaning, making sure the ink healed right- it’s helping me heal a little more every day. i still tear up when i look at it. i still hurt when i remember why it’s there. i have a hard time explaining it to people without turning into a slobbering crying mess. but each time gets a little easier. i can’t say each day is getting easier yet. just when i think that something comes along to submarine me. but you know...eventually...right? that whole being forced to move forward and find a new normal? it will happen whether i want it to or not, right? so. welcome to my healing.

the remainder

here's a math problem for you:

mom + dad = brother & me - dad + second wife = step-brother & little brother - second wife & step-brother = mom brother me dad little brother - mom - brother - dad - little brother = ??

so. if you haven’t heard, the last few years have been one giant suck-fest in the family category. my mum and i had a slightly major falling out a few years ago causing problems between my brother and i (who already didn’t get along so great), october claimed my little half brother and now august has claimed my dad and his wife.

so. what does that leave behind? what remains of my family? a giant, resounding, ME (and my kids, but you get the gist).

people keep saying: maybe some day you’ll work things out with your mom. don’t hold your breath. what is there to work out with someone who chose to stay with the person who abused not only her daughter but her grandson as well? no thanks. not my crowd.

and what about my brother? slightly hard to have a relationship with someone who views my whole life as one giant train wreck and everything i do a disappointment of some sort.

and i know i don’t have THE most stable life- i’m a far cry from his little all american dream- how many people really can pull off the cop married to the nurse with one boy, one girl, a dog, a cat, a house (with fence!) on 5 acres, the perfect truck, perfect camper, and unicorns prancing in the yard daily? (ok...so as far as i know he doesn’t *ACTUALLY* have unicorns prancing in his yard...but the rest is true).

YES i move quite a bit. totally not by choice- moving SUCKS. 11 times in 11 years is NOT something someone just decides to do- well, at least not something _I_ just up and decided to do. there was college, a marriage, marriage problems, divorce, changing jobs, landlord getting foreclosed, and a landlord being a slum lord all thrown in there. WHEN I CHOOSE, i stay put as long as possible. after my divorce i stayed in that apartment for almost 4 years. when i moved to spokane i stayed put for 2 years. i’ve been in my house now for over a year and don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon.

and YES, there have been guys in and out over the last SIX years since my divorce. ask my kids how many they can name and i bet you’ll hear 3 names. THREE. in SIX years. and they know that only ONE has ever been called a boyfriend. but, damn it, i think i’m allowed to date and see what’s out there. i battle enough with myself about whether or not i should let someone in my life. it’s FUCKING HARD for me to allow anyone to help me emotionally or otherwise. this last year is the ONLY time i’ve let anyone get close to me. the first guy burned me BADLY, and this time i’m still not sure which direction i’m going and if it’s good or not. so. you know. TWO times letting anyone even remotely close in the last SIX years. and honestly, besides the ex (who never really did get close), there has only been those two guys in TWELVE years. don’t think i’m exactly ruining my kids lives here. and two times with all the shit that’s hit the fan. i’m SO FUCKING SORRY i needed someone there to help a bit when my brother died. and i’m SO FUCKING SORRY i need someone there now to help me get through losing my dad. does it make me weak? fuck yes it does. the more you learn to depend on someone else, the more you’ll have to re-learn to depend on yourself when they’re gone, so i know it sucks. i know i’m making it harder for myself in the long run. but damn it, i need someone. that’s hard enough to admit, even harder to allow, and fuck it all, i don’t need my nose rubbed in my weakness.

if you were wondering, these are all things my brother chewed my ass for in our last phone conversation.

-sigh-

it’s just- i’m realizing through all this that the old saying about blood not being family and family not being blood- it’s fucking true. to me, sure i have blood family left, but they’re not family by a long shot. i mean sure there’s still fragments out there, but i choose not to have anything to do with people hell bent on destroying me. call me silly, but i choose to live a HEALTHY life. so what does that leave? it leaves people i choose. people i WANT to surround myself with. but even that is proving to be difficult. you think there are people, you hope there are people, then the cards are called in and you realize what you had in your hand isnt what holds up on the table. it’s good and it’s bad- you are able to get rid of the ones that have no place, and you’re able to bring in new ones.

but it’s hard though, you know? and you always WISH that the blood could be the ones you choose. you keep hoping that one of these times blood family will be the ones to pull through. they’ll be the ones stepping up and helping you through. or at least _i_ keep hoping. i don’t know why. they haven’t yet in 30 years. in times of crisis i’ve heard: “well, you know, family will only be there so many times for you,” and “well, we couldn’t get involved because people might talk,” and “well, you just need to learn to depend on yourself.”

does ANY of that sound like family? what ever happened to “no matter what, we’ll be there,” or “who gives a fuck what people say? you need us, we’re there,” or “you can ALWAYS depend on us. hell or high water, we’re all stronger when we support each other.”

