I love being a newlywed!

I love being a newlywed!

Just the juxtaposition of the word “new” with “wed” is exciting! I think of things shiny and new, untouched and perfect joined with weddings of joy and love and bliss. As you might already be wary of my sing-songy tone of this blog, read on and get ready for full-scale assault on all things lovey, mushy and sappy. Oh yes, this newlywed is heart happy.

I love how being married is changing me. I feel more appreciative of this man I married. I know life is not about me, it is about this person that I am spending the rest of my life with. I know my happiness is directly linked to their happiness, not that I am responsible for it, but that when he is happy, I am happy. I feel settled and happy. I have a sense of pride and accomplishment that this amazing man belongs to me. I feel gratitude that in this huge world, I found the perfect person for me. This complex man is simply imperfectly perfect.

Basically, I am just so happy that I have become downright annoying. This realization hit me yesterday and I could not quit laughing. I will cite my examples below.

  1. I actually gave out marriage advice to a friend who has been married for 17 years. In my massive wisdom of 17 days, I told her what I thought she should be doing to improve her marriage. I can only imagine her eyes rolling. To her credit, she politely listened with an occasional uh huh.
  2. I start every sentence with “my husband”, or find a way to say “my husband” as often as possible. Seriously, does the checker at the grocery store really want to know that my husband loves his nightly snack I make him?
  3. I cannot seem to finalize my wedding photo book because I still just want to show all my friends every photo. They were all there – do they really even care to reflect on their drunken debauchery? All I am really doing is opening up for more photo editing requests for fat, bad hair, blemishes, etc.
  4. I continually notice how wonderful my husband (and again I remind you) is and forget he is human. Right now his nightly bedtime farts don’t even stink to me whereas I usually am gagging until the air clears.
  5. I am already planning our Christmas cards for this year because I am actually Mrs. Pinkerton and don’t just have to use first names on it.
  6. I keep trying to perfect my new signature and haven’t quite decided on the one I like best. I might have to poll some friends. Well, maybe not.
  7. I am so excited about going to the DMV and Passport office to get my new license and passport with my new wonderful married name. There is seriously something wrong with me. I normally hate the masses and would rather get a root canal.
  8. I cannot quit posting on Facebook to share, or brag if I am being honest, on my amazing happiness. I normally hate people that do this. I have now become someone I hate.
  9. I want to talk to my mother in law and my sister in law daily, as I just can’t believe I am part of this new family. I hope they don’t grow tired of me already.
  10. I think of ways I can make my husband (see I did it again) happy. Daydreaming about little presents, dinners I could cook, little acts of service I could do – I almost make myself nauseous when I realize what I am doing. I know I need to get a life, but dammit I just love my new life. I love being a newlywed.

However irritating I may be to others, I will still rejoice in my new union, my new label, my new life. Marriage hasn’t defined me, but it has enhanced me. I only hope that I have enhanced my husband (yes, I had to say it just one more time) in even one iota of the ways he has for me.

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He is really gone.

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Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.  

It has been 46 days since my dear friend Scott died.  46 days of feeling a numbness inside, a stillness that I can’t seem to shake.  These painful 46 days permeate our 23 years of friendship.  I struggle with remembering the amazing and the good and instead am weighed down with the sad and the bad.  It is, simply put, just that.  Sad.  Sad to have such a fullness, such a presence – ripped from my life.  Sad to know his precious children and loving family are suffering with his absence.  Sad to know the world lost a loving, sensitive, brilliant, special man.  Sad to know the last text he sent to me was one of pure love, and I will never read his words, hear his voice, feel his presence again.  Sad to know he is gone when I need him the most.  

