The Next Best Thing: Tinder and Relationships

It occurs to me that, at a certain age, you are expected to get over your relationship hang ups, commitment phobias, and general post-Relationship-with-Satan trauma and settle down with someone again.

Like an adult.

Like, forever.

Or at the very least, vow to settle down with someone forever, while secretly keeping in mind that divorce is always an option if you can’t deal with their bullshit. Or if they can't deal with yours.

Honestly I think this is how most marriages happen.  It's supposed to be "I do" and it ends up being more like "meh - you'll do".  If you think I am being cynical, think about how many unhappily married people you know.

(This is how I felt about the subject for a very long time)

I look at couples who effortlessly dissolve into new relationships and marriages or combine families (step kids and all) and I envy them.   I also hold back the urge to warn them not to get too comfortable.   

But when you really think about it, it seems that the unlimited availability of new partners has given everyone unrealistic expectations about relationships.  I see more people around me now who absolutely refuse to define their relationships and I wonder why.  Is commitment to one person a thing of the past?

I recently engaged in  a "social experiment" during which I decided to create and use an online dating profile and go on some dates.

My first questions was, of course, "Where is a freshly minted Cougar to go for new dating adventures?"  Well, as luck would have it, I have a few friends who recommended a new dating app and let me tell you - I was super excited to try it.

If you have never been introduced to the cesspool dump of a human wasteland that is Tinder, allow me to acquaint you:

Within about 24 hours, I was starting to see a pattern of the types of guys who use Tinder.  I started to make mental notes but then quickly realized I would not have to continue to do so because these profile patterns just kept repeating themselves.  Allow me to introduce you to the types of guys you'll meet on Tinder, in no particular order:

1. "You Wanna See all The Animals I Kilt??" Guy:  This guy has a profile pic that is either a dead deer on a car hood, a pic of him holding a dead deer by the antlers, or a pic of him catching a fish.  He is always wearing a baseball cap (usually camouflage), sunglasses, and there is cheap beer in most of his photos. This guy will also be super into sports and if you connect with him, he will be the one who "likes to just chill at home" which is code for "I never got my license back after that last DUI".  He watches a lot of porn and thinks the "jackhammer" is the best sex move ever.  He is also the guy who thinks strippers want to date him.  Do not have sex with this guy unless you want to throw out your back and be unable to masturbate yourself to sleep for at least a week.

(Here ducky, ducky ducky!)

2. "Hipster" Guy:  This guy's profile picture is usually him staring off into space in what is supposed to look like really deep thought.  He has a full beard and wears skinny jeans.  He may be wearing a fedora. If you connect with him, he wants to go out to a hole in the wall place you've never heard of (but piques your interest as an adventurer).  He likes to drink craft beer and talk about his home brewing process while listening to a shitty band you've  never heard of, or live slam poetry.  If you are having really bad luck, he actually performs slam poetry.  He uses words like 'artisenal" and "free range" and doesn't believe you when you tell him they use pesticides on organic vegetables and then he gets all mad at YOU for telling him the truth like it's your fault he doesn't research the causes he is so passionate about before spouting off about them.

Hypothetically.

(Hey girl.......my infinity scarf is gluten free)

3."Sportsy McSports" Guy:  This guy is wearing either his favorite team's jersey in every photo OR he may have a shirtless photo - in which he is wearing a team hat.  He really really wants to get laid, but his "dating" schedule revolves around whatever sporting events are happening that week.  Whatever you do, don't go to a sports bar with this guy unless you want to spend your evening watching him yell at the television while getting progressively more drunk as the night goes on.  Whether or not you have sex will depend on which team wins.  This guy has nothing to talk about other than sports and how big his dick is.  (SPOILER ALERT: His dick is not big). He likes getting blow jobs while watching sports but thinks going down on chicks is lame.  If you got to bed with him, he will get half-hard and yell at his dick for twenty minutes until you get legit scared and bail.

4. "Gym" Guy:  This guy's profile pic is shirtless.  Every photo looks like it has been photoshopped and you can't help but curse under your breath at the wonder his abdominal region beholds.  (You should pretty much just pop a Plan B before scrolling through the rest of his photos because he is sex on a stick).  This guy cares about the gym and heavy metal music and sex and - usually in that order.  Proceed with caution - especially if your vagina is not broken in.  Advanced users only!!  Good for awesome sex but not a conversationalist.  Get in, get out and keep his number for when you need another sesh.  Not boyfriend material.  You release him into the wild when you are done. Don't be a selfish whore.

5.  "Middle Aged Recently Divorced" Guy:  This guy is older (late-40s or older) and has no clue what he is doing on Tinder but he just finished paying child support on his 18 year old and used that money to buy a sports car.   He is hoping his mid-life-crisis car will lure in some hot "broads". He's been watching a lot of Entourage and is ready to roll hard.   His profile  states he is "not into game playing" which means he hooked up with a college student and she dumped him when she found a younger hotter guy who would pretend to listen to her talk about contouring and spray tans.  Middle aged guys are terrible at taking selfies so his photo is way too close and always a large full face shot, sometimes blurry and he never has any pics of his full body because he is self conscious about his pot belly. He is either not smiling (and looks like he was posing for a mug shot) or he is smiling too much (and looks like a sex offender at a kid's birthday party). He just got out of a long marriage so he is basically not used to taking care of himself and will be a little dependent.  If you like to take care of guys emotionally, this one is for you!  His house is a wreck because he is used to his wife picking up after him.  Caution: fixer-upper but he goes down.

