The jerk store called...

I'm such a jerk.

Really.  I just keep telling myself that out loud and in my head.  "You are such a jerk" I said to myself just two minutes ago before I decided to sit down and write it out.  I'm hoping the more I hear it the less jerky I will be.

Fat chance.  I'm such a crotchety old man sometimes.  I swear, every time I see someone's new blog idea they are promoting, or their new photography business or pictures of their clothes or the worst of them all: their entry into some cutest baby contest I just have something snarky to say.  Well, maybe 3-5 snarky things to say.

I just don't get it.  Everyone just has this need to share, share, share.  Share everything!  When was the last time you changed your underwear?  Well please tell us all through cyberspace, we are dying to know!

Gross.

I don't like to share.  It's a documented fact.  There was the great "birthday cake debacle" where my sister tried to share the last piece of my birthday cake with her then boyfriend. Actually it wasn't so much that she tried to "share" it as she tried to sneak it out in a tupperware to him late at night and I caught her and the BIGGEST fight ensued and it is still a touchy subject to this day.  And then there was the time I sat my roommates down and told them that my only rule was that my closet and its belongings were mine and not theirs.  They did not have permission to shop in my closet unless they asked first and to expect to be denied on occasion.  And there is the general hand biting you need to evade in order to try some of my food.  Also, everyone in family already knows but I will gladly donate all of my organs except for my eyes.  I just won't share those.

And the things I do like to share like embarrassing stories I will gladly share - but in person or on the phone.  Not through the internet.  Ok, maybe sometimes.  But in general I like to see people when I share.  You are much more likely to get me to do "the muscle show" or have a bowl of my home cooked meal when we are face to face and you give me the sad eyes.  But even with the sad eyes you will never, I repeat NEVER get a bite of my apple because sharing apples is just about the grossest thing I can think of - all of the slurping and biting and saliva.....gag.

And even this blog that I write at once in a blue moon is for me.  I've never posted the address anywhere and frankly I don't care if anyone even reads it.

I really think it just comes down to self validation.  I don't need the publics approval to feel good about the shoes I'm wearing (or not wearing) and I think my baby is pretty cute without entering him into a contest.  And while I'm on the subject you will never see me posting anything about my awesome husband because he already knows I love him because I tell him a lot.  Face to face.  Or I yell it down the hallway when he leaves to embarrass him.  Which almost never happens.  Yes, it happens all of the time.

But I'm lying.  There is one time I need direct validation to keep my heart from shrinking.  I need to hear that you love whatever I made you for dinner because chances are it took a long time to prepare because if I made you dinner then I must like you and I only want the best for you.  So sit up straight, you were slouching.

I'm such a jerk.  But I'm trying.

Almost there

Well I got my nails done a classy shade of red, got my hair did (and by "did" I mean that I chopped about 4 inches off my bangs in my bathroom one afternoon) and now have various outfit combinations that have been tested in my closet.

The Euros have been purchased, passports are ready and the snacks are all lined up.

But I still feel anxious.  Really anxious.  The kind of feeling I get when pulling up to the airport, not days before a trip.  I always get these kind of nervous/excited butterflies when flying.  It's how I know that it still hasn't lost its charm for me.

What is missing?  Why can't I relax?

Continental Divide

It has literally been over a year since I wrote something on this blog.  I hope it has been sufficiently long enough that no one reads this blog anymore.  I don't know why I haven't written anything in so long.  I have written posts in my mind so many times this past year.  I had things to say!  I have things to say!!  I just didn't say them.  I just couldn't bring myself to do it.  Something about the act of sitting down and writing what I was thinking seemed useless and then I was reminded why I'm grateful this is just a hobby for me and that I don't get payed for it and that people don't expect me to write anything because they would have been sorely disappointed.  Now let's get down to the meat of this post.  The very thing that got me writing again.

My wardrobe.

That's right.  Clothes.  My clothes to be specific.  My closet FULL of clothes bursting at the seams with the shoes and jewelry to go with it.

And how I have nothing to wear for my upcoming vacation.