THAT. THAT is the family i want. i want the people who love me anyway. the people who say FUCK the rest, you have us. the people who support you and let you support them.

not sure where this came from all of a sudden. just feeling a little lost and confused lately.

here's to turning 30-

here’s a riddle for you kids:

what starts with being sick TWICE before the first drink of the evening, has girls climbing street signs and a limo of 6 HOT chick (and one guy) in the middle, and ends with crawling through a window at 2am in a party dress?

MY BIRTHDAY BITCHES 

so. i’m officially 30 now. i have to admit that i’ve had a few moments of feeling old and inadequate since the official day. not like anything magically changed overnight but suddenly i’m feeling the need to get rid of the blue short spiky hair, get a purse that costs more than my car, and start having dinner parties discussing 401K and retirement options.

stupid thirties.

I TAKE THAT BACK. i HEART my 30’s already- for no other reason than this: they HAVE to be better than my 20’s. i mean honestly, they have statistics on their side. my 20’s consisted of having a second baby, marriage, divorce, losing my brother, grandmother, father, and step-mother. so. you know. of those, only two could POSSIBLY happen again, and even then, the chances of that are slim to none (depending on how vegas goes). so here’s to the 30’s being WAY better than the 20’s!

but- back to the birthday. seriously people? re-dic-u-lous. i would post a picture (yes, there are a FEW pictures) but in order to protect the not-so-innocent, i will refrain. but here’s a mental picture for you: imagine the victoria’s secret annual underwear fashion show. all those crazy hot models? throw them in a limo, add champagne, toss me in the mix, and there’s my birthday. if i remember correctly, one of our gals was even underwear fashion show dressed- that is to say a men’s white dress shirt and little else. I LOVE MY GIRLS.

the evening started at my house- my girls thankfully agreed to come over and help me get ready since my knowledge of make-up/party-getting-ready extends to…well…nothing. so all my gorgeous ladies (and one guy!) arrived, wine was opened, party favors passed around, and the evening was off to a great start.

one of my gorgeous girls came to the rescue somehow digging through my meager supply of makeup to pull out a killer katy perry look for me for the evening and then finishing it off by making my hair do amazing things that it usually laughs at me for attempting (one of these days i HAVE to buy a ratting comb and other essential hair supplies).

but- back to those party favors- turns out they were slightly anti-party favors for me- something did NOT agree with me at all. not sure if it was the wine, my pre-party-excitement, the mexican from lunch, or some unknown birthday hating super-force, but something was trying to take the party out of me. i was SICK kids. we’re talking whole body numb, counting to ten, deep breathing SICK. but i was NOT going to miss my own damn birthday though. oh HELL no. you only turn 30 once. and all my girls were there- IT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN. now, from my perspective, the getting ready from this point on took approximately 902 hours ALL of which i was freaking out about being late and making everyone else late and harshing the mood for the whole evening. and shoes. i was so fucking worried about my shoes. i mean you REALLY don’t want to be walking around in 3” heels when you’re not feeling the best but you don’t want to be the goober in a party dress and crap shoes. WHAT THE HELL DO YOU DO? (solution: flip flops were worn to dinner while real girl shoes were carried. klassy much?) i was trying so hard to keep it together- i knew i must be taking FOREVER to try to pull myself together. kept telling myself to stay calm, it will pass, it will be fine…but 902 hours! COME ON. get it together already!

in reality i think the getting ready took about 30 minutes, we were in PLENTY of time to dinner, and no one was worried about what shoes i was wearing. but, main point, i was NOT feeling well. come hell or high water though the birthday was happening!

so. the getting ready DOES happen, i manage to get my purse/shoes/jacket together, and we make it out the door to dinner. we somehow (my girls work MAGIC people) managed to snag a table for 6 on a busy thursday night with no reservation at a little tiny bar/restaurant and dinner/drinks were ordered.

now. you know that moment when you’re not feeling well and you think to yourself: maybe if i just go ahead and get sick everything will be better? i think i even leaned over to one of my gals around this point and asked her as much. well, after much consideration (not even kidding, i had a whole internal debate with myself) and with the help of some not so great linguini with alfredo sauce, the decision was made to go ahead and be sick and see if that improved the situation.

