They Call Me Junebug

How time flies when you're having fun...and babies

2010-10-26T21:10:00.001-07:00

Soooooo....I seem to have a horrid track record for updating this thing. Once ever 2 years certainly isn't keeping readers around, or so I thought, till an old friend at Troll Smasher Radio left a very touching comment on my last post and I got an email notification about it. (on my iPhone no less...how ya like them apples TS? The girl who once lived without computer, home internet or home cable now has 2 laptops, wi-fi, cable, DVR, a Kindle, and an iPhone. See, I told you what a difference 2, or 4, years makes!)Anyway, that last post from January 1, 2009 was a heart-wrenching piece to write, and still makes me cry to read it. However it was very therapeutic at the time, and I feel like being able to write about the horrible feelings I was having helped me to deal with them. You know what else helped me deal with them? Finding out on Feb 12, 2009 that I was, well, read on and you'll see.

I'd been an emotional roller coaster (that term really doesn't do me justice, just ask my husband), and I had continued to contribute it to the massive hormonal upheaval that the whole pregnancy/miscarriage process had wrought. Finally, one morning as I was driving home from delivering the LuckyBug (Son,now age 3, genius, comedian, some-times whiney butt, all around prince among toddlers) to my mom's house to play, I had to pull over and puke. Now, I'm not normally a puker. I hate it. With every fiber of my being. Which is easy to understand since I puke with every fiber of my being, it starts and my toes and I'm lucky if I still have my eye-brows (which isn't totally a bad thing, plucking, its just sooo much work) at the end of the pukage. So, I puked. Which made me stop, and think, hey, what's wrong with me? A quick stop at the local Wal-Greens, a difficult pee-on-demand later and hey, I know whats wrong. I'm knocked up again! A mere 8 weeks after suffering a miscarriage, I was again with child. I was shocked. I mean, I know how these things happen (contrary to what most people seem to think when they look at me), and I knew it was theoretically possible, but, come one. The Husband was very cautious when confronted via a hysterical phone call, not really sure how *I* was feeling about it. Me? I was feeling scared out of my ever lovin' mind. I was so very afraid it was a false-positive, some horrible last laugh had on me by my hormones run amuck from the lost pregnancy, and then I was so very afraid that I really was pregnant. If I was pregnant, I had to face the possibility that it could happen again, and I was in absolutely no place to handle that again. So, on Feb 19, 2009 I found myself once again in my doctors office, assuming the "position" and was assured that I was most decidedly pregnant. Also, come to find out, I wasn't just pregnant, I was 7 weeks pregnant! Meaning I conceived my child almost exactly 2 weeks to the day after I lost my previous baby. Shocking. To me at least. My doctor, he just looked at me and said, "well, what did you think would happen"?

So, that helped a lot to deal with the pain from losing my #2 baby that was due July, 2009. I was now carrying a tiny human who was due Oct, 2009, and I spent most of the next 9 months terrified that something would go wrong and I would lose this precious child too. I also spent a lot of those 9 months on the couch watching entirely too much Blues Clues with LuckyBug and eating Kit-Kats. Seriously. The cashiers at the drug store down the street got to know my husband on a first name basis as he was in there almost every single night buying me a few

Kit-Kats to polish off before bed. Yeah, they didn't do any wonders for my already whale-ish post-LuckyBug figure, but they did keep me from killing someone, so there's that.

On Oct 8, 2009, this beautiful baby girl entered our lives:

Of course, she didn't look quite that cute when she entered the world, but she sure got cute quick.

So, 2009 was a busy year for us, LuckyBug turned 2 in September, and PrincessBug joined us in October 2009. We managed to survive having 2 small humans for those first few months of hell, um, I mean the precious and treasured 3 months when you honestly learn the limits of human endurance that come after a newborn, and you learn at exactly which point those sleep-deprived hallucinations hit you.

By Spring 2010 things were rolling right along, I was even back to the other love of my life, soccer, and while far from the player I once was, I was getting there. I hoped. The Bug Babies were doing excellent, even if PrincessBug was having a little trouble with the concept of naptime (translation: we don't need Gitmo. Just make our political prisoners spent a couple of days with her, not napping, and they'd break like stale bread). She did however get an astounding grasp on the sleeping 12 hours at night, which was shocking. And ultimately led to this:

Yeah, that says "Thing 3". As in, a 3rd ThingChild following the previous 2. (Side note: Hubby and I make beautiful baby. We know it. What we lack in talent/redeeming human traits, we more than make up for in the "Good Baby Batter" category).

So, that picture was taken in Aug I believe, and this being the end of October, I'm infinitely larger, and staring down the barrel of a fast approaching holiday season and my end of January due date. The growth (rapid and huge) of my belly has prompted most strangers (and ok, family members) who see me out in pubic with the wee ones to say "Don't you know what causes that?". Ummm, its in the water, right?

So, to re-cap the last 2-4 years:

- I had LuckyBug on 9/11/07 (how's that for a birthday?). He's awesome. And gets more awesome every day.

- I lost TinyBug on 12/15/08.

- I discovered PrincessBug's presence on 2/12/09

- PrincessBug joined us 10/08/09 at a whopping 8 lbs 10 oz (and I had no drugs. I know. I'm a badass. Or a masochist. I can't decide.)

- BoyBug was discovered on 5/28/10, the day we left for our family vacation at the beach with all our relatives. No margaritas for me sadly.

-I lost my mind slightly 6/1-9/01/10 thanks to the hormones and trials of a first trimester and the slightly complicated PrincessBug and her reign of nap terrorism.

So, here we are. A bunch of other stuff happened in that time frame, most of which I can't remember because, hello, have you been reading? I have 2 children aged 3 and 1, and I'm pregnant. I don't remember what day it is. (It's Thursday, right?) Oh, one big thing I do vaguely remember. My husband? He wrote a book. Seriously. Go look. I dare ya. I'll have a whole post about THAT ordeal. Sheesh. But its awesome. And I don't say that lightly. I have no qualms about telling him what sucks. And I did. A lot. Sometimes I said it nicer. But not often. You can thank me for a small fraction of that awesomeness after you read it and wet your pants laughing.

Alright, shameless almost-self promotion aside, life has been busy, its been good, its been hard, its beat me down, its made me its bitch day in and day out. And I am so grateful for all I have been given. Maybe, if y'all are super lucky, I can stick around and update this thing on a regular basis. If you're really, really super lucky, maybe I can then keep the posts to less than 1 billion words. Maybe. I like to talk. Or write. Or type. Whatever this is.

Thanks so much for reading...assuming you stuck it out.

