Hot Mess

**Disclaimer: Poor language choices to follow. Perhaps it shows the extremities of my messiness**


I am a hot fucking mess.

There is sand stuck to my exposed skin, laced between my toes, and caught in my windblown hair from yoga class this morning, held on the beach on this cold and damp and EARLY morning.

A freshly penned speeding ticket sits in the passenger side of my Prius. I mean, come on, isn’t the trooper aware that my car is unable to maintain speeds past 65 mph without beginning to tremble? I’m not exactly a threat on the road.

I had no time to put on makeup before, so my blonde eyelashes look like the white falsies that a drag-queen might wear to a diva competition and my brows, almost the same overly-milked-oatmealish color as my skin, look nonexistent. I must’ve scratched the side of my face while I slept, because I noticed a red gash stretching across my cheek. I squeeze my eyes tightly, trying to recall the dream from the night before that caused my abrasiveness. No memories though.

My finger nail polish is chipped: noticeably so. My toes too. Crap. I look like a hot fucking mess.

I focus on myself internally. That’s what really matters, right?

Continue Reading…

Better Than Me

Everyone had expected me to be upset by my divorce- perhaps a little angry, definitely hurt. I was all of those things, but my reasoning actually just came to me. It bulldozed its way into my brain and then sat there: horrible, awful, and unpleasant, just waiting for me to address it. So here it goes…

Why I’m Pissed

I wasn’t on the search for my future mate by any means. At 23 years old, as can be imagined, I had a list a mile long: smart, funny, good-looking… (the classics). Also, I was enjoying the single life.

I could do whatever I wanted, go wherever I wanted, say whatever I wanted- within reason of course; I still lived with my mom.

The truth is, he chased me down, and I knew (or thought I did) that he’d always idolize me. Unfortunately, I’ve learned that when someone puts you up on a pedestal, eventually you have nowhere to go but down.

I loved dating him, and I was deliriously happy when we moved in together. It would be a lie if I said that I had any apprehensions when we finally vowed to love each other in good times and bad. For richer or poorer.

In sickness and in health.


Continue Reading…


Life is a series of misconceptions.

When we are kids, this is more direct: the belief in a magical fairy who creeps into our bedrooms as we sleep to take our old canines and slip a couple dollars under our pillow; a 6-foot tall rabbA misconceptionit, who hops around laying chocolate eggs and leaving baskets of candy and fake plastic grass, wrapped in cellophane and a giant pink bow; an elf who flies from the family room curtain rod to the bookcase in the den at nighttime, surveying our behavior in December in order to report it to the big guy.

Okay, perhaps these are less misconceptions, more like lies.


But, as kids, we also have misconceptions about the people we are surrounded by. That our parents are always perfect. That everything will always turn out okay in the end. As a parent now, I have first-hand knowledge that the former is not true. Not even a little bit true. I am admittedly flawed, yet I try to live up to the conceptions that my children have of me.

And, perhaps it’s a little naïve of me to think so, but hopefully everything will turn out okay in the end, or, at least, how it’s supposed to.

Continue Reading…

Nobody Likes New Years (the 2nd of 2)

Many more New Year’s Eves came and went, never with much of an impact. Resolutions made, resolutions broken, resolutions forgotten. Auld lang syne.

When I had one baby, then two, New Year’s Eve became a very quiet holiday. My husband and I would go out to dinner with the kids early, before the expensive prix fix began, then get into bed, inevitably falling asleep before the ball had been dropped in Times Square.

More recently, we had spent the holiday at a friend’s house while my sister Maggie agreed to stay at my place to watch the kids. It was a small gathering to enjoy food, drinks, and chatting amongst a few couples. My husband and I had been going to marriage counseling at that point, but no one knew.

Remembering that one of the therapist’s suggestions was to “act” like a happy married couple, I tried my best, though it seemed unnatural, to sit close, feigning affection and tenderness.

