Anyway, this year I’m pretty much a school supply list pro. I even had the majority of the list check marked nearly a month before school actually starts. I’m not early with anything. Ever. Accomplishment. Yes.

Incidentally, the list this year includes one clean sock. Does anyone know what this is for so I know what kind of sock to send? Let me know. Ankle, footie, tube sock. I need deets or I’m positive I’ll send the wrongest sock ever.

I always find the school supply list interesting. I am amazed by the detail that is included and how specific the requests are. Many items have to be Crayola, for instance. No dollar store pure wax crayons that don’t actually color.

This year, the list included 24 sharpened yellow #2 pencils. I don’t get the significance of yellow and I really don’t get why they needed to be sharpened. I don’t use yellow #2 pencils. I don’t have a pencil sharpener at home, in fact we never did growing up either. I remember my dad destroying my pencils with a knife. I learned not to tell him I needed a pencil sharpener.

Note to self: Tell daughter to not ask grandpa to sharpen her pencils. Ever.

Sharpened pencils are stupid otherwise. What fun is it if you can’t stand in line for half an hour cranking that loud ass pencil sharpener?

###

My first grade teacher’s name was Mrs. Cobb. Or I’ve completely made that up and can’t really remember what her name was. I do know that someone’s name in my life was Mrs. Cobb and for the sake of convenience I’m sticking with it. (What? Do you really want me to refer to her as “My first grade teacher whose name I can’t remember”?)

A few things I remember about first grade:

• I had a good friend named Lori and I remember a girl named Patrice whom I called Batrice until my mother finally told me she thought it was Patrice. I also remember thinking my mom was completely wrong.

• I did not know my address or phone number. This is especially clear to me because there was a certain incident where a friend’s mom had to drive me around all night until I saw my house.  I had also given this friend a fake phone number previously when we exchanged numbers because I didn’t know that either. Imagine my surprise when the parents said “hey, let’s just call that phone number that she gave you and ask her parents”. Imagine their surprise when they looked at the paper and it said something like 6290. Do not lie if you don’t know your phone number. People will find out.

• I was called to Mrs. Cobb’s desk with the girl that sat next to me because our papers were exactly the same. I had no idea what that meant. When Mrs. Cobb held up the sheets of paper, both had my name at the top. All I remember thinking was why did Susie write my name on her paper?

• A boy named Bradley insisted he was my boyfriend and even tackled me outside when I told him he wasn’t. A “big” kid, probably a 6th grader, had to pull him off of me. No doubt that Bradley’s pervy ass is locked up somewhere right now.

• We used a humongous pad of paper with a red cover and an Indian Chief on the front called the Big Chief notepad. The paper was a weird brown color and looked like it was sliced fresh off a tree and if you weren’t careful could give you a splinter. There was also the Son of Big Chief notepad with the picture of the hippie that could never, unless by adoption, have been Big Chief’s son. Obviously these aren’t around anymore. I’m guessing because of the splinter hazard or Son of Big Chief was offending a whole lot of hippies.

• And the best memory of all goes to:  Upon returning back to school from lunch, I came up with the brilliant idea of running back home and telling my mom that Mrs. Cobb came outside and yelled “all first graders can go home for the rest of the day”. Of course Mom called the school and sent me back. The worst part is that Mrs. Cobb actually asked the class if anyone else heard her yell that. And all those backstabbing first graders said no.

This means two things:

1. My daughter’s first grade is going to be way interesting.

2. I remember some pretty weird and random stuff.

Lucky for her I’ve been there and consider myself a first grade professional now.

“Girl, puh-lease. I didn’t even know my address in first grade…”

I can’t wait.

Crewel work. I haven’t used that or heard of it since I lost a spelling bee in 7th grade. I did, however, win a spelling bee in 6th grade with Mediterranean. Go effin figure. The only difference, in my opinion,  is that Mediterranean is familiar and crewel work is not used by anyone ever and at the time I had never heard, read, or spoken of any such word. In fact, if not for the loss I would probably still be living a grand old life without the words “crewel work”.