JuneBug Mama

What A Difference 2 Years Makes

2009-01-01T22:24:00.000-08:00

A little more than 2 years ago I wrote the previous entry in my Junebug blog. That was a scary time for me and my family, awaiting to here the outcome of my father's diagnosis with a brain tumor, and it was Christmas, and about 2 weeks later I found out I was pregnant with our first Bug Baby spawn. I never did make it back to this blog, and though I often thought about it, and the Smasherians I had come to know, it just all took a back seat to the fun experience of morning sickness.

Anyway, 2 years later, my father has had successful brain surgery, the BugBaby was born in typical Junebug fashion (i.e. the hard way) and after 5 days in NICU we all went home, some of us looking like a fish who'd been gutted (that would be me). Bug Baby just enjoyed his 2 Christmas spent outside the womb, and we've rung in the new year, with desperate hopes that it will be better than the last.

While my funny bone was thrown into hibernation 2 years ago at Christmas and was mainly responsible for my absence in the blog world, did recover nicely, is has once again been ripped from me most unwillingly.

10 days before Christmas I lost my dear sweet precious baby that was to be born in July 2009. It was by far the most devestating experience of my young(ish) life, and something that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. While the physical ramifications seem to have resolved themselves, the mental and emotional scars I bear feel raw and open as if they will never heal. Of course I know they will begin to heal, as evidenced by the large outpouring of empathy I received from many women in my life who've gone through a miscarriage, but when you're laying awake at night drowning in your misery and tears, healing seems a long way off. I don't think that there's any way for a person to understand the feelings of losing a child in this way, unless you've personally experienced it. Prior to this experience, I've known women who've been through this, and while I certainly felt sympathy for them, I never really truly understood what they were going through. It's just not possible to comprehend the horror and helplessness you feel when you realize that your own body has destroyed something that you love more than life itself. Never mind that you have never met this person, or laid eyes on them, they have suddenly become the heart and soul of your body, everything your heart, mind and body does has come to revolve around that tiny fluttering heart buried deep inside of you. Doctors and well meaning friends and family can try to make you feel better by spouting the statistics that this occurs in over 30% of pregnancies, and that it will likely never happen to you again, and that its for the best considering that something was probably wrong. While all of those arguments make logical sense, logic ceases to exist once you realize that tiny heart is no longer beating. I don't know when that logic or understanding or acceptance will return, but in the meantime I can only be thankful for the blessing I have in the BugBaby, without his presence in my life, I would be completely lost, adrift in the pain and loss and self-condemnation. Mr. Junebug has been a wonderful helpmate, but I don't think his presence alone would be sufficient to pull me from the dark, its knowing that BugBaby needs me, loves me and wants me is all that stands between me and the crushingly overwhelming loss and pain.

So here's to my precious children, the one I lost, the one I live for, both of whom I'll always love. May 2009 be a better year than 2008.

BugBaby - Christmas Morning

Barely breathing...

2006-12-04T14:47:00.000-08:00

I’m still alive. But just barely.

I started this blog with some many stories and jokes and down right important issues that needed, needed to be written about, by me. Then, my world fell apart, I came unglued and suddenly staring blankly at the computer screen through teary eyes became my favorite past time. This soon vied with listening to my mother cry on my shoulder, to see what could corner the bulk of my attention.

Not that I’m complaining, it’s important that I be here for my mother, but there is something so fundamentally wrong about having your mother come running to you with problems and tears and fears. It’s as if a pole has shifted, and all of the sudden I’m the adult with all the right answers who calms her down and tells her it will be alright. For nigh upon 25 years that role has been hers, and hers alone, and I’m not ready for it yet. I’ve never really been or acted like much of a “child”, but I’ve always been my mother’s daughter, and I’m not ready for that to change. At 24 years old, I was not prepared to have to begin facing my parent’s mortality. It’s not like they’re old, my dad is just 7 months shy of turning 50, and my mom a few months shy of 48. If they were older, like my husband’s parents, in their 60’s, I might be more prepared for it, I don’t know. I just don’t know if children ever become prepared to assume the roll of provider and caretaker for their parents, whether it’s emotionally or physically providing for them. I don’t know if it ever gets easier, but that’s what I keep telling myself, amidst the tears, that it has to get easier.

Our Vegas trip was wonderful, though Wayne Newton cancelled his Thanksgiving day show and we didn’t get to see him. We also did not get nearly as much sleep as I am accustomed to getting on vacation, but we had a really swell time. We won money at the blackjack tables, and lost minimal amounts to the slot machines. The video poker machines were my favorite, and it took very little to turn me into a zombie! The “Love” show was absolutely phenomenal, something that I would see over and over and over again, all in a row! Blue Man Group was also fantastic, it was the most interactive show I have ever seen, and it was spectacular. If I ever get back to Vegas, I would definitely see those two shows again. We enjoyed the Luxor, and made our way to the Tropicana, the Vinetian, the Bellagio, New York New York and the Stratosphere. We only gambled in the Tropicana, as that’s where the $5 blackjack tables were! No high rollers here!
The one major disappointment I would have to voice about Vegas was the food. Granted we didn’t eat at any 5 Star joints, but we ate at some pretty expensive places, in very nice hotels, and I thought it was just “ehh”. Coming from Dallas where there are more restaurants per capita than anywhere in North America, maybe I’m just a little spoiled. Thanks to my location, my family’s love for fine food, and my husband’s influence, I have eaten at some of the best restaurants all over the Southern United States, and Vegas just did not stack up like I thought it would. I guess next time we’ll have to spring for the $300+ meals, which is sad, since we could get much better here in Dallas for much cheaper.

The day before Thaksgiving, Mr. Junebug and I went to my parent’s house to take the 15ht Annual Family Christmas Picture, which normally turns out to be a pain in the butt, what with all the kids/teenagers whining and complaining. This year started out no differently than any of the last few, except that we were taking the pictures at the park at the end of my parent’s street. All of the whining was progressing as anticipated while we “kiddos” posed for pictures, until, out of the blue, came a “thud”. Looking around we spotted several misdirected (i.e. juvenile) youths who were availing themselves of the horse apples lying about. This persisted for a few minutes, without any getting close enough to our little photo shoot to elicit anything other than muttered threats from my siblings. Finally, one came “this” close to hitting us. It was on. My dad, the young, spry 49 year old who has spent his entire adult life running things like marathons, for fun no less, marched himself over to the crowd of kids, only it turned out to be just one teenager, as the rest turned tail and ran for dear life. My entire family was cheering him on, my siblings being so overjoyed to finally see someone else on the receiving side of his very unique and definitely scary brand of chastisement. My sister turned on the video feature on the camera, hoping to capture the ass whooping for posterity’s sake; though we warned her about the possible implications if the police were involved…We didn’t find out what dad had said to the punk until later when we were all seated around the dinner table. His exact words were “Don’t throw anything else. Or I will chase you down, and I will catch you and you won’t like it”. Sent all of us into hysterics at the thought of our spry old man chasing down a bunch of punks with their jeans around their thighs, because lord knows he could have done it. And if not him, my “little” brother, a runner for the NCAA Div 1-A track & field program with more wins than anyone else, ever, could have toyed with them for hours. An all out sprint for those boys would have been a nice leisurely distance run for my brother! It certainly made our day, and my sisters proclaimed it like, the best thing, like ever. And coming from teenage girls, you know that carries like, a lot of weight.