(Fanny packs are still a thing, right?)

6. "I'm a Biker Who Digs My Bike" Guy:  This guy has a picture of his bike as his profile picture.  He may or not be on the bike  It doesn't matter. It's a biker thing - you wouldn't understand.  He is rough around the edges (that means, he looks like he hasn't bathed in about a week) he has tattoos on every area of exposed skin and his profile definitely references his graduation from the  "School of Hard Knocks".  He is looking for a "bitch" but is probably secretly submissive in bed and does things like sniff dirty socks while he masturbates.  He's got at least one photo where he is wearing a doo-rag and a leather vest.   He likes smoking cigarettes and talking about his bike.  He likes blowjobs and women who don't have an opinion.  He's probably decent in bed but smells bad.

7.  The "College Kid Looking for a Mommy" Guy:  This guy is attractive or hot, and has crazy good pick up lines.  He doesn't need any lube to slide into your DMs.  He wants to talk about dirty crazy sex stuff but has no idea what he is doing.  He has definitely jerked off to any of your photos that slow the slightest bit of cleavage.  He's all talk and no follow through.  Let him cut his teeth on girls his own age.  (Not ripe until at least age 23).

(Oh you kids..)

I was so exhausted after the process, which included screening dates, actually “dating” (whatever that happens to consist of on any given day – sometimes coffee, sometimes booze, drunk karaoke (dear GOD) dancing, and sometimes just sex), paying for a babysitter, trying to converse with someone who may or may not be (but most likely IS) telling me what I want to hear in order to see me naked, and trying to live with myself afterward.  It was starting to seem like it would be less emotionally costly to get over my commitment issues and be with someone who is not perfect but who may be perfect for me. 

So after this hit-or-miss experiment, I seemed to learn most of all that the hole in my heart couldn't be filled with new dick. At its best, it numbed me enough to deal with the emotional crises I was experiencing and let me feel good physically - with no emotional repercussions.  At worst, it put me in a few dangerous situations that could've ended up much worse.

I ended up deciding to toss aside the fuckboys and go with making an actual commitment to a real actual grown up relationship.

I mean, avoiding my feelings really isn't worth getting murdered on a date, is it?

I Think I Need a Wife - A Journey into Femisogyny

Here we are - four years after my last blog post.  I am working an intensely busy job at a very high profile law firm, my oldest daughter has moved out (sniffle) and my son is 17 years old.  I am raising a tween.  Again.  As my youngest child is 10 years old and a girl.  I am so close to losing my mind I can taste it.  

I have found that the demands of my latest job allow my mind to work at the pace necessary to keep my anxiety in check. Constantly putting out fires makes my naturally worrisome mind weirdly feel at ease.  There is a certain comfort in fixing things; operating in emergency mode at all times.  All that being said: I still don't have a clue how to manage my life outside of work.  

Being a workaholic is great - but less acceptable if you are a female.  For some reason there can be a great deal of guilt when you are a woman who takes pride in working long hours and being indispensable at the office.  I feel like I almost have to apologetically do an amazing job.  When talking with my coworkers or chatting with others at networking events, I find myself holding back my enthusiasm because, if I don't, I am judged for being TOO involved in my work.  

After all, my primary function in life is raising my children and being a "Mom" (a title that is granted to someone regardless of her abilities to appropriately "mother" her offspring).  Don't get me wrong - I am a good mom, but it's not what I am BEST at.  And I feel like I need an anti-Pinterest venue where I can post my parenting failures without judgment.  It really is okay not to be a perfect mom.   

The thing I envy most about the males I work with is that they get to go home to someone who will probably have the laundry done, the house cleaned and dinner on the table (more often than not). And if they have a working wife, they generally can still count on her to have her shit together enough to have ordered something for dinner, straightened up the house and/or otherwise made plans for them to have a warm, slightly nutritious meal of some sort and maybe even dessert - at a table that is not covered in last week's bills.  Someone who has her shit at least 50% together.  

I envy that. To be honest (and sexist):  I think I need a wife.    

I would love nothing more than to go home to a well-oiled machine.  (Uh...that came out wrong).  I'd like to have someone there who has picked up the kids from school, made dinner, cleaned up, and made it a "home".  My dream would be to work hard all day long to burn off my intellectual and emotional energy (or at least that amount in excess of the amount tolerable by my spouse).......I would walk in the door to find a full glass of chardonnay and a half-empty couch.  I kick off my 6 inch heels and sit back and get a foot rub while sipping wine - the smells of dinner are already detectable in the background.  Italian food.  Inviting and warm.  My wife is so nurturing.  No wonder the guys at work seem so much more calm than I am.  THEY HAVE A WIFE.  My wife wants to make sure I eat healthy and delicious food.  Why Italian food?  Because she knows what I like because we've been together for so long now she doesn't even have to ask.   

