Milestones

This time last year, I was sitting on the couch, bitching and moaning about my weight gain and fatigue and staring at a soon-to-expire voucher for bootcamp. So, one website visit later, I was signed up for bootcamp 3 times a week. And was questioning my sanity. I have never been an athletic person. I was in the marching band in high school, there was that….and I played park softball my 7th and 8th grade summers, but was by NO means good at it. And I was ‘on’ the track team my 10th grade year because they needed warm bodies to list for shot put and discus. Oh, the hilarity.

So, in July 2012, I showed up at 5:freaking30 in the morning to the park, feeling like a manatee in contrast to the other participants. I could not do one single sit up, push up, track lap, nada. And starting that afternoon, I was so sore I couldn’t sit on the toilet without using the handicap stall handrails.

But 2 days later, I went back. And I kept going back.

Now, granted, I have had to take some breaks. I took all of October off for Uterus Eviction. I’m currently in a 2 week no bootcamp stretch due to back pain. But, I keep going back.

And the weirdest thing is….when I don’t go, I miss it.

Huh?

In April, I added running to the mix. Decided I wanted to do my first 5k. Below are pictures from the Color Me Rad run this past Saturday. I FINISHED. Goal was under an hour, and I’m proud to say it took me 50 minutes. Always need a first time, right?

AND in May, I started practicing with our office coed softball team. Seeing a trend here? I’m finally off my ASS. Weight loss is going slower than I’d hoped, due to the breaks and probably more so to the terrible food habits I’m working to break, but it’s happening.

So, to The Munchkin, who I hope will read this blog one day (after she’s 21), these are the years it all started. All that stuff that made it hard for you to keep up with Mommy. This is what Mommy USED to look like. Hope you never see this version of Mommy ever again.

Muah. On to more of the year of Doing Stuff.

Before…..

That’s TV, my fitness/work/life buddy.

AFTER the race.

Same excrement, different time period

So my last post was EXHAUSTING! Had to take a mental breath. 

Better now.

Onward and upward.

See that pretty couple? That’s my little sister and her fiance. A week from today, they’ll be getting hitched in Las Vegas. And I will be standing by, trying not to cry, and fighting the urge to look at the time on my phone to see how much longer until DRINKING. Or maybe I’ll just take one to the chapel. Yeah, that. 

Tomorrow, I tackle my first ever 5k. Typing/saying/thinking that still feels bizarre. I have run very little in the last couple weeks because my back is being goofy again. Since my microdiscectomy in Jan 2011, I’ve had blessedly few problems, but I think slamming this big ole body down on the ground repeatedly while running has flared things up. I start back at the chiropractor on Monday.

One day, I’ll be able to post without referring to something medical/physical. Silly me for letting myself get in this shape.

The Munchkin has entered a bootcamp of her own this week entitled “Mommy Wants Me To Freaking Go To The Potty Since The Only Reason I Don’t Is Because I’m A Stubborn Turd”. We went back to big girl panties, get time outs at home when we have accidents that are preventable (wet britches and all, yes, I’m a mean ass mommy), but will get surprises in the afternoon when we go all day at daycare with no accidents. Enough is enough, y’all. 

Practice with our office coed softball team continues. Glory be, I’m bad. But I did manage to catch a popup yesterday AND I didn’t beat the snot out of our team captain when he asked me if I broke a nail. I’d say that’s progress.

Practicing music for our NAVE concerts in Orlando at the end of June. This will be our second meetup, and if our first was any indication, we’re gonna ROCK. We hit Dallas in October, so if you’re in either vicinity, come check us out!!!!

Das ist alles. Auf wiedersehen!

 

The beginning of the end

*takes deep breath*

*pops knuckles*

I was reminded recently, via a Twitter exchange, of how I got to where I am today spiritually. It’s been a tough road, and one that I’m reminded of more often now that The Munchkin is around. So, without further ado, and with full knowledge that some (many) family members and friends will not enjoy this particular post, I will now yank off the bandage.