I can’t seem to delete his voicemails, his videos, his number from my speed dial.  I yearn for him, and for our ritualistic friendship.  I ache for the routine of our talks.  I find myself trying to reach out to him only to be forced to feel that emptiness as he is gone. Yet, in all this massive suffering of grief, it is not new to me.  Having lost my Daddy at a mere 12 years of age, I have a intimate relationship with loss.  I know I should be following this Kubler-Ross model and experiencing the stages of grief with gusto coupled with a bit of bravado that the armor of grief memory, like muscle memory only more acute, provides.  However, they are not linear.  They are stagnant and harsh.  The resilience I hope to embrace is out of reach.  As a mother, I must be strong and continue on.  The raw emotion I want to feel is there, bubbling under my surface, threatening to be exposed.  Yet, the value of being strong is quite misplaced as my ability to put on a happy face for my children and life only delays those stages, especially the acceptance.  Repressing the bargaining and the anger just gives ammunition to the depression.  

Yet, as I even write this, I focus on having the knowledge of the “why” and the emotional maturity of what I am feeling will propel me to heal, will allow me clarity and form some scar tissue over this deep wound.  The purest part of my heart wants desperately to have faith in the spirituality of his death.  Surely as I mourn for him, others are rejoicing to meet him again and sing praise for his life everlasting.  But such eternal joy is escapes the darker part of my heart.  The selfish part that simply wants him to call me Red again.   

Snap

I don’t believe in accidents or coincidences.  I believe that all things happen for a reason and there is something bigger than us, namely the universe, which guides our path. Take heed, I am not stating that I subscribe to some preordained path our lives will take without taking into account free will.  I am not into the transcendental lifestyle of sitting back and seeing what happens.  I am a doer.  I make shit happen.  However, many things are out of our control.  Many things are also out of our subconscious mind.  We may not know why we feel something or why we don’t.  We just validate that we are feeling it, and we take a course of action because of it.  That being said, I merely believe that we are given gentle nudges and/or signs to guide us to choose which fork in the road is the right one to take, AT THAT TIME.  Timing does account for so much that occurs, or doesn’t occur in our lives.  That very timing can be a double edged sword.  It is human nature to wait, to give pause.   Love eludes many, destroys some, and fulfills others.  Yet, to experience it later in life when equipped with emotional maturity, and to feel it with such a intensity is a gift.  I would normally shun love when faced with it as reciprocity doesn’t bode well if it is manufactured, and for me, it would be.  Slowing down would be standard as well to determine if everything that person represents is in accordance with who I am. However, perhaps it is just the brave leap that allows us to embrace love.  It is the old adage of if you fall in love, will he catch you? However, I have to come to the realization that it is much more than that.  It is back to timing and the nudge.  You either take it and risk it, even if it seems contradictory to your logic.  Otherwise, the shift occurs and then there is a new fork, a new path.

As I don’t believe in happenstance, I also don’t believe that it is just a funny thing when you fit so perfectly in the crook of someone else’s neck.  You can almost hear the snap of two puzzle pieces conjoining. The same thing goes for wrapping up in bed island to sleep and knowing you don’t want to untangle the pieces. I think that perhaps all of us are a puzzle piece of some sort and it is just a matter of finding one that fits, listening for the snap, watching for the nudge and taking the leap.

Snap.

I don’t want to look at your feet

I know there are people in the world who have a foot fetish.  Some people truly get off sexually to feet.  (I can understand the fetish related to very high heeled designer shoes – I personally come close to deriving sexual gratification from that.) Some people just think feet are cute or pretty.  I do not belong in either of these categories.

In fact, I must fight to contain the bouts of nausea that threaten to overwhelm me when I must look at someone’s feet that are unkempt and not freshly pedicured.  Toenails that are not cut evenly, polish chipped off, scaly heels, dry feet… ugh I feel like I need to shower just typing that.Men in flip flops have always been the worst offenders.  However, the new shoes with toes in them have now taken the lead.

 

A shoe that resembles a sock and outlines each toe like a glove has been appearing everywhere.  

I was forced to see these up close as a man crossed his legs in the movie theatre next to me, thus causing me much difficulty in focusing my attention on the screen with that foot/sock/toe thing a mere inches away from touching me.  I understand they are touted as great for the alignment as they maintain the natural flexibility of the foot.  I could see they might be comfortable, but so are slippers, and you don’t see me wearing those outside of the house.  It just seems too personal, too out there.  My daughter even thought they had an oddly similar alien quality to them.  Are these shoes the new birkenstocks?  Shoes that become the new bohemian footwear calling card?