She's not a "mind reader" (a phrase a lot of boyfriends and husbands use) but her intuition is amazing.  The effort is admirable.  I find myself wishing I could be as good to her as she is to me.  When I try to reciprocate, my efforts feel transparent and disingenuous.  (I wonder if this is how my ex-husband used to feel when he made fumbling efforts to reciprocate my nurturing and I have a split second of empathy.)

Back to the nurturing wife fantasy....

I am not hungry yet, I need to relieve the pressure of the day and relax and blow off some steam.   She leans in and rubs my neck and shoulders as I ask her to tell me about her day and I make every effort to listen carefully to her, while at the same time giving myself over to the relaxation.  I can feel myself unwind as I take a large sip of wine and exhale the stress away.  When she is done talking, I feel the need to use her mouth for other purposes and I push her head gently down to where I need it.  At that very moment, I want nothing more than a leisurely cunnilingus session, no reciprocation necessary.  

It feels good to be demanding and upfront about my desires without feeling guilty or apologetic. For some reason this seems to be easier to do with a woman than a man. Once she satisfies my desire,  I change into something more comfortable and we sit down to dinner together to talk about our days, the news, general gossip among our friends.  We stay away from hot button issues because now is the time for relaxation, not argument.  I compliment and thank her for cooking such an amazing meal and I clear the table and prepare to wash the dishes and/or load the dishwasher.  A hand is placed around my waist and a kiss on my neck as she slides into place next to me to help.  I shoo her away and she licks my nose. We work together to clean up after dinner.

After we complete the kitchen clean-up, we retire to the bedroom.  I press my face into the sheets and they smell so fresh and clean and feel soft.  It feels amazing to know she wants everything I touch to be fresh and clean and soft.  I tell her how much I appreciate the work she has done.  She beams with pride.  It's my turn to reciprocate in bed and I gladly do so for as long as it takes for her to be satisfied.  

We engage in more playtime followed by cuddling.  We continue to cuddle and stare at our phones and make fun of everyone who posts stupid things on Facebook.  She asks me to make up a bitchy story about a mutual friend, and I do.  She tells me I'm mean and I tell her she's adorable. We play-fight and that turns into an extended make out session, which was her plan all along.  (I told you she's adorable).

After we've exhausted one another, I can finally fall asleep guilt-free and rest my exhausted body and mind.  

When I wake up, coffee is brewing and there is plenty of hot water for a long, hot shower.  The laundry is done and i don't have to rifle through the laundry basket for my stockings.  I take my time in the bathroom because she doesn't have to get out the door as early as I do.  Since this is MY fantasy., I've decided she works part time in a shoe store - not because we need the money - but because it affords me the opportunity to get a significant discount on Louboutins and it allows her the opportunity to contribute to the household in a meaningful way.  

Apparently I am not only sexist but a full-blown femisogynist.   In my fantasy world, I have the perfect partner, who happens to be more submissive and nurturing........ and female (because men tend to be very dominant and more intimidating what with their man penises and all...).  

I hope you enjoyed this little venture into fantasy land.  

Please keep an eye out for my next blog which will be posted Wednesday!

A Day at the Sand Dunes: Holy Shit I Can't Move

So, I had the awesome opportunity to go on a field trip with my 13 year old son on Friday.  I’ve been excited about it for weeks. I mean, way more excited than I should be for a 39 year old mother of three.  You could say I don’t get out much.  (But you won’t, because you’re not an asshole.)

My son, of course, is WAY too cool for field trips and asked me if he could skip the whole thing and just stay home and play X-Box.  I said “Hell no.  We are going to the mother fricking SAND DUNES, mutha fucka!”  (I didn’t say the ‘mutha fucka’ part out loud but it was implied).   Are you kidding me?  Miss out on the fun, sun and a day off work to goof off and act like a kid?  We are SO going.

He actually seemed somewhat excited for me to go with him once I convinced him it was going to be the most awesome thing in the entire history of ever.  I was happy we would get to spend a day together doing something fun.  We don’t do that as much as we should because I get busy with his sisters and he is in the middle of that awkward male adolescent thing.  I either say the right thing to him or the exact wrong thing and it’s a bit touch and go.  (But, that is the subject of another blog.)

Where was I?

Oh yeah…

Dunes Day arrived. 

*cue dramatic music*

I won’t lie:  I was pretty excited.  I mean, a day off work -  a day off that does not involve  any of the following:

1.  A child vomiting
2. Me vomiting
3. Me moving boxes into a new home
4. Me cleaning - ANYTHING
5. Yard work

In other words - a day AWAY FROM EVERYTHING?!?!?

Fuck yeah.  Just what I needed.

We were set to go to the State park and Sand Dunes about an hour from our house, along Lake Michigan.  I have to be honest and say that, although I did take a look at the website to see what the dunes and the vehicles looked like and the history and all that stuff, I didn’t exactly think about what was going to happen once we got there.   I just KNEW it was going to be FUN.

I packed up lunches, an umbrella, sunscreen, ponchos (we had a chance of rain), Gatorade and any and every other damn thing we may need.  I did manage to leave the kitchen sink at home…

We arrived at the school and joined the other students in the classroom.  The FIRST thing I noticed when I got to the classroom that there were four “dad” chaperones there and zero moms.  I was the only mom there .  And the dads who were there ranged from Extreme Sports Guy to Hipster Dad, to Gym Rat.  For the most part, they looked like they were ready for adventure and in pretty good shape.  What was I getting myself into? 

