To My Dear Darling Husband

I'm smart. Not smashing atoms smart, but smart enough to know that if your computer will not charge, you need to buy a new cord. Yes, there is always a possibility that it's something more, but it's a very easy test, that is painless compared to paying to take it to our friends brother who does this for a living, and will CHARGE US.

However, I realize that you are going to do this anyway, come home after finding out that it IS the cord, and go "Blah Blah said it's the cord and we should buy a new one". How do I know this? Past experience. It seems that every single time things like this happen, I tell you how to fix said issues, but you have to go to someone you think is smarter than your own wife, because, apparently, they know better.

I love you, but kiss my ass.

When It Rains, It Pours

After months of nothing, Matt had two great job interviews in the last week. One, he already interviewed for twice, but the last guy didn't work out, the other, he spent 1.5 hours with the guy, and then the next day, that guys boss called for a phone interview. No firm offers in hand yet, but it's a start, right?

Today, at dinner with MIL, another guy called, and he has an interview on Monday. May the best job win my husband?

Stupid Things We Never Forget

Trying to iron my hair with an actual iron. No seriously. I tried to flat iron my hair with an actual iron that you iron clothes with. I really didn't get what it meant to "iron" your hair, and all of my older housemates were telling me if I didn't like the curl, I should iron it out. At the tender, stupid, age of 13. I was smart enough at least to realize that I shouldn't put a hot iron directly on my fragile hair and tried to hold back the damaging heat with a towel. I burnt the back of my neck and received two burn mark lines on the side of my forehead before I called the experiment quits.

There are a million idiotic, stupid, asinine, things that I have done in my history on Earth, yet somehow, that one is the one that stands out. (Next to all the stupid boy mistakes I made) It reminds me of when I started cooking. How I was naive and burnt everything I tried. Instead of chalking it up to trial and error, I just didn't try again for years. Both with flat ironing my hair and cooking.

I started cooking again when I had to living with my mother. She was too drunk and if I didn't cook, we wouldn't eat. However, they were still simple meals. Basic spaghetti, tacos, grilled chicken. Nothing the least bit stressful. I didn't feel good about it though. If my stepfather knew it was me who cooked, he talked about how awful the food was. If I lied and said my mother did it, it was the best thing in the world. A few times I would tell him afterward that it was really me, and he would respond that he was being nice earlier, that something tasted off. I killed my cooking esteem. And I wouldn't allow myself to try anything remotely complicated.

Then I met Matt. All I wanted to do was impress him. So, I pulled all of my skills together and made...... MEATLOAF AND MASHED POTATOES. That's right. I cooked the most simplistic way to get to a mans heart. Meat and potatoes. I actually pulled it off too! I was surprised and excited. It lead to more complicated meals (for me), such as Chicken Parmesan! I didn't have time or the energy to make anything actually complicated. Work, kids, cooking for my stepfather to insult, it didn't leave room for creativity.

When Matt and I first moved in together, we ate out a lot. Pretty much every night. I just didn't have the energy to cook. After a while, we realized it was best for me to stay home (I guess we can thank my alcoholic mom for something!). Cooking became my way to stay busy and creative. Not all meals have been good, but they haven't all been horrible either. It's Matt who gave me the courage to try,, and that's what matters to me. I was terrified of failure, yet, he was excited to try it all. No matter how strange it sounded. I think everyone needs that kind of encouragement.

Oh, I finally bought a decent flat iron from Sallys. I do an awesome job at making my hair straight now. I still grimace when I have to iron though.

So Fitting. So True

On Facebook today, one of my girl friends posted the following:

Women are Angels...And when someone breaks our
wings...We simply continue to fly....on a broomstick...We are flexible
like that.

I Want Normal

I am sick today. Actually, I started getting sick yesterday, but tried to deny it. Waking up with chills, coughing, and a sore throat at 2:30am kept me from denying it any longer, however. So, I have been catching up on Roswell. Many of you won't remember this show, but for those who do (or hell, even if you don't, Netflix has them to watch online), take a look at the very first episode and then compare to Twilight. Hell, take a look at all 3 seasons. Say what you will Twihards, I am one myself, but there's a pattern here... It would totally explain my hardcore Twilight love. I also realize that Brendan Fehr sported the "Edward Cullen" haircut YEARS before Edward came along. ;)

Just sayin'

I remember when the show first came out. I was 17, living on Easy St. with yet another set of foster parents. I was dating my high school love, and all was right in my world. Except for the fact I was a foster child however. It was like it's own little scarlet letter on my chest. Two neighbors loved me, I even worked for one. Her son was autistic, and I was one of his tutors. It was awesome to learn about autism through working with Logan. I babysat for him and his brother all the time. There was another family however who didn't like me so much. Their 13yr old son and their 20yr old son both developed crushes on me. I actually went on a few dates with Brian, the 20yr old later on, after Jason and I split. He was a sweet guy. His mom however thought I was evil, someone foster brat who didn't belong in her neighborhood. I always wanted to scream that having a vinyl siding house on a .5 acre lot does not make you high society. Her sons were sweet however. The 13yr old grew out of his crush, but started to consider me his big sister after a while. Imagine having a 13yr old asking you how to ask a 12yr old to the big middle school dance. :p