I was raised in a Missionary Baptist church in rural Alabama. Until I was 10, my mom, older sister (younger ‘adopted’ sister appears later), father and I attended Sunday mornings and nights and also Wednesday nights, pretty much without fail. We sang ‘specials’ together (my sister would play the piano and the 4 of us would sing). We participated in Christmas plays, we dragged ourselves out of bed for sunrise services on Easter. Mom was a member of the women’s ministry group. My father was being considered for deaconship.

Then….my parents divorced. My father chose to leave the church. My mom continued making sure we were there every time the doors opened, and we leaned on many of the members for moral support and sometimes financial help. Church was a place of solace. It was a place of hugs and humor and dang good cooking.

This next part is tough. We’ll see if I actually have the nerve to post the entire thing or edit this part out. If you’re reading this, I must have hung in there.

When I was about 11, I was molested by a man in our church. In the church. We were having a church supper, and like most times, I went into the sanctuary while I waited for the food to be prepared so I could play the piano. (At the time, we had moved out of our house into a tiny trailer, and there wasn’t room for ours). He came in and sat down on the front pew, listening. He had creeped me out my entire life, but this night, as I went to walk quickly past him back toward the fellowship hall, he grabbed me. He hugged me, and at first, I thought,”Ok, he’s just hugging.” Then, he started kissing all over my neck and rubbing my body. It took a few minutes, but I wiggled free finally and ran to the bathroom. 

My parents didn’t handle this situation very well. I’m not sure very many parents ever do. For once that year, they seemed to agree on something, and it was that I was over-dramatizing things. But Sunday after Sunday, I tried my best to get past that man at the church door without having to hug him. 

And then he died.

Enough about him.

I grew up, moved to Mobile for my last 2 year of high school, then went on to the University of Alabama in Huntsville. My home church offered to pay me to come home on Sundays to play the piano, so I accepted. The drive was an hour, and it meant that I could continue to see this church family with whom I’d grown up. 

But this weird thing started to happen. I started to learn about the world. I realized that there was a lot more to things than my piddly little perspective. I’d managed to make it through high school sporting my True Love Waits ring and abstaining from, well, everything. And suddenly, none of that seemed like as big a deal anymore. 

My first two years of college, I still mostly behaved. I dated, but never ’rounded the bases’. I found that the horniest guys (the ones with more than two arms it seemed) were the ones I met at the Baptist Student Union. I went to parties, but only as the designated driver. I came home on the weekends to cruise (see dating post), showed up bright and early for church on Sunday morning, then returned to college on Sunday afternoons. 

While cruising, I met my fair share of morons and creeps and jerks. But then I met J. J was funny and smart and cute and I liked him immediately. We talked on the phone for a couple weeks, saw each other when I came home, and I was smitten.

Two weeks after I met him, he died in a car accident.

Now, this to me was the ultimate jab from God. I’d gone through all these punks and shitheads, and I finally meet a guy who has the potential to be fabulous, and he dies. I got to meet his mother at the funeral home. I watched the mourners pat and hug and console his ex-girlfriend and only one of them knew who I was. 

(I promise there’s a point to all this. Maybe it’s time you get up, stretch your legs, grab a drink. I’ll be here when you get back.)

This loss triggered a downward spiral that had apparently been gradually building for a while. My family didn’t understand why I was grieving a man I had barely known. They didn’t understand that THAT was the point. I began to be unable to function. I slept all the time. I spent long hours on AOL (dates me, doesn’t it?) but didn’t want to hang out with anyone in real life.

Then, one night, when driving back to the dorm from grabbing some groceries, the thought occurred to me that if I just drove off that overpass, it would all be over. I wouldn’t be in pain anymore. I would be free.

And that thought scared the shit out of me.

I found myself not driving back to my dorm, but to where my friend A lived. And I barged into her apartment and spilled it all. All the hurt, the grief, the sadness, the despair. The suicidal feelings.

And she listened. And hugged me. And listened more. She helped me realize that my feelings were valid feelings and that I was struggling with depression and that it was time to see a doctor and/or counselor. And that I wasn’t weird, and I wasn’t a freak, and I WASN’T CRAZY.