 

Uh, I may be exaggerating, but whatevs... It's MY blog..

 

After doing the role call and an explanation of the rules, bus assignments, etc, a mom or two showed up and I breathed a little sigh of relief.    I was not going to be destroyed or out-muscled.  Hear me roar.  Yeah...

We went to the gymnasium for head count and to put our lunches in the travel box.  I handed my son our lunches and said “Here you go, honey”.  He didn’t take them from me, so I looked up and realized he looked somewhat mortified (only completely) and so I had to make it better by saying “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not supposed to call you that in front of your friends.  I’m sorry, honey!”  Damn, I did it again. 

My son:  “Mom, stop talking..”

 



 

This was starting out great!

I sipped on my coffee and eyed the kids and other chaperones, mentally noting which of them will warrant honorable mention as characters in my book.  I was making inappropriate jokes and dropped my first “f” bomb before 9:00 a.m.  Fortunately, my son was the only one who heard it.  This  time.

[Note to self:  Don’t say ‘fuck’ in front of the teenagers.]

We loaded up on the bus and spent the majority of the ride telling jokes and listening to three of his friends in the seat in front of us singing One Direction or some crap like that.  I popped my head in and requested some Taylor Swift, which was met with blank stares and my son’s elbow in my ribs.  *sigh* 

Borrrrrrrrrrrrrrrring.

We got to the Dunes and I took a look at the vehicles we were supposed to ride in.  They are four –five rows deep with huge tires on them -  basically Monster  Jeeps with extra rows.  I started to get a little nervous seeing how tough they were built.  I mean, obviously, we were going to hit some serious hills and sand and who knows what.  How fast will we be going?  Hmm… Probably not THAT fast.  I mean, it’s a field trip for kids, right?  Psh, big whoop.

Exhibit A:  Vehicle of Death

 

I went into the gift shop and bought a little bag to throw over my shoulder and keep my phone and wallet in (not a place you want to bring your purse) and I got some sunglasses.  This was gonna be sooooooooooooo easy. 

Then we loaded up.

Kids piled in four to a row and, as I climbed up into the Vehicle of Death, I heard “We need a chaperone in the back here!” and I was starting to buckle in as the kids all turned to look at me.  I said “Oh, that’s me, isn’t it??”  *raises hand*  “Uh, I’m the chaperone!  Do I go in the back seat?”  The Evil Driver (you will find out why later) said wryly, “Yes, that would be ideal."

So, I got into the back row with three of my son’s friends and they made a HUGE deal of yelling up to the front to tell everyone they were with D’s MOM!!  Haha! 

I don’t see why that was so funny.

So, Evil Driver starts up the engine and revs it up a bit, giving us some instruction about not grabbing tree branches on the way through when we get to the wooded part.  He says something about how he’s only flipped one of these things one time and not to worry.  Okay Funny Boy.  You. Are. Hilarious.  Then he bolts out of the drive and I immediately feel like I am going to throw up.  Or pass out.

Me:  “Holy shit is he going to drive really fast on these things? Oh, damn I said shit, I’m sorry.  Jesus.”

Kids: “Haha!  D, your MOM just cussed!!”

Other kids: “Is this your first time on the dunes?”

Me: (gulp) “Yes”

 

Kids:  “Oh man, are you gonna puke?”

 

 Me:  “Maybe.  Look,  I will try to puke behind me okay?  Also, I may pee my pants.  In fact, I may have already peed a little bit.”

Kids:  “D!  Your MOM is back here wetting her pants!  Hahaha!”

My son:  “MOM!”

Me: “Sorry!  I didn’t really think this through. …”

Evil Driver:  *slams gas pedal and takes the first sharp turn*

Me:  “Sonovabitch.  Sorry! Oh god.  (Squeal!)  EEK!    (giggles hysterically)  Holy shit.  Sorry!  (squeak!!!)”

Kids:  *laughing their asses off*

 

My son:  “MOM!!!”

 

His friend:  “Put your hands in the air!  It’s awesome!!”

  

Me:  “NO!  I am NOT letting go of this bar!”  *squeals hysterically*

Evil Driver takes us up, down, around the dunes, tossing us around like crazy.  My son’s friend who is sitting next to me decides it would be a FINE idea to try to slam into me every time the jeep turns the opposite way, so I return the favor.  (I am too old for this shit, however, my brain does not process that information yet as I am in severe competition with my son’s friend to see who can knock whom from the jeep first - As every perfect chaperone should do on a field trip.  Duh.  Safety first...)

We stop at our first scenic spot and get out.  My legs are wobbly and I am nervously laughing as the kids go running around and up and down the sand dunes.  I wonder to myself if we are even halfway done yet.  I talk myself out of hyperventilating.

After about 20 minutes of watching the kids roll down hills and run back up, we get back into the Jeep and I slide under the seatbelt and my son’s friend says “You’re supposed to hook that rope thing next to you so we don’t fall out.”

Me: “Damn, really?  I didn’t even see that last time.”

His friend:  “Haha, yeah you were supposed to do that before we left.”

