For a Gemini there are many things to fancy...

Since my birthday falls right in the middle of the mutable air sign, Gemini, my personalty is pretty accurately described in most astrology definitions. I mix well in all types of company and learn a little bit about so many different topics with such a wide range it’s almost annoying to some. I never claim to be an expert but I hear and read things and can't help sharing what I know when the topic comes up! I do like to use ADD as a clinical explanation and excuse for my flighty nature. Honestly though, I find I am much more grounded now that I'm older. Anyway, I like to find adventure in most every experience and do so with childlike wonder.  I am always searching for new things to experience. This brings us to today’s list of things I fancy…

Huckleberry. My family. My dogs. Game of Thrones...I wan't Joffrey's head on a platter! Huckleberry. Dragons. Eye shadow. Writing. Coffee. Wine when coffee is no longer the best option…or it’s past noon. Huckleberry. Bath and Body Works - it’s a disease really, a sickness. Butterflies. Did I mention Huckleberry?



There has been a decent amount of time spent cultivating with my Huckleberry. It was slow to start and by all means not a complaint, then things grew to a pace which I am incredibly happy. It is a good thing I had some help with the cultivation because I’m really quite dumb about these things. No, seriously. I am. But wonderful things happen when there are no expectations or agenda. Its a grand experience when your effort is matched and I can honestly say things are coming along nicely! Let's just agree that Huckleberry has been very good FOR me, and very good TO me. Quite exceptional really. 

One thing is certain, I'm a different woman! I don't know exactly how this happened but I find myself doing things completely opposite of how I did things in the past. I'm enjoying the ride for a change and enjoying the scenery. I don't have the desire to drive every inch of the road. I like not wearing the proverbial "pants."  Actually, I'm tickled I don't have to wear them! 

My girlfriend and I have a theory that women are responsible for the pussification of the American man. Fewer and fewer MEN  are available because women feel the need to beat them down.  Why do we do this? Why do women feel the need to neuter men to the pussification point? I'll admit. I was that woman three times in my life. Ugh! Lessons learned! To each of you I sincerely apologize. But this is what I'm trying to get at. I am NOT that woman anymore. I understand that old habits die hard and may slip in to current conversations which may seem reminiscent of those from the past but in the end...

I WANT MY MAN TO BE A MAN!!!

I realize my thought process shifted from my astrological sign to other things pretty quickly. Proves another point...I'm all over the place and obsessed at the same time like a true Gemini! LOL!

And those damn butterflies....

My Achilles Heel...

We will get to that in a minute. First, let's learn a new word.

I am pisstified. 

I am so profoundly pissed-off that I am in turn mystified due to the douchebagery acts to which I've fallen victim. The events leading up to this state have made me feel like a complete, utter, awkward turtle. And I know exactly why I am in this position. It's my effing Achilles Heel! Benefit of the doubt. The worse part? IT'S MY OWN FUCKING FAULT!

My horoscope read I needed to NOT make a mountain out of a mole hill today; to put my emotional hardware back in the garage so to speak. But I do this all the time! I never use the emotional plow and always take the passive seat. It's because I give EVERYONE the benefit of the doubt. I rarely, if ever, call someone on their bad behavior. Anyone who knows me understands that lacking all the evidence I will not judge a situation until I have full disclosure. Honestly, do we ever fully disclose everything? Uh, no. This is why I never use the emotional plow. To top things off, even if it isn't favorable information, I still allow some wiggle room. Must have been why I married a wife beater (#1), a cheater (#2), and an apathetic man (#3). My tolerance levels are astronomical, a juggernaut, overwhelming and unstoppable! Because of my high level of acceptance and relentless need for affection I end up in situations like now. IDIOT!

So where does this lead? I don't know. But I do know that I need to get over not telling people that they've hurt me or wronged me in some way. No matter how small the infraction may be I need to open my mouth and say, "Dude. That's not cool." And no, getting it out there isn't helping. I'm still just as pisstified now as I was when I began this blog. 

For the birds...all of it!

