A) Breakup. B) Reconsider. C) Revamp.

Dearest Blog,

Now would be the time to confess my inability to sustain an interest in anything for longer than 2 minutes.   5 tops.   Way back in the beginning (feels like years ago to be honest...) I had high expectations for you and me.  I fell asleep the night before my first post fairly optimistic that Oprah would be calling within a week to give me my own time slot on her network.  However, this did not happen.  I'd be willing to admit that I may have been a tad over-zealous, but it's to be expected.  I know that this character defect of mine may give off the impression that I am impossible to please, but that's just ridiculous.  I'm fairly simple.  You just have to know me better than I know myself.  And for one person in particular that comes rather easy.


You see dear blog, it's not that I'm not committed or dedicated to you, (ok- maybe it's that a little), but you need to understand that I have a certain someone who takes priority over you.  No, I'm not referring to my kids:

                                       

Although in most cases they do in fact reign supreme- but in this case I'm talking about the backbone of my day-today life, the spark that ignites my fire every morning, the tamer of my sanity, and the cheese to my macaroni:  My Christopher:  

Charming Aren't We :)

It's not that he's high maintenance {to be perfectly honest, he's as low maintenance as they come...lower than low actually}.   And it's not that he demands an overwhelming need for attention {except when surfing}.  The reason why I must devote every waking minute to Christopher is simple, he finally decided to make it official!!  I.  Christine Elise, commitment-phobe extraordinaire, am getting married! Which means that I must give him the most amazing wonderful fun-filled wedding imaginable.  

And therefore my sweet sweet blog, you must be put on the back burner for now.  Although my original intention was to end things permanently, upon further reflection I realized that that may be a little harsh, so I think that maybe a small break is much more appropriate.  OR!...OMGosh....Plan C can take on an entire new meaning!!  By George I think we're on to something...{can you feel the excitement?!}...For the next 12 months, "Plan C" will not be a metaphor for my strings of indecisive thoughts but rather, "C" for Chris/Chrissy/C. To Clarify: By February 2012, our initials will both be C.C. [Awh.]

Amazing.  I absolutely adore when things just fall into place so easily...much like love. 

Maybe this whole wedding thing is a new leaf for me.  Maybe my sardonic cynicism will slowly melt away and I'll become the lovely, pink loving, lace wearing lady-like angel my Grammy would love me to be.  Maybe the missing piece to my transformation from Hard and Jaded Brat, to Friendly Mature Lady-Woman is planning a wedding; and therefore being forced to come face to face, and admit -out loud for all to hear-  all the mushy gushy lovey dovey stuff weddings are made of.  Only time will tell.  But I think I'm on the right road:  The other day I got my first real manicure since 7th grade.  And the color was closer to pink than black.  I picked it based solely on it's name, "Otherwise Engaged"  Clearly I've been bitten by the wedding bug, thus far I dig it.  Stay tuned kids....for now: Fuck Oprah...TheKnot here I come.  :)

Only plan A today

This evening I convinced myself that eating an unhealthy amount of raw oatmeal raisin cookie dough was perfectly acceptable based on the simple logic that by halving the recipe,  at the maximum I ingested only 1/2 of a raw egg...which is OK, because egg=protein.

This brings me to my next point:

  

The point of it all is progress- not perfection.  

I've learned my lesson [Don't make Oatmeal Raisin cookies at 9:00 at night after not eating anything since 3. ]
...But it was most definitely worth it :p

A girl can wish...

Please God, if you could send this to LI I'd stop obsessing over swimsuit season. 

Thats all :)

Thanks.

A) Commend. B) Condemn. C) Concede.

There should be a rule that unless your kid is violently throwing up or consistently passing out in the halls the school nurse should not, i repeat: SHOULD NOT send you kid home from school!!  Don't get me wrong, I'm all for sick days;  if my little nugget came to me one morning and said,  "Mom, I really don't feel like going to school today, I'm not sick or anything, but my teacher must be going through menopause and she is really testing my patience so instead I think we should go to the zoo."  I would seriously debate letting her stay home.  1. because she has the balls to make that statement 2. She understands that nobody, not even a 7 year old child, should have to deal with a hormonal middle aged woman 7 hours a day 5 days a week. And 3. She didn't ask to stay home and watch iCarly all day long, she wants to go on a science field trip!  However, that wasn't the case today.

Today, Nurse Allison called me during my class to tell me it was very important that I pick nugget up from school because she has a fever of 99.2 and a stuffy nose.  Is this bitch friggin kidding me?  You want me to leave class, haul ass back to long beach and bring my daughter home from school at 10:00am because she's wearing a heavy sweater and has some snot?

Fucking right she does.