Me:  “Oops.  I am the BEST chaperone ever.  Wait, what hook thing?  I can’t find it..”

I fumble around and look over the edge of the jeep, trying to find the rope that goes in the hook thing.  How did I not see this before?  I am pretty sure Evil Driver didn’t tell me I was supposed to do this.  Or, he did and I was too busy focusing on not throwing up to remember to do it.  I keep looking for the rope and then Evil Driver comes up, reaches over and hands it to me, giving me the eyeball.

Me:  “Uh, hehehe, thanks? “

Evil Driver:  *pats my shoulder*  “You’re doing a FINE job.”

Me:  “Oh, I know!  I’m, like the BEST chaperone ever!”

Evil Driver:  "Yes, yes you are!" *shakes his head and chuckles*

We take off again and I squeal at the top of my lungs as we slowly climb to the top of a very tall hill.  Evil Driver stops at the top and tells us we are required to put our hands in the air due to the steep nature of the drop and I shake my head and grip the bar tighter and squeeze my eyes shut.  (Yes, I am a bad ass).  Then…we  plummet to the bottom, taking an immediate turn and then slowly entering the wooded area.   

Finally!  We get to enjoy the quiet nature that surrounds us...

As we are slowly driving into the beautiful wooded area and looking at the trees and I personally am enjoying being able to take a breath, Evil Driver decides to stop under a huge tree and say out of the blue “Oh look!” and points at something hanging from the branches.  Of course, we all look up and ONE of us SCREAMS at the top of her lungs “OHMYGODASNAKE!!”

And then all the kids LAUGH hysterically.

The “snake” is a tree branch that has wound around another branch with a part that dangles down and looks exactly like a snake. 

Hilarious, dude.  Really.

Me:  “Does anyone have a diaper?”

Kids: “Ha!  D! Your MOM needs a diaper!”

My son:  *shakes his head and slides down in his seat*

Evil Driver:  *laughs*

Me: *grumbles*

We jostle and hurtle the rest of the way back to the point of origin and when we slowly pull into where we started the whole thing, my son notices the sign above the parking area that says:

“If you are pregnant, have a heart condition, or back problems, please be sure to sit in the front seat.”

My son:  “MOM!  You were supposed to sit in the front seat.  What about your back??”

Me:  “Chillax bro, I am totally fine, plus they needed a chaperone to sit in back with your crazy friends to keep an eye on them.  SOMEBODY had to be the responsible one.”

My son:  *sigh*

Evil Driver gives us the requisite thank you for riding speech, ending with “If you’ve had fun today, my name is Ian.  And, if not, my name is Dave.”

Me:  “Thanks, Dave!”

Kids:  “Haha!  Yeah – thanks DAVE!”

Evil Driver:  "Hey!"

Me:  “We are just KIDDING.  Can we go again??”

Everyone looks at me like I’m crazy. 

 

Weirdos.

Basically, I had an awesome time.  I mean, who doesn’t enjoy being scared half to death?  What a rush..

 

After we were done with the dune rides, we took the bus over to the State park and had lunch and walked down to the beach of Lake Michigan. 

In order to get to the beach, we had to take several sets of wooden steps.  Approximately 1200 I would say, give or take a few.   We spent about a half hour playing in the sand and enjoying the view and then…………..had to climb all the way back up.  Like, 1200 steps.  I really thought I might die for a few minutes there.  My legs were burning.  And judging from the looks on a few of the other parents’ faces, I was NOT the only one. 

Those specks at the top are the rest of our group...

I knew the day sort of took it out of me, but I had no idea just how much it took out of me until Saturday morning.   I woke up and stretched in my bed and my muscles, from head to toe, felt like a rubber band getting ready to snap.  Oh. My. Gawd. 

I used to play a lot of sports in high school so I remember the pain of starting to train for, say, basketball in the Fall after a summer of not training.  Particularly, the pain in the back of the calves from when our coach would make us run up and down the bleachers.  Anyone remember that pain?  THAT is the pain I woke up with Saturday morning. 

 And my back.  Holy.  Shit. 

NOTHING is sexier than a woman waddling into the kitchen in the morning to make coffee.  I mean, nothing. 

My teenagers laughed at me.  For about ten minutes.  Until they realized I was going to have to make them my bitches for a day since I could BARELY move.  That will teach them.

I can move a little more today, but I know it’s going to be a few days before my body doesn’t hate me anymore. 

And, you know what?  It was TOTALLY worth it.  I can’t wait until next year’s field trip. 

I think we’re going to Chicago!

Bring it.

 

 

 

 

 

Waving the White Flag: A/K/A Getting Your Ass Kicked by a Six Year Old

I can't be the only single mother who has bad days.  I mean, heinously bad days.  Days where you want to sell the child to the gypsies and spend the money on a trip to Hawaii. 

(Shit, did I just say that?)

I know there are a number of factors at play here.  And, I am going to guess there was a full moon over the weekend.  If there wasn't, just keep that to yourself.  It's MY story and I'm going with full moon. 