Have I ever mentioned how much I adore my puppies? I am telling you, I have the two best dogs in the whole wide world! They are happy to see me when I come home even if I was only gone for five minutes. Wagging tails and smiles! They both show me unconditional love and hang on every move I make. Yeah, I get that they are waiting for a handout mostly. They are quirky and gentle, innocent and affectionate, silly and lovable. Whatever my day brings, these two dogs make me happy and bring me great joy. Instant Prozac. My girls have been part of why I have remained sane during this huge transition in my life. The other part of my life keeping me from driving off the 595 into the everglades? My son. My son has been my confidant and right hand. If I didn't have him with me I would be crying myself to sleep each night in pure heart wrenching loneliness. Poor kid. Little did he know his young adult life would consist of keeping his old Ma from going bat shit crazy.

Adjusting from being dependent to independent has been a huge eye opener for me. Being my own handyman and automotive repair specialist is for the birds. I haven't shopped for anything outside of pure need in four months. I am dying to buy the newest fashions, cute shoes, and eye shadow. Yes, eye shadow! Being able to spend money freely on whatever I want. My goodness, that is the thing I miss most! I want to take a weekend road trip, or trade my car in for that cute red zoom zoom for shits and giggles, get a room at the casino and gamble on the slots all night! My life now consists of quiet evenings and weekends at home watching movies and cooking meals that will eat for days. Save that one night a week I visit my new friends at the cigar lounge, I've gotten boring. But I do love the gang at the lounge!

I need a new adventure! Who's game?

One broke girl on a budget

The biggest change for me since moving out on my own is not spending money on whatever the hell I want. I am no longer shopping every weekend for shoes, handbags, and clothes. I am actually using up my expensive face creams and shampoo before buying new. Food is purchased every couple days to ensure nothing is left to rot and waste in the fridge. I only buy and spend money on things that I absolutely need. Which brings me to my latest disaster.

I've been getting my hair highlighted professionally for about a year now. I wanted a change and decided that blonde highlights would do the trick. On my naturally dark brown hair the highlights are a striking contrast and attractive compliment to my fair-ish skin. Now, I don't normally divulge how much I spend on this or that, it's frankly none of your business. For this conversation though $125 plus tip every six weeks was getting quite expensive. I just don't have the budget for it anymore. With that realization I decided to lighten my roots myself a week ago. 

I am not a novice with at home dye jobs. I've been coloring my hair various shades, including blonde, since I was 13. It was what I was doing prior to getting my first highlights. I went to the drug store as I've always done, chose a box I knew worked for me in the past, and went home to "do my hair." After expertly applying the bleach to my roots and allowing the time required to develop I washed my hair. I looked at my roots while still wet and it looked pretty brassy. Ok, I have natural red tones in my hair so maybe this won't look so bad after I dry it. Uh uh. My roots are now a light shade of orange. Yes. I said orange. 

So now what do I do? I suffer a week and decide last night I need to do this again and I go back to the drug store to buy a different box I knew worked for me in the past and proceeded home to "do my hair." Can we guess what happened? My gorgeous highlights are still there but the roots are now an even lighter shade of orange. Yes. I said orange again. WTF!?!?!? I went to work today and my work husband came over to my desk to say good morning. He twisted up his face a little and asked, "What the hell did you do to your hair?" OH MY WORD it must be bad if he said something. He is one of five children in his family and the only boy. He grew up around botched hair jobs. He knew exactly what was going on. He knew I did not want to spend the money on a professional service and fucked it up. The horror. Once he called me calico I realize I needed to fix this shit and fast. 

I left early today and stopped yet again at the drug store this time to buy a shade of brown. I got this new brand of oil based color because I didn't want to fry my hair off. Chestnut Brown. I always knew that if you are planning to cover blonde you had to have a red base and that is why I chose the chestnut. I mix, apply, and rinse. While I was showering I tried to look at my hair wet. It didn't look any darker especially on the highlights. I was thinking that maybe the un-highlighted areas are now chestnut brown and the rest looks highlighted. I couldn't be more wrong.

At this point I am afraid to look. I squeeze the water from my hair and wrap it in my towel as is customary. I dress and clean the running mascara from my face and slather on some anti-aging goop. I need to reveal the final result. Off with the towel. I look in the mirror and gasp. Not only are my highlights still there but now my base color is carrot top red. What the hell happened? Why can't I get this red/orange to leave me? It certainly isn't a good look for me and am contemplating another run to the drugstore for the darkest brown to just cover it all up but know it will not fix anything. Especially my obvious genius. 