As she bounced into the car with her little smart-alacky sardonic grin I realized that she's her mothers daughter.  On the inside I was dying to give her props and deeply wanted to know how she got her temp to go up, but as he mama I knew I couldn't.  So instead, I gave her a lecture on why it was wrong to go to the nurse and how she should have stayed in school even though she was convinced she was deathly ill... all the while having a total out of body experience wondering how I got to be so square.  I even went as far as to deny the fact that I never came home from school when I wasn't sick.  [How full of shit am I!!?...I STILL come home "sick" from school! ]

As I was tucking her in a few hours ago, I broke down.  I told her I did try to come home sick almost every week when I was in 2nd grade, but I could never get the nurse to call my mother!  I knew my only shot was to fake sick before Grandma put me on the bus in the morning...which I was pretty successful at.  I let her know she is far more devious than I was at that age and although I don't approve of her faking sick...it was nicely played.  My little nugget fell asleep with a smile on her face and hopefully a deeper confidence in her near perfect mother :)            

A) Panic B) Breakdown C) Yoga

Classes started again this week, and although I should be somewhat thrilled that my never-ending journey is almost complete, dragging my ass to class has been less than stimulating.   The whole “college experience” appeal wore off somewhere between 2005 and 2006, and it’s been more or less like Groundhog Day ever since. Fun fact: Only 1.5% of teen-moms graduate with a Bachelors degree before they turn 30, so as long and I complete this semester and then take 3 more credits I’ll be able to partake in that statistic.  Trust me, I’m not bragging- in fact I’m pretty humiliated by the fact I’ve been in school since 2004- but I had other priorities to fulfill.  And if anyone from the NIDA should find and read this blog, then I’m sure a reimbursement of some sort is in order for all the research I’ve done for you guys.  Anyway, it occurred to me on Wednesday during attendance that I am by far not only the oldest, but I’m also the oldest looking person in the room.   I’ve looked about 12 years old since my 16^th birthday, so to realize I was “the old one” was pretty harsh.   *Deep breath *…I think…God …is telling me-gulp- it’s time to grow up.

No biggie-  I’ve had a couple of these mini life crisis’s and I’ve learned how do deal.  First, I go on an obsessive and manic rampage.  It could be anything from cleaning to being as mean as possible; as long as you don’t try to stop me your feelings are safe.  Next, I curl up in a little ball in the bottom corner of the closet (literally) and cry because clearly my life is over and there is no way this will work itself out.  Finally, I compose myself, apologize when necessary, get my hair done, and make a list of possible solutions.  This three part cycle can last anywhere from minutes to a few months.  Since I am well aware of this crazy girl pattern of mine it's kind of easy to control.  Of course by "control" I mean "know what to expect".  And hence have already prepared for the after math.  Did I mention that my Friday schedule for the next 14 weeks of the semester is 2 hrs of yoga followed by a 3 hr painting class--did I plan ahead or what!

My yoga professor is a hard core yogi, not to mention a Dr of Theology, Ethics, Spirituality and everything else geared towards enlightenment.  He's been eating organic before it was in, studied yoga before Sting made it cool, and has been on plenty of spiritual retreats to India and Tibet.  He's the closest I'll ever get to the Dalai Llama and therefore is my new hero (sorry Mr Llama but I've moved on [for now]).  I've decided to take every suggestion he makes and apply it to my life.  Thus far I need to buy powders I can't pronounce at the natural health store for smoothies (which in all honesty I've been planning to do anyway),  eliminate red meat from my diet, wake up every morning before 6, practice yoga daily, eat a legitimate breakfast, and make one day a week vegetarian day.  Not gunna lie:  Just typing it makes me feel healthier.  This girl is totally stoked.   As for my art class, I have an endless list of art supplies that I need to buy--but know nothing about; pints of acrylic matte and gloss mediums?  I know what a pint is, as for the rest I'm clueless.  But thats OK- because even though I'm the ONLY non art major and the ONLY non artist in a class full of artistically inclined and eager Sophomores [some cruel department head decided to combine my beginners class with an advanced topic art class] my newly found zen master says I should approach everything with an open mind and know that there are no wrong turns only unexpected paths.  So hopefully this path doesn't lead me towards to much discomfiture. <---I hope I used that word the correct way, part of my new grown up lifestyle is enhancing my vocabulary :)
 Even if my attempt at art ends in an epic fail--I honestly really don't give a shit.  Mainly because at the end of the day I know that they still have 2 years left, and I don't--baa hahhaha!  suckers.
      
And so begins my second to last emotionally draining but spiritually fulfilling semester of college.  Emergence of Modern Europe for intellect, yoga for spiritual awareness, and fundamentals of painting 101 for...um?.....a reason to drag Christopher to art galleries with me!   win.   

A) Fix Self. B) Stay Strong. C) Repeat.

