Even More About the Red Dress

I realized after re-reading my original post that it made it seem like I would be wearing Jenny's original dress. That is not so. You see, so many women have been inspired by the story of the traveling red dress that women from all over the world started sending them to other women who needed to feel beautiful and powerful. They started a facebook page and women began meeting each other through the power of social media. I don't know how much information my dress owner wants me to share here, but I can tell you that she and I have never met, she seems like an amazing human being, and there are too many states for me to remember between Texas and Virginia.

And the dress! It's like nothing I would have ever purchased for myself, but I think that's the point of the project. It's red and glittery, almost like a red disco ball without mirrors. Here is a picture of the back:

 I'm pretty sure that scoop is too low for a bra, but I fixed the problem by buying a small, balero-type black cardigan. I'm also hoping that will help camouflage my giant arms. I can't tell you the last time a thin, strappy dress was on my body for just this reason.

Here is the front:

See? It's glittering and fabulous. The dress owner was also kind enough to send me a card, that somehow perfectly fit exactly what I was feeling when I opened the package:

Just in case you can't read it, it says, "Life is full of pain, misery,

Just in case you can't read it, it says, "Life is full of pain, misery, disaster, disease, sadness, tragedy, malevolent rabbits (I think that's what it says, I'll have to find the card again to double check), anger, violence, death....But this little owlie's awesomeness negates all that."

And so it did. I'm to the point in my life, my career, and my volunteerism, where it feels like everyone wants to take something from me or use something that I foolishly offer. I'm fostering a puppy (a puppy!) for Seven and, sure, the dog is cute, but wow, I had no idea how hard it would be to house train a 3 month-old puppy. She pees in her crate, she pees in my bedroom, she poops either two feet in front of the door or two feet outside the door, and she fights with Sam constantly. Dinner time for all three animals in the house makes me feel like I'm running an animal shelter. Everyone is crying and whining about me not getting them their food fast enough.

Then there is a problem with my meds. I have some medication that I don't take every day (mostly because I would be in a perpetual state of semi-consciousness haze that I don't enjoy on a regular basis). Sometimes my friends ask me for my extra meds. I never sell them because that's clearly illegal and giving them away is only, what? Partially illegal. I don't know. It's a grey area for me. The problem is when my friends start requesting meds that I take every day because I need them. One of them is a controlled substance that requires me to get a written prescription every month. Someone came over to my house and left the next morning. About twenty minutes after she had left, I got a text saying, "Oh, I forgot to get one of your XXXX. I guess you forgot to give it to me". I was floored. I don't give out that med and I in no way forgot to give one to her. I'm not a pharmacist. I'm not even a physician's assistant. I have what I have because I need it.

So I was feeling used in every way and then I got this wonderful package that was sent specifically for me, to make me feel better. I almost started crying. Someone, a stranger, was thinking about me when it felt like no one else in my life was. It was beautiful.

My Red Dress

Let me put this into context: I came home after the kind of day that made me want to crawl into bed, pull the covers up, and hide from the world. When I came into my bedroom, I found a box. Clicker must have picked it up from my front porch and brought it inside. As soon as I saw it, I knew. I knew that my traveling red dress had come. I almost cried.

If you haven't been following the Traveling Red Dress Project on the web, start with the link to The Bloggess. Then check out the follow-up to her original post. With the first red dress, Jenny (The Bloggess) wrote, "I want, just once, to wear a bright red, strapless ball gown with no apologies. I want to be shocking, and vivid and wear a dress as intensely amazing as the person I so want to be."

Then she got the strapless red ball gown and her friend photographed her in it. Then she sent the dress on a journey, from city to city, so other women could experience the unadulterated joy that she experienced. She asked women to tell her if they needed to celebrate, to feel beautiful, to mark a struggle through depression, cancer, or a divorce. I sent a note saying that I would like to celebrate losing 50 lbs after lap band surgery and a wonderful woman from Fairfax, Virginia said she would happily ship me out a dress.