Either way, neither of my attempts at being crowned spelling bee champ have made any difference in my life. Neither the win nor the loss means anything, except that I know I can spell. It doesn’t go on a resume and frankly, no one cares when an almost 40  year old woman says she was in a spelling bee in 6th grade. In fact, it’s even a little weird.

Yay for Yesterday

I had an ex that constantly focused on his greatness from 10 years earlier. True, it was a much bigger deal than my winning/losing any spelling bee and in the beginning I feigned fascination. Don’t do that by the way. If you don’t think it’s an amazing feat, don’t pretend like you’re in awe, because you’ll hear about it every time something goes down. In the end, I finally did spit out that no one gave a rat’s ass about what he did 10 years earlier. Out of anger mostly, and since we were being honest with each other…

In fact, after thinking about this, I have realized that I had quite a few exes that seemed to wallow in their past greatness. As if they did their job a long time ago and now the shift was over and that was that. Further, it seemed to be just my unfortunate damn luck that at one time they were something but I managed to catch them at nothingness. They didn’t seem to understand that I didn’t care about their somethingness or nothingness. All I ever care about is that things are moving forward.

Because it doesn’t matter to me if you were once a billionaire, if today you don’t have a nickel.

It doesn’t matter if you were Elvis yesterday if you are Daffy Duck today.

Just keep it moving along. All I’m saying.

Blame it on Yesterday

The problem with focusing on accomplishments and failures of yesterday is that in both cases, it gives a lot of people an excuse to stand still. Loitering their lives a way, I’d call it. Just hanging around using up oxygen (oxygen thieves as my friend used to say).

My life was rotten growing up. Therefore I’ll act as I choose now. I absolutely cannot stand this. If you want to completely ruin my day you can a) ask me why I’m single or b) blame something you did today on something that happened to you yesterday. Bad, horrible things happen to people. There is a point in which we need to let go of that.

or

I did something amazing a long time ago, so I’m pretty much done with doing amazing stuff for the rest of my life. Uh, seriously. Unless you’ve cured cancer there’s a whole lot of amazing stuff to be done on the Amazing Stuff To Do list.

Forget about Yesterday

It’s all about today. And if you’re lucky, tomorrow is another chance to get it right. A second chance at amazing-ness. Which means that I can neither focus on my spelling bee attempts nor the mistakes that I’ve made, nor the things that have happened to me. My guilt is giving way too much importance to yesterday. Somehow we have to figure out a way to move forward because I would imagine that it’s an extremely uneventful and stagnant life if all you can think of is yesterday. Yesterday is gone. Can’t change it or bring it back.

We have our memories, our regrets, the things we’ve learned and the experiences that make us who we are. Maybe if it is at all helpful, occasionally we share those things with others. At the end of the day though, you can’t live on it. You may own today. But no one owns yesterday.

No one.

“If you’re still hanging onto a dead dream of yesterday, laying flowers on its grave by the hour, you cannot be planting the seeds for a new dream to grow today” ~Joyce Chapman

Without going into further personal details about either of us, I remember telling the woman how good it was to hear that her daughter is doing well. In fact, I think my exact words were “good for her, I’m glad she’s making it.”

I wonder though, why that seemed so impressive to me. Why any of the similarities that I shared in this post were enough for me to think that this single mother was “making it”.

Should we be proud of ourselves for these things? Should I really expect to one day receive a fantastic award for being a single mother? In all actuality, it is my responsibility. There’s nothing impressive or special about doing what you’re supposed to do. For making it through really hard stuff and not jumping off a bridge. This is life. You either do it and do it well, or…you don’t.

A comment on a photo on Facebook reads:

Beautiful inside and out! a person with deep thoughts and a mother who truly knows how to love her child.If youve ever read some of what this person can write…well it shows how balanced and deep thinking she is.

I could’ve cried. I care less about writing well than I do of physical beauty. A compliment as a mother can literally bring me to tears. I imagine that the reward comes in the form of what others see and by comments like “…a mother who truly knows how to love her child.”

And if this is the case, this isn’t a reward solely for single mothers or single fathers. There is rarely any special praise for parents that love their children and are married. No one tells married couples with kids that they’re doing well just because they don’t get child support or food stamps.