MAGICAL!

INSTANTLY felt much better. and quite a bit like an ass at the same time. i mean REALLY- who throws up BEFORE the first drink on their THIRTIETH birthday? turns out i don’t so much party like a rock star, i party like a mathlete. -sigh- someday i’ll be one of the cool kids. my birthday was not that day.

so. back to dinner, back to my girls, back to feeling like a real human being. we finish up dinner, get ready for the limo, and i decide, just to make sure, to go be sick one more time just to make sure it’s all out of my system. YES, this was a conscious decision not an urgent need. practicality ruled at this point. i mean really- might as well while you’re somewhere “normal”. would have hated to be part way into the limo ride and have it NOT be my decision…you know what i mean. so. YES. me. sick twice before my first drink even. welcome to thirty.

now, if i haven’t mentioned already, I LOVE MY GIRLS. how many times in life can you drop the following sentence: while we were waiting outside for the limo one of our girls was practicing pole work on a no parking sign (there were pictures of that) and two were having a booty popping workshop. on the street. outside the bar with an all glass front. welcome to my birthday.

at this point in the evening, things transmogrified into something of a rap video. we all loaded into the limo for a ride up to the top of the south hill for a birthday toast. on the way we stopped to get some extra champagne (save the good stuff for the real toast!) and all my pretty maids rolled out of the limo with our ONE guy following them- i’m sure it was quite a sight from the outside looking in: limo rolls up, hot girl…hot girl…hot girl…hot girl…guy. i’m sure everyone was wondering what he was doing right…cause DAMN gina! HE knows how to party like a rock star! that’s how we roll. we cruised our way up to the top of the hill where the view was AMAZING (but really cold!), toasted the evening, and headed back down for the rest of the celebrations.

from here on out the evening was a blur of drinks (only three in total…i stayed pretty mellow), lap dances, pictures, and much merriment by all.

now. you’d think, after all that, there wouldn’t be much more to report. you’d be wrong.

at the beginning of the evening, even while not feeling well, i made sure of ONE thing: LEAVE THE DOOR UNLOCKED (well, that and to make sure there was gum in my purse…details people, details). i MADE SURE the door was unlocked. i did NOT want to have to keep track of a key or try to use it at the end of the evening. DOOR. U.N.L.O.C.K.E.D. made sure of it. so. 2 am, rolling up to my house, buzzed enough to notice, not drunk enough to lose all thought, i go to open my door. and THUNK. yes, that’s the sound of my head hitting the door when it didn’t swing wide open like it was supposed to. umm…WHAT. THE. HELL. door was unlocked. and you have to have the key to lock it, so i know no one else did that on the way out…let me try again…because maybe i just didn’t turn the knob the right way. THUNK. TWICE. maybe a little more buzzed than i thought. so i knock on the door. if someone locked it, they must be inside, right? maybe boyfriend decided to come home and wait for me. KNOCK. wait. KNOCK. wait. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK. wait. nothing. and my phone is dead. DEAD. not even a hope of one quick text or call. KNOCK. wait. nothing. DAMN IT. try the other door. locked. knock. nothing. FUCK A DUCK. now what? umm…window. there has to be a window open somewhere. but they’re all really high- umm…crap. ooo…SMALL TABLE! KIDS BEDROOM WINDOW! (don’t worry, the kids weren’t home, they were safely stashed at old spawns father’s house all the way across town). SO. small table, window open. ME. CRAWLING OVER THE BRICK WINDOWSILL. 2AM. IN MY PARTY DRESS. not so delicately landing on the bedroom floor (is there a delicate way to do that? even stone cold sober?). i spring back to my feet (or crawl across the floor, same difference) and make it into my room ready to rip a new asshole into boyfriend who MUST be sleeping through the door locking and not so sober door pounding…NOTHING. there’s no one there. WHAT. THE. HELL. whatevs. i’m in. i go UNLOCK the front door, retrieve my purse, shoes and coat (i was smart enough not to try to take them all in at once), plug in my phone try to figure out what happened.

turns out boyfriend was sad not to be invited out for the evening, DID come back, took my bottle of jack daniels, LOCKED THE DOOR ON THE WAY OUT, and had himself his own little party back at his place.