My photography shoot is scheduled for Sunday, February 18th and I can't wait. More details to come...

No, I Didn't Use Cocaine

and I should probably that specify that I don't currently, nor have I ever, used cocaine. But, man, the questionnaire I completed tonight made me feel like maybe I did and just didn't remember it. You see, if you hang out with Zac for any length of time, you notice some...how do I put this...oddities in his speech. He stutters over words that start with "s" and he sometimes takes giant pauses and rolls his eyes so far up into his head like he's trying to forcibly eject a word from his brain.

To put in polite terms, Zac has speech dysflucenices that have persisted longer than they should. It's all cute when a three year-old says the Earth is the "Earf", but it's a little more troubling when a six year-old says "the" a lot like "fuh".

Zac's therapist was actually the one that brought it to my attention that maybe I would want to look into Zac's speech problems with his school. He said a speech problem wasn't going to help him keep and make friends anytime soon and I actually agreed with him for the first time. So, I set the Special Education wheel a'rollin and I feel a little like I've just been run over by a train. Zac was diagnosed as in need of testing. He was sent home with a packet of materials tonight for me to fill out. Here are a list of incredibly detailed questions they asked (just a small sample, really. The questionnaire was over five pages long, 10 point font):

• My highest educational status
• Who has legal custody of Zac
• Place of residence of parent that lives in the home (hahahaha....oh wait, that one isn't supposed to be a joke. Can I say the general VT/NH area with a smattering of "I don't know. He evades the law"? Wait, no, I can't. The box isn't big enough. Sigh)
• Problems during pregnancy with child? Weight gain? Medications (dosage and frequency), Persistent emotional stress and/or anxiety (wait, is this one another joke? Of course, I checked the box! Why do you even have to ask?)
• How long labor was? Was it natural, induced, were forceps used? Was their a C-section? (and then I started wondering..how long was my labor? Was it 30 or 36 hours? Yes, I was induced and yes, I had a c-section.)
• What age did the child complete bowel training? Bladder training?
• Did your child show any delays in gross motor development, such as sitting, crawling, walking, and dressing? (oh jeez, I think this deserves its own post)
• List of serious accidents, operations, and hospitalizations?
• Frequent ear infections? Persistent sore throat? Headaches? Tubes in ears? (God, those were a rough three years. Yes, yes, yes, and yes)
• Has disciplining the child been strict? lenient? (how do I answer that? I wrote in "kind of")
• How does the child spend leisure time?
• Is there any unusual family circumstance, crises, or trauma that may be affecting your child? (What's the sad part is Zac's family circumstance isn't particularly unusual anymore. He just doesn't have a father).

Then I felt lonely and sad. I want to talk to someone about Zac because right now, I'm convinced that my Zoloft use during my pregnancy, regular bouts of emotional stress inutero, and complete non-relationship with the FOB have caused my child to stutter. I'm really to blame here, right? I'm such a girl.
Zac's tucked away in bed and my cat is getting drunk from the heat that my cable box is putting off. Right now, I'm just holding tight to the knowledge that I've never used cocaine, whether before, during, or after my pregnancy. I have that, at least.

Zachary 6.5

I find myself not writing about the reason I started this blog: Zac. The days fly by in waves of "time to get up", "No, you can't watch another show," "have you fed the dog?" and "I told you NOT to put all your shampoo in the bath water. I don't care if you like the bubbles". You see, I'm the Sunday-Thursday parent. My parents watch him from Friday afternoon after school to Sunday at 3pm. I would like to blame this arrangement on my MBA, but I would be dishonest if I didn't admit that it started well before I spent two years getting my degree.