In a real way, A saved my life.

But there’s something about A that I haven’t mentioned.

She’s lesbian.

She had ‘come out’ to me a few weeks before this, and I had struggled with the news. As far as I knew, she was the first lesbian I’d ever been around. I wondered how I was supposed to act around her, what I was supposed to say and not say. And I’d somehow come to terms with the news. And now, she was my champion.

The next week, I arrived at church just like always, and marched up the stairs to the College and Career Sunday School class. A man with whom I’d spent many an hour with over the years was our teacher, and while I can’t remember what the original point of the lesson was, I still remember him pulling out a Bible verse that basically said all homosexuals were going to hell. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.

This many years later, it’s really hard to remember how difficult that class was, but I remember that it was the first time I’d ever actually argued against some doctrinal mandate. I suppose until then, I’d just taken my religious medicine without complaint. But this time was different. This man was telling me that this woman whom I considered a timely angel was destined to burn in hell for eternity, just because she was attracted to women and not men.

So, I asked him to clarify. Really, just because they’re homosexual, there’s no hope for them??

Nope.

But…

No buts. It says so, right here in the Old Testament.

That got my dander up. So, Teach, I thought that Jesus dying on the cross and coming back from the dead was to cleanse our sins and fulfill the OT?

…..

If we’re still supposed to be following all that OT hoopla, it says right here that all divorced women are to be burned at the stake. Would you like to walk down those steps and light my mother on fire, or should I?

……

I continued to attend that church, but not quite as regularly. I found myself not accepting the “because I told you so” answers as readily as before. I couldn’t accept the status quo anymore, and that made attending difficult.

I eventually stopped going.

Over the years, I had my wild phase(s). I did finally ’round the bases’ (with a hometown boy, oddly enough). I got (get) drunk. I spent a summer more high than not. I lived with a boyfriend without marrying him. I cursed, I hung out with lesbians and gay men (even fell in love with one) and drag queens. And I continued to grow, and to learn. I still talk to God, and thank Him for seeing me through the stupid things I did and tried. I beg Him to watch over my family. 

The split from church hasn’t been a big deal in a long time. Until The Munchkin.

So my mother still attends the same church. And my mother is the only active grandparent in The Munchkin’s life. She gets her at least once or twice a month for most of the weekend. And she takes TM to church.

And I struggle. Because The Husband and I don’t attend church, those visits and the Bible verses at daycare are the only exposure The Munchkin gets to biblical teachings. I strive to teach my daughter the right way to live and love and accept, I just don’t always seal it with a biblical parable. I want my daughter to grow up more understanding of the ‘other’ ways that are out there in the world, more accepting of people that are different than we are. And I’m scared that many of the same fears that were drilled into my head when I was a kid are going to warp her views too. Hell, I was scared to listen to Paula Abdul music for a year because a Sunday School teacher showed us a book that made a case about every pop artist out there being Satanic. I want her to experience the love and the culture and the music, but not absorb the ignorance. I say ignorance not as an insult, but to express lack of exposure and understanding. 

So, now you understand why it takes me a minute to answer when someone asks about my ‘religion’. I feel like I should be able to check “It’s Complicated”. I do believe there’s a God, but I also believe in loving thy neighbor above all and letting live. I believe I can only control my own actions, and try to live the most fruitful and loving life I can. I worry about my daughter attending church, but I’m glad that my mother takes her. So, my normal answer is that I’m just more spiritual than religious.

God bless.

Conversation with the 25 year old me

The 35th birthday fast approaches. I jokingly tweeted recently about the 25 year old me not believing I’d be getting UP at 3 am to go work out instead of getting to bed about that time, and it got me thinking….

If I could go back and have a conversation with the 25 year old Paula, what would I tell her?

Wow, where to begin.

1. I wouldn’t spoil the surprise about meeting The Husband. He was (and is) unexpected and weird and fun and completely awesome. He isn’t the world’s greatest communicator and hasn’t the slightest clue most of the time what the ‘normal’ family is supposed to be like (thank you, Mother- and Father-in-Law for warping your son), but that’s not always a bad thing. He makes me strive to be an even better communicator so that there isn’t any lingering confusion, and I also question the status quo re: what has been instilled in me as “what a good little Southern girl should do”, like provide food to any family experiencing drama/happiness/celebration/trauma.