Friday night I was buried in boxes, packing things up and getting ready for the move.  Which means my house looked like it had been vandalized.  Of course, this activity did not jive with the six year old's planned evening of cartoon and cuddle time, which I kept putting off for just "five more minutes" or just "one more box, honey" because I was running on borrowed energy, having been up since 5:30 a.m. and already worked a full day.  I just wanted to get things done, ready for the next day.  It was chaos.  When I did finally stop and take her to bed for cuddle time, she passed out about two seconds before I did.  We didn't do the regular reading time before bed or any of that.  We just crashed and burned.  Way to bond with the kid, Mom.  Good job.

I was also dealing with a 13 year old boy who was completely losing his mind over the fact he had a band ensemble performance the next morning.  His first one and he was freaking the hell out.  And when he is stressed about something, it is as if he is the only person in the history of ever who has had so much stress and it is the most important thing in the entire universe and requires immediate attention. 

*Barges in while I am putting his sister to bed*

"Mom, did you iron my clothes, I have to look nice for the performance tomorrow"

(yawning) "Honey, hang them up in my room. I set my alarm and I will get up early and iron them for you."

"Okay, what time are you planning to get up?  We need to get there early for warm up.  I have to warm up before we play."

"I know.  Your sister has done these things about a half dozen times.  It's not my first ride in the rodeo."

"We need to leave at 9.  I have to be there about an hour before we play."

(No he doesn't)

"We will get there in plenty of time, I promise.  Now get a shower and go to bed so you are rested in the morning." (So mom can get some damn sleep)

(Geezus)

Meanwhile, my teenage daughter was busily texting her boyfriend, who just graduated from school that afternoon and is moving about a half hour away and they are both very melancholy about it.  I attempted to make conversation with her about that before I went to bed, but honestly, she probably got the short end of the stick that night.  I wanted to sympathize with her because I know when you are a teenager and your boyfriend leaves it is the most horrible thing ever, but I was exhausted to the point of not making any sense.  I think I may have patted her shoulder (it may have been the cat, I really have no idea) and said "It'll be fine, honey, I promise" and then walked into a wall on my way back to bed.

Sorry kids.  I am only one person.  You each have different needs and I am failing miserably at meeting any of them, much less all of them.

(Yeah.  It was one of THOSE weekends.)

I didn't sleep very well.  I woke up often during the night.  It happens sometimes.  Then, Saturday morning I continued the pattern, waking up at 4:00am, then 5:00am, then 5:20am and then 6:00am.  And finally, my alarm went off at 7:00a.m.  I was almost glad it finally went off so I had a reason to get out of that good for nothing asshole bed of mine.  My body, however, wasn't done sleeping.  It was going to be a long ass day.

I showered, got the boy up, ironed his clothes, put on something presentable and then woke up the teenager to let her know where her sister's dance clothes were because her father was going to pick her up for ballet class in about an hour (since they haven't perfected cloning technology and her dance class is at the same time as her brother's band performance, an hour away).  I threw some coffee in the general direction of my face and headed out.

Got though the performance.  He did well but they only got a 2nd division rating instead of 1st division so he was ticked off the whole way home. 

"We should've gotten a 1st Division rating."

"I told Mr. P I didn't want to do this anyway."

"Why did he sign me up for this?"

There, there, son.  There, there.

Came home and moved some truckloads of crap to storage.  Hoping some of it would blow out of the car on my way there so I didn't have to unload it.

Sent the 6 year old and the 13 year old off to their friends' houses for the evening for sleepovers. 

Spent the evening relaxing with the eldest teenager and watching movies and bonding and stuff.  That was the highlight of my weekend.  It was all downhill from there.

Sunday, I did NOT wake up until 11:00 a.m.  Well, I woke up briefly at 8:00 a.m., took some pain relief medication for my screaming back, and collapsed back into bed.  THEN, I woke up suddenly and looked at the clock and it said ELEVEN. OH.  FIVE.   Holy shit.  And the reason I woke up then was because my daughter had called to tell me she was getting dropped off soon. 

You'd think I would be well rested and ready to take on the day, right?  Oh my gods.  Not even close. 

The 6 year old came home with an ATTITUDE from HELL.  Precipitated by the fact that her friend had the nerve to go to her cousin's birthday party at Chuck E Cheese and not invite my child.  It took me a half hour to explain to my daughter why she couldn't crash another kid's party.  She was NOT having any of that. 

(Why did the other child have to rub it in her face that she was going to Chuck E Cheese?  Why not just tell my kid Santa is going to skip our house this year?  Thanks, kid.  PS:  Paybacks are a BITCH.  Yeah, I just tough-talked a 6 year old in my head.) 

My darling angel then spent the entire day jumping up and down on my last nerve.  Actually, my nerves were shot.  She was jumping up and down on my nerve ending.  The last one. 

She didn't want to eat anything I offered her. She didn't want to do any of the activities I suggested.  She certainly didn't want to help with anything or put any of her shit away.  She DID want to have a tantrum about how I packed up her very favorite doll (that she has not touched in six months) and demand that I take her down to retrieve it from storage. 

Excuse me???  (BREATHE, BREATHE, BREATHE. Don't cry.  Don't throw a tantrum.  Don't throw things.  *talking to myself here, not my 6 year old*)

My oldest daughter was busy doing homework all day long and I picked up my son around 2:00 p.m. from his friend's house.  He spent some time on the computer with his headphones on and she was attempting to focus on her homework while both attempted to stay out of the line of fire.  They can tell when Mom is about to lose her shit.  The youngest does not seem to notice when the vein in my forehead starts throbbing.  And, when she DOES see it, she is the one who will walk right up to me and push it with her finger.  Repeatedly.

