I Have a Confession

Today I made a pretty major confession to Abby.  She and I (now that we're all roommates) gab often when we catch each other in the evenings.  We like to catch up and talk about girl things.  You know... the latest reality show junk, politics and how things are going down the shitter, sports (What? girls like sports!  Especially hockey!), and of course, Elly! 

We also talk often of our beauty regiments because honestly, we’re not getting any younger.  So of course, gray hair came up in the conversation.  I told her how every time someone cuts my hair, I request they check for grays.  Abby informed me that one of Bif's jobs is to be on gray hair lookout.  (Not really sure if he likes that job, but it comes with the boyfriend territory.  Prepares a man for much worse during marriage.  I'm just sayin'...)

His other job is to help knead the knots out of her ass. 

Yeah, you heard me right.  And no, it's not a sexual thing.  I have the same damn problem.  I make Stoofy help massage my flabby ass often.  You see, there's a pinched nerve deep in the fatty tissue that is my buttocks. 

I think I read a long while ago (maybe like 10 years ago in health class) that women commonly have problems like this because of the way their nerves run through their pelvis.  The shape of a woman's pelvis is different from a man's to make room for pushing a watermelon through her cu-ca during child birth.  Basically to sum it all up, shit gets pinched. (Note: I am not a medical expert.  If you try to use this as your own personal web-MD, I’ll laugh at you and call you a moron.  If you have a problem, go to the doctor dumbass.)

WARNING: the next part is going to get real, folks!

My ass has been acting up pretty bad this last week.  I got so desperate that I began to get creative with objects to help alleviate the pressure.  (Stoofy's been working long hours and has no desire to punch his knuckles into my butt.)  I found the most perfect thing in the whole house!  It's seriously an object no woman should ever be without!  (Especially if your man's not around to help!)

NO YOU PERV! Get your mind out of the gutter!

It's a spatula! 

Yup, I was so desperate the other day in the kitchen that I whipped open the kitchen drawers and looked for something hard but gentle, long but thick, and pointy enough to get the job done.  It just so happens that Abby has the most perfect spatula in her drawer and I snagged that bitch and immediately plunged it into the right side of my ass. 

And wouldn't you know, it did the trick!  That was the most relief I've had in days.  I finally got full feeling back to my leg, no pinched pain radiating from the deepest of my pelvis. 

After I was done, I did the right thing and threw it into the dishwasher to be sanitized.  Because even though I didn't do anything inappropriate and I had clothes on the whole time, it seemed incredibly necessary.

I also had no intentions of telling Abby.  Because even those she's seen just about every inch of my body while watching me give birth to Elly, and I've witnessed her changing her pants in the front seat of my car, there's still some things that should probably be left unsaid even amongst your very best friends.

Well.... until today.  When she mentioned that Bif was on butt patrol as well as hair lookout.  I couldn't help but fess up to her that if he's not around, the best tool to help with the pain was her spatula.  To which she busted up laughing uncontrollably because honestly, how ridiculous is it that your roommate just fessed up to using the kitchen utensil you use to flip flapjacks on their ass to also reduce pain and pressure?  It's pretty absurd. 

But I felt a lot better after confession.  And that's what's good about confessing things.  It gets it off your chest and now she'll understand why she just got a brand new spatula without my having to lie.  And I’ll know where it went to if I don’t see Bif around for a few days and there haven’t been any pancakes around.

Nightmares of the Working Mom

I feel like I'm living a nightmare right now.  It's weird, because so many things are positively falling into place as I get out of the Navy and transition into the real world.  Everything except one: daycare for Elly.  Now that we're all moved out of base housing and temporarily settled with Abby, the next hurdle in my life is finding full time daycare.

First of all, watching a marathon of Law and Order: SVU is really not helping my daily panic attacks when it comes to for Elly’s childcare.  (Kids getting murdered and neglected all the time.  Who the hell let me have the remote?)

And it obviously can't be just any daycare.  I have a laundry list of requirements, but when tasked with typing them all out in an ad on Sittercity. I drew a complete blank.  I think I'm actually paralyzed with fear just thinking about leaving her with a stranger.

I'm a psycho new mom.  Like I take crazy to a new level when it comes to Elly.  So I constantly picture wherever I drop her off, the lady will smile and wave, and then as soon as I'm down the street, Elly's left to crawl through glass and cigarette butts, eat the dog food, play with everything dangerous, left in her own filth and the lady that said she spoke English can't actually read any of the instructions I left.  I show up and my daughter is completely traumatized and I collapse in a heap of working-mom guilt.

Just typing this is making me cry. 

Because there isn't going to be anyone in this world that can do what I do.  Not even my own mom, but she's the next best thing! She at least keeps my daughter on a schedule.  I on the other hand have let it all go to shit.  Ok, so maybe there is at least one person in this world that can do what I do... probably because she's already raised my daughter once when she raised me.

But still....

I keep envisioning child neglect and abuse and just plain old craziness in every daycare.  And yet, I'm stuck.  We're a two income family.  It's what works for us.  (Especially in the most expensive place to live in America according to the latest census information.  I also live in the #1 wealthiest county in America.  The median income is around $89,000.  I won't be making that.)  So I have no choice but to find daycare.

I'm also a coupon clipper and deal shopper.  But this isn't exactly one of those things you become a full-on penny pincher.  Because who skimps on their child care?  If there's anything in this world that the saying "you get what you paid for" more closely describes, I'd be shocked.  Honestly.  If you're going to be paying pennies to some secret evil witch, you can't be surprised when you show up at the end of the day to pick up your kid and she's in the oven.  But on the other hand, we can't exactly afford an au pair!  Geez! We're not one of the Real Housewives of DC couples!   