2. I wouldn’t begrudge her one single Jack and Coke. I might suggest she switch to Diet Coke a little sooner than she did.

3. I wouldn’t tell her to change her decision to not go to FSU to grad school and instead stay in Huntsville and try out a promotion. If she did leave, she wouldn’t experience #1.

4. I might suggest she not partake of so many shots that one night at the Marriott bar. That hangover was a freaking doozy. Could have done without that.

5. I WOULD tell her that mourning the loss of Jimmie (to stupidity, not death, let me clarify) was not worth 3 years of celibacy. Hell, not much is.

6. I wouldn’t tell her that she would encounter even more female organ issues, but in the end, would surprisingly be able to birth a child. Not just a child….a sweet, feisty, motormouth mini-Paula (sweet part from The Husband). I wouldn’t want her to miss out on that glorious moment when she realized she was going to be a mommy, the moment that immediately followed one of sheer panic.

7. I would tell her to pay a little more attention to her sisters. Deeta would suffer silently through some ups and downs because that’s what sisters who play the role of mother do, and SueSue would flounder with relationships, desperately seeking the love and acceptance of a man to fill the void where all that love should have been her whole life. I would tell 25 year old Paula to ask a few more questions, listen a little more closely, and visit a little more often.

8. I would tell her that above all else, she had to learn that you can’t change the behaviors of others, no matter what you do. Best friends who you love with all your heart will totally let you down and refuse to share in some of the most important moments of your life. Parents will remind you that age doesn’t necessarily equal maturity, and also that just because they provided DNA, that doesn’t mean they’ve signed on for the role of parent for your whole life.

9. It would be hard, but I wouldn’t warn her against being so trusting. She’d be mad at me many times over the next 10 years, but she’d eventually understand that way more good than bad came from it. One always hopes that even though they might not be aware of the ripple effects, maybe the torch of kindness they handed to one person got passed along to others.

10. I would tell her to keep up with good friends a little better. She was (and is) terrible about keeping up relationships once the atmosphere changes (job change, graduating college, etc.) Thankfully, EmilysHollow and many others are forgiving souls.

11. I would tell her to educate herself a little more on sex. There is something to be said for experience, yes, but some good ole know-how comes in handy too. Look, 25 year old me, don’t expect to learn from your partners. They don’t haz the hoohoo. They might think they know how to work it, but you are the queen of it.  (I can hear my family saying,”And I thought I was glad that Paula had started a blog…..oh, dear….”)

12. I would tell her to lower her tolerance for bullshit. Career-wise, personal, familial….stop putting up with so much of it.

13. I wouldn’t tell her to get into exercise and all like the almost 35 me has. She wouldn’t freaking do it anyway. She’d light another Basic Light 100 (in a box) and smirk at me through the smoke while she gave me the finger.

I’d be entertained by the 25 year old me. She’d remind me what not worrying about a mortgage payment was like, or what it meant to truly have alone time when no one was wondering where I was or when I’d be home. She’d remind me what it’s like to stay up past midnight and still be at work before 6 am. She’d also make me sad and remind me what true loneliness feels like, and what it means to truly have alone time when no one is wondering where you are or when you’ll be home. She’d be jealous of my bank account, but appalled at my social life.

Maybe I was channeling her when I declared this the year of “doing stuff”. I caught glimpses of her when I was sitting around the table with all the ladies of The Birmingham Girls Club and was so excited about the potential in the room. I see her occasionally when the silly wins over the practical and I let Bailey paint my face. I hear her every once in a while when I laugh raucously at the most inappropriate and/or vulgar jokes…..

On second thought, how about the 25 year old me tells the (almost) 35 year old me a few things?

Damn the hoohoo (NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART)

All right, if you read past this line, consider yourself warned….TMI to the max is comin’. (Buddy, this means you.)

Seriously. I’m about to get really, really female organ-related graphic.

