Tag Archives: Normal

Erotica and a Batman Costume

4 Feb

draft_lens19493882module159273265photo_13376893000_a_Nothing in my life is ever normal. What is normal? I don’t know, but seriously, ask my friends. They always tell me how much drama I have in my life.

I’m like a Real Housewife except I don’t want this drama! I’m not on a reality TV show, I’m not rich and I’m just not that exciting.

But drama always seems to fall into my lap. Maybe it’s because I’m sensitive? Or reactive? Or Italian?

Some time ago I took on a writing coach. I wrote briefly about him; how I felt so professional cool saying “my writing coach”. My relationship with my writing coach was short-lived.

Let me start at the beginning.

I found him on Craig’s List in August. We agreed to meet at Panera Bread. I did check him out and he seemed legit.

He texts he’s running a bit late.
I text: I am here, seated right when u come in, pink laptop :) [side note: you know I have a pink laptop.]

He comes in a bit flustered and doesn’t look anything like I had imagined, but really how often does that happen where the person looks exactly as you envisioned?

He apologizes for running late. “I wanted to catch a ride with my mom, and I had to wait for her to put her make-up on.”

Wtf.

“Um…OK,” I respond; wondering things like does he have a car? Does he live in his mother’s basement?

My second thought was: I’m pretty sure he’s gay. Which is fine. You know how I love the gays.

We get to work, and I have to say he taught me many great things worthy of my money for that afternoon. By the end I was even fond of him.

At one point his mother came up to our table. She was this adorable tiny older lady. She reminded me of a Golden Girl. She was definitely a Blanche. Her make-up was flawless. Her silver hair was pulled up in a beautiful bun with wispy pieces falling by her eyes. I thought, Wow, this is what I’m going to look like when I’m old! No running around in curlers and robes for me…

He introduces me. Mom and I shake hands and she eyes me telling me its soooo nice to meet me. Emphasizing the so.

“Very nice to meet you, too.”

I wondered what she was thinking. Probably that I’m a nice and pretty girl and she wished her son would take a liking to me. Everyone loves an Italian girl!

We wrap up and agree to meet again.

The next day, Sunday, he texts me: nice meeting you! Did you sign into LinkedIn yet?
Me: You too! No :( I can’t get anything done at home. Will try to tonite or tomorrow.
WC [Writing Coach]: Ok! Wrote all weekend…tired but in a good way.
Me: Awesome! Good job! :) I’m jealous.
WC: Need 500 word by tomorrow 9am!! An early morning writing session, I think! ;)

And that’s how it began.
Numerous texts and emails back and forth. I sent WC a couple chapters of my book. He loved what I had but also gave me constructive criticism. I was beyond thrilled. Like the time I was interviewed and suddenly saw myself at the Oscars, my mind again went racing.

He was like the perfect BFF and I’ve always wanted a gay BFF, I mean, all the celebs have one! So I started referring to him as my GBFF. I’d send my girls an email: So GBFF is home watching All My Children right now. Oh my God, he’s soo gay, and I’m soo lucky to have a gay BFF!

Every girl needs a Stanford!

Every girl needs a Stanford!

The girls were equally excited because when you’re married there is nothing better than a gay BFF. You have someone to shop with, you get a man’s opinion on your shoes/outfit/hair/make-up and yet there is no drama – you don’t have to worry about any sex happening. They are always painfully honest but without getting into trouble. If your husband told you that you should put more Vitamin A on that stretch mark you’d probably break his face. But, if your GBFF tells you – OMG, you better fucking listen!

I mean, it’s seriously perfection.

The texting fun continues – and I love that it’s all so innocent! I mean, he’s my GBFF right?!?

WC: Clearing my desk for labor day weekend—getting up early—coffee, writing, pool and reruns of murder she wrote
WC: Plus shopping!
Me: Sounds perfecto!
WC: Writing now & watching general hospital…jax is back in town!
WC: Ha ha!

[I mean, dude is totally gay right?????]

The girls are pressing me for what GBFF looks like. They are imagining Bethenny’s wedding planner.

bethenny-getting-married-hero-bridal-tips

This is when shit gets weird.

Me: BTW are you on FB?
WC: No…LinkedIn is enuf!
WC: Do you want me to look you up?
WC: On Fb?
Me: Lol! [FYI, if I ever don’t know how to respond to a text I write LOL, so if you know me and get that text from me….ummm….I don’t know what you’re talking about.]
WC: Naked, drunk or other compromising pics?
WC: :)
WC: Like Prince Harry!!!

[I’m reading the first text, then the smiley face, and thinking wtf, where is he going with this? I’m so confused. Then when he follows up with Prince Harry (who had just had the naked Vegas scandal) so I was like OMG, of course GBFF has seen Harry’s toosh!]

Me: lol lol no! [Still a bit confused]
Me: My friends wanted to see a pic of my “writing coach”.
WC: Check your email

[WC sends me an [financial] article he was interviewed for which included a picture of him.]
Me: :) great article! Wayyy over my head! Nic pic too!!
WC: Of course I can do the “tee-shirt, jeans and clogs with messy hair and stubble”, if that’s what the “client” wants—what are your girlfriends “into”??

[Ok, What. The. Fuck. I don’t respond because I’m like really confused at this point. My brain is going – wait, is GBFF not gay? I’m really confused right now. 10 minutes later – with no response from me – WC texts.]

WC: Just joking!!!

[Here’s me…Phew…he’s only joking! But still a little like wtf I respond Hahaha instead of my usual LOL for ‘seriously what the fuck are you talking about’.]

Me: Hahaha!
WC: If the “client” wants me to look ½ way between a vampire and a fireman, well, I think I can do that too…

[OK what is with all this quoting of “client”….what is going on right now? Now I’m freaking out. I’m perspiring. I don’t think GBFF is gay. I run to the bathroom. I email the girls. We are all in agreement that shit just got weird. Really weird.]

Because I have no idea what to say I finally respond: Did I offend you? I’m confused.

WC: No! I’m joking! I sometimes feel like a male hooker when I tutor—like you…you’re a hot housewife…I come in and you pass me cash…we have our talk…
WC: I move on to the next…I feel like a “high priced call girl” at times. My guy friends are envious of my job.

[If that shit doesn’t have you going wtf….]

WC: Just a joke! Like asking “what’s your genre?”
WC: Some of these ladies are into erotica so then I guess I dress like a fireman or something for them…and I read their “stories”. What a job! :)

OK, let this “hot” housewife get this off my back. I’m gonna get ghetto here, so imagine me saying this in my black girl voice.

images

Who in the fuck do you think you are calling me 1. A “hot” housewife like that’s all I am, not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I am a full time office manager.

2. I did not write a “story” – I wrote a fucking novel and this fucking novel is going to sell and get turned into a Lifetime movie complete with Rob Lowe playing the antagonist and a “hot” housewife – Katie Holmes anyone? – playing me.

3. I am not sitting in a basement writing some make-believe erotica story because I am some bored housewife looking for attention and desperately craving sex. Further, please repeat #2, I did not write some little fucking story…I wrote a book mother fucker. This book is going to be a best seller. Fucking Oprah is going to be talking about this shit.

