And so it goes...

So...the summer has ended and my stepdaughter has returned to her hometown to be with her mom for the school year. I would be lying if I said I had been fully prepared and excited at the prospect of having a child with us 24/7 for the summer, but I would also be lying now if I said I didn't miss that little stinker now that she is gone.

My husband is very dedicated to his new job, which is a great thing considering that is why we uprooted our lives, but it also means that he works a lot and that I spend a lot of time alone now. I have always always loved my "me time", but the phrase "too much of a good thing" comes to mind right now. It is a struggle for me not to pounce on him the minute he walks through the front door, begging and pleading for attention and acknowledgement of the things I have "accomplished" in his absence. Mostly, this is a lost cause, but I suppose this has always been the plight of the woman. Sigh.

Alone, unemployed, unacknowledged...I do find myself struggling with the old demons of depression. Questioning my purpose, the meaning of life, the end all be all of the what is. This is not to say that I am being swallowed up by depression...not even close. I'm happy. I'm just...lost? Nay...disoriented. I've been removed from all that I had become familiar with and comfortable with. Life, once again, threw me a curveball in the form of love for another human being and the committment that comes along with marriage and for the first time in my life...I had to be selfless and give up my own course of adventure to embark on someone else's. I know this is not a bad thing...but it is not an easy and swift transition to adapt to. It's a process and I am 100% at the very beginning of understanding and embracing it.

Last week, I had a CT scan of my abdomen and pelvis. The results showed some junk that may not necessarily belong there. As you might imagine, this adds a whole new dimension to my disoriented state of being. Facing this unknown obstacle, which may really turn out to be a non-issue, makes me feel grateful that I am not employed (I can focus on getting this resolved) and that I am closer to my family and friends in PA (my support system). Perhaps it is true what they say: "Everything happens for a reason".

Regardless...summer ends...autumn begins. In like an earthquake, out like a hurricane. Heh. And so it goes...

Bedtime Stories

This is how I know I married the right man for me...

**Warning--If you are mature, you may not appreciate this post.**

This summer, we have been reading bedtime stories all together--my husband, my stepdaughter and I. Each night, my stepdaughter will choose 2 books from her shelves for our shared reading pleasure. Generally, my husband will read his selection first and then it is my turn. Despite the fact that my stepdaughter will soon be 8, she has a tendency to choose books she has owned for many years, but that's ok...we still enjoy it.

My husband and I both tend toward an adolescent sense of humor about some things and I have come to the realization that children's books are full of innuendos for the immature adult. For example, he and I tend to get the giggles over a statement in a Sesame Street book in which Betty Lou offers Big Bird her "watering can". Not totally sure why this is SO funny...but since he got the giggles over it...I can no longer read the offending sentence without falling into hysterics.

Here are  some others that give us the giggles:

From Frosty the Snowman: "Round and round the snowy yard they rolled the snowballs. Soon they had two fine big ones."

From Curious George: "After a good meal and a good pipe, George felt very tired."


Ralph S. Mouse was always "polishing his chrome".

From The True Story of Balto: "at last he felt the package".

I am sure I could find plenty more for our immature chiding...but I have done enough to embarrass myself for now.

I Blame My Husband for My Reading Habits

I have been an absent blogger lately. I think this is because I have been reading fiction. And the fiction I am reading is sad. And reading sad stuff does not lend itself well to comedic blogging inspiration.

I blame my husband for this. He's always all "Read a book" to me. And I do read books. Its just that I am that girl who goes to the library and stays amongst the non-fiction shelves. I am that girl with a sick addiction to self-help books. My husband hates this too because it sometimes makes me get all preachy when I say things like "According to so and so...you should so and so and why don't you?" Or then I am always trying to start these "programs" like "4 Weeks to a Better Body" or something, but I only ever make it past Day 1 and then I hate myself for weeks.

My husband always likes to remind me of the time that I borrowed The Fountainhead for like the whole first year we were dating and only managed to read about 32 pages. What can I say...I had a pretty big backlog of self-help books calling my name.

So, when we went to Turks and Caicos for one of my best friend's weddings, I pulled The Kite Runner off the shelf at home. Only...at the airport on  the way to Turks and Caicos, my husband informs me that the book is quite depressing and I'm all like "I don't want to be depressed so I will just read these trashy tabloid magazines instead." And so, The Kite Runner took a trip to Turks and Caicos without so much as a page flip. The Kite Runner is now in my bedside table waiting for the moment when I am ready to be depressed. Which may be sooner than later....cause what did I do last week??

Last week, I went to the library in my new town and I'm all "I'll show him I can read fiction" and I checked out two of the Most.Depressing.Books in the entire library. It only took me a few days to read Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay  (yes, this is out in movie form right now). This book was riveting and heartbreaking and I couldn't put it down, but it was about the Holocaust and the 1942 roundups of Jewish families living in France and well...there really isn't much uplifting about the Holocaust. But, you should read this book.