Ok, I told you.

I inherited a lot of what I consider to be endearing and useful traits from my mother and her side of the family. Functional and issue-free women’s bits are NOT on the list. Mom went through menopause in her early 30’s after many, many years of issues, other close relatives have had parts removed due to cysts and such, and so on. I was a late bloomer (THANK GOD), so I didn’t start my period until I was 13, and it’s been downhill ever since. I had ‘middle of the month’ pains (ovulation) that would make me want to vomit. I would cramp during my period so badly that I’d throw up and/or pass out. When I was 16, a laparascopic surgery showed that I had endometriosis. Along the way, I was also diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. It was a fairly certain conclusion that the longer I waited to get pregnant, the harder it would be for me. If I had a nickel for every Darvocet I took, Thermacare patch I used, or hour I spent curled up in the bed with a heating pad while I prayed for death, I’d be typing this blog post from a much snazzier computer. This whole being a woman thing blew.

So, when my husband and I had been married for a couple years, I changed OBGYN’s and we started discussing what the path to parenthood might look like for us. She referred us to the infertility department, and we had our consultation. The next day, I got a call from them saying they were suspending our plans, because the doc had found precancerous cervical cells.

Da fuck?

I then enjoyed some procedures that basically cut out portions of my cervix. All right, girlie organs, enough is enough.

We had so many weeks to take a “break”, then we could start the gameplan with the infertility folks again. Apparently, losing chunks of my cervix was what my body needed. A pain that we thought must be late after effects of one of the procedures turned out to be a pregnancy, aka Bailey Joyce Reid.

My pregnancy was surprisingly easy, but giving birth was, not surprisingly, more drama. After 12 hours, I was stuck at 9 cm dilated, and a C section was ordered. They had a hard time keeping my blood pressure up during the C section, so I fought vomiting the entire time. And after going home, my incision became infected. Doc opened it back up in the office, and my poor, sweet husband was responsible for cleaning it and repacking it with gauze twice a day.

When periods returned, I experienced that whole pray for death thing. When my doc offered a hysterectomy if we were sure we were done with this whole kid-having bidness, I almost tongue kissed her on the spot. In October of last year, I was supposed to have the robotic procedure. Apparently the robot broke mid procedure, so she had to remove the uterus and aforementioned cursed cervix through naturally occurring orifices.

One would think the story ended there. OF COURSE IT DIDN’T.

In January, I was still having pain where I would think I shouldn’t still have pain. An exam yielded no answers, and the pain got to be a little more infrequent.

Then, this week, bleeding and pain. We’re talking crime scene. Another exam, which showed scar tissue that had formed around where my doc had sewn things shut. Oh, to clarify….INTERNALLY. No biggie, she said, we’ll apply a little silver nitrate to it to get rid of it. Oh, this will sting a little. Would appear that my doc’s definition of ‘a little’ is on another planet from mine. Holy shit.

I want to pause to make sure you really grasp what I’m talking about here. I have scar tissue way up inside my vagina. My doctor applies a substance that basically cauterized that area. Un-freaking-real.

No sex for 2 weeks (added to the weeks and weeks after C section and my hysterectomy…..this whole ‘sexual peak’ is passing  me by, y’all), then another exam to see if more freaking silver nitrate is necessary. Then we’ll “go from there.”

Now, I know it’s not your hoohoo, so I don’t expect you to completely sympathize with me, but I was just about certain that I was done with hoohoo problems once I was all healed from the hysterectomy. Yeah, I still have my ovaries, but I expected they’d just sit there quietly until they (and I) shriveled up from old age. I did not expect to still be having problems in the rest of the southern region.

So there’s that. Ten days from my birthday, and the hoohoo is protesting. Fun times.

Thank God I’m not out there anymore

Yes, I’m intentionally not writing about the horrific events of the past week. I am blessed to be able to step away from the tragedy, and for my sanity, have chosen to do so today.