4. Dressing up in Batman, fireman costumes and reading these stories, what the fuck are you talking about? This is the craziest shit I’ve ever heard! I’m beyond confused right now and a little a lot offended.

Adam West was kind of hot....

Adam West was kind of hot….

5. This is serious shit to me. I did not hire you because I was looking for anything other than help with my writing. I never in any way suggested otherwise.

6. Maybe this is a game…to him and his mom….maybe they scour Craig’s List looking for attractive young girls to take advantage of! They wanted to lure me to their home and kill me, Oh my God! Like the Bates Motel!

7. I’ve never felt so demeaned in my whole life….I finally say as I break down in tears.

No more ghetto, I’m actually crying and saying how serious I am about my book, and now I will never know if he even really liked my book or if the whole time he was just trying to get in my pants dressed up as fucking Elmo or some shit.

I traded a few texts with WC after, but knew I could never trust him again. I’ve not searched for another writing coach, and I’ve not worked on my book after that. I know I need to get back to it and not be dramatic and feel sorry for myself, but the whole experience just left me with a bad taste in my mouth. Like who the fuck does this happen to, I don’t even get it?

My friends and I did have a laugh about it while sipping cocktails as my girl said, “When don’t you have drama? That’s crazy!”

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If I Were a Postal Employee

14 Sep

I don’t think he’d be smiling if he knew what he was picking up!?!

If I were a postal employee I would be outraged by this.

If they only knew.

Or do they know?

Have we really gotten this busy?

As a full-time working mom I for one appreciate the convenience. I doubt that the post office does.

Why, you ask? What are they delivering?

They are delivering my shit.

I’m not even joking.

I recently had a physical. I’ve been having some tummy troubles, and I haven’t quite been able to figure out what to attribute it to.

- I’ve tried eliminating dairy (didn’t work)
- I quit drinking pop three months ago
- My doctor thinks it might be anxiety-related
- My stepmom thinks I eat too many raisins
- My friend thinks I’m allergic to gluten
- I actually think I might drink too much coffee

So what gives? Why do I suddenly have diarrhea on an almost daily basis? My doctor wanted to get to the bottom of it. He asked me to give a poo sample. You can imagine how comfortable I was discussing my diarrhea issues with my 60+ male physician. Well, I guess it wasn’t that bad in all honestly, I mean, I’m telling you all right?

He says that he wants me to submit a poo sample, and that I can even mail it in. (Selling point?)

What the heck?

I nodded my head as he shook my hand and said the nurse would be back with prescriptions, my blood test order and the poo pack.

Sure enough the nurse comes into the office and hands me a small cardboard box.

“You can mail this with five stamps,” She tells me. “Or you can drop it off here.”

Drop it off here? Does she think I have nothing better to do but complete my 8 ½ hour shift at work, pick up my kid, go home and make dinner, do laundry, get us all ready for the next day, i.e., pack bags, lunch, pick out outfits, etc. and that I can just make a leisurely stop at the doctor’s office (completely out of my way) to deliver my sample?

I do appreciate this convenience. I love this convenience. Five stamps, 10 stamps, I don’t care! Whatever it takes to not have to drive back to the doctor’s office.

But then I found myself having all sorts of questions, overanalyzing if you will….do the mail people know that they are picking up people’s poop? Will I tell my mail lady at work – who I talk to everyday – that she is picking up my poop?

“Well, hello there, Cindy….please be sure to be extra careful with that cardboard box. It has my shit in it. And by the way, thank you sooooo much. You’re sure making my life a lot easier by delivering my poop to my doc!”

A. W. K. W. A. R. D.

But, I actually worried that I might say that.

Luckily the day I mailed my poop she had a sub. Phew, I wasn’t going to tell the tatted dude who came in that he was picking up my crap. I simply smiled and said hello. But in my head I was all….omg, omg, that poor man has no idea that he is picking up my poo! And then I giggled.

Soooo immature.

If I don’t worry about the postal employees then am I all good here?

Because I think I actually may have scarred my 2-year-old while taking on this task. On a Saturday afternoon after drinking a large Dunkin Donuts iced coffee I was all – OK time to do this.

Git r done….I’m hearing that hillbilly guy’s voice. I despise this saying btw.

I grabbed the cardboard box and opened it to read the instructions.

Seems easy enough.

It’s not.

My first turd completely rolled off the piece of paper and plopped in the toilet. I started screaming. My husband ran into the bathroom carrying the Chiquita. “What is going on?”

The Chiquita is eyeing the piece of paper like wtf. She’s no dummy. She knows her mom’s a bit of a whack job.

“I can’t go #2 on a piece of paper. This is insane!”

“Well, you have to! Suck it up!”

Then does he leave? No! He stands there. Holding the Chiquita. While I attempt again to go to the bathroom on a piece of paper. This is messed up.

The Chiquita is seriously like wtf. (Poor kid)

OK, deed is done!

Now to “pierce” it. Yes, that’s what you have to do. This is why I’m not in the medical field, because are you serious right now? This is MINE and I’m completely grossed out. I can’t even imagine if it were someone else’s.

I’m standing there (naked) trying to pierce the poop sample, and I start gagging. Like major gagging. Like dry-heaving I’m going to throw up in a second gagging. I’m screaming, “I’m going to throw up!!!!!!!!!! I can’t do this!”

Husband is laughing.

The Chiquita is screaming, “Poop! Poop! Poop, Mommy, poop! Poop! Paper! Mommy, Poop, Paper.”

For two days following this “event” when the Chiquita would walk by the bathroom she would say: “Poop! Mommy Poop, Paper.”

So, I ask you this. Are we really too busy to give poop samples like we used to?

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What is the Matter with You?

30 Jul

Is what my mom asked me; more like scolded me. And it was actually more like this:  Jennifer! What. Is. The. Matter. With. You?

Yep, still getting it at 33-years-old.

But, I did deserve it.

It was another one of my “JUST STOP TALKING!!!!” moments, only it was more of a ‘You’re a grown woman why in the hell would you throw chuck a water balloon at your mother during your kid’s 2nd birthday party?’ At your mother’s back, even better.

Yes. Yes, I did this. I’ll explain.

The Sangria made me do it.

I really don’t know what came over me, but I’ve said before that my family is crazy. When I was a kid we would always play the water balloon toss game followed by the classic water balloon fight at family parties. We would laugh and joke and it was the funnest time. Some of my fondest memories of my childhood are playing with my aunts when I was a little kid.

For the Chiquita’s 2nd birthday almost the entire family was together. The family, I feel like, has worked hard to try to come together and overcome our differences. I was excited, and I wanted it to be perfect. This actually is one of my biggest struggles. I’m a perfectionist. I don’t like things done half-assed. If I’m going to do it, I’m going to go all out.

Sometimes this gets me in trouble. I don’t always think things through because I’m too busy seeing the finish line. I’m at ‘start’ and ‘finish’ but never at ‘during’. It’s a bad way to live, and I need to work on that, but we’ll save that for my therapy sessions.

So anyways, my aunt helps me fill the water balloons, and I excitedly gather the troops.

“Water balloon toss! Water balloon toss! Get your partner and meet out front!”

