I think I just committed to leaving town

Whoa, shit. I just put a feeler out there on Facebook for job or house in Moab. oh my – I said it out loud.

I think it’s going to be really tough to find both so I need to put the word out there as far and as soon as I can, which feels a little like committing even though I have nothing in place.

So now it feels like this might actually happen. I’m spinning a little and will probably chicken out more than once but today, this is what I want to do.

Why Moab when you’ve always said that it’s too much like Summit County and you could never live there?

Number one reason is that I still want to hang out with my boys so I don’t want to go some place like Boulder, UT. Moab to Durango is completely manageable and they love Moab.

Rationalization – it won’t be so Breckenridge-y in the winter. Hopefully.

I want to live in the Desert. I am a desert person. I’m a goddamn lizard. It’s where I go to feel joy so why not live in the middle of it?

Duh.

And, suddenly, I find myself totally free.

Or I will be as soon as those boys of mine find an apartment.

I haven’t been this free since the day I fell for my ex-husband. That’s a long time. And not a lot of people get this opportunity at 52.

I want to write. I want to write about the desert. Hard to do when you’re not there.

Am I running away?

I’d be lying if I didn’t say yes.

Sure I am. But not with my tail between my legs.

There are definitely things down the road that I don’t want to be around for – and I don’t want my crazy to show up in Mancos again. Once was plenty.

This place is home – no doubt about that. I am so honored to be a part of this community. I couldn’t have raised my boys in a place any better than this.

And, before here, I never lived anywhere longer than 2 years. I am a wanderer, a loner, an adventurer.

I used to love moving; I loved the excitement of finding the secrets of a new place; to find my favorites – book store (if there is one, which there is in Moab), coffee shop, thrift store; to be able to explore some place where you don’t already have your favorite running trail or your go-to storm watching site. I love nesting in a new home.

I detest packing up an entire house. So this time I am going to sell the fuck out of my belongings and get out of Dodge with about 1/4 of what I currently possess.

Of course, there’s the piece about being so sad and wanting a fresh new world for a little while.

Breaking up in a small town just sucks. No way around it.

But, it’s time for an adventure. It feels a little ephemeral – like it’s just another random idea on a long list of fantasies. So I figure if I start talking about it, it just might happen.

SOOOOOOO scary and yet, every time I picture living in the Desert, my heart rate picks up just a little bit and I find myself smiling.

So, I’m putting it out there and am going to see what the universe presents.

The Dildo House

Not a place that sells dildos.

Not a home built out of dildos.

And if dildos are currently being used there, I don’t know or need to know.

But, this house will always be the dildo house.

It’s an old house, generations old, and many a person has lived there.

When the current owner bought it, he was young, relatively innocent, and ambitious about a total overhaul of the place.

He even had some of his youthful friends come and help with the gutting, replumbing, rewiring, and rebuilding of the still-stuck-in-the-1800’s house.

Well, almost stuck there, with a small nod towards modern day amenities.

One of these sweet young (25?) young men was sitting on the floor in the basement of the house pulling electrical wires from a hole in the wall.

The wires got a little caught on something causing him to give a feisty tug.

The wire pulled loose and with it, a great surprise.

PLOP!

A giant, pink, dildo landed in his lap.

I am not kidding.

Giant.

Pink flesh colored.

With a tube of lube.

I so wish that I had been there at that moment, but I wasn’t. But I do imagine him jumping out of his skin when an unrealistically sized silicone penis landed right next to his real one.

I might have missed that scene, but what I did get to see was the found item resting on a piece of OSB in the backyard waiting for someone to figure out what to do with it.

That will never be unseen.

In case you want more info on dildos

 

 

If you hear that I’m the mean mommy…

…I totally am.

I’ve reached a limit of sorts.  I feel as if my good will and openness has been pushed and under-appreciated.

We have a boil.

It could be that I’m around the house more since I’m unemployed.

It could be this beautiful house that we’ve just moved into that I want to keep beautiful.

