Standing still, or barely standing?

Have you ever been in a place in life where you are stagnant?  Standing in the same spot year after year?  Doing the same thing?  Wishing upon the star that never seems to answer quite like you’d like?

Or are you barely standing?  Just going through the same motions every day in a daze? Functioning on auto pilot?  Exhausted?

I freaking think that I am both.

In June, I will be divorced 11 years.  That is a long time.  That is the number of players allowed on the field in a football game.  The age you begin puberty (or around there).  It’s also known as “one-ty one-ty”.  The number of years that I have not been screamed at, or cheated on, or manipulated.  I haven’t had my jewelry pawned, or my favorite cd stolen.  (I loved that cd dammit!)  The number of years that I found myself again, and what I was made of.

Day in and day out, I do the exact same thing.  I get up, come to work two hours early.  Watch Netflix as I work until 8, when the office starts to populate. I take lunch at 11:45 which consists of a protein shake and cottage cheese, while I watch Netflix.  Back to work until 4:30.  Drive home and eat dinner by 5:30, in bed by 8.   Monday through Friday, that is my routine.  It may be the most boring routine I have ever experienced.  This is the Standing Still part in my life.  Just going through the motions every day.  You could set a clock by my life.  Some days I think it’s going to choke the crap out of me.

Then there is the flip side.  I joke about being mildly OCD, but truth is I exhaust myself making sure of the following:

  1. My work is completed each day.
  2. I leave with no emails in my inbox (on most days).
  3. I strive to not disappoint myself.
  4. I strive to not disappoint others.
  5. I like to have perfect hair and make up.
  6. I like a perfectly clean and tidy home to come home to.
  7. I work without paper or clutter on my desk.
  8. I respond to every text, with the exception of my mama when she is not being nice.
  9. I strive to become a branch of my daddy, and honor him by my actions.
  10. I run a Purchasing team, and I try hard to show them appreciation every day.

I am with no doubt black and white.  That gray area is where all the confusion of the world lies.  But being black and white makes me efficient.  Easy to resolve issues.  Quick to make calls, and move on to the next project.  This is why I am exhausted, the Barely Standing part of my life.

How I Pictured My Life At Almost 45:

  1. Content.
  2. Loved.
  3. Taking care of someone.
  4. Appreciated by that someone.
  5. Remarried.
  6. Physically fit.
  7. Running 5-Ks (Asthma is an asshole).
  8. Financially independent.
  9. Taking art classes.
  10. Traveling.

Now some of these are true, and happen.  Some aren’t happening.  So I stand in the middle of the road asking myself, will the missing parts ever happen.  I certainly don’t have that answer.  Only the chief upstairs does.  I respectfully put my missing pieces in his hands each day, and will be rewarded with them at the right time.

I have a good life.  Much better than most.  However, as a human, I only want to better myself.  I want the things I want.  Guess what?  None of them are material object.  BAM!

So are you Standing Still, or Barely Standing too?


Ages and Stages

I have come to the conclusion that not many people have manners any more.

What happened to not commenting on someone’s weight?  Or how their personal life is going, unless it’s offered?  Or how about your age?

I think society has lost its damn marbles!

I decided to take a break, and go to the mail room to use the bathroom.  Just to stretch my legs.  Get some air.  Break the monotony.  I came upon a gaggle of women.  Ugh oh – I wanted to run, but they saw me.  I was in the cross hairs of what was sure to be a conversation I didn’t want to be involved in.

I scurried into the bathroom as quickly as possible to avoid any topic that they were discussing.  I don’t care who looks ugly today.  I don’t care who is sleeping with who.  I don’t care who took a late lunch, or is in trouble.  I just wanted to pee, and breathe, and stretch my legs.  Not necessarily in that order.