I’ve got kids, I’ve got older aunts/uncles…I’m super pumped. This is awesome! Just like the old days!!

My mom is being all fuddy duddy, “I’m not going to play.”

What?!?

Side note, when did mom’s get to be so lame anyways? I remember my mom never wanting to go water skiing or tubing when we were kids on our boat. We’d be soo excited and be like, “Mom, please!” and she would always say no and just lay in the boat with her sunglasses on. I’d say OK if she at least had a vodka in her hand, but my mom isn’t much of a drinker…which isn’t a bad thing if you read about some of my dalliances.

So my mom says she’s isn’t going to play and for some reason (Sangria?) it really annoys me. Like why not? Are you afraid to get wet? Come on! Don’t be so lame!

These thoughts all run through my head.

We play two games of controlled water balloon toss. By the way, I don’t want to brag, but in the 2nd game I was in the top 3 and did a dive catch to try to save my water balloon. In a dress no less. See, I’m A Cool Mom. ;)

And then the fight breaks out. People are chucking water balloons every which way. It’s chaos. My evil twin inside me thinks: This is it! This is your chance to get Mom.

I seriously don’t know what came over me. I picked up a water balloon, I walked to the back yard were the lame adults were sitting and then I completely chucked it at her. I’m talking I stopped, I wound up like I was pitching a baseball (complete with the leg up), and I threw the water balloon right at her back!

What. The. Fuck.

Even my bonus daughters were like, “Omg Jen! I can’t believe you just nailed your mom in the back!” while they walked away laughing.

I laughed for like a second and then I saw her face. And then I heard her voice. I heard the: “Jennifer! What is the matter with you?!?”

Uh-oh. Crap. It seemed a lot funnier in my head.

After my mom’s: “Jennifer! What is the matter with you?!?” I figured I had had my fair share of Sangria and dubbed the stuff ‘dangerous’.

The ‘dangerous’ Sangria

I was in major damage control – I drank tons of water and when my mom offered to cut the cake for me I was like, “I got it!” even though I totally wanted to hand it over to her.

I did apologize though my first apology was via text in which I said, ‘Sorry, I’m an asshole.’

For some reason I don’t think she appreciated that apology. I decided a more heartfelt apology was in order. When I saw her a couple days later I said to her, “Mom, I’m really sorry for throwing the water balloon at you.” Then after an uncomfortable chuckle, I said, “Seriously, I don’t know what came over me, it was that Sangria. That stuff was dangerous.”

She gave me a face. I nervously laughed some more. I said again that I really was sorry and appreciated all her help with the Chiquita’s party.

She said, “I wasn’t upset that you got me wet, I was actually more upset by the face that you made.”

I’ve been told before that I make some very serious and deadly facial expressions.

I laughed some more. I don’t think she appreciated all the laughing during this apology, but I was seriously very uncomfortable. Gosh, why don’t I just act like a normal person and not throw things at my mom!?!

Ugh!

In response to my face, I said, “Was it really mean or something?”

Now she laughed. Phew! “Evil! Your face looked evil!”

Now we’re both laughing, and I tell her I’m going to write a blog post about it. She rolls her eyes. I said, “We have to let other people get a kick out of this as much as we are, I mean, seriously, who throws a water balloon at their mom?”

Yeah, that would be me.

Don’t I ever learn to just stop? I need like a code word or something. Oh. I have that. Snooki. For realz, when I’m getting out of control I’m told I’m “Snookied” so I better “calm down.”

I guess I needed my bonus daughters behind me yelling “Jen! You’re Snookied! Don’t. Throw. The. Water. Balloon. !!!!!!!”

In slow-mo.

Only now I’m imagining myself as a caged bear breaking free and doing the whole “Arrrggghghhhhgghghg!” thing as I throw chuck the water balloon at my poor defenseless mom and that would have ended even worse. : /

“Hey man! You got a dart in your neck!”

So what did we all learn from this blog post? Don’t ever – ever, ever, ever – chuck a water balloon at your mom’s back while making an evil face during your two-year-olds birthday party.

Thank goodness you have me to tell you these things.

At least I can cross this off the bucket list. :P

Happy 2nd Birthday to the Chiquita!

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Reason #26 Why I’m Crazy

6 Feb

I’ve struggled with depression and anxiety my whole life.  Well, not my whole life, really since I was 15.  I like to blame my parents for it, you know, because of my genetic make-up and the fact that they were so hard on me during my teen years.

In hindsight it’s probably a good thing.  Who knows what would have come of me if I wasn’t grounded every other weekend of sophomore year and permanently grounded from sleepovers from 15 until I got kicked out of my house at 22.  Yes, I’m dead serious.  Grounded from sleepovers for life!

I remember walking around my house with a nervous stomach and loving going to work at Dan’s Pizza.  It was my only saving grace.  I would beg people to let me take their shifts because work and school were the only places I was allowed to go.  And I preferred to be anywhere except home.

My parents scared the shit out of me.  I wasn’t raised with hugs and time-outs.  I was raised like an army recruit.  Sir, yes sir!

You don’t sleep past 8 am on weekends.
You don’t swear in our home – and swearing includes saying ‘what the hell’…
You were never – ever – late for curfew.  1 minute late is still late…
You are allowed only 1 C per quarter or NO driving until the next progress report 3 months later.  We strive for excellence in this house…

I’m not saying whether this is good or bad parenting.  As a mother, I know that I will be tough on the Chiquita because I don’t want her to end up a 15-year-old prostitute working for crack.  Yes, maybe that’s a little dramatic, but we have addiction in our blood, and I think that’s why I always steered clear of drugs.  I knew if I tried it I would probably love it.

I think I’m like most kids-turned-parents in that I’ll take with me some things I learned from my parents and other things I just choose to go to therapy for.  One thing I’ve learned since becoming a parent is that parents are only human.  They are bound to make mistakes.  I pray I don’t damage the Chiquita in some way, but I’m sure she’ll have some story to tell, just like we all do.  We all have something that our parents did to us…it may not be abuse or neglect….but I’ve never spoken to anyone who says they’ve had absolutely the perfect upbringing.

And while I wish my parents weren’t so hard on me, and I wish they would have given me more hugs and encouragement from time-to-time I know I didn’t make things easy on them either.

I’ve always been a very emotional girl.  Why do you think I started a blog?  I have a lot to say and a lot of feelings to go with it.  I needed some kind of an outlet, and a journal just wasn’t cutting it.  I do journal, yes, but more out of necessity than desire; it’s a chore for me, something that I have to do.  I put the really crazy thoughts in my journal…Haha.

But something that has taken me years and years to figure out is that I have PMDD.  I have officially been diagnosed with PMDD, which is Premenstrual dysphoric disorder.  I find that PMDD is relatively unknown.  It affects 3% – 8% of women, and like PMS, follows a cyclical pattern. 

According to Wikipedia:  Emotional symptoms are generally present, and in PMDD, mood symptoms are dominant. Substantial disruption to personal relationships is typical for women with PMDD.  Anxiety, anger, and depression may also occur.  Click here for more information about PMDD from Wikipedia.