I will leave it at that this with my suggestion to the world.  If you do not get regular pedicures, then wear normal shoes that cover your feet.  If you want to wear flip flops or birkenstocks, then get regular pedicures to resolve the above stated offenses.  They are not expensive.  Feet are left soft and clean. Just don’t sit next to me to get one, because I still don’t want to look at your feet.

Eating isn’t cheating.

I am shameless.  Or rather, I just love the show Shameless.  The new season started Sunday.  I am not certain what is it that I love more – the spiral of degradation coupled with a “if you don’t laugh you will cry” mentality, or the mere mindless quality of watching the pathetic patriarch drink himself into another pile of shit.  Or perhaps it is the fact that the show manages to somehow touch on every controversial subject matter while flooding it with sexual content and humor and cementing the not often seen concept that the family bond is above all.  You simply must watch it to understand what I mean.  I hate to admit my words can’t do it justice, but it is true.

TV whore I am not.  Primetime time shows are too formulaic for me, politics send me into an ambien like haze, the news sends me running to hide the kitchen knives and reality shows break me out into hives.  But premium channel series have me by the balls, if I had any.  Shameless and Californication take the lead. (Seriously how can you not love a show about a sex addict and hollywood played by a sex addict in hollywood?) True Blood and Hung follow in distant thirds and fourths.  Although I heard Hung was cancelled.  Guess some big wigs are tired of a show glorifying big dicks.  Game of Thrones and Sparticus are fantastic period shows – although bloody and I don’t’ mean a cycle – and they are laced with innuendo and beautiful people.  I could have lived in that time easily – maids, sex slaves, beautiful clothes, someone feeding me a constant supply of wine and grapes and bread. Except for the part where you make a misstep and you pay the mistake by hanging.  And, although not a premium channel show, Breaking Bad was pretty awesome too.  Nothing like a meth lab to get you addicted to a show.  (My play on words tonight is astounding even me!)

So there are my current sins of tv.  Obviously every one of these shows are when my angel girls are asleep.  Otherwise I would have been writing about I Carly and my slow ascent into hell. Groan.

Oh and the post title, “Eating isn’t cheating.”  is from Californication.  Those words of wisdom just had to be shared.  I would love to meet the writer that wrote that. We would certainly have lots to talk about.  While over lunch.

I plead the fifth. Or maybe it is the sixth.

In deference to those I love, or to protect the innocent – which is certainly not the same thing at times, I have transferred to this new blog in which the content is more appropriate for general audiences.  Well, depending on how open minded “general” actually is.  I began blogging a few years ago when my life was drastically changing as an outlet for the vast amount of free flowing content in my head that must be put in the form of words I can read.  It is that writer in me that cannot be restrained and writing allows me to make sense of things.  Or attempt to anyway.

That blog evolved to a bitch session, a pity party, a WTF examination of people and a chronicle of my life experiences (which varied from boring to the point of watching cars rust to so exciting that at times I can’t believe I lived those moments).  Once I made a decision to focus on my love of the rhetoric as a career path, and people actually inquired with some frequency to read what I write, it was obvious that I needed to made a few ah..edits.  Before you ask, the old site has gone to yonder, and this is the replacement.

Alas, I am still unabashedly red, but with a tiny filter in place.  I am still me, I am still a mommy, I am still a writer.  The things that define me are in place.  The single most important thing in my life is my girls.  But this blog isn’t for them or about them, nor will they read it.  This is the one and only place I can separate myself from what is sacred and special to me.  You won’t see many, if any, references to them on here.  Mostly because I want to shelter and protect them from the world, but also because I use this as my one single place of solace without many boundaries.  I suppose its my new version of let loose, since you certainly won’t find me falling off a bar stool or dancing on tables (one of the types of so called fun I gladly substituted for the pleasure of being a mommy), but not as loose as my last blog.

I am a sharing kind of girl, so here I am. Just don’t blame me if you don’t like what you read.  After all, I am a woman, and we do bleed for days each month and live to tell about it.  I am going to drink my red wine now and chuckle to myself.

I might need a drink.