-sigh-

and it gets better. saturday small spawn decided he wanted hamburgers for dinner. i go outside to fire up the bbq, take off the cover, and something drops to the ground. oh, hey, LOOK: A SPARE FUCKING KEY. on the bbq. the one i had to move out of the way to get to the kids bedroom window. a spare key to the front door. you know…incase i ever happen to lock myself out and don’t want to look like a complete ass crawling through one of my windows…

apparently turning 30 doesn’t make you any smarter.

BUT: the birthday was a GREAT success. if this was any indicator to how vegas will go in october- holy hell will that be a trip! it was an EXCELLENT evening, a great way to start a new year of being around on this rock. i ADORE all the girls (and guy!) that took time out to come celebrate with me. i said it at dinner, i’ll say it again now for any that happen to read this: it means the WORLD, especially in the middle of everything that’s going on, to have PEOPLE around. i don’t give a rat’s ass about things or intentions or any of that crap. having people THERE. having people in person to laugh with and raise hell with. having them plan it all and put it all together and making extra effort to make sure it wasn’t just a regular birthday. knowing all the should have beens associated with the day and making sure to replace them with OH HELL YES IT WAS. i can’t even begin to say how much it meant.

so. here’s to 30. and friends. and love. and support. and limo rides. and lap dances. and all the fun.

the one with a sense of humor

i was planning on making today’s blog post about anger- i seem to have PLENTY of that right about now. anger at everything- “friends”, family, kids, life, money, the universe. PLENTY of anger to go around. trust.

instead today’s blog is going to be about humor- cause that’s how i roll. i just tweeted (if you don’t know what that is, i can’t love you any more) the following: “trust: there’s nothing in this world that can’t be overcome with a smile and a slightly off color joke. trick is knowing how to do both.”

it’s true. humor has gotten me through this far. being able to find SOMETHING to laugh at, being able to find a smile, being able to do both. but it’s hard. it’s REALLY fucking hard. i don’t want to smile some days. i don’t want to make a joke. i don’t want to be happy even for a moment. and there’s been plenty of days that i haven’t been. there have been days of nothing but fear or anger or hurt or a million other things. but the days with the smiles and the jokes- THOSE are the good days. and what good is a smile if you can’t share it? right? or some other cheesy lame ass expression like that…

so. here’s a few of the smiles that have gotten me through the last few weeks, please understand some may end up being not so funny now but they were fucking pee your pants funny in the moment:

moment #1: introducing my mom to my boyfriend the morning she came to tell me about the fire. i answered the door in a wife beater (a-shirt for those against domestic violence) and underwear (incase you missed that in yesterday’s post). THAT’S IT. and i had to wake up boyfriend while crying and snuffling and being a MESS and introduce him to my mom for the first time IN MY UNDERWEARS. the uuber religious crazy person from whence i sprang meeting the boy sharing my bed outside of marriage. good moment. warm, fuzzy, family memory for the scrap books.

moment #2: after getting back from my seeing my dad’s house for the first time, boyfriend’s roommates girlfriend (did you follow that trail?) and i were making dinner and drinking. we may or may not have split a WHOLE bottle of wine betwixt the two of us in under 15 minutes. so, the two of us, slightly *cough* intoxicated, trying to cut vegetables for a roast, start talking- and she drops this bomb: “well, if he wasn’t on the international watch list before, he sure is now.” _I_ABOUT_DIED_LAUGHING. understand: boyfriend is here as a political refugee. from iraq. and speaks very good english, but even better arabic. and he went with me to the scene of the worst loss in WSP history…i’m suffering a failure to communicate the humor here…but trust: it was freaking hilarious. maybe it was the wine. everyone go drink a half a bottle of wine then come back and read this again…i’ll wait.

moment #3: finding the ONE, SINGLE, ONLY remaining piece of my dad that is completely and 100% in tact at the scene of the fire: his BRAND NEW golf clubs that were safe and secure in the back of his expedition parked in the driveway. why is this funny? my dad was TERRIBLE at golf. my brother (who took the clubs) is even worse. i’m not even allowed to play- i’m restricted to driving the cart. so, of COURSE, the one thing that survives- it couldn’t be a photo album or a treasured keepsake or a family heirloom- it has to be his golf clubs, the one thing we’re all TERRIBLE at. i mean…REALLY DAD? your final dying wish? as your life flashed before your eyes and you were granted one last request on this earth? it couldn’t be for a window to open? or a sudden torrential downpour? or, you know, not to die? your FINAL REQUEST was to save the new golf clubs? i love you dad.