It’s Christmas time at the Junebug household, which means the Neurotic Christmas Elf has shown her face and shows no signs of slowing down till sometime after new years. We’re getting the Christmas tree tonight, and putting it up tomorrow night after the painters come paint our nasty PEACH living room a more respectable color, like Mocha and Real Beige. Once the tree goes up, I won’t sit still until every stationary surface, and some not so stationary (I’m looking at the dog) are covered head to toe in garland, lights, ribbon, jingle bells and or mistletoe. I’m done Christmas shopping, other than getting a few snacks to include in the gift baskets, so I really have nothing left, save for the family dinner for 36 people. If I don’t lose a marble or five over that ordeal, I’ll be greatly surprised.

I’m going to try and keep up more with writing, it really does make me feel better and happier and manages to elicit a few smiles in the process, but there are some days where it’s all I can do to keep it all together until I get home. The thought of having to open my mind, string together mostly coherent thoughts, and hope someone else understands my addled statements is just overwhelming at this point. We’re still waiting on numerous test results to determine the full on horror that is Brain Tumor 2006, and until we know more, everyone is on edge, and as I operate in “worse case scenario mode” ALL the time, it’s been feeling pretty bleak.

I hope everyone had a fantastic Turkey day, full of love, joy, family & memories. Mine was full of booze, gambling, sequins, nakedness and airports, which left something to be desired in the way of holiday spirit.

2006-11-26T16:37:00.000-08:00

My first ever blog posting from an airport, and I have nothing to say other than Vegas rocks, I'm tired and me can't even form coherent sentances at this point. Notice the use of "me" instead of "I", this serves to illustrate my point about being tired.

We won some money, lost some money (mostly me, at the video poker and slot machines, those pesky things ARE addictive) saw some amazing shows, and missed out on a lot of sleep. Some of that lost sleep was curtesy of the construction crews at the Luxor, replaxing windows at 8 am. I really appreciated them, as well as the maids who couldn't perform cleaning services without slamming every door up and down our hallway, repeatedly.

Anyway, we're boarding, so never mind the numerous spelling errors, I'm out.

I'll give you the rundown when I catch up on my sleep, sometime around the turn of the decade.

Hugs & kisses,
Junebug (And a very tired Mr. Junebug)

She's a Wayneiac, a Wayneiac!

2006-11-17T12:09:00.000-08:00

Today at work was the annual Thanksgiving Potluck luncheon. You know the drill, the company provides turkey and ham, and the employees bring an assortment of tasteless green bean casseroles and jello products. Seriously, the Marshmallow and Jell-O companies must make an absolute KILLING around the Holidays. There was hardly a dish to be found that didn’t prominently feature either of the offending ingredients.

Anyway, I digress. The whole luncheon idea is fairly normal, and the food was mostly passable. I’m not big on pea/bean/jello concoctions, but there was enough turkey, ham and mac & cheese to keep me content, if not happy.

However, once we were seated, they dropped a bombshell on us. And not the Marilyn Monroe kind, more like the Baghdad/Gigli/K-Fed type. We were to have “special surprise entertainment” throughout the lunching process, and lo and behold, it was an Elvis impersonator. A bad Elvis impersonator.

It was an excruciatingly long lunch. It did however fit into the Junebug 2006 Thanksgiving Theme. You see, as our first holiday as a married couple, Mr. Junebug and I decided to avoid all family/time sharing and get the heck out of dodge. So Thanksgiving morning at 6 am, we’ll be winging our way towards, you guessed it, Las Vegas.

Nothing says “Give Thanks” like slot machines, legalized prostitution, Wayne Newton and the buffet at the Rio. Well, actually, I’ve been promising myself that I would attempt to play “real” games in Vegas and stay away from the slot machines, and I’m pretty sure that a “legal” hooker doesn’t figure into our plans, at least not at this point. Anyway, we are definitely hitting the Rio buffet (per my husband’s begging and pleading), and we are indeed meeting Wayne Newton. Yup, we’re those people who go to Vegas and see acts like Wayne Newton. However, in our defense, it’s not your ever day, run of the mill Newton, its Newton’s Holiday Extravaganza no less. We are so pimp.

We’re also seeing “Love” and “The Blue Man Group” while we are there, and eating dinner at the Stratosphere Tower. I was a little worried that a classy joint like the Strat wouldn’t let people like us in, but I think I’ve got them fooled into reserving a table for two, at least until they lay eyes on us. Then all bets are off. Ha, see, that’s funny, cause I said “bets”. And we’re going to be in Vegas. Ha, get it? Yeah, I know, I’ll shut up now.

I’m hoping and praying that our decision to spend Thanksgiving in Las Vegas won’t come back to haunt me, which pretty much ensures it will. Nothing like the knowledge that you spent what could potentially be your father’s last Thanksgiving getting trashed and flashing Wayne Newton to give you a guilt trip worthy of frequent flyer miles.

Nothing like brain tumors to make you lose your funny. I haven’t felt funny since I found out, and I don’t see it returning any time soon. It’s amazing how easy it is to take the small things like your dad or sense of humor for granted. Take my advice, give your dad a hug, no matter what, and tell a joke or laugh or something for crying out loud.

3 Reasons in 2 words or less

2006-11-15T11:19:00.000-08:00

why I never want to relive the past 5 days.

1 - Stomach Flu
2 - Brain Tumor
3 - See above

The trip North to see the in-laws was fun, except for a run-in with some sort of nasty stomach bug, which refuses to relinquish me from it's clutches. Nothing like running to the shared bathroom at work every 10 minutes.

Yesterday I found out that my father has a brain tumor. At 49 years old, he's suddenly facing a whole new life.

Needless to say I've been pre-occupied and haven't really felt like writing. Plus work has been crazy, for the time I've actually been here. I was out sick Monday, here part of the day yesterday till I got the news about my father, and today it feels like the whole world is crushing down on me as I sit here at my desk.

I've had to smile my way through a work lunch, am preparing to sit through 2 meetings, and run around doing last minute organizing for a training session for 15 people tomorrow. Tomorrow I have to meet with software reps, sit through a training, and tackle all of the projects accumulating on my desk. All while keeping a smile plastered on my face and the tears out of my eyes.

I hate that I'm an "emotional" woman, there are few things more humiliating than sitting at your desk bawling and having the entire office stare at you and whisper. There are moments when I'm staring glassy eyed at my computer screen, and tears just begin running down my face, there's nothing I can do about it. If you ever want to see an engineer look very scared, just start crying, it works every time.