Why am I sharing this with all of you?  For two reasons:

#1 because a lot of women thank me for my openness and honesty about suffering from and overcoming Post Partum Depression.  It absolutely warms my heart to know that the hell I went through can result in me helping another woman get through it, too.  Maybe someone out there has PMDD and doesn’t know what it is and why they are going bonkers.

And #2 because for one week (to 10 days!) out of the month – every month – I go absolutely bat shit crazy.  Not normal PMS crazy, I go mad scientist crazy.  Many of my friends know about it, and I’ll explain any more than usual craziness with a simple “It’s a PMDD week,” (Que nods and ohhhh that explains it…) but others (Facebook friends, for instance) don’t know why I become such a whack job.  So here you have it – during a PMDD week I get very angry, crabby, inpatient, sensitive, emotional, feelings of being stressed or overwhelmed…basically for one week out of every month I’m just not myself.  My evil twin, Jsux we’ll call her, makes her appearance.

Jsux during a PMDD week…YIKES!

Doctors are bad about diagnosing PMDD and would rather just say you’re depressed and throw you on antidepressants.  I take a wide range of natural herbs and vitamins with hopes of controlling my mood swings during this time of the month.  Some months are better than others, and some months are so disruptive that I find myself hibernating so I don’t lose all my friends.

There was a time when I hated my PMDD and hated that I got stuck with this weird and unknown disorder, like why couldn’t I just have something “normal” like ADD?  But, now, I look at it like I look at the parenting thing.  Everybody has something.  No one’s life is perfect.  I’m fortunate enough to have a great husband who is so supportive and loving that I really don’t deserve him, and obvs the Chiquita and my bonus daughters, and I have a good job, and I have a nice home and nice “things”, and I have a wonderful support system of friends and family who all love me and care about me despite my craziness, so I guess this is my thing.  My thing is that once a month I go bat shit crazy and sometimes act like an insane person.

Here’s where if you could see me while I write this you would see I’m shrugging.  That’s my “thing”.  [Shrug.]  This is God’s plan for me.  Just like my PPD, which I will tell everyone about and shout from the sky to help other women (and maybe Book #2???), my “thing” is PMDD.

What’s your thing and how do you stay strong to overcome it?

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Finding Balance

8 Sep

Photo courtesy of photobucket.com

I’ve always been a very yin and yang type of person.  I’m very black or white – I’m either off or on, I either like you or I don’t, I’m in a good mood or a bad mood.  A lot of that might have been the instability of my hormones, and therefore my moods, or maybe I’m just a typical chick who never knows what she wants.

When I was pregnant I remember thinking that after I had the baby life would go back to as it was before…you know once this pregnancy was over with.  Then one day, at about 9 months pregnant, it occurred to me.  I will be bringing home a baby.  Yes, wait a minute.  Life will never be the same again.  It scared me – it scared the shit out of me.

With everything Eva and I went through with the after-birth complications and then my near-death experience (See blog post: Knocking on Heaven’s Door) I don’t think I ever had the chance to properly process my feelings on the unfortunate way in which Eva was welcomed into the world.

Instead, I internalized those feelings of fear and anger and self-pity – as I’ve said before I was plagued with feelings of ‘Why did this happen to ME?’ and ‘Couldn’t I have had a “normal” experience? – and I did what many dependents do best.  I drank.  I shopped.  I pretended like life was good.  In hindsight I don’t think I pretended that well because I remember a time of sad blog posts and angry status updates.  I remember the day I dyed my blonde hair black.  I remember the emptiness inside.

At the point that I could no longer stand feeling like a selfish and uncaring mother I faced the depression that was drowning me.

I hated myself.  Why was this change so hard for me?  I felt like all of my friends approached motherhood with ease and here I was a big fat failure.  I was failing miserably and all I wanted to do every day was get drunk and forget about it.  I wished for the ease and comfort of my old life which shamed me.

In the heart of my debilitating Post Partum era I had to make the decision to stop socializing in order to start getting well.  My friends had always been a huge part of my life; especially recently – in say the last 10 years – when my mom and I had our falling out and many of my family sided with her.  At 22-years-old I felt alone and betrayed by those who were supposed to love me unconditionally.  Sure I had other family members that I was close to, but that is a story for a different day.  Or one that may stay private forever.

At that time I was forced to turn to my friends for love, guidance and support.  My friends became my family.  Sometimes I probably leaned on my friends too much.  I knew that and tried to respect their boundaries.  I had friends that would invite me over for Thanksgiving and Easter.  It made my heart burst with love that even though I was alone (which I wasn’t, I just felt that way) that I wasn’t alone.  I was loved.

Making the decision to stop socializing was in a way abandoning my family, those friends who were my family now.  My fremily. :)   There was an even bigger hole inside me now.  A hole I needed to learn to fill with love for myself.  It was very hard for me to face this obstacle all alone.  I’m not good with alone.

I can’t thank those friends enough who continuously reached out to me even though I constantly declined plans or was unreliable – even if it was just a text message to say hello.  Just to let me know they cared.  I knew that if I continued on the destructive path I was on I would never get well.  I had to make my health front and center.  I had to face it head on.

And now here I am 6 months later.  I’m happier and healthier.  But.  I have damaged friendships.  I have no social life.  Now, as with my yin and yang personality, I have done the complete opposite and refused to leave my house.  I mean, I go to work, Target, the gym, but as far as meeting up with friends – I decline.

Making plans?  I just don’t bother.  I make excuses about doctor appointments.  I’m not lying – I do have these appointments, but the truth is I’m scared.  I’m scared of who I am now.

Have I become old and boring?  I don’t get shit faced anymore or dance on bars…I kind of don’t even know how to be fun anymore.  Will my friends even still like me?  I have some major social anxiety going on, too.  Like I don’t even know what to talk about with my friends anymore.  I could sit and stare at them and have nothing to say.  The old me would have been drunk and laughing up a storm about whatever thing I was babbling about.  Now I have nothing to say.  It’s not that I have nothing to say.  I’m just afraid to say it.

I also want to spend as much time with Eva as humanly possible considering I miss 40 hours a week of her development so I can’t bring myself to be away from her for even one night.  It’s bad enough I miss all day.  Our life is so simple now.  There’s no drama.  It’s dolls and Legos…it’s walks to the park and reading books.  It’s easy.  It’s safe.

I’m in the cocoon I surrounded myself in for protection which has ultimately had the exact opposite effect on me.  It is equally unhealthy, and I need to change.  Before I was going out too much and running away from my responsibilities and now I refuse to make time for myself and my friends for fear of missing even one second of Eva’s growth and change.

UGH!  How do I find balance?

Balance is the key.  I imagine that many mothers feel this way and struggle with this very issue.  My new challenge is finding balance; it’s finding time for me alone, time for me and my husband, time for me and my daughter.  And time with friends gets pushed to the backburner.  There just is no time.  There’s never enough time.

I’m striving to get to a place where I feel comfortable in all aspects of my life, where I stop feeling the constant guilt that has engulfed me for the past year.  Is that even possible?  Or has mom guilt set in and thus will be the rest of my life?  Or at least until Eva is 18 or 25 and I can have my own life again.