Several times over the past couple weeks, I’ve found myself saying,”I’m so glad I’m not out there anymore”, where ‘there’ means ‘the dating pool’. Good lawd amighty, it’s crazy out there. From a nameless friend who was the victim of catfishing (think Manti Te’o) to others just plain not finding anyone worth dating, I’ve thanked every deity in existence that I found someone who puts up with me daily, and still seems to like AND love me.

Of course, this wasn’t always the case. For those of you who knew me ‘back when’, I was what my sister called a ‘weirdo magnet’. If there was a guy with a deep, dark secret or who was afflicted with 75% of the DSM-IV, I dated him. And when I met this kinda goofy guy on Myspace ( I know, I know, how LAME), it took a while to discover that his afflictions were actually compatible with mine, and voila, we celebrated our 6 year wedding anniversary in March. But, before Troy, there were some interesting ones…..

As a teenager in Cullman County, there wasn’t a ton to do on non-football nights. So, we cruised. Which means we piled into a car, and drove up Highway 31 to the sign by McDonald’s and Burger King, turned around, and drove back to the Food World parking lot. Slowly. Over and over. We always tried to pick the coolest car of our group of friends, which actually belonged to my friend W (a Camaro), but the driver’s side door didn’t work and she had to get in and out on the passenger’s side. Also, some of us turned 16 way before others (my birthday wasn’t until May), so I was more than happy to ride around in my friend A’s Mercury 4-door, known as the ‘gold nugget’. Once I hit the big 1-6, I drove the newest car of the bunch, so we usually used mine….a teal green Geo Metro. Sty-ling. Anyway, that just gives you context.

So we’d drive and play our music really loudly and try not to let cute guys catch us checking them out at the stoplights until we were sure they were checking us out first. I did this goofy thing into college, now. COLLEGE. And for some reason, I thought this was a perfectly acceptable way to ‘pick up’ guys. I dated several this way. And I never understood why these relationships went badly.

The internet turned out to be a less public form of cruising, though just as random and rife with weirdos. I will forever blame AOL for my worst date ever:

I was living in a studio apartment in Huntsville. After a couple of pretty serious romances (one that began at a stoplight) crashed and burned spectacularly, I had shied away from dating. I decided it was time to reemerge, and with the encouragement of my friend M, I started flirting in chat rooms. Because that’s what you did, apparently. I met a guy named L. We talked for a week or so online, then that progressed to talking on the phone. After a couple weeks, he suggested we meet. In person. I was TERRIFIED. We had tons in common, I had seen pictures of him (and it never occurred to me to think he wouldn’t look exactly like that in person…I mean, WHO would LIE online????), and he seemed to be a pretty cool guy. So, the date was made.

That day, I cleaned my apartment like a banshee. Did my grocery shopping. Took 2 hours getting dressed. Tried to keep myself occupied so I wouldn’t be a complete nervous mess when he arrived. Then, a couple minutes before our set time, I heard a car pulling into our parking lot. Well, I actually heard the bass from his stereo when he was a few blocks away, but didn’t realize it until he was parking in front of my apartment. He was driving a Grand Am, with blacked out windows, and the thing was vibrating from his stereo so hard I was expecting parts to start falling off. Add to this that the car was so low, it was dragging gravel in our parking lot, which might have damaged the neon he had all around the car underneath. He parked next to my sensible, gas mileage friendly, 5 speed Geo Metro. At this point, part of my brain thought,”Uh-huh.” But another part was saying,”Give him a chance, no biggie.” Fine.  Then he stepped out of the car. Now, I’m 5’6″, which seems to be pretty average for a girl. And, I’ve always been, shall we say,”curvy”. This dude was 5’2″ if he was an inch, and MAYBE 100 pounds soaking wet. Now no woman that I know personally describes her dream man as one she’s afraid she might break like a twig. Again with the brain,”Um….”, and the other part telling it to shush, “give him a chance.”  So I smiled, told him it was nice to meet him, and invited him in.

We sat inside, and chatted for a minute. Then he asked me what I wanted to do for our date. I actually had no answer. I’m not usually without an opinion (shocking, I know), but I had been keeping myself so busy, I hadn’t thought much past his arrival. I told him I hadn’t really thought about it, I had been busy. He gave me a couple options, said he’d seen a sign for an ATM at the gas station around the corner, so he was gonna run and get some cash….when he got back, I could tell him what I’d decided. I said that was great, and he left.