That's all I can say, I haven't got anything else inside that resembles human speech.

Junebug

Booorrrr-ing

2006-11-09T15:07:00.000-08:00

So, here it is almost 5:00 and I still haven’t written anything down for today’s blog entry. It’s very frustrating, since I’ve composed no less than 4 extremely witty, intelligent and poignant entries since yesterday. Unfortunately, they’ve all been in my head and have never actually made it onto paper, or the computer screen.

When I’m at home washing dishes, showering or trying to fall asleep I have any number of wonderful thoughts and jokes and stories to tell. I spend many minutes composing them in my head, just as I would write them on the computer, even mentally “backspacing” to delete and replace words that don’t sound quite right.
Unfortunately, as I’m always busy, I can never get somewhere and write my ideas all down, so I just make a mental note to remember what the subject was. That way, I can pontificate to my hearts desire once I’m seated in front of the computer. However, it never works out that way. My husband will be shocked to hear this, as I’ve claimed that I can remember anything and everything in the whole wide world (yes, the whole wide world), but I just can’t remember all my good ideas. It must be because I have so many of them, huh? Right… Anyway, these great ideas, they seem to flit right out of my addled head the minute I’ve mentally edited them to perfection. If only I could find a way to blog while in the shower, I’m sure I’d have the best blog on the internet; my shower ideas are that good. Really, they are. I promise.

Ok, so they’re not that good, but they seem pretty damn amazing compared to writing a blog entry about your inability to write a good blog entry. Yes, I know, almost anything would appear amazing compared to such a blog entry, but unfortunately, I don’t care right now!

I’ve been feeling pretty run down the past few days, and while I initially blamed it on the bottle of wine I had for my anniversary, I have since ruled that out. I have a sneaky suspicion that my throat may currently resemble a Petri dish, and I know for a fact that my tonsils look more like tomatoes than can be healthy. I’ve got the oh-so-very sexy smokers voice going, only I don’t smoke and it certainly isn’t making me feel very sexy.

I’ve got a soccer game tonight, so with the avian flu I’m brewing here, I should feel real nice come tomorrow morning. Tomorrow afternoon we’re heading a few hours north to spend the weekend with my in-laws, who surprise, surprise I happen to love dearly. It should be fun, if I get to feeling better and the laundry elf comes to my house between now and tomorrow morning to wash all my clothes for me, otherwise my in-laws will be seeing a little more of me than they might have ever bargained for, what with me having NO clean clothes to wear.

This weekend we’ll also be attending his alma mater’s game against their arch rivals, and getting to watch his niece perform in the color guard. It’ll be my first high school football game in more than 6 years, and it’ll be my husband’s first ever. Yeah, he was that guy, the one that never went to pep rallies or football games. If we had known each other in high school, we would have despised each other I’m sure, as I was at every high school function and event and was damn happy to be there. Of course, if he had known me in high school, I’d have only been 7, and how can you hate a 7 year old?

That’s right, you can’t.

Hugs & kisses,
Junebug

We're still alive

2006-11-08T13:50:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was the 6th month anniversary of my marriage to Mr. Junebug, and boy did we celebrate. I know that normally it's considered gay and retarded to celebrate anything other than annual anniversaries, but trust me, the fact that we have both lived through 6 months together and still LIKE each other merits dancing in the streets.

While we didn’t literally dance in the streets, though I probably would have been up for that after my bottle of wine at dinner, we did in fact go dancing. My dear husband signed us for dance lessons, something I’ve been talking about doing ever since we first met. We had a surprisingly good time, and did amazingly well, considering that I have an absolute and total lack of rhythm and grace. I do coordination just fine, I can get those steps down in a pattern, but if Mr. Junebug couldn’t keep time, I’d be completely lost.

You’ll have to wait for Mr. Junebug’s entry to find out just exactly how much wine I had at dinner, but lets just say that I was still drunk this morning when I got up, if that tells you anything.

As part of my amazing anniversary celebration I also got 3 books by Robin Hobb and a subscription to Martha Stewart’s Living magazine. How cool is that? My husband is an amazing man who knows just how to make me happy! I didn’t do nearly as well, as the only gift I got him (not counting my inebriation) was a boxed collectors set of “Thin Man” DVD’s. He seems very excited about them though, so I’m happy.

That’s all I’ve got time for today, I’m trying to get three engineers out the door to a conference with all of their miscellaneous paraphernalia, and prepare for a meeting the same time.

Debt Free Is the Way to Be

2006-11-07T13:39:00.000-08:00

When I moved out of my parent’s house for the first time, I was 19 years old. I moved into a one bedroom apartment that I shared with a girl I met working at a Mexican food hole in the wall. We had actually gone to high school together, but with her being editor of the newspaper and year book and my status as a jock our social circles were sufficiently far apart that we had never even laid eyes on each other.

My dad bought me a twin mattress, and that was about all the help I got when I moved out. Not that I should have been given more help, on the contrary, I should have never been allowed to move out. But, I was and I did and so we moved our two little twin beds into that one bedroom, she got a cat, and I bought an Apex DVD player for $90 off eBay (that very same DVD player is in our bedroom right now, and continues to work like a champ).

I lived in that apartment from October 2001 to May 2002, and in that time I managed to wrack up something like $4500 in credit card debt. It’s easy to do, when you bring home about $16,000 a year, out of the $21,000 on your pay stub. Sure, I was a 19 year old girl and I bought some frivolous stuff, like the Halloween decorations for the one and only Halloween party I’ve ever thrown, or the Dallas Stars tickets I bought my then boyfriend for Christmas. But sadly, most of that debt was day to day living, those little pieces of plastic allowed me to eat, to put gas in my car, to make the 5 hour trips to see my boyfriend at college(which seemed like a must at the time), to help bail him out of financial difficulties, and to sometimes cover my rent.

When the boyfriend and I decided that we wanted to get married, and the roommate took a turn for psychotic, I moved back home to save money for the impending nuptials. I shared a double bed with my then 8 year old sister, and let me tell you, those were some of the best nights of sleep I ever had. She was a great sleeping partner, she’d burrow up next to me, and I can’t even begin to express how soundly I slept with her silent emotional support. That’s when I think I began to understand the healing power of human touch in my life.

Over the next 9 months, I saved money, got engaged, planned a big fancy wedding, got $5000 from my parents to help pay for the wedding, used that money to pay off all of my credit cards, and of course started wracking the charges back up. When I finally called off the wedding, the day after New Years, 2003, just a mere 2 months before the wedding, I was back to being about $3000 in debt.