##

A friend of mine told me recently that I purposely want to be a single mother forever just so I can prove to the world what a hardcore bitch I am. So I can tell everyone that I made it and somehow prove a point. (A point that I do realize, no one else really cares about, because in the end this is what I’m supposed to be doing.) I had to agree with him.

Yeah, you’re probably right.

I do feel as though I’m on some sort of self inflicted mission. The part that isn’t true though, is the assumption that I somehow enjoy this and would prefer this. And just for the record, this is definitely not the reason I am single.

Because to be honest, a day doesn’t go by without me wishing I had done things differently. I look at my daughter and wonder fearfully if my mistakes will affect her negatively. If somehow she will pay for the decisions I have made, and well that’s a bit like smoking while pregnant. It’s not fair to the child. They don’t get to choose and have no control over those sorts of decisions. They merely live with the consequences.

“Making it” is her being okay despite her mother’s decisions. Her happiness and stability, are mine. Her making it, is me making it.

It is never just the fact that I seem to be able to do this myself.  Because really, sometimes I don’t think I can.

I just do. And there’s nothing special about that.

I am embarrassed to admit that I watched Hannah Montana: The Movie. Actually, I own this silly DVD. Two reasons. One, I have a 6 year old who at one time adored Miss Montana. Two, I don’t have cable anymore (remember RIP Dead Television) and so I purchase DVDs that my daughter would like to watch more than once.

Luckily, she hasn’t had an urge to watch Hannah Montana as often as she watches Scooby Doo Cyber Chase.

Anyway, one of the many plots in the movie includes of course the cowboy love interest. He has a hard time asking Hannah out, and while he’s trying to spit it out, she tells him to “please jump”. This is linked somehow to something he said to her earlier, which I’m sure is significant, but I can’t remember. I watched it. I didn’t study it.

Please jump.

We have to decide if taking the chance on busting our heads and sometimes hearts all over the bottom of the pit is worth it. Sometimes it isn’t. A lot of times it isn’t. I can think of a few times I ran blindly to the edge and just dove to the bottom and then wondered what the hell I was thinking. Sometimes I was pushed over. Sometimes I jumped to get away from something. Often I was tricked. As if someone at the bottom said they were holding the moon and I fell for it.

Silly me.

Unless you are literally jumping off of a cliff (which I am not recommending), I still believe it’s better to jump.  Jump or wonder for the rest of the time I’m on Earth what may have been down there. Jump or stand next to something I know I should get away from. Jump or just linger there and do nothing…but wonder.

And that can’t be productive.

It’s difficult to take that chance. Especially if you’ve jumped in the past and found out there was just a bunch of dirt at the bottom. That the down there wasn’t any better than the up there. Worse even if people told you not to jump and you did.

Still better to know though, isn’t it?

I choose to jump. Again. Always.

One of these days, the moon may actually be down there. And it’ll be worth it.

Consumption of good food.

I added “good” because I don’t believe anyone goes to “dinner” at McDonald’s or somewhere crappy on purpose.  Not this kind of dinner anyway.

My question is though, when asked to dinner by someone of the opposite sex, what exactly does “dinner” mean?

I asked two people. One said, “A man is always interested. He only settles for friendship  if he absolutely has to.”

The other said, “Dinner always means interest.” (And later inferring sexual interest.)

So if I am asked to dinner, does this automatically mean the person is interested in something? Does dinner ever mean “I just want to consume good food with ya.”?

Can We All Just Eat?

1.  It has to depend upon who’s asking. Is he a stranger at the grocery store? Is he a good friend? Is he a coworker? According to one source, none of this makes a difference. Accepting a dinner invite basically means you have checked the “yes” box on the “do you like me” question. Personally, if I am asked to dinner in the vegetable section at the grocery store, I’m assuming dude is impressed by my method of selecting broccoli.

Just kidding. Really. Everyone knows men dig carrots.