I thought that I took long enough, and that they would have moved on, but not so much.  So as I exit, they ask me if I am married or related to a man that works here, because before I went back to my maiden name, we shared the same last name.  So I say that I am not his wife, daughter, or distant cousin.  We are of no relation.  Then out of the blue, I am asked how old I am. Seriously??!!??!!??  Now, I am not afraid of my age.  I’m 44 and in two weeks I will be 45.  I am rocking middle age.  Yes I have some pudge around my mid section, but I’m working on that.  I keep my hair up to date, my make up fresh, and I have the optimism of a 43 year old.   : )

What did I do in this situation?   Why I turned it around on her!  I said well how old are you?  She proceeds to tell me that she is my age.  Then I tell her I am 44 as well.  Did it stop there?  NOPE!  I bet that I was asked 5-6 more personal questions, that I didn’t answer.  I was going to keep up the game until she decided it wasn’t worth getting the run around.  I was having fun.  Every question she asked me, I asked her right back without giving her an answer.  Do you know how uncomfortable that makes people?  I think I found a new weapon of choice.  I will call it Boomerang Words.  They can’t handle it, and to watch them squirm was delightful.

It’s not that I care how old I am, or that people know it.  Work environments with females is horrific.  I have always said that I’d rather work with 10 men per 1 female that I have to now.  They don’t care if you burp.  They don’t care if your hair is a mess, or your eye liner isn’t even.  They don’t care if you don’t feel like talking, and I actually think they prefer it.

It’s sad to know that had I answered all of her questions, before I got back to my desk, it would have been told to at least 3-4 people.  So where are the morals and values that I was raised with?  Where are the people that mind their own business?

This is why I don’t Tweet, or Instagram, or Facebook any more.  People only troll those sites looking for information to “know”, not care about.

So Trollers be gone!  Gossipers be gone!  Gaggle of women who shouldn’t be standing next to the pooper, be gone!


Valentine’s Day

Or for some, Single’s Appreciation Day!

As I sit here at work, I have heard a myriad of conversations about today.  I got this.  Or I got that.  However, the most disturbing thing today was that the Weather Channel app is even in on the happenings of today.  It said “Clear or cloudy, love is in the air”.  People run and get the Febreeze, the Lysol, the Clorox, or whatever it takes!

I’m kidding!  I love Valentine’s Day.  I’m a good giver of gifts.  I listen.  I take mental notes all year long for occasions like this.  My gifts are gifts that make your heart say “she really listens to me”.

This year I got Scott an hour drive in a Lamborghini.  I am so excited, and can’t wait to give it to him.  Apparently you drive the car on a test course of some kind.  I think that I get to ride in the passenger side, but I’m going to pass.  I sometimes feel like I need to have on a helmet when he drives us places.

I’m patiently waiting to see what I might get this year.  Last year it was 2 flannel, plaid coats. *crickets*  I don’t think I’ve ever worn them.  In fact, I’m pretty sure that I haven’t.  They’re in a tub somewhere in the attic.  I am hot natured so the thought of flannel anything has my arm pits and my upper lip sweating!

See, I’m a girly girl.  I love make up and hair products, and jewelry, and jewelry.  Did I mention jewelry?  I like to match, and smell pretty, like females should.  Here is what I will predict:  I will get something with camo, or something for my car.  It can’t be floor mats or a jump start, because I got that for Christmas.  It can’t be hunting boots because I got that for my birthday last year – I haven’t worn those either.  I guess I could get new thermals maybe.  The anticipation is killing me.

Here is the bad part.  My face.  This face of mine is an easy read.  I’d be a horrible poker player or liar.  I need to get botox so that I can’t move my eyebrows.  When I get upset, or angry, these crazy eyebrows look like bull horns when I raise them.  So I wonder….I ponder…..will he get bull horns tonight, or a big smile?


To Engage……or not to engage

That is the question!  

So how long is too long to pop the question?  One year? Two years? Three?  Lawd have mercy, I don’t know if I can hold out another year!