I need a ball cap.

Not the easiest choice I've made...

We are presented with and make choices everyday. Some are considered to be of the mundane variety while others are loaded with multiple facets and levels of difficulty. Deciding whether I will sleep 15 minutes longer or spend that time on my appearance is a daily choice. Going back to school to earn my master's degree was a larger choice that involved commitment and sacrifice. As I've gotten older the heavier choices take more time and preparation. So much time has been spent mulling over the "what if's" that I am left wondering, "what if I don't?" The most recent choice I made was gut wrenching and heartbreaking but so far seems to be a good one. 

This choice will come as a surprise to many of you and some of you will likely understand. It is not something I shared or broadcast with many. It was personal and required copious amounts of insight and introspect. No, no. I didn't get a boob job or decide I want to be a "Marco" instead of Margaret. I realized after ten solid years of marriage (13 years together total) that I deserved more. I didn't want to be taken for granted anymore. I didn't want to feel unloved and under appreciated. I didn't want to be his caregiver and personal assistant another day.I didn't want to fell like a second thought or cast off.  I didn't want to feel alone anymore. I figured, and thanks Lulu for defining it, if I was going to be alone I may as well be by myself. 

So I left. 

You read right. I left my husband. 

Listen, hubby is a good man. He's a great friend. He's always been an anchor of sorts, keeping me harnessed and feeling secure in this scary thing we call life. This is not about bashing the husband. This is about my realizing I had a very difficult choice to make. One that involved hurting a very good man and great friend. A choice that would affect three people. Hubby, my son, and myself. 

There is nothing to philosophize over. I wasn't happy so I left. I found a nice place in the city that gave me just enough room to live comfortably with my son and two dogs, that is close to work, and won't bust my wallet. I hope. It's been so long since I've been on my own. I have no idea how to budget an entire household without the help of a second income. I'm a big girl though. I'll figure it out. 

Hubby vacillated between emotions the first week after I left. He was weepy one minute and pissed off the next. I kind of expected that. Honestly though? I was a having a little trouble coming to terms with what I had done. I even doubted the choice I made on occasion. But then he seemed to be coming to terms with our separation pretty quickly so I stopped doubting. Funny thing occurred to me yesterday. I am still the one carrying the relationship with my husband even in separation. We do not speak unless I call him. And I had been calling him everyday. I guess old habits die hard.

So that's it gang. I'm on my own again. Now what?

 

October is breast cancer awareness month!

I had my very first ever mammogram today. I have been sweating this day for the past several years and actually avoided the script written by my doctor last year. Why you ask? Well, I didn't want my titties squished in a cold vise to the point of splitting like a delicate grape. No, no, no. My girls have been a very large part of my life (and extension of my personality) for a great many years and did not want to stick them in a machine that could possibly mash them to a pulp. I have always been a supporter of breast cancer awareness and saw an add for Broward Medical promoting the annual Mammopoluza. This is how I arrived to this day, this morning, at the Women's Center getting my boobies pinched in a vise. 

I drove right to the building and parked the car. I didn't see many other cars there but then it was the ass crack of dawn since I had to do this before work. This observation, the very few cars in the lot one, immediately made me think, "Oh goodie! I am in the wrong place. Oops! Now I have to reschedule to never." Well my guilt and horrible thoughts of my boobies being taken from me forced me out of the car and into the building. Up the elevator I went and right to the door. Deep breath. Turn the handle. 

The office was decorated in pink flowers, pink balloons, pink gift bags, pink everything! I was instantly in love with all the pink!!! The receptionist was even dressed in a gorgeous pink patterned dress and had a brilliant hot pink smile. Wow! I signed in, yadda yadda, and sat to wait for my turn in the knocker torture device. Then my name was called. I almost bolted for the exit. But the xray tech was a sweet older lady that didn't seem to have a mean bone in her body. She smiled at the horror on my face and said, "First time?" I nodded and she patted my arm reassuringly. I changed in to the robe and timidly entered the screening room not sure what to do. This sweet lady yanked open the robe, placed a couple band-aid thingys with metal nubs on my nipples, then steered me towards the machine. The machine. Oh my goodness I am standing in front of the machine. 