It could also be the security deposit we didn’t get back because we have to replace the carpet.

It could be not being able to walk around half naked at 5 am because there are too many impressionable teenage boys that might see my cottage cheese ass.

It could maybe be the dozen eggs that I boiled that were eaten before they had time to cool.

Or the shells that were left on the counter.

Or the empty string cheese bag left in the deli drawer in the fridge.

And it could possibly be a combination of all of the above.

All I know is that my good will has thinned.  I don’t want to be a hag – I truly like being the cool mom and having everyone feel welcome in my home. But I also want to feel like it actually is my home and that I can enjoy it in ways that I like to.

Like sitting on the couch with my coffee in front of the fire in my undies and no bra before anyone else in the house wakes up.

Can’t be done if there is someone sleeping on that couch.

And I want that couch to be cared for so that we will still have this time next year.

And I really really don’t want to lose my security deposit due to carelessness ever again.

And I want to be able to want those things without being considered selfish or unreasonable.

And I want to be able to talk about it, in my home, without hearing later through the grapevine, that “(Their) mom totally flipped out about some stupid shit.”

If that kid thought he witnessed a flip out, he doesn’t know me very well.

So rules have changed, laws have been laid down, and easy-going fun-for-everyone mommy has left the building.

 

 

Change is coming

I really wanted to write “Winter is coming” but that has nothing to do with anything since this is about fresh change, not oppressive, cold change, and besides, frigid, snowy, uncomfortable winter is already here and I’m already tired of falling down on ice.

Change though – change is acomin’, in the air, around the bend, HERE. NOW.

And I am psyched.

I don’t know what all of the changes are going to be, but I know things are going to get a big shake up because I dyed my hair purple.

And hair dying is the gateway activity.

I also redid my office and painted my desk orange with polka-dots. My mother would have a hissy fit if she knew that I had painted over the antique finish on the antique desk. But, she’ll never know.

I want to write and write and write.  I did a brief interview with Pam Houston the other day and as I wrote it up I had a sudden craving for journalism and once again being a sleuth; tracking down leads that will result in bringing corruption and crime to light and maybe even me being awarded the Pulitzer.

Or, I can earn the Pulitzer with my heartfelt, raw, gripping, memoir, or my novel which the New York Times will call, “Astounding.”

I’m on a roll here.

One thing that is changing – for sure – is a move. Bigger house, lots of inside and outside space, hot tub, a plethora of windows, and the coolest kitchen island you’ve ever seen.

Midlife crisis?

Maybe.

Who cares?

Space Space Space

I need it want it crave it.

Am going to get it.

And between the hair and the new house, the change ball is rolling.

 

Such great news (said with deep sarcasm)

My sons’ friend had a healthy baby boy last night. Yay!

He’s 17. She’s, maybe, 16.

Yay!

She still has braces.

It’s so sad.  I know that they are happy – who isn’t when they hold their baby for the first time.

And I know, (or assume) that after wrapping her head around the whole idea, Mom is happy to be a grandmother.

I can’t imagine not loving your first grandchild.

But wouldn’t you want that to happen a bit later in everyone’s lives?

But let’s add some weirdness to the weirdness…

My sons’ 50 year old father just had a baby 2 weeks ago.

Are you thinking what I’m thinking?

Playdates.

Doesn’t anyone know anything about birth control?

The dad thing is ridiculous. The friend thing is just really sad.

I’m not being judgmental as much as I am being a mom – a mom who could barely handle being a mamma at 32 because I felt totally ill-equipped. I can’t imagine what a 16 year old has got to feel like.

And as much as I love my babies, I still think about things I didn’t do before I had them – when I had the freedom to do whatever I wanted. I wouldn’t trade it, but there are certainly things that I wish I had experienced, places I wish I had gone, adventures had.

And I was 32 – What the fuck do you think when you’re 16 or 17? “Oh. I’ll have plenty of time for all of that because my child will be out of the house by the time I’m 35?