On the grocery store note (which includes Walmart) I’m not sure it’s safe to accept random invites anyway. Women inviting men in the grocery store are a different story though, right? I would suggest the meat section in that case, though. Holy cow do men like meat. But I digress…

2.  Other randoms that aren’t really strangers. Gym rats, for example. They’re not really strangers. You may even know their names. You probably see them regularly. They may have even blocked the machine you were going to use to ask you out. How presumptuous is it to conclude that a person is really into you when they only see you as a sweatball in shorts and a tank top? It can’t be too ridiculous to think they may want to just eat and chat about protein drinks.

3.  Coworkers. Sticky situation with coworkers and dinner. I have been advised that one on one with coworkers is possibly more than shop talk. Happy Hour with everyone at the office is well…Happy Hour and not really dinner anyway. Unless you count hot wings and nachos as dinner. Dinner with a coworker cannot possibly mean interest. Or maybe I just refuse to imagine any such thing with any of my coworkers.

4.  Good friends and everyone else I can’t think of. Dinner with a good friend of the opposite sex is (to me) like going to dinner with your brother or sister, who I’m assuming are not interested in anything further than hanging out and eating. If a good friend was ever interested it had to be so long ago no one cares. I have been told that this means they’ve settled for now and are just waiting. Not sure I believe in that theory because really, who has time for that?

5. I have a boyfriend or huz or other statement that means no chance. If you mention boyfriend or huz (even if the bf or huz is very very far away), or that you’re a lesbian or that you’re on meds for attachment issues, and the person still asks you to dinner it can’t possibly mean they’re interested in something other than hanging out.

My point is that dinner cannot possibly always mean I want you. Maybe I’m wrong. Whether you are male, female, transexual, bisexual, married, single, whatever…help me out here. What does it mean to you when you are asked to dinner? Do you ever ask someone out…just to eat?

My daughter doesn’t quite comprehend goodbye yet. Although she has said it to friends and family, she never really expects it to be the last time she sees someone. Nothing to a six year old is actually forever. Understandable. I live where I live so she doesn’t have to experience frivolous goodbyes. I want nothing more than to be able to jaunt away to somewhere that suits me better, to the grass is greener area of the world, but because of her I stay. Goodbyes simply because I don’t like the smell of fresh country air…bad.

But I have been considering those times when goodbyes are good. After all it includes the word “good” so it can’t always be bad. I don’t see myself using the phrase “badbye”, but now that I think of it, I may have just invented something.

Anyway, if the relationship sucks (which will further be referred to as “relay” because I text and I’m lazy about typing long words) at what point is it a- ok to throw in the towel? (Not including blatant abuse, mind you.)

When we feel disrespected.

When we are hurt.

When we cannot possibly imagine spending another second of our lives with that person.

When the relay not only does not make us better but has the possibility of making us worse as humans.

Further, goodbyes are good when you think about life without the relay and you feel relieved. Like a problem has been solved. Like a big stinkin mountain was lifted from your shoulders, because I don’t care what it is, it is never worth bad posture.

It is not time to say goodbye if:

Life without the relay would be utterly miserable.

You think something occurred that actually did not.

You are afraid that you are too happy so obviously God or whomever you believe in is playing a joke on you.

One or more participants of the relay are pms-ing or drunk. I’m just saying.

###

I’ve decided to live in the rainbow instead of looking for the end. Sometimes what appears to be better is not, sometimes it is.

Unless we are around the age of six, we are forced to live with the reality and significance of forever. If I never see you again, can I live with that?

After all, forever is an awful long ass time. Make sure it’s worth it.

Or maybe just the fact that I know I do this, means I really don’t care.

Here I am.

I care about my daughter.

I care about my family.

I care about my friends.

All people that know I care even when I say I don’t.

Everything else could possibly make my life easier, better, prettier, if I acted like I cared.

Or maybe not. And I’m just saying that.

Him:  Uh, Monday you need to work on this list.

Me:  What? I could’ve sworn I had it down to a page (it’s like 6 pages long). And oh snap, is there really stuff on there from 2006? Shut. Up.

Anyway, after spending the weekend at parties and halfway trying to clean the house that resembles an episode of “Hoarding”, and attempting to get caught up on freelance work so this week wouldn’t completely suck, and taking care of my daughter, whom I’ve promised to take somewhere wonderful and have not…today (endearingly referred to as Hell Monday the pregame to Hell Week) I attempt to tackle the list.