I moved out of my parents house for what has proved to be the last time (so far!) in March 2003, 11 days after I was supposed to have been married. (Funny side note, but the day I was to be married, I was actually riding the Staten Island Ferry with my best friend and her flask of rum, drunk off my ass and watching an interesting exchange between a stock broker from Long Island and two trannies.) From March to December, I went through a really rough time, and when I finally regained consciousness, I owed a staggering $11,000 in credit card and private (i.e. cable, cell phone etc) debt.

The fact that a 22 year old with a job making just $27,500 a year can be allowed to accumulate that much credit in the first place should be criminal. However, it’s not, and I did it, and I was drowning and couldn’t see how I would ever pay that back. I couldn’t keep up with the minimum payments, the overdue fees were killing me, and it was sending me back to a place I had worked very hard to get away from, and neither I nor my family could handle another couple of months like the few from April – November.

One day at work while googling how to declare bankruptcy (at 21 years old), I stumbled across a program offering debt counseling. I signed right up, and by the grace of God I blindly selected one of the few reputable counseling companies that didn’t rip me off. That day, during the lunch hour at my increasingly miserable job, I stared my debt in the face for the first time. I had never before added it all up; I had never assessed the damage. To that point I had patently ignored and pointedly refused to face how much money I owed. I was shocked. I was sick. And I felt hopeless.

January 15, 2004 I made my first payment of a measly $254 towards my debt, and with the lower interest rates the counseling agency negotiated for me, it would have taken me a mere 3 and a half years to pay it all off. At 21, 3 and half years seemed an eternity. Especially since part of the counseling program was that all of my credit cards were turned off and I couldn’t establish any new lines of credit until the old debts were paid off.

The next 2 and a half years of living strictly off of what I brought home from work were some of the hardest times of my life. I changed jobs twice, both times trading up for a bigger paycheck, something that a person in my predicament could not turn down. I graduated from $254 a month to a $366 monthly payment. If those credit cards had not been turned off by the issuing companies, there were hundreds of times that I would have used any one of them, to buy things like toilet paper, or ramen noodles or to have my car inspected.

There were weeks that all I had to eat were the meals my mother offered me (which would have been many more, had she known my dire financial situation), and whatever I could scrounge from the break room at work. During most of this time I was lucky enough to work for a company that kept their kitchen stocked weekly with fresh fruit and animal crackers. I can’t tell you how much I came to both loathe and appreciate the site of bananas and animal crackers. I’d eaten them enough meals to be thoroughly disgusted with them, but if I was hungry, they’d never looked so good. Some days vendors would bring in extra goodies, breakfast burritos or cookies, and those were my favorite days. Most weeks I managed to supplement my animal crackers & bananas with ramen noodles and oatmeal, I could purchase a weeks supply of both for $1.95 including tax at the local Wal Mart.

The scary thing was that no one I knew realized what was going on. Thanks to hand me downs and my mother, I managed quite a few new (to me) outfits to fit my rapidly slimming body, and because of my sacrifices elsewhere, I managed to keep my truck and my apartment and my utilities on, most of the time. But to look at me, no one would have ever guessed that I was having trouble making ends meet. Sure, I didn’t go out to eat very often, or if I did I drank water and had a side salad (which did work nicely into my diet, as I had about 35 pounds to lose), but they thought I was just being health conscious.

Gradually, my situation got a little better, and then a few months later it would again get a little better. By the spring of 2005 I was doing well enough that I could move to a slightly larger apartment and I didn’t have to worry about my electricity being cut off, but my budget was still on the precariously lean side. I went an entire year without getting my truck registered because I never could bring myself to part with the $68 it called for; there were always groceries or gas to be bought.

Things started looking up, and I slowly began to pay a little extra each month as I had it towards my debts. I can’t tell you how proud I felt when I paid off one of the smallest credit cards. I felt like I could do anything, and I felt like all of those hard times had finally meant something. The end was in site, I scrimped even more and it became a contest against my bank account, just how much could I pay off this month and still survive?

April 7th, 2006, one month before I got married, I used my entire bonus from my job to pay off the last remaining debts. I cried as I spoke to the nice counselor who scheduled the last payment I would ever have to make. I felt as if I was finally shedding all of the guilt, pain and failure that I had been living with for the past 4 years. Those were the hardest years of my life, physically, emotionally, financially and professionally. And I had survived. I was still alive with most of my mental capabilities intact, and my money was my own. At least until I got married anyway!

Before this year, if anyone ever asked me what I was proud of, I never had an answer for them. Now I do.

Weekend Update

2006-11-06T12:53:00.000-08:00

It’s Monday, it’s rainy, my right eye is doing that spazzy thing it does, my pants are too tight and I might be moving to India, so I’m going to keep this short and sweet as I have a few things on my mind.

- Friday night the hubby and I grilled steaks on the back patio. While there is nothing inherently interesting in this fact, other than to establish that we are both carnivores, keep it in mind.

- I was too young to see “Fargo” when it came out in theaters, and after seeing it on DVD Friday night, I don’t really feel bad I missed out the first time around. It seems without value, other than to establish that you shouldn’t get in debt, and when you conspire to kidnap you wife, your life will go to hell in a hand basket. I made sure my husband took note of this. I felt like everyone pretty much got what they had coming. Yes, I know, I am cold hearted.

- Our bedroom furniture arrived Saturday, and we made the short uneventful trip to go pick it up. It was all as beautiful as I remember, save for the nasty crunched corner on the chest of drawers.

- While moving furniture in, I put The Beast in the backyard so as to not have him underfoot. Remember what I said about grilling on the patio?

- We stacked furniture in all corners of our house, but did not actually set it up. We like to do things the hard way.

- The Beast, he ate charcoal while outside on the patio. He stuck his snout in the bag of discarded charcoal and tried to eat his way to freedom by licking away all vestiges of grease drippings. After a call to Poison Control (hint: they are absolutely useless when it comes to pets) and a call to his vet, it was determined we had to wash his mouth out with water and watch for peculiar behavior(that’s comical, having ME assess for peculiar behavior).

- After drowning the dog (evidently they don’t like it when you stick a water hose in their mouth, and the don’t understand the “Swish, spit, rinse, repeat” command either) we went to the Indian buffet. You know, to see if I could stand living in a country where they serve indiscriminate meat products in Technicolor sauces.

- My entire family came over so my mom could help with a few piddly sewing projects, and in the chaos The Beast pissed on the rug. Have you ever seen a Great Dane sized puddle o’ piss? It’s huge.

- The wedding came off without a hitch, my fee in their hooker shoes being the only casualty.

- After the wedding we came home to find the house in complete disarray, evidently my teenaged sisters who were “dog sitting” because of the charcoal incident have the destructive powers of a Cat 4 hurricane.

- Sunday was spent spending entirely too much money Christmas shopping. I swear, it’s an addiction for me, this thing called Christmas.

- Monday entailed me dragging my lazy ass out of my new bed and in to the office, calling liaison officers to talk about this India thing, and praying I can keep my eyes open long enough to keep from face planting on the keyboard.