I am now reading The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb. I picked this one up because a decade or so ago, I read his first two books and well....he is decidedly one of THE BEST authors ever. This book is centered around the Columbine shootings...another uplifting event in the history of our times. Wally Lamb is such a good writer that I can actually imagine that I am there. In the library. With the shooters. I have nightmares about this.

Anyway...I am only about halfway through this 768-page book, so there will still be more depressing nights and nightmares to come. But, alas...its good stuff.

I need to find some good funny fiction, uplifting fiction, anything besides this next...suggestions and recommendations welcome!

The Art of Collecting Junk

My stepdaughter is something of a "collector". By this I mean...she likes to pick things up off the ground and stuff them in her pockets. She does this at school, at camp, on walks, in restaurants...anywhere. It doesn't matter where we are. If there is something on the ground that doesn't belong there, it now belongs to her. If there isn't miscellaneous trash or long lost trinkets to be excavated and collected, she will find some form of nature to take with her. Once, while walking around the lake near our temporary apartment, she picked up no less that 942 goose feathers. Ok...I'm exaggerating, but she did collect enough to make an impressive Indian headdress (though I am uncertain that goose feathers would be appropriate for this sort of project). We now have them stuffed in a shoebox for umm...safe keeping?

Being a "collector" isn't necessarily a bad thing and I would like to add that she has never picked up anything completely gross and disgusting, though I am not totally sure of the sanitary conditions of some of her findings. Where the problem arises for me...is that being the amazing domestic goddess that I am...I cannot seem to remember to do a pocket check before laundering clothes. Because of this,  I have washed leaves, flowers, rocks, coins (both real and fake), tissues, candy wrappers, plastic oddities, art projects, lip balm...the list goes on and on. Today, I spent an unreasonable amount of time digging individual beads (aka PixOs) from the bottom of the washing machine. The PixOs used to be shaped in some form of artwork, but alas...said artwork did not survive laundering. Oopsy. Hopefully,  the washing machine can survive the PixO invasion.

I am half-tempted to sew all her pockets shut because let's be real...I am never going to get the hang of doing a pre-wash pocket check no matter how many things I destroy or melt in the washing machine and dryer. Then again...let's be real some more...I am never gonna take the time to sew her pockets shut...so it looks like we will just have to continue  the collection game. She will continue to find treasures on the ground and I will continue to find treasures in the washing machine. And so it goes.

Holy crap!! I'm 38!?!

I woke up super early this morning and I have to admit it may have been because today is MY DAY to get pages full of birthday wishes on The Facebook and I couldn't wait to sit and watch them roll in and feel all special and loved and the center of cyber-attention, which is way more fun than actually being the center of attention in like real life or something like that.

I also had the opportunity to spend 52* glorious minutes alone with my coffee and my thoughts and my 2 cats and the dog and ponder the meaning of life and bemusedly watch as the dog and the cats struggled with the concept of the Screen Door and how they can't seem to see it or understand that they can't walk through it. Heh.

Anyway, I digress...when left alone with my thoughts this morning, I got to thinking...HOLY CRAP...I AM 38!?  I don't know why 38 sounds so much older than 37, but it does. I also know that I don't FEEL anymore 38 than I felt 37. I feel about 26 or so. Some days, I feel 16 or 12 or maybe about 9. I most certainly do not feel old enough to have a husband and a step kid. People and animals who rely on me. A house. A car. Real responsibilities. My own bank account. When did all this happen? And when does one begin to FEEL like an adult? Or is it just me?

I read an article yesterday in Self Magazine about birthdays. One woman related each birthday to a percentage of awesomeness...as in yesterday I was 37% awesome and today I am 38% awesome. I like this. Even though that is like barely 1/3 awesome...it means that well a) I'm awesome, b) I get awesome-er every year and c) there is plenty of room left for growing awesomeness. Yessss.

Awesomeness seems to be my word lately. I checked out the Urban Dictionary definition and it says "An unmeasurable amount of awesomenimity something can produce." I also really like the word "awesomenimity". Nice. Urban Dictionary also provides 2 quotes from Barney Stinson of How I Met Your Mother fame:


1) Job Interviewer: "What´s your best quality?"

    Barney: "Awesomeness!!"

(I wonder how this would go over in a real life interview?)

2) "When I get sad, I stop being sad and be awesome instead. True story."

Anyway...today's my birthday and a start of a new year. I better stop blabbing and go be awesome!! Later all!!

* at 52 minutes my solitude was interrupted by a hungry talkative 7 year-old. Sigh.

This is Not a Pretty Post

I am PMS-ing today. Moody, emotional, sensitive. But the truth is I almost always feel like this. I am sure there are plenty of things I could blame it on: the stress of moving, being unemployed, being a new stepmom. But, I blame it on prednisone. Prednisone is the bane of my existence.