We got a brief reprieve from little hell on wheels for awhile when she went outside to play with the neighbor kid, but then he ticked her off and she came home crying because 7 year old boys are stupid.

FML

I managed to get one more truckload moved yesterday afternoon with my son's help and then took the six year old with me grocery shopping, thinking maybe the one-on-one time would mellow her out and she was almost acting normal until we got back home again.  The rest of the night was a continuation of the power struggle: 

"I don't want to eat that."

"Can I have some candy?  Why NOT??"

"Why do I have to get a shower?"

"Help me put on my pajamas.  I can't doooooooooo ittttttttt myyyyyyselfffffff!"

"Why do I have to brush my teeth??"

"Can I sleep in your bed?"

"Why not?"

"I can't stop thinking about ghosts and scary stuff and if I don't sleep in your bed I might have a bad dream!!"

*Cries because life isn't fair and she is six and has to sleep in a warm bed provided for her by her mother who is about two bad moments from hitting the road with only the clothes on her back*

I walk out into the living room, t-shirt askew, hair a mess, wild-eyed.  The teenagers are tentatively looking up from what they are doing to see if they should say anything or if they should wait for the throbbing vein in my temple to return to normal. 

I clean up the kitchen, go to my room, set my alarm and pull the blankets as far over my head as they will go.

Except for the little white flag sticking out the top.

And This, My Friends, Is How You Get a Massage

So, I've had this pain thing that's been going on for awhile due to an injury I got awhile ago, blah blah blah (not important to this story) and it flares up sometimes and then aggravates my other body parts and they start being whiny little bitches and then it totally throws my whole walk-y talk-y rhythym off for the entire day/week/month and makes me all killy and stuff.  I take pretty good drugs for it, but sometimes they don't work enough.  Because my body is kind of an asshole.  And maybe it wants more drugs...... but I have to be able to function.  Poor me.

Well, my preggers girlfriend is going to this massage place a few times a month for prenatal massage and she gave me a referral card for a discount on a massage and I just kinda set it aside and thought about it for awhile.  Should I spend the money, or shouldn't I?  I mean, it's a great deal.  I totally DESERVE it, don't I?  PLUS, she gets a discounted massage AFTER I turn in my card so I am basically ripping her off if I don't use it.  And I am nothing if not a giver. 

I am not cooking a human or anything like that, but girl gotta get some hands on the body action going on, you know?  I mean, there is something awesome about getting totally naked and paying someone to slather on some oil and touch you every damn place EXCEPT for your naughty bits.  In fact, their JOB is to make you relaxed and they aren't even allowed to get a boner or anything. It's against the rules.  (Also impossible if the person is a chick, but I digress).  It's like prostitution, only it not as fun, it's legal, and they have to pay taxes.   

So, here's the sitch:  I decided to do the deed.  Now, this is NOT the first professional massage I've ever had.  I used to get massage therapy on a regular basis, but it's been awhile since my last one and I have a blog now and it's hard not to write about every damn thing that happens.   

Especially when it's in the dark.

With a guy.

And he's not allowed to get a boner.

So, I got there late, after hitting every damn light on the way.  I was about three minutes late and I hate being late to anything.  (Yet, I manage to be late for more things than not lately.)  I am sure I breezed in looking pretty amazing, with my hair flying everywhere, the remnants of the curses I just spewed all down the last mile of the road on my lips and the general tension and stress and anxiety I carry with me on a daily basis.  Pretty much hot, sexy and ready to go, right?  He greeted me all smiley and stuff, but I decided to let that go.  He looked slightly terrified but handed me the clipboard and I scribbled out my information the best I could and threw it handed it back to him and smiled. 

He led me back to the massage room and - holy gods I love massage rooms.  This one was giant and it smelled like that menthol-y type relaxing lotion/oil stuff and there was yoga zen budda music playing and it almost immediately made me relax a little bit.  He turned to say something and I think he caught me telling myself "You are in your safe place.  This is your safe place.  Ommmmmm....  Huh?  Sorry.  I was listening." and he wiped the uncertain look off his face, told me where to put my purse and my clothes (most of my dates don't give such concise instructions.) and then directed me to lay face down with my face over the hole (he said it better than that..) and he would check back in a few minutes. 

I got undressed in record time, went to turn my phone off and laid on the table, face down, and took a DEEP, CLEANSING breath.  And then heard my phone restart.  You asshole phone.  I learned from my LAST massage, when my SON called me about a half hour into it for no reason, that you DO NOT leave your phone on.  So, my phone was just sitting there, in re-start mode, hung up and not starting OR stopping.  Like that hourglass thing on the computer, you know?  Asshole phone!  I was laying face down, naked with just a thin sheet over my ass, reaching over to grab the damn thing and try to shut it off before he came back in.  It would NOT stop.  So I pulled the damn battery out and tossed the phone skeleton and battery on top of my purse.  Fuck da police.  I'm tryin' to get all relaxed up in here.  I got no time for that! 