That’s all I know. Well, I know a whole lot more than that, but nothing of consequence.

I had a smashing time meeting the Smasherians, so “Hey ya’ll” to anyone reading.

Hugs and kisses,
Junebug

Need to know basis

2006-11-03T12:01:00.000-08:00

So, if you’ve read my husband’s blog entry today, you may be wondering why in the world I just didn’t tell him.

Well, much like Rusty Shackleford, I tend to be pretty secretive. I don’t think of it as sneaky, just secretive. Ask my husband, I don’t usually appreciate people asking me lots of questions, even such things as “what’s for dinner?” or “how do we get there?” I can’t really offer up an explanation, except that I’m an anal retentive control freak who guards insignificant information with undue zest. I like being the only one who knows, gives me a small amount of control or power I guess. I also grew up as the eldest of 6 kids, and I am unused to being questioned, they were on a need-know basis, and were to follow instructions without question. Evidently husbands don’t like to operate that way. I can’t imagine why.

In addition to being secretive, I also have a much weaker self-confidence than most people would ever gather from my outer demeanor. Perhaps my husband and my parents have the only true inkling to how fragile my often inflated ego is. As a result, I don’t tend to tell people certain things, because I don’t want to appear stupid or inept, and I really don’t want to be made fun of. I do many stupid things that I will be the first to laugh at, but if something really means anything to me, I will be very sensitive about it.

My writing is one of those things that mean something to me. Until last night I hadn’t even told my husband that I was writing anything. Not because I intended to write anything I didn’t want him to see (though hopefully he understands exaggeration for comedic effect. You do, don’t you honey?), but because I didn’t want him to think anything I wrote was stupid. Now, he’ll be the first to tell you he would never think that, but it doesn’t matter what he really thinks, all that matters is my perception of what he would think. And as you may have gathered, I think my perceptions, like myself, can be pretty warped at times.

So I hadn’t told him I was writing anything, and I hadn’t really planned on it. Most of what I write he knows or hears in much less concise verbal format anyway, so I didn’t really think he was missing anything. Then when I received a very surprising request to be interviewed by Troll Smasher, I was a little wary at first. Given all of the horror stories you hear about online stalkers, I made certain to do my homework. I checked out his site, I followed a few links, I established that while a few stalkers seemed to be after him, he himself seemed fairly normal for a person named Troll Smasher.

Having established he was in fact a reputable Troll Smasher, not some fly-by-night operation, I decided to do the interview. However, I couldn’t, and still can’t, comprehend why anyone would want to interview me. I’ve met myself, and I’m pretty non-descript and boring most of the time, nothing worth interviewing, no matter how diverse the audience. Having never done an interview outside of applying for a job, I was very nervous about my capabilities. So, all of those things combined with not wanting to give my husband any more ammunition in our ongoing war of who’s a bigger nerd, I didn’t tell him.

It wasn’t because I thought I needed to hide it or felt I was doing anything as wrong as playing a couple games of D&D (which he did not disclose his participation in till just last night), but mostly because I didn’t know how it was going to go and that there was a distinct possibility I’d end up sounding like a rambling idiot and God knows he gets enough of that.

I heard him enter the bathroom during my interview, but I didn’t really give it a second thought because I wasn’t doing anything wrong. It was only after I concluded the interview that I went looking for him (we had a date to watch a Thin Man movie) and realized he was STILL in the bathroom. My immediate concern was for his health, surely that was not a good sign. However, the minute I heard his voice, I knew he was all kinds of bent out of shape. When it was established why, I felt really bad that I had put him through the roller-coaster of emotional distress he had endured, all because I was trying to preserve the few remaining shreds of my dignity.

He was a very good sport about it all, and was much relieved to discover that I was in fact still a faithful and loving wife. So, it makes for a good story, but not one I’d like to repeat. From now on, all interviews and or strange men met over the internet must apply to Mr. Junebug himself for a permit to interview me. Not really, but he’ll like the idea of it…

Have a happy Friday and a wonderful weekend all. I’m off to a wedding where I’ll like approximately 3 people there, of which my husband and I are two. That margin is only slightly lower than the number of people I like from the general population. I’m a people person who doesn’t like 95% of people I meet. And it’s a wonder my husband thinks I’m complicated.

Catch you on Monday!

Stop and order the roses, it's good for you!

2006-11-02T13:16:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, marriage is hard. Sometimes, marriage is really hard. And sometimes, it’s not really anybody’s fault. But most of the time, both spouses are responsible for the difficult times.

I know when my husband makes life hard or sad or difficult for me, I always return the favor. I’m not proud of it, but it’s true. He disappoints me or ignores me or just plain pisses me off, and I make my displeasure known, and not always in the healthy, communicative way they espouse on Dr. Phil

I like to stew about it. Ruminate what could have possibly made my husband act this way. I like to ignore him, tune him out, give him the cold shoulder, anything that will send a clear “I don’t like you right now” vibe his way. Eating dinner in the bedroom, getting in bed at 8:30 to watch TV, these are ways I express my displeasure or hurt feelings.

To both of our chagrins, he does not respond well to these tactics. This of course does nothing to lighten the mood of our household.

All of this to say, flowers from the grocery store do not an apology make.

Nothing screams “I’m sorry” like flowers sent to the office, the most “public” admission a woman could require of a man. Flowers to the office let everyone know that he’s sorry, that he feels badly, that he recognizes the problem and that he wants you to feel better. Flowers ordered and sent to the office indicate he put at least a modicum of effort into it, he had to remember it long enough to get online and order them, he had to mean it enough to pull out the plastic and pony up the exorbitant fee, basically it required something out of him.

Flowers from the grocery store say “I know you’re kinda pissed, I don’t really know or care why, but I passed these on my way through the store and thought they might make you forget you’re mad at me”.

Flowers from the grocery store for absolutely no reason are cute and adorable, a nice gesture. Flowers from the grocery store as an apology or admission of problems are insincere and will probably get you in more trouble than before.

Not that that happened at the Junebug household last night. Just saying is all…

Recycled

2006-11-01T10:44:00.000-08:00

Some background on me I guess...

I'm the oldest of 6 kids, I was home schooled till I was in high school and I'm not socially retarded. I work in the engineering department of an evil oil company, and it's the first job I've truly loved, mainly because I don't work for a woman.

I met and married my husband in a span of 15 months, he's 8 years older than I am and he works for "The Man". He thinks I'm crazy because I don't automatically discredit all conspiracy theories, and I say he's been brainwashed.

I love to play sports, any sport, though I grew up playing soccer. I wish I could be a gym rat, but at the end of my day all I dream about is going home and putting my pj's on. The Newlywed Nine has turned into like the Newlywed 20, and I'm currently embroiled in a bitter battle with my inner thighs.