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Mother is God

26 Aug

My first post back.  Wow, like a little kid on the first day of school I’m nervous.  Will they like me?  Will they think I’m smart?  Will they think I’m pretty?

6 months later I’m in a new place.  I still consider myself fragile and a work-in-progress, but I am happy again.  I feel blessed and hopeful.  I feel joy.

6 months ago I didn’t care if I lived or died.  6 months ago I was in such a deep depression I didn’t ever think I would come out of it.

Post Partum Depression took over my entire life.  Things were foggy.  I couldn’t think straight.  I couldn’t see straight.  I was angry and ashamed.  Why did this happen to ME?  Couldn’t I just have a “normal” experience?

It’s taken a lot – and I mean A LOT – of hard work to get to where I am now at.  And I am so proud of myself – so proud of my progress.  I feel like my old self again; only a better version of my old self.  More relaxed and mature…more stable and confident.

It’s taken extensive counseling, it’s taken an active interest in my well-being, and it’s taken time to get myself back on track.

Helping me has helped my family.  I’m happy to report that my daughter, Eva, is doing wonderfully.  I’ve even added her own page on my blog (see My Chiquita).  She just turned one and is a walking machine.  She is my true pride and joy.  The Post Partum stole a lot from me – it stole my ability to love my daughter in the early months the way I wanted to.  It’s not that I didn’t love her.  It’s that I was so dead inside that I didn’t have the ability to love anyone.

I look back now and feel an overwhelming sense of sadness for the time that I missed with her.  I was there, don’t get me wrong, but I wasn’t there in the way that I am now.  I wasn’t there for her with a sense of peace and happiness.  I was a scared and depressed mommy.  I was looking to run and hide.  I kept thinking, “I don’t want to screw her up,” not really thinking that me NOT being there would screw her up.

I heard this saying a couple months back and it’s stuck with me:  Mother is God in the eyes of a child.

WOW!  I’ll say it again.  Mother is God in the eyes of a child.  What a truly remarkable way to look at yourself and your responsibility to your child.  I love that.  I love that my daughter looks to me as her God.  I mean, it’s true.  My own mother and I were at odds for many years, and I just remember missing her and wanting her in my life so badly.  I remember the days of thinking, “I just want my mom,” like she would somehow make everything alright.

Mother is God in the eyes of a child – no matter what mistakes you make or don’t make – you are your child’s ultimate.  Now if that’s not motivation to be the best you can be than I don’t know what is.

When I decided to cease writing my blog was when I truly decided to get the help that I needed.  That’s the day that God was looking down on me.  That’s when I recognized that I wasn’t getting well and needed help.  I knew I needed to fight for myself.

I got new doctors and counselors, I got blood tests to check my hormone levels, I read up on Post Partum Depression, Manic Depression and Anxiety to see if taking vitamins and changing my diet could help me.  I stopped drinking alcohol.  I stopped my social life.  I wrote in a journal.  Day in and day out for 6 months I got up, went to work and came home to love my daughter.  I told my husband I had to put him on hold.  I needed time and space to process my feelings and emotions.  I needed time and space to be the mother I knew I could be.  I needed time and support to find love and happiness again.

And here I am now.  I’m healthier, I’m stronger, I’m happier, and I’m thankful!  I have a wonderful daughter.  I have a supportive and loving husband who’s stuck by my side.  I have my mom – my “God” –  who has pushed me to fight for my life, and who has listened to my talk about my disappointments and my fears.  I have friends who have remained my friends through thick and thin, who were there for me during those dark days when I couldn’t look beyond the misery.  Wow, I am one lucky person.

So I’m going to open my heart and my mind again to my blog readers and friends.  As you can see I’ve changed up my blog a bit.  During this time of “new’s” I decided it was time for a new theme.  Because JLEE’s Blog; If You Think I’m a B*tch So Be It didn’t really fit me.  Because I do care if you think I’m a b*tch!  I do want to be liked!  I’m a nice girl who just happens to have a lot of thoughts and opinions and feelings.  I’ve gone a bit crazy and off path, but I’ve managed to bring myself back to become the person that I want to be, and that I am meant to be.  I hope you will still enjoy and read my blog.

Thanks for the love and support. :)

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Hi…My name is Jen and I am a….LOVE ADDICT?

5 Feb
 

Sacred Love Versus Profane Love (1602–03) by Giovanni Baglione. Courtesy of http://www.wikipedia.com

I know. Only me, right? Why can’t I be an alcoholic? It sounds so much cooler. But, no. No, not me. I’m a fucking love addict.

What the fuck is right.

Trust me; I’m right there with you.

Well, apparently this is a real “disease” that people (me) suffer from. I found out about it by watching Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew. One of the celebrities (Rachel Uchitel, Tiger Woods’ former lover) suffers from an addiction to love. When she started telling her story I thought, gee, that kind of sounds like me. Wow, that really sounds a lot like me! WTF?

So I started researching the condition. Turns out it’s totally me.

I burst into tears. “What the fuck is this??” I yelled to my husband. “Seriously, I can’t be an alcoholic? Something “normal”?”

My husband laughed and said, “It’s better than being Bi-Polar.”

These doctors don’t know what they are doing. Yes, I was told by one doctor that I was Bi-Polar, which I vehemently denied. I’ve been called an alcoholic by my old counselor. I’ve been called a manic depressive by the Crazy Shrink. Then I suffered violently from the Post Partum Depression, as my blog readers know.

I’ve worked very hard on myself; taking meds and going to counseling to try to overcome all the anger and sadness I have been plagued with to be the best mother I can be to Eva and the best version of myself for me.

But, I still wasn’t happy. In fact, I was miserable. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. People started telling me how happy I should be. How so many women would give anything to have what I have…to have my life; my baby, my husband, my house….

My head started going crazy.

What is wrong with me????

I decided I was moving away. Eva and I were getting the hell out of here. We needed to escape. Go somewhere…anywhere. Then I figured out it was me. I needed to escape. But from what? From me? From the pain? From all of my “issues?”

This is when I started researching “Love Addiction.”

As I write this blog I’m scared and embarrassed and confused. What will you all think? Will you all laugh at me? Will you all think that I’m a freak? Part of me wants to laugh and part of me wants to cry.

But I have to write it. I have to face this. My first reaction, of course, was complete denial. I’m still in a stage of denial, really.

Love addiction.

What a fucking joke.

What is a love addict you ask?

According to Wikipedia, love addiction is described as: a human behavior in which people become addicted to the feeling of being in love. Love addicts can take on many different behaviors. Love addiction is common; however, most love addicts do not realize they are addicted to love. Love addiction can be treated with various recovery techniques, most of which are similar to recovery from other addictions such as sex addiction and alcoholism, through group meetings and support groups.

Another, more simple description is: when love is your drug of choice, your obsessive need, your high.

“With a love addiction at first you can think of nothing more than being with the one you love. You want to touch and hold and care for the other person. From the moment of first passion – the moment in which you are utterly convinced that you have found the love of your life – you are in ecstasy.” (By Rita Wilson, on www.theexaminer.com.)

It’s that feeling of ecstasy that hooks me…like an alcoholic taking their first drink…like a drug addict getting high…that’s what happens to me. Only it starts and ends with flirting….but I’m a huge flirt.