Here’s the deal. I am convinced that I have a weirdo magnet somewhere hidden in my bum. I have attract the oddest, shadiest, manic men that you could ever find. One was a mama’s boy who really wanted a live in maid. One had a bipolar disorder but didn’t want to go to the doctor. This ended in a full blown hissy fit over sushi. There was the one I broke all my rules for – ugh. Job? No. Divorced?  No. Financially independent? No.  One was so immature that I still cringe when I think about it. Maybe it’s not a magnet. Maybe I make bad decisions, or I have an “I can fix him” complex. 

Then I have my current situation. Financially stable, which is good. I don’t have to buy his groceries. High morals and values, which is good. I won’t have to try to explain why doing the right thing is good. He’s a manly man, which is good. I won’t have to be the one to fight if we get jumped by a gang. There is just one teensy weensy problem:  being the girlfriend is getting old.  Let’s face it. He gets all the perks of a wife without the commitment. See I’m old school. I LOVE to cook and clean and do laundry. It makes me feel great to do things for others. So I am the quintessential wife without the marriage commitment. 

Hence my dilemma. 

We sat down a few weeks ago, and I told him he needs to poop or get off the pot. I hated to put it out there, but let’s face it, I will be 45 in a few weeks.  I think I deserve this commitment. I think I’m worthy of being loved, and having the honor of getting his last name. He is a great man. We have bumps here and there, but I can honestly say we have only had one or two bad blow ups in two years. We normally talk it out – mostly with me initiating it. But still, we work through it. 

So I guess that I’m in the position on deciding which direction I need to go in. Back mid January I read a lot of articles on successful relationships. I can truly say that after we talked about them, I’ve given 100% even when I was too tired, or ill to care. I am not afraid to be alone, but I also want more out of life. The biggest gift you can give someone is your heart. 

Discoid Lupus

I am not sure how many people out there have experienced the intensely, horrible effects of Discoid Lupus, but it is the equivalent of being eaten by 1 million ants.  No joke here – 1 million ants.

Here’s the thing.  I am not a doctor hopper.  Or a hypochondriac.  Or paranoid – okay I am OCD paranoid about cleanliness, but not the kind of paranoid that makes me run to the doctor every time I feel ill.

In one year’s time, I accumulated pressure hives (from shaving), chronic hives (from who the heck knows why), hives on my neck (from stress), and discoid lupus.  I literally scratched 24/7.  Here are some of the crazy things that went through my mind:

  • Does my boyfriend’s house have fleas (he had dogs)?
  • Am I allergic to the dust in his house (ummm he didn’t dust much)?
  • Is there something in the carpet?
  • Do I have a flesh eating disease?
  • Am I allergic to Scott?
  • Am I allergic to air?
  • Am I going bat shit crazy?

One time in a meeting I scratched blood to the surface of my arm.  Did I know I was scratching?  Well no, but everyone else did.  It became such a normal occurance that I didn’t even realize when I did it.  I kept a ruler handy at work to dig in my back when it flared up.  At night I would shake the bed so hard from scratching my legs that I think Scott became sleep deprived.

I decided to go to a new doctor.  The medicine from the previous Derm Doc wasn’t cutting it.  So once I made the appointment, in 4 months I would be seeing someone new.  Now because I was starting to cause harm to my skin, I asked if I could be called if there was a cancellation.  I got the call! (wish I wouldn’t have picked up)  They gave me a PA who has as much compassion as Hitler.  Literally.  Guess what she gave me?  Dandruff shampoo. Considering I have no flakes, that was epic. I went into hysterics when she did a punch biopsy as I was laying on the table.  We had discussed it, but I thought she was doing it on my back.  I realized she was doing it on my shoulder when the numbing needed poked me.  Guess who didn’t sign the consent form first.  I’m telling you – Hitler. They then sent me to an allergist who said to use Biofreeze, and that he wouldn’t do an allergy test because basically no one was going to tell him what test to perform.  No joke – words that literally came out of his mouth.