I love my family, immediate and extended, and I think that a lot of social problems in the US are caused by the dissolution of the nuclear family and the support system it provides. My family, aunts, uncles, cousins etc spend a week at the beach every summer for the past 10 years, and it is the highlight of my year, next to the weekend I spend with all of my female relatives at Christmas time.

My husband and I call each other "turds" as a form of affection, talking as if we had lisps amuses us, we like to quote the line from Princess Bride "I'm not a witch I'm your wife", get in arguments about hypothetical situations. We also like to take time to cuddle in the recliner, watch episodes of Futurama and surprise each other with gifts from the grocery store. Gossip mags and real Coke for me, Architectural Digest and Candy Corn for him.

I love Starbuck's Mocha Frappuccino's, mostly for the whipped cream. I've been known to ask for a tall frap in a venti glass filled with whipped cream. This greatly embarrasses my husband.

As for music, I'm not too ashamed to admit that James Taylor is my favorite artist, and that Mexico might be my all-time favorite song along with Something in the Way She Moves. I may be the only person under 40 who's been to two of his concerts. Lately though, Snow Patrol is what has been in my CD player. Open Your Eyes, Set the Fire to The Third Bar and You Could Be Happy are great, but Hands Open is my favorite I think. Other favorite songs, in no particular order of cheesiness: Power of Love by Huey Lewis, Unwell by MatchboxTwenty, Long December by Counting Crows, Revolution by The Beatles, Return to Pooh Corner by Kenny Loggins, Hit Me Baby by Trashy Spears, With a Little Help From My Friends as sung by Joe Cocker, The Cheers theme, and that's about all I've got.

The last ten DVD's I watched, in order:
Serenity
Futurama Season 3 Disc 3
Dawson's Creek Season 1 Disc 1
Bringing Up Baby
Stargate Season 7 Disc 4
Thank You For Smoking
My Best Friend's Wedding
Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House
V for Vendetta
Mystery Science Theater 3000

'Cause suicide is painless

2006-10-31T14:02:00.000-08:00

Cowboy boots? Check.

Fatigues? Check.

Bathrobe? Check.

Cowboy hat? Check.

Martini glass? Check.

Now all I need is some vodka and a hot nurse and I’m all set. You can call me Benjamin Franklin Pierce.

Now, on to business.

Today being Halloween, it raises a grand debate in my newly formed household. My husband absolutely adores Halloween. He loves every ghost and goblin and ghoul, every blood splattered costume and fiendish decoration. I on the other hand, don’t really like Halloween all that much. I dislike having a “holiday” that brings out so much ugliness. Granted, I’m talking superficial ugliness, the monsters and criminals (Freddy etc) and evil (demons and devils) that the holiday always brings about. Regardless of whether it’s a costume or not, I don’t want my children, especially not at a young age (I’m thinking less than 13) to be exposed to so much ugliness, and be taught that it’s all in good fun. I’m not a fanatic who believes that Halloween is Satan’s holiday, but I still am uncomfortable with the thought of teaching my children that portraying ugliness and evilness (which can come in all forms, I’m looking at the person in the Hilary mask) is a fun way to get candy. To me, there’s enough real ugliness in the world, why would I want to bring any of it into my home? My children are going to be exposed to more than their fair share of ugliness and tragedy in the world, short of my locking them away from the TV, internet, radio, newspaper and any outside influence (which in locking them away, would I be creating the very type of horror that I was trying to protect them from? “Mom locks 4 children away in safe room, next on the evening news” Paradox there methinks.).

To me, if my children want to dress up for Halloween, there’s a multitude of roads to take away from the gory, frightening, downright ugly costumes. You want to be a pirate? I’ll sew you a costume. Indian Princesses? Coming right up! Dorothy & Scarecrow? Stewie Griffin? Shrek? Cowboy? All fine and dandy! I’m not even totally against my hypothetical ten year old going as Bela Lugosi’s Dracula or Boris Karloff’s Frankenstein, I’d try to find something else that intrigued them first. But I will not have an adult dressed like a zombie from Dawn of the Dead, or like this costume worn by one of the people at my office around my children if at all possible, and I certainly don’t want my husband or my child dressed that way.

I’m not trying to tell other people not to dress that way or that they’re bad parents for dressing their children that way. Just my own personal dislike for the glorification of ugliness in my own life, and that it will make life interesting since my dear husband believes the only way to celebrate Halloween is with ugliness and scariness. Boys!

Next hot sports opinion: I hate Santa Clause and will not perpetrate the lie to my children. Baby’s first Christmas at the Junebug household will be mighty interesting indeed.

I’m thinking of writing a book “When mommy and daddy fight over Santa Clause”.

Love,
Junebug

Monday, monday, can't trust that day

2006-10-30T16:29:00.000-08:00

It's 6:23 pm and I'm still at the office.

The Beast had to go to the vet and recieved $225 worth of examination, shots, and 4 different medicines.

I slept for about 4 hours last night.

There's nothing at home for dinner.

Yet another day has passed without me calling to set up the date for painters to come paint our living room before Christmas.

I'm having to cobble together a last minute halloween costume to wear to work tomorrow. I'm going as Hawkeye Pierce. Original, I know.

Here's hoping Tuesday is better than Monday.

TGIF

2006-10-27T14:40:00.000-07:00

Why running home at lunch sucks:

1 – I wasn’t really running home to have lunch, I was running home to meet the garage door repairman, but I was using my lunch hour to do it. Score 2 points for eating a granola bar in the car.
2 – I tried to be efficient and use my time at home wisely to do some things that needed to be done around the house, rather than sit and watch TV like I wanted to do.
3 – While emptying the dishwasher, I was putting pots in the cabinet and raked my knuckles down the cheese grater lurking in the back corner.
4 – The Beast went outside to play, and trying to be a good owner, I went with him. Rather than play though, he had in mind to find the one muddy spot in the yard, paw around a bit, and then come and jump on me and my white shirt.
5 – Having to change my shirt prompted me to change out the laundry, only to discover that I washed my brand new, dry clean only sweater. I’m an awesome laundress.
5 – The garage door repair that I thought was covered by my home warranty wasn’t covered because it was the door that was broken, not the opener. That’s $150 bucks out of the budget that wasn’t planned for.
6 – And to top it all off, I went off and left the back door unlocked. Hope that repairman was as ethical as he was good looking.

So, the lesson for the day is this: Make your husband take vacation and handle meeting repairmen, rather than trying to use your lunch hour for a dash home.