But please, let me clarify, there are different kinds of love addicts, and love addicts are NOT sex addicts. I’m not out sleeping around on my husband.

The truth is I form inappropriate friendships with people through flirting, and then I find myself “falling” for them to get that high…the euphoria….that “drug.”

I then start to question everything about my life. My happiness. My marriage. My own sanity. I contemplate completely throwing my life away …leaving my husband. Leaving Chicago. Going somewhere. Anywhere. That I can be happy. But no such place exists.

This is what I keep telling myself, what I know and understand – that I can only find happiness within myself – but I can’t quite seem to grasp it. I’m struggling with that and have questioned whether I’ve been happy at all in my whole life?

I’m sure I have been….at some point.

There are even several different types of love addicts.

  • Obsessed love addicts
  • Codependency addicts
  • Relationship addicts
  • Narcissistic love addicts
  • Ambivalent love addicts
  • Torch bearers
  • Seductive withholders
  • Romance addicts

Dr. Stanford Peele says (on http://www.psychologytoday.com/conditions/sex-and-love-addiction) of the seven top addictions, love is the hardest to break. He says, “Love. Ah, Love is the hardest addiction to quit. It certainly causes more murders and suicides than any other addiction. And if you think people miss smoking, consider what people are like when they break up with long-term lovers or get divorced – even when they hate their spouses!”

What are some of the signs of a typical love addict? According to www.ezinearticles.com signs include, but are not limited to:

- Feeling isolated, detached from parents and family;

- Compartmentalization of relationships: Do you keep your romantic relationships separate from other parts (and people) in your life? Do you have a double life?

- Do You Try to avoid rejection and abandonment at any cost?

- An abiding fear of trust. Do you have trouble truly trusting and giving up “control” in a relationship for fear your partner will disappear?

- Relationship Necessity: Do you feel it is imperative for you to be in a relationship at all times?

- Feelings that a relationship/sex makes one whole, or more of a man or woman;

- An Escalation of High Risk Behavior: Are you willing to take chances, break laws or even risk personal humiliation to see or connect with your partner?

- Intense need to control self, others, circumstances; Do you feel helpless when situations, or outcomes are out of your control?

In Googling “Love Addiction” I found that these were the basic signs of a love addict, however, different websites did have some differences in their assessments.

How do people become addicts?

According to www.pureintimacy.org “Unresolved family trauma is at the root of most major life conflicts facing individuals and families.”

Again, in doing my research for both myself and for this post I found that many websites blamed “family trauma” for addictions.

I’m not saying this is my family’s fault, but those of you who really know me know that I went through a very difficult time with my family. I think that in turn gave me a fear of abandonment, which has in turn caused me to have a love addiction.

I’m working closely with my counselor to get help with this…I’m not sure what that will entail yet. A 12-step program? Rehab? I’m not sure…but I need to do something because I’m destroying my family, and I’m destroying myself.

Stay tuned…you all know everything anyways so I might as well keep you posted. Thanks for the support, Readers.

** Obviously I’m not a doctor. If you think you or someone you know suffers from love addiction, please consult your physician.

 

 

 

 

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Don’t Trigger Me…

14 Jan
Live, Laugh, Love (In Italian)

One of the common words used in therapy is “trigger.” Everyone has a trigger. Something that just boils your blood….grinds your gears….sends you right over the edge. Makes you want to go crazy.

That’s a trigger. Triggers are intense.

A trigger for a drug addict would be their drug.

A trigger for a gambling addict would be a casino.

But, it also breaks down much further than that. It doesn’t have to be as big as drugs or gambling. Even “normal” people can have very normal triggers; things that remind them of something unpleasant which in turn sets them off.

Say someone got hit by a car. The last thing they heard before they were knocked out was a horn blaring. Now anytime they are driving and they hear a horn it reminds them of that day. It takes them back to that moment right before they got hit by the car. What they were thinking. What they were feeling.

Fear, anger, sadness, pain….in their gut. As strong as the day it was when they got hit, and when they were laying in the street in a pool of blood. This can bring on feelings of anxiety or panic. Now the person is driving around anxious and panicked because someone beeped their horn at Grandma to go when the light turned green.

It can start off as something so small. Triggers can be even smaller than that, something as small as someone snapping their gum, a food, or an activity. A color, a TV show…etc.

Triggers are very unhealthy. They can be destructive. They cause intense feelings and emotions. It’s not healthy to constantly be in a state of anger or panic or anxiety.

How do you deal with triggers? You need to work through your triggers to get over your trauma. If you don’t work through these emotions, this pain, this fear, this sadness, this anger, then every time you are triggered this is how you will feel.

Your heart rate speeds up, your blood pressure raises, your hands get sweaty, you get angry….you start thinking, “I’m going to do this (beat someone’s ass) or I’m going to do that (just go to sleep, walk away)” – or – people like me might think “I need a glass of wine (I’m going to get drunk).”

And where does this leave you? In the morning this just leaves me cold, tired, and hung over. The feelings are all still there, but they are now suppressed. And each time I drink I can suppress those feelings a little more. But the problem is ultimately still there, no matter how deeply it’s been buried.

Are you all thinking about what your trigger is?

Are you wondering what my trigger is? I have a lot of triggers. I’m one of those people that DOES sweat the small stuff, so things constantly piss me off. I’m triggered on a daily basis, though usually most of it is bull shit, and I just have to tell myself to get over it. But I do have big triggers, too. I’m sure everyone has triggers, right? Or is it just me? Am I the only whack job on the block?

I have a couple of big triggers. Things that trigger me that hurt sooo much. And then I get these intense feelings of anger, unhappiness, frustration. Of sadness and pity. Sometimes I want to cry. Sometimes I want to punch something. And sometimes I just want to run away.

I don’t want to tell you my triggers. Especially this trigger because it’s stupid. I’m embarrassed. But, part of my therapy is to detox …. It’s to look at my emotions and try to figure out ‘why do I feel this way?’ ‘why do I do the things I do?’ To “detox” myself of these negative emotions.

Remember when life was easy? When we were kids in first grade in Miss Zurek’s class collecting popcorn kernels? Or in high school gym class watching the PE Leaders (me) do nothing, while the rest of the class (you all) sweated your asses off? Oh I miss those days.

Now here I am.

I’m a fucking mess dude.

I’m so over being a fucking mess.

I’m so over everyone wanting to read my blog so they can laugh at my hardships today.

I’m so over everyone saying I’m sooo dramatic or I just need to get over it or I’m just a fucking psycho.

I’m sick of posting my blog and wondering if people love it or hate it.

I’m sick of submitting writing and being rejected. I remember when I used to write for ME.

I’m sick of doubting my abilities; as a mother, as a wife, as a person, and as a writer.

I’m sick of feeling like a complete failure.

I’m sick of SAYING I feel like a failure.

I’m sick of being miserable and unhappy.

I’m sick of being judged.

I’m sick of being triggered.

I’m just so sick of it all. I want this struggle to be over. Why is God testing me?

And I love the people that say “When life throws you lemons make lemonade!”