And the pissant never came back.

At first, I was convinced he was dead. Somebody had jumped him at the gas station, and had killed him. So I drove my car down there.

No crime scene tape, no blue lights.

I started calling his cell phone. That shit kept sending my calls to voicemail. When I finally admitted to myself that I’d been stood up (who the hell does he think he is, here I was, going to look past some of his very OBVIOUS flaws and give him a chance), I left a brief but to the point message on his voicemail:

“Grow up, you sawed off, chickenshit bastard.”

(You can take the girl out of the country…..)

I called my friend, she and her husband brought over a Sara Lee cheesecake, and we (mostly I) ate it straight out of the cartoon while watching Golden Girls.

That’s probably my worst dating story, although there are many others to remember over a glass (or 12) of wine. There was the guy who wasn’t going to be able to make our date that night, he’d decided to go hang out with his friends, but I could come by their apartment first and give him a blow job, that would be all right. (I’m sure you can imagine what happened, or actually, what DIDN’T happen there) I had more than one neglect to mention that their martial status was “It’s way more than complicated” until way later. I dated a good friend’s uncle, which I don’t recommend, even in the South. I had a boyfriend of several months rise from an afternoon of bed sports, watch me put on his t-shirt, tell me how sexy I was, then announce that he had decided that we needed to never have sex again and that he had found religion. I fell head over heels for my gay best friend a la Will and Grace. I moved in with one boyfriend after both his mother and best friend passed away, and felt the worst guilt in the world when I had to admit to him, and to myself, that we weren’t meant to be.

Did I mention I’m thankful I’m not out there anymore?

One day, much sooner than I’d like, I’m sure, I’ll have to start talking to Bailey about boys and dating and all that jazz. The thought of her encountering the sons (and in some cases, grandsons) of my past beaus sends me straight for the Xanax. Not so much because I don’t think she’ll be able to handle herself, because, by Job, I intend to do everything in my power to make sure she can, but because there’s just so much damn heartache out there for open hearted people like I hope she’ll be.

In parting, for my friends who still haven’t found ‘The One’, I have a couple pieces of advice. First, be patient. Lawd knows, if I can find someone, it definitely improves the chances for the rest of the world.

Second, once you find them, don’t ever let them go to the ATM alone.

Doing stuff

Recently, I was referred to as ‘one of the Birmingham bloggers’. Until now, I wasn’t actually a blogger. Okay, there was a brief stint on Livejournal back in college that I’m convinced was the main inspiration for He’s Just Not That Into You. For the love of Pete and Joe and Harry and Bob, I hope that doesn’t count.

The reference  made me think….why don’t I blog?

So maybe I don’t have one main area of expertise to share, like a personal trainer or financial specialist would, and maybe I’m not an expert on any one thing at all, but I am probably the most random person I know….and shouldn’t that count for something?

This first post is titled “Doing stuff”, because, as some of you already know, I declared 2013 to be my year of “doing stuff”. I discovered that since moving towards Birmingham, getting married, changing jobs, and having a kid, I had stopped doing much of anything else. I’d largely neglected the part of me that is ME; that is, not a wife/mother/coworker/commuter. So far, 2013 has included some very cool stuff. I’m a member of The Birmingham Girls Club, I’m an alto in and the tweeter for the North American Vocal Ensemble, I’m planning a visit to The Cobalt Club, I’ve been doing fitness boot camp (mostly regularly) for 8 months, and I successfully pulled off a 3 year old’s birthday party, to name a few highlights.

So, welcome to my blog. Don’t expect to learn a skill or become enlightened or change the world, but you probably can expect to be entertained on occasion, and baffled more often. Heads up to my friends and family: you can almost guarantee you will show up here from time to time (my poor shy husband). If you don’t already know me well, be patient. My filter was irreparably damaged sometime in 1998, so I anticipate you’ll find out more than you ever wished you would.