I blurted out, "Ok I am kinda freaked out this is going to hurt!" She was sweet enough to explain it's not anything near as bad as a root canal. Not helping...never had one! Then she asked if I have kids...yes is my reply and it was friggin' nearly 20 years ago! Ok, that's not good. Bam! She saw the tat on tit and said...not nearly as bad as the ink. Now I am starting to relax a bit. She grabs boob number one and maneuvers me into place then the vise descends. Holy crap! Here it comes...squished split grapes...no...I'm not ready. The machine stops, she turns a little dial, and tells me to hold my breath for a few seconds. Ok, I either have a high tolerance for discomfort or she didn't mash me hard enough. Three images for each girl and I am done. That wasn't bad at all. I think I'll do it again next year. As a matter of fact I know I will. Why? During mammopoluza at Broward Health you get gifts! 

Grandma's chocolate chip cookies (nom nom nom), a guide to self breast exam (ok whatever), a lipstick pen (cute), and the sweetest little Vera Bradley coin purse that I immediately put to use. On the flip side of the coin purse there is an ID window so I stuffed my work badge in there...no you can't see it! On the key ring I fastened the key to my file cabinet and the blue tassel I got as a marketing gimmick a year or two ago. I like the color so I kept it. 

A short waisted woman and yoga pants...

Third yoga class tonight. This evening was the warm yin yoga of stretching so it was very low impact. Unlike the ass kicking I got last Saturday with power yoga, I need this type of class to regain flexibility and range of motion. It was a good night. I wasn't bored as much as the first time and a friend of mine gave me a powerful tool to help concentrate on my breathing. He said that sometimes our minds just want an answer for what we command it to think. I was telling my self to breathe but I wasn't answering the command. So I said in my mind, "breathe in...I am breathing in...breathe out...I am breathing out." Oddly, it worked. For most of the evening. At one point some douche bag started their car and the headlights penetrated the dark glass, curtains, and my eyelids to burn an image directly onto my retinas. Like the after affect of the flash on a camera? Yeah. That frustrated me a little. Shortly after that the trainer for the boot camp next door opened the door, stood there chatting with a few people, then proceeded to walk through our session like we were inanimate blobs of flesh laying on the floor. I kinda lost focus at that point and it was difficult to get it back. 

This now brings us to Ethel and the reason I felt compelled to blog tonight.

Ethel is that roll of blubber that sits above my navel. Ethel likes to hang out OVER the button of my jeans on average days. Ethel is the demon that wants cookies, cake, and fettuccine alfredo with garlic rolls. I do an okay job of concealing Ethel on most occasions but when I am wearing yoga pants...she's positively possessed. I am short waisted. This means that when most women wear low rise jeans they rest nicely on their hips. When I wear low rise jeans, it rides right at my waist line. When the yoga pants go on I have to pull them up higher because otherwise I will have that too-long-in-the-stride bridge of fabric spanning the divide of my thighs. It's not an attractive fashion statement nor is it comfortable. This means that I am now wearing my yoga pants above my navel because these effing pants are made for normal shaped women. Whatever. I have a long shirt on over it. As soon as I sat on the floor in the butterfly I could hear Ethel moaning and groaning, straining to be freed from her confines of yoga pants. I leaned forward a little and felt the pants roll slightly. The more I moved the more Ethel strained against the cloth. The more Ethel strained to be free the more my pants rolled down over my belly. The momentum Ethel gathered forced my yoga pants to roll down past my navel slightly to sit precariously on my kangaroo pouch. This meant that as soon as I stood up both Ethel and the kangaroo pouch would be revealed. Uh uh uh Ethel...I remember my lesson from the first class. I wore a longer shirt!

I never knew to give Ethel a name until I heard Wanda Sykes talk about her first experience with Spanx a few years ago. She calls her blubber Esther Roll and fights her demands for cheesecake and alcohol. . 

One last thing. I know some of you, my faithful readers, have told me you left comments on my blog posts. For some reason I never see these. Not sure if it was in my settings but I made some adjustments. Since I share on Facebook...go ahead and leave comments there too. I want to know your thoughts...good and bad.

Carrot cake...SHUT UP ETHEL!