Wednesday Wednesday Wednesday...the one day of the week that holds unlimited potential.  It's far enough into the week that my two girls (and sig o for that matter) are back into their weekly routine, the unpredictability of the weekend has worn off, and the "I hate Monday" faces are long gone.  Also, it's close enough to the weekend to be considered prime location for bribery:  "If you don't get your project done today you can't have a sleep over on Friday," "If we don't go food shopping today we have to go this weekend".  Very rarely do I get a nagging, "but I have all week" response.  I love Wednesdays!  Most importantly though, I love Wednesdays because it’s MY therapy day. 

Although I’d love to blog [brag] about all the retail and spa therapy that Long Island has to offer- and how on Wednesdays I take full advantage of those things, I’d be lying to you…and I really have no reason to do so.  Not to mention I’m just not that kind of girl…anymore.  I have come to slowly accept the fact that I fall under the category of neurotic basket case- as opposed to impulse shopaholic, as originally once believed.  Take note however, that in my defense, on a rainy Saturday afternoon at Roosevelt Field Mall the two are interchangeable and therefore very hard to differentiate.  So, as it turns out, I’m the Long Islander who says things like “my therapist says…” or “at therapy today…”.  I fully blame my parents for this one.  I’ve been in therapy since I was 12, and now, at 25, I feel incomplete without a “ life analyst”. The madness of it all lies in the fact that it’s taken me 13 years of therapy to essentially become comfortable enough to even to utilize a therapist.  You know that scene in Good Will Hunting when Matt Damon fucks with all the therapists for fun?  That’s me more or less.  It wasn’t intentional, and I wasn’t nearly as cool about it, but they were lucky if I gave more than a 2 word answer. But last year, I finally found my Robin Williams. She’s totally bad ass.  And it’s because of her, I decided to supply my little nugget (my oldest daughter) with her very own therapist.  Dysfunctionality at its best.

I look at it as putting the –fun back in dysfunction.  I’m not afraid to admit I’ve fucked up a good chunk of my life.  My path of self-destruction and the shit storm that came along with it has in fact created a lot of problems.  But it’s over and done with now and the only thing I can do today is learn from my mistakes, make the amends needed, break the cycle of crazy that seems to run ramped in my family, and be the strong, sane, positive woman my daughter needs in her life.  She’s my heart and soul and deserves nothing short of simplicity and bliss. And when I need a little reminder of why I’m doing all this in the first place—I just look into my nuggets big brown eyes and I’m filled with an inner peace that echos so deep that—ppshhhh…or not.  Lets get real--I call my therapist!!  Because looking into her big brown eyes just ‘aint cutting it every time  anymore. 70% of the time they’re rolled back inside that precious little smartass head of hers anyway!

A) Lie. B) Rationalize. C) Accept

In recovery you’re told that your first thought is wrong. Case in point:  a while back my collarbone broke in three separate places.  First thought:  How long ‘till I can get this guy to bump my Percocet Rx to OxyContin.   Second thought: 6 months to heal?  That’s a 9-month prescription.  Third thought:  How soon is to soon when it comes to re breaking a bo--…did he just say surgery?... Jackpot!  Dilaudid!  Clearly this isn’t the worst thing to ever happen.

Fast-forward three years and although clean, my entire thought process is still pretty skewed.  It’s not that I’m intentionally selfish, self righteous, self-absorbed, egotistical, self-seeking and smug.  I mean, I AM all those things, but more importantly it’s my entire thought process that’s fucked—not just my entity, and therefore it’s something I find very difficult- if not impossible to control.            

This brings me to my moral dilemma of the day.  Jury Duty.  I got summonsed not to long ago and it is “imperative that I appear in court tomorrow morning by 8:30am.”  I originally planned to not even show.  It wasn’t my fault they mailed the form to my parents house instead of my own.  For all they know my parents washed their hands of me years ago for all the shit I’ve put them through (which by the grace of God they haven’t.  So thanks Mom).  But then I got to thinking…

They INVITED me to court; I got an invitation and everything!  Every other time I was there it was by my own doing.  I even had to ask the judge for permission to leave.  It would be rude to not show up.  Besides, I get a couple of hours to catch up on some reading and a free lunch.  I decided to go with this plan.  I was going to be the very best candidate for the job.  I’ll probably get picked since I can be pretty much anything you want me to be and maybe I’ll even get fought over by the two lawyers.   I’ll leave with a few new friends and a new high paying job ($40 a day is more than $0.).  Christopher will be so pleased!  I could totally make a career out of this!  

Alas, things are never that simple.  Just when I got my hopes up about becoming the world’s greatest juror I find out being on probation is usually a deal breaker.  And so, as a result of this newly discovered dream crushing news I’m left with no other choice than to resort to plan c.   I’ll drag my sorry ass to court (a place I swore I’d never set foot in again), be grateful that it’s not my trial they’re selecting jurors for, and come home to the most amazing family in the world.

 Who will be forced to remind me how amazing and wonderful I am- even if the legal system doesn’t think so...

Douchers.