moment #4: in the cars on the way to the procession, riding with a good family friend and her parents who were all best friends of my dad (he called her my other sister and spent all his time with her parents). we’re riding along and we start talking about bi-mart (turn at the bi-mart to get to where the procession is starting). and i crack up…it’s not turn at the church, or a left at the patrol office- it’s turn left at bi-mart. very fitting for my dad. and they start joking about how much they all love the bi-mart coupons. in fact- just the day before, they had been able to get four bags of doritos FREE using bi-mart coupons- and the mom suddenly says: YOU KNOW- we should have brought one of the bags- we could have had some road trip snacks! OH.MY.GOD. about peed myself. road trip snacks? in a funeral procession? of 182 police cars? of course. we should have brought road trip snacks. and what better road trip snack than doritos? because nothing says klassy like showing up for a funeral in a full black suit with orange dorito cheese all over (it always happens) and nice dorito breath for when you have to greet and talk to the governor. oh.my.god. i cracked up. road trip snacks.

moment #5: getting to the staging lot for the procession was hard. seeing all the police, the cars, the emergency response vehicles, all the people that worked with my dad, the people that hadn’t worked with him but still knew the impact of the whole event. it was moving. but i held it together. until we went to actually pull out and leave- they just HAD to release doves for us to drive under. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?? there’s only so much waterproof mascara can do people! and i can’t help but think of my dad, and i can’t help but wish, if there’s any justice or sense of balance in the world- i just HOPE upon HOPE that somewhere, in one of the cages, of all the birds they released, PLEASE, PLEASE say there was one retarded dove that either flew into a windshield, “blessed” one of the motorcycle police, wandered around and couldn’t figure out how to fly…SOMETHING. please say there was one retard bird in the batch. i only got to see the first few…but i couldn’t help but laugh in my head just hoping…it wasn’t a moment i got to see, but it’s a moment i got to hope for…

moment #6: my body guard. it wasn’t so much of a moment as a WHOLE DAY with an outstanding officer that knew exactly how to make me laugh and keep me moving forward and got me through the whole ceremony. BLESS HIM for never once calling my by name. i was never trooper miller’s daughter, sherry, ms. miller- the WHOLE DAY i was: “where’s the girl with the blue hair?” ADORE. and i adore him for telling me about his son, the 6’7” 280-some-odd pound college linebacker that played all four years of college ball, graduated, then decided to go to a beauty academy. if i ever decided to cheat on my darling kati with another hair dresser it would be with that guy. because: AWESOME. and i adore him for scolding me when i wasn’t where i was supposed to be. and for reminding us that no matter how much brass or how many fancy titles, or who else showed up, WE, the family, were the dignitaries for the day. and for going against the grain and proudly wearing a flamingo on his uniform pocket for everyone to see for anne. and for keeping track of me the whole day until the moment i walked out the door heading back to the motel. and for just being everything an officer should be. and for being even more than that.

moment #7: talking to the funeral home on the phone to verify the forms granting permission for cremation: me: “ummm…is there really anything left for you guys to do? is this paperwork even really necessary?”

moment #8: speaking of ashes: getting ready to do my tattoo, asking my artist: “ready to meet my dad?” as i pulled the ashes out of my purse.

moment #9: being able, every single day, to still hear my dad’s voice in my head about EVERYTHING.

about the service: really? you couldn’t just dig a hole and kick me in it? what’s all this mess for?”

about the estate: “make sure you take care of yourself. remember, you can’t feed the world.”

about buying a house: “i wish i had a million dollars to buy you a house so you would never have to worry again.” this isn’t the way i want it dad, but you’re doing that.

i know there’s so many more- it’s been three weeks and i’m still standing, so there had to have been WAY more moments- i’ll add more as i remember them. but these are the slightly inappropriate moments that made me smile and have helped me get through to here. so. there you have it. as long as you can smile and tell (or think) something slightly off color you’ll be fine. well, not fine, but a little less of a train wreck. oh hell, you’ll still be a train wreck but at least a mildly entertaining one.