Does anyone else want to punch those people in the face?

If I didn’t sound like a whack job before I surely do now. I’m sure you’re all reading going, “Wow, she must not have taken her meds today.”

The truth of the matter is that I did. I did take my meds and it’s still a struggle. Every day is a fucking struggle for me. It’s that every day I face my triggers. Sometimes small ones – like Dunkin Bitch – that I can just roll off my back, and other ones, bigger ones, more painful ones like I am right now that make me want to just throw in the fucking towel and say fuck it.

FUCK IT!

But, I can’t. I won’t! I have a daughter now who depends on me. She needs me more than ever. And all I can do is pray to God, and beg him to please, please God, please, help me find my way out of this.

And that is why I am taking meds, going to therapy, and “detoxing.” So, what’s my trigger?

Bowling.

Yes, bowling is my trigger. Trust me I know it’s dumb. I used to be on a bowling league. A league that I absolutely loved. I sucked as a bowler, but I didn’t care. I got a leopard print bowling ball and my own bowling shoes, and I would go to bowling every other Sunday hoping to break 100. We’d pick a team name and get matching team shirts. It was my time out of the house; my time just for me.

And then I was forced to give up bowling. I was forced to give it up because lots of things that happened to me and that were going on in my life. And it just makes me sooooo mad. It makes me sooo angry that I had to give up something that I love for someone else. Because of someone else’s actions, because of what someone else did to ME, I now have to give up my hobby, my “thing.”

It’s so unfair. Why is life so unfair? But I need to get over this. I can’t hear the word bowling and not get pissed off. But what am I going to do? I can’t never in my life bowl again. I can’t give up something I love because of someone else’s selfish behavior. I just can’t. I need to work through it. I need to move on. I need to step back from the ledge and just remind myself….it’s just bowling…or it’s just Dunkin Bitch giving me an iced latte instead of an iced coffee…

These things happen. It’s OK. Not everyone’s life is roses and butterflies. People get triggered on a daily basis. I’m not the only one. God isn’t out to get me. He’s not doing things TO me; he’s doing things FOR me.

Once I see that I feel like I’m making progress. The fact that I wrote this is progress.

I’m making baby steps towards happiness….look out readers. One day you will see a shockingly happy JLEE, and then what the fuck will you do?

 

 

 

 

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“I’m a Cool Mom”

24 Nov

One of my favorite lines from the movie Mean Girls.  “There are NO rules in this house!  I’m not like a regular Mom.  I’m a Cool Mom!”  Remember?  (Click on ‘I’m a Cool Mom’ for the sound clip.) Regina George’s mom is in a velour tracksuit talking to the girls with her big fake boobs.  “I’m a cool Mom!”  I love it.

I’ve been kicking around the idea for this blog since Sunday.  Sunday I watched Kendra.  As much as I love my future BFF Giuliana Rancic, I also love love love Kendra Baskett from Kendra, formerly from The Girls Next Door.  One thing I love about Kendra is her ability to shake her ass.

But, no, seriously.

One thing I love about Kendra is that she is who she is and she doesn’t apologize for that or try to be something she’s not.  I’m actually reading her book right now, Sliding into Home.  It’s an easy read, and I’ve been enjoying reading about her childhood and her life at the Playboy Mansion.

Side note, in her book she talks about how she used to be a stripper.  I gotta hand it to her, only Kendra could actually make stripping sound semi-glamorous.  Like I was reading about her stripper days thinking, “O-M-G! I’ve got it!  I’ve got the way to solve allllll my debt!  I’ll become a stripper!”

Seriously.  But, don’t worry.  That thought only lasted for about 5 minutes.  OK, more like 1 day, but I decided even though I have the boobs stripping is not for me. 

But now I went off on a tangent and will probably get tons of HATE mail. “You thought about becoming a stripper?” “What kind of mom is stripper?” “Your poor daughter!” Ohmigosh.  Shut the fuck up!

And this blog has been born.  But where am I actually going with this?  I have a point – I swear.

Can mothers be sexy?  Is it allowed?  This is what Kendra talked about on her show…just because she is a mom now she still wants to be seen as sexy.  She considers doing Playboy again.  Then her friend comes for a visit and she says they have to go out and shake their asses.  She said she needs “girl time.”

Kendra talks about something that I’ve been struggling with, and now I wonder if other moms struggle with this too?

What about regular non-celebrity mom’s?  Are we allowed to be sexy?  Are we allowed to go out and shake our asses?

A couple days ago someone told me that I go out too much.  Of course she is entitled to her own opinion, and I wasn’t mad that she expressed it to me.  But, I didn’t understand why she felt that way?  She said, “Why did you even have Eva then?”

I wanted to cry.

I went home and said to my husband, “Another reason I am a bad mom!  Now I go out too much!”

I talked to my girlfriend about it, who said, “Of course you don’t go out too much!”  But, she’s one of my besties so of course she is on my side!

I go out maybe once a week with my girlfriends.  It doesn’t mean we are going OUT.  We’re not going to bars and flirting with guys and dancing on tables!  Maybe one night per week we all get together at a girlfriend’s house.  We’ll drink a couple glasses of wine and eat and girl talk.  Sometimes we’ll watch Grey’s Anatomy. 

On some occasions I bring Eva with me – and the girls will bring their babies – for a play date.  But, sometimes I go alone so I can have a little “me” time.  My husband doesn’t mind at all.  He actually encourages me to have time to myself.

Besides, don’t men do the same thing?  Don’t men have nights where they are allowed to go out and be away from the wife and kids?  How come no one tells them they go out too much?  Why is it OK for men to go out and play cards and drink beer and flirt with girls? 

But, if women – if MOMS – decide to do the same thing we are considered bad moms?  We are told we go out too much.  We are “hoochie mamas.”

I’m here to tell you to think what you want to think.  Go ahead, call me a bad mom.  Call me a hoochie mama.  I like my friends.  I like my wine.  And I like feeling sexy.  I didn’t have a baby and wake up 65 with boobs sagging to my knees.  I’m still 31.  I’m still thin.  I’m still …. Me.  I didn’t suddenly change over night. 

And I hate to tell all you naysayers, but I believe that I will be a better mom to Eva for this very reason.  Because I AM still “Me.”  Because I am making time for myself, and I will be a happier person for it. I will be a happier mama and a happier wife.

Now I’m not saying I’m going to go out five nights per week.  I’m not saying I’m going to go out pole dancing and do shot after shot and dance up on some dude and throw up in a bar….OK, I’ve done all that before – LOL – but that was back in the day…. I’m also not saying I’m going to neglect my child and my husband and put my own needs first.

I’m just saying that I think it’s OK to remember to take some time for your needs.  Take some time for yourself, mamas!  Enjoy your friends, have a glass of Pinot Grigio and chill the fuck out!  Say “no” once in a while to others and say “yes” to yourself.  

It’s hard being a woman!  We have a lot of responsibility.  Now all the men who read my blog are going to BOO me! 

But, seriously, women nowadays are working full time, keeping the house, taking care of the kids and we still have to keep our husbands happy.  When do we have time for us? 

And then if we gain weight everyone’s talking about how we’ve “let ourselves go” or our husband’s are out screwing around!  Well that’s fucked up!