*breathe  breathe  breathe*

He knocks on the door and asks if I am ready.  I stifle a laugh and say "Yep!!" (too enthusiastic?) and he comes on it and gives me the instructions about relaxing and where to stick my face and stuff.  I'm glad he reminded me to breathe because 1) I had forgotten that part and 2) It let me know I am not the only hot mess he deals with in this joint. 

So, I'm doing the face down in the hole thing and he makes a point of elaborately covering up anything that may give a hint of inappropriateness.  Like, no side boob even.  I am not very modest at all so that part made me giggle.  We are grown ups here.  I know you're not gonna touch my boobies.  We are good.  (But I totally understand why he does it in his profession.) 

After making a show of covering up all the side boob, and everything else, he then removes part of the sheet from my back and starts working on my back muscles.  Holy shit.  This part is a little boring for you because all I remember is that it was amazingly wonderful and I wanted to make it rain (er, toss him some dolla bills) if he would just not stop.  Then he got to my lower back which is the bastard of my back area and started doing that hard, painful, intense, rubby massage that made me want to punch him in the balls while kissing him and then maybe have his babies.  Yes, I was ambivalent.  But it really worked the muscles I needed to be worked so it was fantabulous when he got done and the menthol lotion stuff felt great.  I think he did some shoulder and arm stuff after that (I was still in a fog) and then he moved to my legs. 

This is the funny part:  He takes part of the sheet and totally mummifies my right leg so that ONLY my left leg is exposed.   I feel like I am on Little House on the Prairie or something.  Should I have worn a bonnet?  A burka?  Oh my gods...

Anyway, he starts with the leg thing and, after rubbing the calf, he moves up to my thigh and then he does this thing with this hand where he is rubbing it up and down REALLY  fast on my inner thigh and jiggling it back and forth and stuff to loosen the muscle and the thin sheet is doing this moving up and down thing and all I can think of is what this would look like if someone walked into the room.  And then I think I snorted a little inside (Hahaha!!  Okay, focus.  Relax... Breathe...)

He does the calf rub thing (which was amazing) and then moves down to my feet. 

Oh no, I should've gotten a pedicure first.  All I can think about is how dry my feet are and how he may have to charge me for more oil and oh damn he has to touch my feet that poor, poor man.  I wanted to apologize to him or make excuses for why I am such a loser I didn't even get my feet properly smoothed out before he had to touch them and then I remembered that if I were going to get a pedicure I'd be apologizing to the guy at the nail salon and what's the diff?  SOMEONE is gonna know my feet are dry and not smooth. 

Chillax. 

Breathe.

I actually zoned out for awhile and enjoyed the next several minutes of leg/foot massage and then it was time to "turn over".  He made sure to totally cover me almost up to my neck (seriously, should I have brought a burka?)  while he turned his head and then I got comfy, closed my eyes and breathed and then I hear a very soft "click".  The lights (which had been very dim before now) were turned out.  Like totally.  I don't even know how he could see what he was doing.  I know this because when I heard the lights go off, I peeked with one eye to see what the little noise was.  I couldn't see anything but shadows and the outline of the massage guy and the heat lamp.

I have to tell you, I am not a huge fan of total darkness.  I am well aware that this guy is doing all of this stuff for MY comfort and to be all overly appropriate and stuff but I really was doing super peachy until the lights went out.  So I lay there and remind myself to chill.  Kinda reminded myself that the lights were basically already off before then (because my eyes were closed) so it wasn't a big whoop and, right about then, when I was about to get up and find the light switch myself, he did my FAVORITE part of any massage.  You know when they slip their hands under your shoulders and neck and just use the weight of your body to PULLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL upward very slowly and it makes your head and toes tingle and you hope it never stops?  (If you have never felt that feeling go get a massage.  Not until you finish reading this, but right after.  Totally amazing.)  Anyway, so that took my mind off the weird lack of lighting situation. I just enjoyed the relaxy tingly stuffs for awhile. 

I had finally shut my brain off, got totally relaxed and purr-y again and then, as he started rubbing the top and front of my shoulders,  I suddenly thought "Holy shit, what would I do if he grabbed my boob?"  I mean, second base is RIGHT there.  Maybe he turned off the lights so he could just "accidentally" get a handful.  Wait, would a massage guy do that?  Well, I DID read this one news story where this dentist got himself handful of boob after giving the chick novocaine and, if you think about it, him getting me this relaxed from massage is SORTA like giving me novacaine because even if I wanted to move, I wouldn't WANT to, um, I mean I wouldn't be ABLE to, so it's kind of the same thing!!  And then he did that behind the shoulder/neck/head thing again, and then moved to an intense massage of my forearms and wrists and my brain shut off for the rest of the massage and I really didn't care if he grabbed my boobs. 

Which he didn't. 

Because he's not a boob grabber.

The massage was amazing and relaxing and, other than the weird mummification and lights out things, one of the best massages I've ever had.   

I wasn't sure I should DRIVE when he was done because I was so relaxed I felt a little drunk, but I got to take my time getting my bearings, drink lots of water and then coast on out when I was good and ready.

Oh, and I also made sure I made my next appointment.

And flashed him "Deuces"

Peace.