THE GOAT RODEO

I have my stash, some of it kind of out of date, but I love a retro fabric in a new look. I’m no expert, but I’ve spent hours on sewing sites, reading sewing books. I’m crocheting an envelope purse while I decide.

The thing is, half-done, or almost good enough is not good enough anymore. Ann and Sue are these amazing perfectionists. I don’t have to be them, but I am learning that by being creative and trying a little harder I can do a MUCH better job.

Did you know that someone who reads ten books on any subject and absorbs those books is considered an expert? I have no idea where Gene got that from, but he’s someone who knows his facts, so I believe him. He something about people who read 100 books on one subject being like a college professor, but I may be wrong. I was tired at the time.

So, before I am sewing, I am thinking. Hard. Jacket, pants, dress, skirt, something else? I have patterns. Heck I have some of my mom’s patterns. Still looking for those two retro pieces that she made in the 60’s. One of these days…

In the meantime there’s this envelope purse and it needs a cute button from my stash.

Never toss out clothing with the buttons attached. Not if you’re crafty. If your idea of a craft is an afternoon at Neiman’s with only two credit cards, forget the whole thing.

In just a couple hours the kids go back to school and I…get to go back to work. Oh joy. I need to get back to writing and I should be making some clothes, since I have nothing that fits me anymore, but a couple of jeans, T-shirts and one dress.

I get to go through my stash and figure out what works for what and what’s for the kids.

Then, it’s off to the doctor and JJ’s IEP appointment.

So no bon-bons on the couch for me. Maybe tomorrow.

I wobbled out into the family room, eyes half open, Diet Coke firmly in hand.

My eyelids flew up like rolling shades. “Oh my holy cats on toast. Was it a bomb? Did someone bomb my family room at 2 am?” I swear by all that is motherly this room was clean when I hit the hay last night. You could walk from one end to the other and I’d even vacuumed.

Toys, books, stuffed animals. Did they do this? Was it Bop the Bear, Moose, Favorite Dog and a string of ocelots having a wild party involving a train, a stool, and a Whack a Mole?

I called my husband out of his cozy sack in confusion. Ummm, honey? He shrugged his shoulders and went back to bed. So, I guess it’s me cleaning up this unholy mess today. Cause the stuffties aren’t and the kids will deny, deny, deny.

and they go back to school. Okay, three days, but Gene will be home tomorrow and Sunday so I won’t be alone and outnumbered quite as badly.

The light is at the end of the tunnel. Dear God don’t let it be a train.

I don’t make em. I just try to do some things better.

So, in 2009:

I will read a book that interests me and educates me without making it some self help pile o crap every week (Nothing wrong with self help books, but nothing sensible I didn’t know if I didn’t think about it hard first). There’s one that’s sitting on my dad’s shelf, heck there are so many on my dad’s shelf, I could start there and never finish in this lifetime. Remember, dad’s a lever pullin Dem too. Snort.

I will continue to learn more about sewing and do some designing from this/last century. Maybe not this part of this century, but not the 70’s or 80’s.

Don’t stand by while people make fun of others. An honest opinion is one thing, but joking about race, religion, etc and not saying to please stop, in a kind way is something that shames me. I am better than that. I don’t have to grab a soapbox, but I can walk away and talk to them later.

I will let my husband know how much I adore him every day.

Kid’s too.

Friend’s as well.

Marathon. Why? Cause I want to.

Olympic length Triathlon in Mark’s name.

Forget keeping the house cleaner, clean will do.

No advanced cooking, unless I feel like it.

Write and sell four books.

Work on my hard book and finish it.

Take care of some important business. Private and very personal.

Work hard on my Ren character and become her better, be bigger and be full of joy about the faire.

Help a newbie at the faire and make her/his first year more fun with surprises and time and support. when they have a hard day.

I will not gain weight back, nor will I continue to lose. The scale is only for monitoring a acceptable weight range. Not a racing device monitor. I don’t need to lose, just park it. Okay, if I gain weight because of muscle gain that’s fine. Shut up Sue. I’m allowed to talk about maintenance.

I will keep eating more fruits and vegetables, raw.

I will continue to exercise, but because I enjoy it and it it makes me healthy. Not because it’s supposed to be part of some goal.

Hope all your goals are wonderful and doable.

P.S: Not get pregnant. Snort.

I hope you all have a joyous year. Personally, I’m sort of happy to see 2008 walk out the door. It’s been a year of tremendous change and loss. I don’t want any funerals, pain, weakness. Which is a pretty silly wish cause it’s going to happen. So I’m going to concentrate on what would be healing.

I still need to run my marathon, spend more one on one time with the kids, husband, dogs. Get involved in the PTO, although with possibly four schools next fall which one? Do some more sewing and finish work that’s really good. Also singing. I want to sing more, so I’m going to try out to do more.