And by mid afternoon I realize that there is no way in Hell I can ever accomplish all that is on not only the work list, but MY list.

Sometimes you eat the list. Sometimes the list eats you. My list has eaten me and I’m in the abdomen of List Hell trying to climb out.

What Comes First

Anyone with a To-Do list knows you have to prioritize.  My daughter of course comes first. Anything concerning her is first, which includes family, school, fun, hanging out, work (which pays for her) and survival, all come first. That’s all first.

Her.

That leaves no time for anything that is not related to her or even second on the list and any possibility of any outside endeavor, like maybe a relationship, is bumped way, way down to the bottom. Until I can effectively figure out how to cheat and connect that which is at the bottom to my daughter. It can be done. I’ve successfully linked pedicures to her, thus nice toes=priority.

Ur not bothering me. Seriously I’m getting more stressed over u saying that. My work is hella behind my house is a mess I have things to do with my daughter and my family and u seem to want some kind of conflict AND the excess shit from everyone else and I’m reading the after a while poem and seriously feel like I’m going. To. Lose. It.

Welcome to Text Hell, a close relative of Run-On Sentence Hell and a direct result of List Hell. Apologies if you were the recipient of that. Imagine what it’s like when I’m really stressed out.

Later I explain that I’m literally getting tired of pretending like everything is fantastic. I don’t hate it. I’m not complaining. Not really. I’m just tired and there’s really nothing anyone can do to help. After all, this is my life.

Unless you want to reach down and pull me out of List Hell. Or you could just eat the damn list for me.

And let’s hope I’m smart enough to let you.

And I’m pretty sure that comes from me. Except I won’t argue as long as she does. I’ll just stop talking to you until you come back and say uncle.

Damn straight. And yeah, that’s what I thought.

Sometimes though, they don’t come back and you move on to the next level of stubborn-ness which is choosing to lose something in order to win. Being satisfied that you didn’t give in under any circumstances, that in the end “I was right. I’m still right. I’ll be right forever. I’m right. I’m right. Game over, sucka…”

Except if they don’t come back, that isn’t really winning. (This is of course without taking into consideration those people that you need to tell to kick rocks.) Losing anything good, whether love, a part of yourself or just a close friend in the name of stubborn-ness can never be added into the win column. A loss is still a loss. Anything that takes away from life is losing. If I wake up with less than I had yesterday, I lost something.

So I share with you my words of motherly wisdom to my daughter: You don’t always have to be right, love.

Sometimes there is no right. Sometimes their right is not our right. Sometimes the differences between rights and wrongs are so very, very, small and the absolute most insignificant part of the relationship. Sometimes, and this is really only sometimes, you have to be wrong to win.

What really matters, is will you still be my love? Will I still be my whole self? Will you still be my friend? Will you still be that part of my life that I allowed you to be in the first place? Will I wake up tomorrow with you still in that space? Will you still…

That’s what matters.

Otherwise, I have kept every lame ass blog post I ever wrote on here. Some are way too wordy. Some are just plain weird and the previous I love you post is only topped in mushiness and emo-ness by Nicholas Sparks’ The Notebook.

I haven’t watched The Notebook either. I just know it’s laden with sappiness and lovey dovey-ness that I don’t generally dig in my lit or my movies. As a lover of words and all things lyrical, this may surprise some but in all seriousness, I hate that ish. I despise when I get all wrapped up in unprovoked feelings. Especially when it’s imaginary and has nothing to do with me.

Sometimes I hate being a girl. But anyone that shares in this girlyness with me knows that there are times when we just can’t help being girly. When no matter how hard we pitch…we still throw like a girl.

Yet, sometimes keeping it real means we post silly girly stuff that we can’t delete because keepin it real also means baring our girlish souls and accepting that people will see inside us at our worst and most vulnerable moments. And that’s ok.

Cuz I’m real and this is real life ish.

Hateful to me as the gates of Hades is that man who hides one thing in his heart and speaks another.  ~Homer