At midnight, after I kissed him, he looked at me with disgust. There was venom in his eyes.

When we got home, we fought, then took our spots the bed, lying as far away from each other as possible. The next morning, on New Year’s Day, we went to brunch with my family, who were all still visiting for the holiday.

Continue Reading…

Christmas Past, Christmas Future **three**

The Conclusion

“Happy Thoughts”



The memory faded and my brain returned to the present, being crushed on both sides by my aggressive seatmates, both determined to be the emperor of the arm rest.

The seat in front of me reclined, making my space even smaller. Row 22, mine, didn’t move back. I suddenly felt as though the oxygen on the plane was getting more sparse, and I half-expected the masks to fall from the ceiling. I slowly filled my lungs with air and blew it out, realizing that I looked like a lunatic to the people seated next to me. Just a couple more hours…

Thinking happy thoughts

I picked up my magazine again, but it was mere moments before my eyes glazed over, and my thoughts began wandering yet again. Once more, it was Christmastime, but this memory was from a few years earlier.

Avery was in her infant swing, giggling as she stared at the colorful lights that adorned the tree. I looked around at the decorations that I had just put up, and silently congratulated myself. Now, to finish ironing the Christmas linens and put the meatloaf in the oven.

I was one housedress away from becoming my grandmother.

Continue Reading…

Christmas Past, Christmas Future **two**


Continued from **one**


After the decorating session, exhausted, I plopped on the couch. My Multiple Sclerosis was supposed to cause fatigue, so I gave myself a pass. As I looked around the family room, though, the mess was horrific: pine needles, chunks of holly, glitter covering every surface. Ugh, I had to get up and try to clean this place before he got home from work. After all, the cleanliness issue was a point that he kept bringing up. Dragging myself to the hall closet, I grabbed the vacuum cleaner, rolled it out to the family room, and plugged it in. It whirred and buzzed loudly when I flipped the switch, but didn’t seem to be sucking up any of the Christmas remnants that coated the wood floors. Panic set in.

“Oh- no, no, no. Not right now!”

“What’s the matter, Mommy?” My kids both looked concerned as I held back a number of curses that were threatening to escape my mouth at this point.

“The vacuum… It won’t work!” I collapsed onto the floor in tears.

“It’s okay, Mommy, Daddy can fix it.” Hunter said good-heartedly.

Continue Reading…

Christmas Past, Christmas Future **one**

C-31 the code on my boarding pass proclaimed. Great, I thought: the cheap seats.

After a long stint Coming home after Christmaswaiting in an organized line for the flight attendant to take said pass, then another wait on the jetway while the passengers in front of me crammed their stuffed-to-capacity-and-then-some carry-ons into too-small overhead compartments, I boarded the aircraft and stood on my tip-toes to view my potential seats.

“Ladies and gentleman, there is a full flight this morning, so please be sure to allow these new passengers access to all the seats in your row,” a nasally woman’s voice came over the loudspeaker.  I noticed a few people who were already seated roll their eyes, huff, or curse under their breath. Sigh.

In a feeble attempt to get myself a seat that didn’t involve being sandwiched between a crying baby and someone who looked like a “talker,” I scanned available openings as I continued to amble down the narrow aisle.

Each time I found a potentially decent place to sit, I was rammed forward by the horde in back of me. Before long, I was given the choice of a middle seat in the back row of the plane, or one on top of the toilet. I chose the former so that I didn’t infuriate the flight attendant.

I began mushing my way into my destined residence in a flourish of body parts and bags and whispered “Excuse me!”s and “I’m so sorry!”s. In order to get to that particular seat, I had to apologize for my very existence.

Continue Reading…

In Retrospect, I’m a Moron


TheySeeing things in retrospect say hindsight is 20/20. Looking at things “in retrospect” is never good for the psyche…

I just had such a typical reaction. As with so many in the situation, I blamed myself. If there’s one thinIn Retrospectg I hate, however, it’s being so regular.