Being the Sunday through Thursday parent comes with a certain amount of responsibility. I'm the  "take-no-prisoners-you-will-get-in-bed-or-you-will-not-see-a-computer-for-three-days" parent. But Zac makes it easy to parent, even when I have to be a hardass. We went to one of his classmates' parties today and I realized raising Zac is a little like raising a male version of myself as a child. We went to Jumping Jungle, a local indoor fun house filled with bouncy air houses. After 45 minutes of ear piercing screams, balls, and running like a madman, Zac came down and sat in my lap. First, he did the classic kid thing of asking for money for the arcades (no) and if he could use my phone to play Angry Birds (no). Then he complained about how bored he was. "It's boring to just run around and scream," he complained. I told him the rest of his friends were having fun and maybe he should try it.

Then Zac looked under the air hockey table and found a beaten up game of Sorry. In the middle of the party, he pulled out the pieces and I looked over and saw this:

and I thought...he's just...me. I'm raising a nerd, and a gamer, and a book reader because I was once all those things. We both read every night before bed and my biggest threat to him is that I won't read another chapter in one of his books if he misbehaves.

He's just the best kid. He's funny, thoughtful, and smart as hell. When he asked me when kids would stop being mean to him for his lackluster social skills, I bluntly told him, "college" because I don't know how to raise a social kid because I'm not a social parent. So, he and are stuck together. Slowly making our way in the world. Learning and growing at each turn. I guess that's the benefit of both being nerds: if we can't figure something out, we can always google it.

Let me be very clear

It's not often that I repeat the title of my post in the first sentence of my post, but let me be very clear here: This is my blog. This is the most self-absorbed way that I have to communicate and express myself. Occasionally I think about making it private and just writing it for myself, but I love the online community that I've built through blogging and I wouldn't want them to make their blogs private, so I don't make mine.

I can't make it anymore crystal clear that this is MY blog. I solely control the content, design, and language. This is my space on the Internet and I suggest that if you don't like what you read, that you hit the back button on the top of your browser and never come back. In fact, I would say that if you know me offline and refuse to talk to me, that you are better off not reading what I have to say. I can actually guarantee that. Don't read what I have to say and then be too chicken shit to comment on it. This is my forum and I will defend it, fiercely.

You see? I've got a lot invested in this whole blogging thing. I have seven years invested in blog archives and I still enjoy what I do. I wouldn't write if I didn't enjoy it. But facebook has changed everything. Suddenly, when I post my blog link to facebook, everyone that I know in real life gets a window into a world that I normally keep very secret.

So, let me apologize. I will make you a deal: I won't write about you if you don't read what I write. Let's call it a truce. But let me be very clear, this is my blog. There is a reason they call blog readers "visitors".

Alone (I mean really, really alone)

It all started off as such a normal day. I went to work and Zac went to school. I had no idea that I would be getting a surprised text from my wonderful nanny. She said simply, "Hey! Call me!" in her text, with two exclamation points, no less. I was driving at the time, but still dug out my phone to call her. "The electricity is out  in the house," she calmly told me. I asked if anyone else's electricity was out on the street. "Maybe a breaker box blew," I reasoned. She checked with the neighbors and they had electricity. I told her to go check my breakers. She reported back that everything was in the on position. Then it occurred to me. I had changed electricity providers in October and there was a lag before they sent me my first bill. I got a bill due in December. Either I was in denial about the bill, or I misplaced the bill, or I'm a complete fucking idiot, I don't. The point is that the bill didn't get paid.

Then I got another bill in early January that was all happy and normal and said (I'm paraphrasing) "Sure, you were late on your December bill. Just pay the December bill and your January bill with this convenient 5% late payment fee, and we'll forgive everything. Cross our heart". So I believed them. I get paid on January 30th. I was like, "If I time this perfectly...if I write a check three days before it is due, then it will be processed on the day that I get my direct deposit and all will be forgiven.

What I didn't know was that they had send a disconnection on January 3rd. A disconnection notice that I never got. I'm going to give the company a free pass and say, "Maybe I didn't check the mail. Maybe it got lost in the 25 years worth of mail that I get from the previous owner. Maybe I just lost my f*cking mind" I don't know what happened. All I know is that on January 23rd, the power was off.