This Italian girl is saying fuck it.  I’m saying I’m going to take some time for me.  Once a week I will let myself enjoy a glass of Pinot Grigio.  I will let myself have a girl’s night.  I will let myself buy a pair of sexy underwear. 

And I won’t feel bad about it.  I won’t listen to the naysayers who tell me that I go out too much.  I know why I had my daughter.  I know that I love my daughter.  And I know that taking care of me will help me be a better mother and a better wife.

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Wait…I’m Happy? Now what?!?

9 Nov

Me and my Boo Boo

Italian women bitch. We bitch, bitch, bitch. We bitch and moan over things big or small. It’s a known fact that if you marry an Italian woman you’re going to spend a lifetime listening to her bitch. We bitch so much that we don’t even know we’re bitching anymore.When you don’t even know that you’re bitching is it still considered bitching? Italian women start to bitch in a way that we’re not even really bitching at you, but rather with you. (That is if you’re Italian, too, because if you’re Italian, too, most likely you are bitching as well.)

Growing up in a big Italian family with several females – great grandma, grandmas, great aunts, aunts and cousins – I’ve learned to bitch as an art form. My bitching is not merely meaningless complaints, but rather argumentative statements and points of view. I have a niche for debating people while I’m in fact bitching. Even if I don’t know what I’m talking about I just pretend like I do.

I don’t know why all Italian women bitch. I don’t know if it’s in our genes; anger and annoyance boiling the red blood flowing through our veins, or if it’s a right of passage into adulthood. It might be a little bit of both. At 19-years-old I remember making my grandma’s home-made Italian pizza bread. I had five women hovering and hollering over my shoulder to do it this way…no do it that way.

Growing up in this environment causes you to have a flight or fight mentality. When you’re making Grandma’s Italian pizza bread and listening to the “psss pss pss” here and the “psss pss pss” there, you’ll want to cry out in frustration. But as the youngest – the runt – of the litter you can’t show fear or the alphas will stomp you down.

“Get outta here!” I holler back, rolling my eyes. They’re still talking about me behind my back. It’s not really behind your back though when you can hear everything they are saying. And they want you to hear them.

See, Italian women always have a better way to do it, a better story, … it always has to be better than someone else. I’m not sure where this competitive and aggressive nature comes from. Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel? Al Capone, America’s best known gangster, and the single greatest symbol of the collapse of law and order in the United States during the 1920s? (www.chicagohs.org/history/capone.html )

The “better than” mentality is a hard way to live. Sure there are positives to pushing yourself to do better, to be better, but in turn, that can cause many to feel that nothing is good enough. I don’t know, maybe I’m way off base here? Maybe I’m the only one who interprets that, due to my negative (or the positive spin ‘realistic’) point of view.

I’ve spent my entire life setting goals for myself that I’ve somehow managed to achieve. Even goals that I never thought were truly possible I was able to achieve. Even when other people told me that my goal wasn’t possible I still managed to succeed. I had to because I couldn’t let them tell me I was wrong or tell me I couldn’t do something that I put my mind to.

Sadly, each time I achieved my great successes I realized I still wasn’t happy. Why wasn’t I happy? What did it take to make me happy? I would try harder. I would get more.

I insisted that my husband and I MUST live in Downers Grove. There were no exceptions to that, not Lisle, not Westmont, but Downers Grove. We got our house in Downers. I still wasn’t happy.

I HAD to drive a luxury car. I would only look at Beemers or Porsches (Ha ha, fat chance!) or Mercedes. I bought my Mercedes. I still wasn’t happy.

I would ALWAYS dress to the 9s. Buy my clothes at Walmart? I don’t think so! Buy my clothes at Target? Uhhh…maybe sometimes. Buy all the latest duds at Express or Von Maur? Hellzzzz yeahhh! After racking up thousands of dollars in credit card debt I STILL wasn’t happy.

Would I EVER be happy?

Was God punishing me for my materialistic nature?

Maybe.

And I learned a valuable lesson – read my book, Concrete Boots, to learn more about the lesson that I ultimately had to learn the hard way.

I decided I was ready to have a baby. I was done with the bar scene. I was done with my materialistic nature. I was done feeling empty. I wanted more. I was ready to embark on a new chapter in my life.

Fast forward to the birth of the most ammmmaazzzzing baby in the world, my little Boo-Boo. I love this little girl. I would die for this little girl. She is so amazing to me in every way possible. I love how she has blue eyes – a sharp contrast to my chocolate brown eyes, I love how her right ear sticks out a little bit just like her Italian great-papa’s, I love how her left ear points in an elf-like manner just like her Auntie Kerry’s did when she was a baby. I love everything about my Boo.

Sadly, I didn’t magically feel this like many of my mom friends told me I would. I thought I would deliver my new baby into the world and feel so full of happiness and love and everything would be perfect and life would be grand and it would be everything that had been missing from my life. I would feel complete.

Harsh reality friends. Maybe this happened for some of my mom friends, but it didn’t happen for me. I delivered a stranger. A stranger who needed me. She needed me for everything except the air she was breathing. I felt exhausted and resentful. I felt like my baby was a stranger to me. I wondered what was wrong with me. I wondered why I was so sad. I wondered why I felt so alone. I didn’t know who to turn to or what to do. I wanted to run away to Vegas. I wanted to divorce my husband. I wanted to drown in a bottle of wine. I wanted a different life.

And then I got help. I saw a post partum specialist, I went to support groups, I talked to family and friends, and ultimately I needed to get on medication to help fix the imbalanced hormones in my body.

And then one day I woke up happy. One day I woke up and heard the birds chirping. One day I woke up and noticed the blue sky. One day I prayed to God thanking him for my beautiful daughter.

Life was good again.

I felt happy and fulfilled. I felt on top of the world. Medication did help me, but I also learned a lot of coping mechanisms in outpatient therapy that have helped me tremendously. I also met two amazing women; mothers who weren’t that different from me. Mothers who felt like I felt. I didn’t feel so alone anymore. I knew it was time to make a change – a big change.

I love being happy. But, just like a true Italian I must now bitch about being so darn happy. I’m so happy that I’m too happy! I’ve had writers block for weeks. How can I write a blog about bitching when I’m so happy that I have nothing to bitch about?

I left work thinking about this….thinking that if I’m sooo happy how am I going to write my blog? Finish my book? How am I going to drive anywhere without giving someone the finger? What if someone cuts in front of me in line? Would I still want to smack Eugene Levy, who did drop the door on me yet again the other morning? How am I going to exist as “me” if I’m no longer “me,” the crab ass Italian chick with a chip on her shoulder but this space-cadet “living on cloud 9” sunshine version of me?

And then yesterday happened. I was in the worst mood. The worst mood EVER. All day. I wanted to smack someone. I had major road rage. I was back to me. I was scared. Uh-oh. Me again?

And then I looked at the calendar. With my period just days away I almost felt happy to have PMS this month. See, I am normal now! I’m happy, I’m sad, I’m angry, I’m scared, I’m grateful, I’m frustrated….I’m blessed. I have “normal” feelings, and I’m very blessed.

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