When our ninth Valentine’s Day together rolled around, I received no mention, no card, no delivery of over-priced bouquets and chocolates sent to the door. That isn’t to say that couples who don’t celebrate the day are destined for relationship trouble- we just always HAD.

Sappiness is a quality that runs deeply through my veins.

I could sense that there was something awry. As the days went on, I bought pseudo-informative literature on being a better wife to peruse on my kindle, and put some of the ideas into practice. Telling myself I was crazy, and that nothing was wrong, we went back to our lives as normal: me taking care of the kids, him taking care of the bills.

Continue Reading…

Becoming the Bad Guy

I’m a hard sell; I know that about myself. A 35-year-old single mother of two small children with a degenerative disease of which there is no cure? There are not a lot of available men who want to take on that project.

I learned (from my daughter) of my soon-to-be-ex-husband’s girlfriend, and I was pissed, but I think that was a fairly standard and pretty mild reaction to the situation at hand.

When I moved through each day quickly enough, I was easily able to avoid any real feelings. Though this is the approach that I had taken, at times such as these, feelings started to creep up, usually at night. Heartache, fear, anger. As much as I may have tried to suppress them, they tip-toed into my stomach then ran rampant in my heart. Now, he was moving on, and I was left here, in this place of loneliness and sorrow.

Yeah, I was pissed.

Where does one turn when dealing wDating app on cell phoneith the pain of rejection? Why, dating sites, of course. I immediately typed the pincode into my phone and downloaded the application that allowed me to live-chat with singles in the area. It wasn’t long before I was being flirty over text messages and eating up all the complimentary things that these guys were saying (in order, of course, to get into my pants). The time was now 1 am,which was well past my bedtime. Turning off the ringer on my phone and swallowing a couple sleeping pills, I fell into a vacant slumber.

The next morning I groggily woke up to several inappropriate messages from men who I didn’t care to hear from. I immediately trashed the app, regret settling in the pit of my stomach, as though I was a college student who had made a drunken mistake the night before.

A new text message appeared on the screen. My heart sank. It was him. “Listen, I realize that you’re angry with me, but please don’t put pictures of our kids up on dating sites like you did last night.”

I was the bad guy now. “Sorry. I didn’t realize [in my black-out rage]. It has been taken care of, so you needn’t be concerned.” I thought for a moment, “How did you know about the pictures I used anyway? Do you have access to my phone or something?”

“No, no. I have an account with that site from a while ago. I saw you on it.”

“So, let me get this straight: you have a wife, a girlfriend, and an account on a dating site? You’re quite a catch.” Strangely enough, I didn’t hear back.

Attempting Contentedness (2)

“Let’s put on some music.” I declared, suddenly snapping out of my own imagination. I was hoping for a mutual, even excited, response from my kids.

“I guess.” Avery responded. Hunter didn’t even acknowledge that I had spoken. They were both such charmers in the morning. Delighted in the knowledge that I could turn on the radio without fear of waking anyone, I tuned it to a kids’ station and got to work making the rest of breakfast.

breakfast cereal

“Can I have waffles too?” Hunter asked while slurping the milk from his cereal bowl.

This had been my husband’s job, giving our children breakfast. Now, however, the task had become mine, and damned if I wasn’t going to be the best cereal-pourer, waffle-toaster, orange-juice-provider that ever lived. “Sure honey!” Hearing my own voice, I realized that I definitely needed to tone down the enthusiasm. “Av, what would you like?”

She looked at me for a solid 13 seconds before sluggishly answering. “Cereal.” I smiled at my little girl. Her mood would change soon, as it always did. Then it would change again. And again. And again. Living with my 5-year-old daughter now was a good indicator of the hormonal whirlwind that I would endure in her teenage years. I would not let her wear me down, though. My positive attitude would prove to them, prove to him, prove to me that I could do this. I could do it well. I would wear that positive shit like a bulletproof vest, because nothing was going to get to me.

Continue Reading…