The one thing I won’t be doing? Hanging out to watch the new year come in. It’s a date, it’s a marker, but it’s not really a magical evening for me. Too many people go out the door with the idea that they have to pack all of their life into one night. Plus finding a sitter… no way. We’ve pretty much cut out going out altogether, unless it’s to get groceries about once a month. Maybe we should spend more time talking? Not about the kids

Is sewing my stash. I need clothes that fit me. I have fabric from years ago not sewn. It just needs an idea and inspiration. Something I seem to be lacking. I’m tired of sewing. I did a lot at Christmas, but a shirt… or maybe finishing the hat I started yesterday.

What I have is chaos. Everyone is ready to go back to school. JJ spent yesterday crying with his cold, I had to cut a sliver out of Herne’s leg and convince Gene-Gene that he was not naturally filfthy.

Gene-Gene has been getting more and more, “No, I’m not doing that.”

I’m perfectly capable of taking his things away.

He’s about to find that out.

Thanks for the suggestions. I could go out and get one, so I designated an old teapot that was the right size. Salted the water till it was about the same saline content as the ocean and went for it. I’m not saying I get to do yoga today, inverted positions will still hurt my head, but Latin dance DVD’s? Yep. I can see myself and the Salsa getting it on in the Living Room. At least the Christmas tree blocks my neighbors view of me laughing at myself, making missteps and looking like a loon. She gets that enough on her lawn in the summer. I can’t face the dreadmill today. It sounds unappealing at best.

Midlife crisis. It’s just words that mean nothing and then you look back and forward and you’re in the thick of it. Lost, alone in many ways. Making yourself alone. Hiding from the world. Quantifying your own worth.

Who am I? A mom, a wife, a woman who’s been through pain. Some I caused myself, some placed on my shoulders. Four special needs kids. I can tell you one thing, if God was looking for a special person to raise these children he had Gene in mind. I just move from moment to moment.

Lots of tears lately. Lots of who am I’s? When I was 320 pounds I was invisible. Unless I was the jolly fat girl. I lost the weight and the back pats.. My friend talks about how nice it is to hear all that and she’s right. It makes you glow. “Oh Nancy, you look so good.” Compared to before. Now I look like a forty five year old woman with extra skin. Sorry to gross all of you out, it’s true. Am I happy with the skin? As long as I’m not in shorts I get by. Gene could care less. I’m not thrilled, but I worry more about Herne and the boys and my husband never letting anger out, or joy. No heart attacks Mr. You’re not leaving me with this zoo.

Now people just see a person when they look at me. Pain, weight loss, stupidity, brilliance, all there, but not out there for people to note. So, I tend to talk about my poo. Tell that life story so people will know I’m not just another person. Yet, I am just another person. No more blessed, nor harmed than anyone else.

You can’t quantify pain. My fears and defeats are mine and they hurt, but no more or less than anyone else’s.

I write. I write funny frivolous and rather lurid romances. An afternoon of forgetting that the guy in the toilet stinking up the joint is your prince charming. Who ever said he didn’t leave the lid up?

If you strip away the burning desire to be good at things, to stand out somehow who am I? I know I’m in here, but half my life is gone and it’s not coming back. I track my accomplishments on the scale, the fridge, the overcoming of my fat demons. Which is unfortunate, because the creamy, buttery mashed potato monster is just a substitute for the person who faced pain with food. It could have been booze, drugs, instead it was food and it can be deadly. It would have been for me. It’s also cheaper than booze and drugs.

So now I’m digging down into hard packed dirt and asking myself hard questions I don’t have answers to. Why did I do that to my body, my temple. Oh sure there was the 1000 calorie diet at 14 that probably started my road well and good. You know, like in the Wizard of Oz. The road is a point, I don’t know what that point was with me, and then it gets bigger and you head down it because it’s harder to go back and find another way. Food was my way. I live in terror of it happening again. So I’m still obsessed with food, only the other way.

Does this happen when you’re forty five? When you wake up and realize you’re not going to be a singer on Broadway, and average is okay?

I think I’m asking normal questions, but I think there’s a lot in my past I thought I let go and didn’t. I feel a strong need to confront it, face it down, be stronger than that. Forgive. It does not hurt the man who molested me to have me angry with him. It hurts me. Stops me. He’s dead. He could care less. He was just trying to do something he found acceptable. It was wrong and sick and twisted, but it was his way of dealing with life. I just happened to be there. If not me, someone else. Turns out a lot of someone else’s. So, I forgive him.

Now the hard part. Forgiving me, moving on and laying that pain by the side of the road like cow pies. One day the stink will be gone and flowers will grow in their place. I’d prefer not for them to be roses, but you don’t get to pick the flowers, just know that they will grow if you allow them to.

I’d like to leave the first half of my life with the courage to face my fears. I’m not good at it. I’m good at avoiding them. It’s gotten me through things, but not gotten the things through me. They are still there, ready to deal with and now it’s time. Ready, or not.

I have one of those head colds that make me want to take a faucet and screw it into my sinuses. I was going to sew today. I don’t have much in the way of clothes. If it doesn’t fit, it must be remit? Given away? Something like that. The idea was I would sew the clothing and I will, but I have a lot of old yarn that I think I’m just going to spend the day making into a hat.