My life has never been normal. I didn't have a mom who worried about me, even after I ran away, back to her, only a few short months after Roswell came out. She never cared. I was a prize to be won, and coming back to her was victory. I think it was at that point, I started to realize that my life was never going to be normal. That I would never feel normal. Yet I want it so bad. I vow that my daughters will know normal. Or as normal as I can give them. I love seeing them smile when I hug them, on the rare moments that Alice allows that these days. Thumbelina doesn't know how to stop smiling (Unless you tell her no. That'll make it disappear for about 2-5 minutes)

I strive hard for the dream. The fantasy life I wanted for myself. I fall flat most days. I should wear a helmet and knee pads for how hard I fall trying. If this were literal instead of purely figurative, I would have one massive concussion! I don't think the damages of my life will ever be gone. I don't think I'll ever feel whole. But I want to.

Leavin'... On A Jet Plane...

Living in foster care changes your view on life. Not so much your view on life, but your tendency to need things to constantly change, while you yourself do not. The longest I stayed in one place? 1996-1998. 2 years. I lived out of a black garbage bag and one suitcase from a collection my parents collection bought in the 80's. (Probably cool back then. Brown patterned leather?) Even when I lived with my parents, after we left our house where I lived for 5 years (the first 3 where in another house), I never felt settled. We weren't in Myrtle Beach but for 1.5 years before going into foster care. You can understand this leaves me restless and unsure. Most people spend more than 5 years in one place.

I am feeling that way now. Not the need to leave my family, to pick us up and move, but the feeling that I need to leave one of my safe havens. A place I always thought I fit into until the past 2-3 months. I have been debating it, and it kills a part of me, but I think I need to. I don't think I fit in any longer, and that it's time to move on. Self preservation? Not wanting to be hurt? I don't know. When I start to feel like this, I don't generally know what I think. I am used to feeling like I am on the outside looking in, I just don't like the feeling when I once felt I was on the inside, laughing just as hard.

Happy Mothers Day: Letters From Your Psycho Mom

Thumbelina came home from her weekend with her father at 8:15am yesterday. A few hours earlier than usual because it's mothers day. I was supposed to be sleeping in, however, even though we had no kids in the house, I was awake. Matt had woken up at 5:45, but fallen back asleep on the couch. When he woke up, he made me french toast. A first for him, and I am happy to say he didn't burn it! As soon as Thumbelina came in, she was pouting, as she saw Alice over at the neighbors house in her jammies. It was a birthday party and they had all camped in the backyard. Yes, I had the night before Mommys day FREE.

Thumbelina came in and I opened her present. A dish towel, with her hand print acting as the tulip to the stem and grass painted on it. Matt later brought in my present from him after I commented that the least he could do was keep the house clean today. A candle warmer. It goes well with my living room colors.

He gave this to me after my mothers day mood went downhill. We had just put Thumbelina down for her nap at 2:30 when Matt noticed that there was someone at the door. My stepfather. With 3 cards. One for each of the girls, and one for me. Of course, we read the girls before deciding whether or not we would give them to them. We decided against, for now, as it was all about how they couldn't wait to see them again, and that's not happening after what happened after Easter.

I opened mine, and it was all fine. However, the letter that fell out was not. It started off fine, but you can tell when her anger got the best of her. Right after telling me she didn't drink anymore at all, except when she had beers with her friends. Apparently, beer is better than vodka now or something, I guess. Then the tangent went downhill and she berated me. How she supported me through 2 pregnancies, how much she and my stepfather sacrificed for me. How horrible my father is, yet my sister and I treated her like shit and him like gold. Nothing I haven't heard before during her drunken tirades.

I laugh about her pregnancy support. How she told me I would be a horrible mother, how I would never keep my children because I was so awful, how fat and ugly I looked during pregnancy. AFTER the pregnancies, she would continue to berate my parenting, tell me she was going to take my daughter from me, and pretty much all that you can imagine. I guess in her mind, that was support. As for what they sacrificed, I don't even want to touch that. *I* paid the rent of their apartment, while my girls and I slept in a bedroom together, *I* cooked all the meals because she was too drunk. *I* did the grocery shopping because she wouldn't. *I* balanced their checking account because they kept bouncing and making me pay for their mistakes, so I just took it over. *I* gave them all the money from the sales of my cars because they made me feel as if I owed it. *I* paid all of the bills, because they kept forgetting and things kept getting turned off.

So, what did they sacrifice for me again?

Oh, Baby Baby!

I really wish I had the creativity to write a book. I have millions of ideas that would make great stories (to me of course), but can't figure out how to translate them to page. Which sucks for me, because I have always wanted to to write. Such as in the case of Stephanie Myers, my ideas are from my own personal screwed up dreams. Hero fantasy maybe?

So, away from that. I talked to to Thumbelinas preschool director yesterday. Since she is one of the kids getting caught by the deadline, I don't want her walking in this years graduation, only to have to do it again next year. She agreed, but then told me that while they love having her, she feels that she is the one who is the most ready to go to Kindergarten, despite being the youngest. Which makes me proud, yet frustrated all at the same time.