Do you know what it's like for a Financial Advisor to realize that they have messed up their bills to the point that a utility gets turned off? I'll let the irony sink in because it didn't escape me. I started crying and as Oprah would say, it was an ugly cry. I felt like a failure, not only as a Mom that couldn't even cook dinner for her son, but as a professional. I felt like a fraud. So I cried. I called Seven and let her talk me down from the edge of anxiety and depression.

I had two choices at that point: I could go home and try to scrounge up candles and flashlights and live on peanut butter and jelly until I found the money, or I could pack a suitcase and load up my Saturn with an enormous dog, my kid, and two suitcases. Yes, I'm not proud. In fact, I would challenge someone to find me a single Mom that has any amount of pride left. I tucked my tail between my legs, wiped the mascara off my face, and drove my ass to my parents house. Clicker came over to my house and took all the food I had in my fridge and freezer. Then I cried some more and went to bed at 9:30pm.

After paying December's bill, the disconnection fee, and the outrageous reconnection fee with money that wasn't mine, my electricity is back on. Zac, Sam, and I are back home tonight. When I was packing up my suitcase, my Dad said something along the lines of, "All these years, I've been waiting for you find your one, but it hasn't happened."

Alone. My Dad called me out for being alone. For not having someone that could make it alright when the power went dark. For not having someone that could hold me while I was crying. Alone.

I don't know if I've ever been more alone than I've been in the past two days.

Burning Bowl

I don't know how Officer Hotness and Chaps make me do it, but somehow, by some unknown, mystical force, I agree to leave my house and go somewhere other than work during weeknights. I can't really describe how much of a hermit I am Sunday-Thursday. Those are Zac's days. Those are the days that I work, eat, parent, eat, and sleep. In that order. Prior to the past month, there has been little to no deviation in that routine.

Here it is on Thursday and I've been social twice this week. Last night I went to one of the worst open mic nights that my ears have ever had to experience. Then tonight I went to Chuck E Cheese with, who else, Officer Hotness, her kiddo, my kiddo, and Chaps, who doesn't have a kid, but might as well at this point. I was there for over two hours. We saw Chuck E dance two times. Two! That big rat can shuffle like no body's business. I think Chaps was only tempted to shoot the rat once when he surprised her the first time.

We all had our own plans for Friday and Saturday night, so I suggested Sunday. Again, let me empathize. Never before in Zac's six year history on this planet have I suggested hanging out on a Sunday after 3pm. Never.

On Sunday at 5:30pm, the four of us are all to arrive at Officer Hotness' house for a Burning Bowl ceremony. You can blame google for coming up with that name. Then they looked at me. What was I going to burn? I'm pretty sure a blank look crossed my face. I started taking a mental inventory of house, scanning from room to room in my mind. Everything I could think of, I owned and had no lingering emotional attachments to anyone else. Sure, my couch has been sat on by people that have hurt me, but I can't burn my couch. I don't have papers, photographs, or mementos from relationships past that conjure up...well...anything, because they don't exist. Clicker once wrote me a letter saying how proud he was of me, but it has been lost in move and I wouldn't want to burn it anyways. He's my best friend. I have nothing, but some lingering resentment towards my MBA professors and their idea of "appropriate" reading.

It didn't even occur to me until I got home. Oh, I have some things to burn. Some things that our powerfully significant to me and shaped how I felt throughout out October, November, and most of December. Those things weren't at home, though, which is why they didn't come up in the initial registry. I keep them at work. I want to look into a bon fire and rip into tiny pieces the words that remind me of that period of self-doubt, stress, and mental instability. I let someone knock me off my game. I'm bitter that it happened, but I'm stronger now. So I'm going to burn the papers that remind of those months. Those damn months when I questioned my career choice, my choice in friends and confidantes, and myself. It's those memories that I will burn on Sunday and with my kid sitting next to me on a school night, I will be thankful to be surrounded by love and support. But mostly, it will feel just so damn good to let go.