Insert me literally losing myself in hysterics.  We are talking snot, crying, sweating, and sentences no one could understand.  I finally got a consult with Dr Huang.  This angel of a man did my consult, then did a round robin with me.  21 doctors prodded and poked me, no including the PA I verbally abused for being non-chalant about my pain and suffering.  Then they met to determine a course of action.

I am happy to say that I after being taken of 2 Zyrtec a day, Xanax to control the nerves, and whatever else they through my way, I am on a controlled medicine that is leveling out my body.  A baby dose of Methotrexate and Xyzal.

I no longet itch all night.  I no longer walk around with a ruler in my hand like an angry nun.  I no longer draw blood on my skin.  I am golden!  And the purpose of this blog is never give up.  If something isn’t being taken seriously by a doctor, push the issue.  Create a stir.  Find a new doctor.  Speak up!  I am glad I did.


Much love,



Super Bowl (not Super Bowel)

I once put a photo of a cake on Instagram that I am sure it came from Wal-Mart.  It said Super Bowel instead of Super Bowl.  Now not only was it funny, but what is more impressive is Sophie Tweed Simmons (the daughter of Gene Simmons’ from Kiss) saw my post and liked it.  That kind of makes me famous by association right?  Of course it does.

So Scott has decided that he wants to host a SB party.  Okay.  No biggie.  However, you do realize you just got brand new carpet put down and new leather chairs right?  No.  He hasn’t realized this yet.  Me being the mind conscious, OCD, neat freak has.  The one who vacuums when it doesn’t need it.  The one who obsesses over cups left on the counter, or that the hand towel is crooked on the stove handle.  The one who rearranges the fridge so that everything looks balanced and zen.  Yeah, that is me. (By the way OCD should really be CDO so that the letters are in alphabetical order)

Drunk, enthusiastic, sweaty men don’t care about your carpet.  They care about beating their chest, and fist bumping when that amazing end zone pass is caught.  Beer will be spilled.  Crumbs will fall.  Drops of sweat will be dripping off the foreheads of his friends who are about the lose the bet they placed.  You can almost smell the testosterone just reading this.

Last night we decided to make a list of who is coming so we would know how much food to get.  Taco bars need plenty of food.  So I start writing on a paper towel in a restaurant as I throw back Firecracker Shrimp and Miller Lite.  Suddenly, a couple that I’ve never met has been thrown out as being invited.  WHAT?   WHO?  Where are we going to put all these people?  James and Susan.  That’s their names.  I found out that they are neighbors down the street.  I’ve dated Scott for two years, and have never seen them.  I asked him to tell me about them.  I get this gem:   “Well they don’t really have friends, and they are hard to get to know.  Kind of anti-social”.  Ummm….ok, what am I supposed to do with them I’m thinking.  It begged me to ask why he thought to invite them, and he says because they brought us cookies at Christmas.  Now granted, we ate the hell out of those cookies, and they were delicious. However, who invites anti social people to a SB party where testosterone, sweat, swearing, and drinking.

I am a Pisces, so our imagination is vivid.  I imagine a man showing up in a v-neck sweater vest and a button up shirt.  Khakis neatly pressed with a seam in the front.  Hair sprayed to the side.  I picture her with neatly pressed mom jeans, sensible shoes, and a cardigan.  Now I could be wrong, but I am going to have to entertain this woman, and I assume this man will be by her side in there with me.  I wouldn’t picture someone anti social being in the room with the chest beating gorillas.  I plan on hitting the beer that night.  I’m going to have to so that I can get through this night.  I am a sports lover.  A beer drinking, television yelling, sports lover.  The more exciting the game, the more I am a ball of “oh no’s” and expletives.  I’m liable to put these people in therapy.

So I leave you with this….who invites anti-social, hard to get to know people to a SB party when you felt obligated because they brought you cookies at Christmas??????  All I can say is Valentines Day better be spectacular.

Much love,