Okay, admittedly, that’s appealing.

All I know is that I would be devastated if one of my boys came home to tell me he’s having a baby and a future in this town working at the grocery store. It makes it hard to breathe.

Those two kids, with their new family photo on Facebook, are just babies – babies playing house.

Until they get home and realize that it’s not a game.

And my sons’ dad – he’s got 2 under 2. Good luck on that one.

 

 

 

Hair Powder

This morning as I turned my head upside down to sprinkle in the baby powder, the smell triggered sweet memories.

Memories of not bathing.

And I realized that I have gone from being a regular powder user to an infrequent one.

What’s changed, you might ask.

Having running water may be a part of it, but more importantly, I have a shower that guarantees a delightful experience every time I use it.

2 heads,

great pressure,

killer view of the trailer park across the highway (okay, maybe not “scenic” but at least it’s fascinating),

spacious,

shelf for my coffee mug,

seat for my ass,

vast amounts of hot water.

So I shower more often, which, although new, isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

It’s the little things.

joyous

Last night, dinner was completely chaotic.  Greg, Peter, and Bobby came home battered and bruised from football, wearing their new jerseys, which prompted lots of conversation, which led to a lot of talk about tonight’s game, and which was then somehow connected to how much they hate their new Spanish teacher. Bobby needed to purchase some (expensive) items online for his college class, my cute boyfriend (MCB) was preparing to leave at 3:00 am for a fishing trip and we are still living out of boxes.

Usually whomever doesn’t cook, does the dishes, but I did both last night so that the big strong boys could move some furniture, so that I can try to finish unpacking and settling in while MCB is out of town. I also hit Amazon.com hard.

And we could all smell cat pee, but we couldn’t locate it.

At one point, while moving from the stove to the fridge, I completely stalled out in one of those “I have no idea what I was doing” moments and I just stood there observing the chaos of my life, my home, my family…

And I was overjoyed with love and contentment.

I never would have imagined this would be my life.  When I married, I thought it was forever, so I pictured myself at almost-fifty with that man and our two sons, who would be long distance runners and kayakers or artists. I envisioned calm, quiet, and settled for years in the house we built ourselves out in the country.

NOT having just moved into a new rental right in town, that we chose because it was convenient for all of the friends. NOT with 3 teenage boys, including the little scrapper that turned up on my doorstep a year ago. NOT with 3 football players. NOT with a loving, kind, and generous (in heart and soul) man who is considerably younger than I.

Certainly, NOT enjoying noise, confusion, and a million things swirling around all at the same time.

I went to sleep watching MCB pack. We woke up together at 3. As I lay there watching him dress and zip up his duffel, I sighed in total peace and thought, “I am the luckiest gal in the world.”

 

Moving In

images

I think that I, we, are moving in with my boyfriend.

I swore that I would never, ever get married again and often finished that declaration with, “Probably won’t even consider living with someone again.”

I LOVE to sleep alone.

I love to masturbate.

I love to eat Cheetos (out of the secret stash in my shoe closet) in bed at 2 in the morning.

I love having my very own shoe closet.

I love to have total control over where I hang paintings, what paintings I hang, and how long I leave the Christmas lights hanging.

I love to not listen to music in the house and when I do, I love listening to the same CD 52 gazillion times.

I love being the center of my children’s world and not sharing the spotlight with another adult.

I love having the excuse, “I’m a single mom, I can’t do it all,” to not scrub the tub and just sit on my ass watching The Good Wife.

So what happened?

Honestly, I’m not quite sure. One day we were breaking up. Then we were back together and using the L-word, then he spent the night when my kids were home, then we went on a family mini break, then we looked at a house to rent and now we are signing a lease – seems like all in a week.

I kept saying “This has to move very slowly. VERY,” and then, without consciously changing my mind, I asked him to look at a house.

That was yesterday and today we are taking the children over there to pick out their bedrooms.

Oh God, I think I’m having an anxiety attack.