Morning Shenanigans

Secret Pleasure

Alone at last…

The embarrassing things that I file away in my personal shame folder are numerous, and I don’t think I have the courage to share them all, but I will say that I have an extraordinary love for 30-minute sitcoms with simple, somewhat fatuous plot lines, reading insignificant “articles” (and I use that term loosely) on the internet, and checking the time-suck that is Facebook every 7 seconds.

Another thing that I’m ashamed to admit is that I LOVE being alone. Like, I’m crazy about it. I’m wild for it.

If alone-time and I were bobbing along in the frigid waters after the crash of the Titanic, I’d probably make some room so it could float along beside me on a broken off piece of door. Just sayin’.

One of the main reasons that I like to keep this pleasure of mine a secret are the many judgements– some of them true- that could be thrown my way upon hearing this truth.

“How selfish- you have children after all!”
“You’ll come to regret that desire to be alone when you really ARE alone!”
“You must take issue with the social norms and customs that should be celebrated, not defied!”

To that I say… well, you got me.

Yes, I am a little selfish. Not always, but I’m a round character, a person who has many aspects of her personality. I am self-centered at times, but I am also warm and giving (or so I’d like to think). I can extend myself to others- especially my kids- because I’ve gotten the chance to be refreshed in my alone times. Think of me as a rechargeable battery.

I am convinced I’ll come to lament about the times I should have cherished in the past. The lack of privacy that comes hand-in-hand with parenting small children, the tiny voices that trail behind you, asking “But, why?” about everything, the enthusiastic morning wake-ups before sunrise. But don’t we always feel a sense of grief about times gone by and pasts that happened far too quickly? Regret is always going to be a definite, even among the happiest of people, so loving my “me time” should come sans guilt.

I’ve found myself with more alone time than ever since my separation, and I think it’s honestly made me a better (and more patient) mom. I went from being “Mommy” all day, every day to having a couple of weekends each month to myself.

I enjoy going to the movies alone; not sharing my popcorn and not compromising on what I’d like to see.
Dining out with only the company of my kindle is a treat, as I can leave whenever the mood strikes me and eat wherever I want.
I take long baths.
I go to cooking class.
I walk around the library.
I attend yoga.
I lay in my bed and watch 30-minute sitcoms with simple, somewhat fatuous plot lines.
I do whatever I want.

I consider this a secret pleasure, because our society makes it seem as though people who desire to be alone should feel ashamed. It is true, however, that being alone- even lonely- at times allows us to appreciate and grow to love the chaos that comes with being together.

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…

Forgetting MS

Sometimes I legitimately forget.

It’s 9 am and the moving truck is coming in an hour. I’ve been up since 5:30 and still haven’t finished packing up my clothes. Or- doh!- the basement. I wish I could just power through, like I had planned.
My legs, though, they’ve quit- they up and decided that they’d had enough.
And now I sit and wait. Wait for my mom to get here. Wait for my ex to get here. Wait for my legs to feel up to the task of walking; a task that I’d taken advantage of for the 30 years before I started to show symptoms of MS.

My message is this: don’t take advantage of the things we all sometimes take for granted. The ability to see, the ability to hear, the ability to walk.

Love to all <3

Forgetting MS
My baby, sleeping on the floor, next to one of the many moving boxes throughout the house.

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…

Attempting Contentedness (1)

digital clockMy eyes fluttered open and I looked up at the ceiling where my new, high-tech (to me, anyway) clock projected the time across its facade. The red numbers revealed the early-morning hour as 4 am. Too early to start my day, I decided. Turning my head, I had expected to see his sleeping face next to mine, but the bed was empty, save for me and a few blue shams that were still in place from the day before. Huh, I thought, he’s usually in here by now. It was at that moment that I heard footsteps trudging down the hallway, then the door was pushed open and slammed shut unapologetically. I heard a grunt as he climbed up the foot of the bed, but the first thing I gazed upon was his white stuffed whale that flew from his hands and ricocheted off the headboard before finally settling down on my face. It was a nice start to the day. Hunter’s sleepy, yet maddened little face came into view next. “Hey! That’s mine!” he said, snatching the beluga off me, as though I had been keeping him captive there.

“Yup, babe. Now go back to sleep.” He nodded, then mushed his face so that it was exactly one centimeter from mine. “Hi. Did you want to move over a bit?”

“Nope,” he quietly said, before yawning and closing his eyes, allowing sleep to take him. I looked at his angelic little face and tried to memorize it, so the image could be recalled in my mind later in the day when his behavior became less than heavenly.

Trying to get back into dream-world was futile, as thoughts (most of which had never been contemplated before and/or were completely unwarranted) crept into my cognition. Deciding that the morning was inevitable, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, allowing my bare toes to touch the carpet. Careful not to wake my sleeping child, I slowly stood up in the darkness, and stumbled over to the bathroom to brush my teeth. The bright vanity lights felt like daggers to my still-adjusting eyes.

Continue Reading…

Great Catch

endless laundry for a mom


36-year-old, recently divorced mother of two young children, the youngest of which, at 4, tends to tantrum about seemingly trite everyday occurrences, the older, more mature first-grader gravitates toward a more dictatorial attitude.

Diagnosed a few years ago with Multiple Sclerosis, my symptoms are not too severe, often coming about when overly muscle-fatigued, and resembling a college student stumbling into her dorm room after a heavy night of drinking.

My interests include watching stupid and mindless comedies on tv, playing games with my kids, and hanging out with my friends over good food.

What I actually do is laundry.

Where do you fit in? Well, you can start by helping me with all this damned laundry. Or, you could donate enough money that I could hire someone to do it for me. Oh- and long walks on the beach (actually, scratch that… sounds incredibly boring).

That’s it. That’s me.

– GreatCatch79

I slid my laptop over to Jenn, who quietly looked over the contents of my profile. Perturbed, she exhaled. “I knew you weren’t taking this seriously!”

I put on my best offended face.

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Kir. Now cut the crap and be sane for once. If you were to think like an eligible bachelor, what would you want to see?”


“Ugh. I hate you right now.”

Continue Reading…

Becoming the Big Spoon

Becoming the big spoon

I curl up close to him- “him” representative of former boyfriends, previous lovers, husband, well, now ex-husband. I feel tiny, my back against the expanse of his chest, his large, heavy arm draped protectively over me. I am the little spoon.

I hate every moment of it.

I feel hot, short-of-breath, unable to move. I try to shift positions in the hopes that his grasp will loosen; but, alas, this endeavor does not work out in my favor and now he holds tighter to me. I gasp for air, but it’s only the recycled air that we are forced to share due to his close proximity. To say snuggling is not my thing is a gross understatement.

“Baby, isn’t this great?” Does he honestly think that this is what I want?

“No!” is what I wanted to cry.

“Oh, yes, it’s wonderful!” Are my actual words. Wonderful? Wonderful?

Fast forward to present day, when my little guy of just 4 years old tip-toes across the hallway, shuffling into my bedroom wearing his fleecy footy-pajamas. Immediately roused from sleep, I peak at the clock on the side table next to me to see the emblazoned numbers. 1:24. AM. A-freaking-M. I consider the task of actually bringing him back to his room: swinging my legs over the side of the bed, allowing my bare toes to touch the cold floor, scooting him down the hallway, under protest, to his own bed. I decide against it, however, and pull the covers back to allow my boy access. He doesn’t want to sleep on the empty pillow next to me, though. A king-sized bed just for our two small bodies, yet he would rather lay as close to me as humanly possible, our cheeks touching as he curls in close. I wrap my arm around him not wanting to ever let go, and our breathing synchronizes as we both drift off to sleep.

I am the big spoon.