According to the Mayo Clinic, high-dose prednisone use can cause elevated blood pressure (check), fatigue (check), mood swings (check), fluid retention (check), weight gain with fat deposits in your abdomen, face (moonface) and the back of your neck (camel hump) (check, check, and check), increased appetite (check), thin skin, easy bruising, deep purple stretch marks (check, check, check). Oh...and the sweat. I sweat like a marathoner...only I'm not running. I'm walking from the first floor to the second floor and my clothing and hair are drenched. On top of this, I am tapering off the drug (for the ump-teenth time) and with that comes its own set of "fun" side effects including: severe fatigue, weakness, body aches, nausea and vomiting. Good times. Add this to the above-mentioned life stressors and we have a recipe for one very depressed, weepy, (did I mention sweaty), and not-so-fun-to-be-around girl. 

Since starting prednisone in May of 2010, I have gained approximately 30 pounds. Some days I feel like this is mostly in my face, but my clothing size tells me that he rest of my body has also been very affected. I went from being a slightly overweight, but active fit girl, to being an obese girl who can barely manage the stairs. I am miserable, hate to look in the mirror and grapple with self-acceptance on a daily basis. Fatigue, sweating and heightened blood pressure/heart rate make it difficult to stick with much of a workout routine, though I try to do some mild form of exercise each day when I can muster it.

With exception of my husband, family and a few very close (and majorly patient and loving) friends, I suffer mostly in silence. I often feel the need to "warn" people who haven't seen me in a long time about the physical changes. I feel like I have to explain why I look like this. I don't recognize myself in the mirror. I am surely my own worst enemy. Though it certainly doesn't help when acquaintances walk up to me and say "Why your face so fat?" or ask me if I am "expecting".  I take it with a grain of salt. I know that deep down, most people mean well. My stepdaughter told me recently, "I see that your face is bigger, but I just pretend it isn't. You should do that too." She makes a good point. 

I am writing this today really just to get it all out of my system. I know, realistically, that whining and complaining and feeling sorry for myself won't change the fact that this is happening. It simply is what it is and really in the grand scheme of things I am still pretty damned lucky. Those who love me have loved me through this. Thank God. I am often amazed that my husband (of less than a year) hasn't thrown in the towel or kicked me to the curb for being so crabby, insecure and self-deprecating. Hopefully, I haven't pushed away any good friends for being so whiny and "me-oriented" this past year and a half.   

Tomorrow is my birthday. I really want tomorrow to be about hope. I write this today as a farewell to feeling sorry for myself. Tomorrow, I will look in the mirror and try to see only awesomeness. I will try to love myself through this the way so many of my family and friends have. This is temporary and fleeting in the grand scheme of life.

Here is a pictorial timeline of what prednisone has done to me on the outside. (For some reason I can't figure out how to post them in any other fashion.) I hope that I can see past this reflection of myself and remember that the true me lies beneath and is really a force to be reckoned with. Sayonara self-pity.

September 2009--Before prednisone entered my life

My wedding day Aug 2010--4 months into prednisone

March 2011--11 months  into prednisone

 June 2011--13 months into prednisone

TP: An Artist is Born

I have been catching up on my blog reading a bit, which has given me some blog-spiration to do some blog writing again. Phew. I know I took a longer break from it than I was actually blogging this time and well...that is just so un-bloggeress of me. So sorry. I suck.

BTW, I am particularly enjoying catching up on Mommy Wants Vodka. She is hysterical. Though she does have a potty mouth, so if you are sensitive to that kind of thing, do not click on her link above. Also on my latest and greatest list of blogs to read when I don't feel like doing what I should be doing is The Blogess. Brilliant. Potty mouth as well but notasmuch. So funny.

Anyway...I have been on a "break" from stepmomhood whilst my hubs and I move into a home in our new little community (which by the way is totally awesome and friendly and pretty and it has sidewalks and a playground and a park and trails and a lake....love it.)

While my stepdaughter is with her mom down south, we have been Skyping with her nightly, which is decidely loads of fun (for my stepdaughter and I anyway...hubs seems to think we may be a bit childish. Sheesh.) ANYWAY, my stepdaughter is something of an artist. Seriously, this kid blows my mind with the things she creates. Amazing-ness. And, last night, while on The Skype, she asked her father and I to help her name some of her latest drawings, which were created on post-its. (She uses whatever she has available when the mood strikes her).

Drawing # 1 was of a boy, but when she held him up the webcam he had no head because she had run out of room on her post-it. Tee hee. We named in "Justin Beiber". Why not? He's everywhere anyway. She also had a drawing of a baby koala, which we named "George" and some thunder/lightning/raindrop that we named "Stormy". Eh. Pay attention though...cause seriously...these sketches might end up in a museum someday.

So somewhere down the line of these presented drawings, we struggled with naming her sketch of the Pyramid Egyptian Warrior, so I suggested (I am so beyond brilliant) that we call it "PEW". You know for Pyramid.Egyptian.Warrior. Acronyms rock.

After that she decided to name her next and last drawing "TP" for Toilet Poo. That's right. True story. My stepdaughter drew a picture of a toilet with poo in it. I love this kid. I love her whimsy. I love that while pondering what to draw she must have thought to her little 7 year-old self "I think I will draw a toilet with some fresh poo in it". And so, an artist is born.