Now, I know I'm making this so much worse in my head than it actually is.  I get that. 

I know I will eventually find the perfect place for Elly and it will become a second home for her.  And maybe that's what scares me just as much (if not more).  What if I find a place that's just so perfect, that she likes the babysitter more than me?  What happens if she loves her more than me because she spends all day with her and not with me?  And now I've come full circle in the working-mom guilt. 

This is why I'm living a nightmare right now.

BFFs are AWESOME!

Today I'd like to recognize my BFF, Abby.  It's her birthday and she's pretty much AWESOME! 

She's the kind of friend that'll laugh at your jokes even if you're not that funny, help you plot your husband's murder and promise to purger herself on the stand if asked if it's premeditated, and she's willing to turn a blind eye when you're at your worst (and simultaneously best) moment of your life giving birth to your daughter.  (She'll even take pictures for you, but not the seriously gross, gory ones that freak me out.  Because NO ONE wants to relive that mess!)

She's the kind of friend that helps you stalk your favorite hockey team until midnight and won't judge you when you try to squeeze your 8 month pregnant ass out a window 5 stories up just to see if you see your dream husband boarding the tour bus.

                 (Note, that's as far as the window would open, so that's as far as I could squeeze out.)

Abby is the kind of friend that hates the same people I hate.  And helps plan their demise with me.  Because honestly, I'm a sick and twisted individual who watches too much CSI and NCIS, clearly.  But she'll hop on board without a second thought and she’ll bring the Oreos. 

She's also the kind of friend that helps you talk through all your troubles, and prays for you when you think you've just hit one of your lowest points (when in actuality, you could probably slouch even further down, but she won't let you totally tail-spin out of control with that kind of thinking).

But most importantly, she's the kind of girl that when it really counts, she's all in and there for you.  She's truly willing to risk her life for her country, beliefs, and friends.

Finding this kind of friend isn't easy.  We've found out during our years of friendship, that where we grew up isn't far from each other.  Our mothers are very similar in a lot of ways.  In fact, they have mutual friends.  Turns out we could have met sooner!

But timing is everything.

My mom and her best friend are about to celebrate their 40th anniversary as friends.  That's longer than a lot of marriages I know.  They have gone through marriages, child birth/ child rearing, divorce, long distances, pretty much everything that can test a friendship.  And through it all, they're relationship has endured.

It's truly awesome to see that.  Especially in this day and age where women being catty and getting into stupid bickering matches is what makes a top-rated TV show (don't get me wrong, I can't wait to see what happens next with the new chick on RHWofBH).  It's nice to see that's not reality everywhere.

It's that kind of endurance and longevity I pray for in my friendship with Abby.  Because without her, I have no idea who I'll laugh with when it comes time to heckle Penguins fans in Pittsburgh.  And I'm going to need someone to gossip with me when we become snow leopards in the nursing home and we're hitting on all the younger guys!

Because she's that kind of best friend.  The kind of best friend you want to have for the rest of your life.

And she's the kind of woman I hope my daughter grows into.

The Art of Compromise SUCKS

The last few weeks since Stoofy returned home from Washington has had its ups and downs.  Just like every time we reunite after a separation, there's some getting used to and getting back into the swing of things. 

Mostly, it's a fight over compromise.  When we have to go our own ways for deployments (or this last time, he was our "advanced party" for our move west, which didn't transpire) we have no choice but to become independent of one another.  He has to learn to fend for himself when it comes to eating and doing laundry.  I have to suck it up and take out the trash and get the oil changed. 

When we reunited, it's a matter of relinquishing a bit of that independence and depending on one another to work as a team.  It's all about compromise.  And let's just go ahead and say it: I DON'T LIKE TO COMPROMISE. 

Honestly, what's the point when I'm right? (I should probably stop writing this if I ever have a dream of running for Congress some day... oh wait, no one there compromises either.  I'll fit right in!) I mean, who wants to give up the TV remote to watch another mind numbing episode of Family Guy when I still need to catch up on my RHWofNJ, RHWofBH, and Jersey Shore? Uh, not this Betty.

And if you ask Stoofy who's right during our 'disagreements' he'll tell you he's right.  So, there you have it... two stubborn, unwilling to compromise people... married.... FOR-EV-ER.  (How the hell did this even happen? Oh yeah... LOVE)

Our latest issue to find a compromise on: Elly's sleep patterns.  She's had a dedicated bedtime for about 2.5 months... until daddy came home and decided to put her to sleep when he feels like it.  And semi-dedicated nap times through the day? Yeah, those are long gone and nap time is when he feels like it. 

Now, I've tried to be flexible, I've tried to explain it's good to have a set routine.  Kids thrive on routine.  According to him, this is his routine. (It's like you can see the speeding train about to de-rail and yet, no one does anything to stop it.  You can see how this is about to work out, right?)

Ok, fine.  I'll give in.  Except, now the consequence is she wakes up screaming for an hour and a half at 2 in the morning.  And who gets the privilege of waking up, calming her down, and waiting for her to cry it out?  Me. Stoofy snores right through it all, since that's his contribution to the compromise according to him.  And each morning he wakes up wondering why I didn't come to bed.  Seriously? 

And this is why compromise sucks.  I hate it and I don't like to do it.  I want it my way damn it!  And I want some fucking sleep!!!! 

So here's my compromise to him: When she wakes up screaming tonight (because I know she will), I'll be elbowing him until he's awake, and he can come stand next to me and wait for her to fall back asleep (two hours later).  The compromise?  All three of us can be sleep deprived and miserable.  Because fair is fair!

I think it'll only take one night of that for him to compromise and see it my way again! :-)  Because if mama ain't happy, nobody happy!