To Europe.

And not just anywhere in Europe, Spain.  The land of my forefathers who would never be caught dead in half of my wardrobe.  A place where your grandma wears pearls and a sweater-set to the grocery store.  And I have great clothes.  Cute clothes.  Even chic sometimes clothes.  I mean, they better be cute to me or why do I own them?!

But they aren't good enough.  For some reason I am freaking out over 7 days in Spain.  5 days that will be spent with my relatives in Northern Spain who let's be honest, don't dress that well.  But I have to.   I have to look effortless and pulled together and like I don't live on the street or have my belongings stuffed into a duffle bag.  And my kid has to look fan-freaking-tastic or they will think we are poor and don't know how to take care of him.  Seriously.  My mom even bought him new shoes so they won't think we are totally inept at childcare and living in a box.  Our wardrobe is a direct reflection of us and my entire family.  We have to look nice, but not too nice.  It's a complicated dance of textiles and I am LOSING MY MIND!

I have been mentally scanning my wardrobe for weeks now and have already started trying on different combinations but I have nothing.  Stylist block.  And the new center part, long-bang hair look I've been trying every which way to work is not working and I'm going to hack off some bangs tomorrow in preparation.

This will be the death of me.  My excitement for this adventure is all but gone with the wardrobe conundrum.  And I think I know the root of this stress.  I'm finally starting to fit into some of my old clothes but I'm not completely comfortable in them yet and my bigger clothes are too big and not that cute and I feel like Goldilocks without the third bear.  Everything is just a little too big or a little too small.  Nothing fits juuuuuusssst right.

Concrete

All of a sudden my bed has turned into a slab of hard cement. Seemingly overnight I have begun to wake up with sore apendages. If this is some sort of Princess and the Pea scenario then yes, I can feel the anvil you have placed under my box spring. I wake up feeling like I have slept on a hard floor all night. You know that feeling as well I'm assuming. Every point that was in contact with the surface is aching and sore and you wonder if someone was beating you with a canoe paddle all night in your sleep.

I hate to say this all started the day I officially entered my third trimester because it didn't - it happened two days before. I'm hoping this is just temporary and not what I have to look forward to for the next 2 1/2 months. It's like the day toddlers turn 2 and flip some sort of switch and start smearing things on all your walls. My switch has been flipped. I have ordered a new mattress topper to see if that will alleviate the pain a little.

Because to me there is no greater injustice than waking up before your alarm goes off. Those are minutes I'd like to spend deep in slumber and not being pissed off that I am awake.

Until then here I am just a little bit crabby.

Missing you

I have the distinct pleasure of getting to taste most of my food twice. Its a good thing that I'm a good cook because otherwise the pleasure would be all gone. Don't get me wrong, I'm not regurgitating anything - just little hiccups here and there after eating. Not like my next door neighbor last night who was in the process of evacuating the contents of his stomache into his commode which I could very clearly hear through our paper thin walls. And the weird part was that I should have been grossed out. I've never been able to handle that sort of thing well but I just stood there...listening. And I had no one to share it with. Yes, its disgusting and who would want to share in that experience with me? Ricky. And he's not here.

And he won't be here for weeks. And weeks. All in all 3 months. And I miss him.

And since he's been gone I have realized how much my world revolved around him. Taking care of him, spending time with him, just being in the same room as him. And now I only have myself to take care of. Sometimes I cook, sometimes I don't because I don't have anyone else to take care of.

The first Saturday he was gone I kept myself busy for about 5 hours and then as I was sitting on the couch later that night I thought to myself "3 months of this?"

So I'm working on getting a hobby and socializing more. Honestly my focus is more on a hobby right now because I'm kind of a home-body. But I'm going to try and get out more. The big news is I'm in the market for a new sewing machine. I want something electronic that makes great button holes (according to my mother). If you have any advice or seem to preferance one brand over another please let me know. Who knows, maybe when Ricky comes back in 3 months I will have sewed up a storm! He can have his own puffy shirt to wear on rotations.