In other news:

- It’s blustery outdoors. The wind is gusting at like 40+ MPH, which makes driving a truck fun.
- I’m down to my last pair of jeans that fit. It is now imperative that I lose the newlywed weight, or I will be naked. Which I guess doesn’t sound so bad, but it could make the office awkward.
- We bought a bedroom suite last night, which makes it official. We’re grownups.
- I got a notice saying my car insurance was cancelled, which after several weeks of foul-ups, screw-ups and assurances by the company that I didn’t need to pay that $880 monthly bill they sent me is not totally surprising. So much for having your Grandfather and Cousin as your insurance agents.
- Thanks to the garage door repairs (the track and doors were completely out of alignment and would not raise or lower), the much-needed “date” my husband and I were going to have is now downgraded to picking up take-out and watching the first season of “Dawson’s Creek” on Netflix. Being homeowners is so much fun.

That’s all I’ve got. I’m out for the weekend, as I live in the dark ages and don’t have internet at home. In fact, since my apartment was broken in to in April, I don’t even have a computer at home. AND I don’t have cable, just plain old network tv. I know I know, how do I live? Very nicely actually…I debate having internet, maybe purchased with the impending Christmas bonus, but then I think about how many hours my husband would spend playing Text Twist or Cubis, and I forget the whole idea. So those of you with your wireless internet, well, just remember how lucky you are, and that people can and do survive without it!

Ok, now, I’m really done.

Is it bedtime yet?

2006-10-26T14:15:00.000-07:00

I’m awfully tired today. Last night was busy for me…

I left work, stopped at Home Depot and was in and out in under 20 minutes, which is a record for me. Especially since they already have their Christmas decorations out. Christmas is like crack to me, I can’t get enough of it. I love it, with every fiber of my being. And this year, I have a house to decorate!! We have vaulted ceilings in our living room, and I can finally have the 15 foot Christmas tree that I have always wanted…and I get to decorate it. My husband is girding his loins in tremulous preparation for the neurotic anal retentive Elf that I will morph into within the next few weeks. I’ll let you know if he survives.

Anyway, after the H.D., I swung by the house, grabbed my soccer gear, picked up the dog and the husband and headed to Dallas. My Aunt and Uncle had offered us their “old” couch and chair if we could pick them up since their new sectional was being delivered this morning. Never one to pass up free furniture, especially when it’s practically brand new and probably cost more than my first car, I somehow manage to finagle it into our evening plans.

After fighting for a parking spot in the urban hell that is Uptown Dallas, we grabbed a bite to eat at a tapas bar close to the Auntie’s place. The nice thing about snobby Uptown Dallas is that they have an inordinate number of “Pet Friendly” restaurants, which until last month meant nothing to me. Now with the acquisition of the Big Puss (also known as Davie) they suddenly have a certain appeal. So we took the pooch and sat out on the steamy patio and had great food, in a hurry. Unfortunately we didn’t have time to sit back and relax and really enjoy the food, or the Knock-You-on-Your-Ass sangria, since we had places to be and couches to move, but it was good. It felt really odd to take the beast inside a restaurant, even just to get to the patio. He dwarfed most of the inside tables meant for two and could have easily snagged a morsel of anybody’s plate as we walked by, but he didn’t.

After a rushed dinner, we drove around for 10 minutes trying to find the condo that I’ve been to numerous times, and of course my husband was driving. When he drives, my normally stellar sense of direction (bordering on idiot savant status) goes to hell in a hand basket and we spend most of the trip yelling at each other because he can’t drive AND follow my directions and I can’t give him directions nicely enough to suit him.

Eventually though we found it, loaded the really nice couch and chair into the truck, and then were gifted with the coffee table and end table to match, as well as the area rug (which probably cost more than my current car) they didn’t want. Thanks to my aunt and uncle, we have nearly furnished our house in very nice, if slightly used furniture and accessories. It’s great! I know some people would turn up their nose at “hand me downs”, but having grown up on yard sale clothing, a year old piece of furniture from one of the swankiest boutique’s in Dallas doesn’t phase me a bit.

After we wrangled all the furniture into the truck, we bungeed it down, said a prayer and got on a raceway headed for a soccer field on the exact opposite side of the world from Dallas. I ran around like an idiot for 45 minutes, got muddy, got fouled, got tired, and finally got home around 11:30 last night. By the time I got cleaned up, let the dog out, and got in the bed, it was well after midnight, which prompted me to start being cranky and dreading my alarm this morning in an pre-emptive attempt to get it all out of my system before I woke up this morning.

This morning I was sore, cranky, scratched, bruised, and even more tired. AND I woke up thinking it was Friday. That hurts. I'm also sad to report that my pre-emptive strike did nothing to help my humor.

I will be glad when it is Friday, and infinitely happier when it is Saturday. I’m getting old.

"Today is gonna be the day"

2006-10-25T15:31:00.000-07:00

Today I had lunch with a dear friend I used to work with. When I left my previous job in May, leaving her behind was one of the hardest parts. She was the only way I had survived in such a horrible place for as long as I did, and was my daily confidant and sounding board and the one person who in the midst of misery could make me smile while I was at work.

Our offices are only 15 minutes apart, our homes are only 15 minutes apart, yet we still have only seen each other 2 in the last 5 months, today making the 3rd lunch date. Why we live and work so close together and can’t seem to make time out of our “real” lives to get together, I haven’t quite figured out. It makes me sad, but obviously not enough to change things, at least not yet. Today though, it really hit home how much I miss female companionship and friendship.

After a wonderful lunch of gossip, laughter and promises to hang out, I braved the humid drizzle and drove back to my office. As I was sitting at a light, I turned the radio up to hear what used to be one of my favorite songs, and one that still makes me think.

Wonderwall

I’ve never quite known what they meant by a “wonderwall”, but I’ve always used it in conjunction with the line about saving me. People in my life that have saved me from something (usually from myself) become my wonderwall. When I stop to think about my wonderwalls, they don’t stack up like I imagined they would. Sure, people like parents and friends save me from making mistakes on a daily basis, but the ones that really have made an impact in my life, the ones who have saved me from making mistakes that I might never have recovered from, weren’t who I thought they’d be.

My best friend growing up that I loved with all of my heart since I was 8 years old, he never loved me back the way I wanted, and he broke my heart. But he was my wonderwall. He saved me from marrying the wrong man, from settling for less than what I deserved. By being the standard to which I held all other men and relationships, he saved me from making some of the biggest mistakes of my life. And he never even knew it. When I met my husband, I knew he was the one. He was the only man I had ever met who made me forget about the friend I held so high and “loved” so much.

My ex-boyfriend who I never really and truly loved that I rejoiced when I broke up with, he saved me from myself. He was my wonderwall at a time when I needed someone to protect me from the demons in myself, someone who watched out for me and protected me when I couldn’t protect myself. If it wasn’t for him, I probably wouldn’t be alive today. I always felt badly that I couldn’t love him, after all that he had done for me, but he will always be my wonderwall.

My dear friend and co-worker who I had lunch with today, she’s been my wonderwall on more than one occasion. An ill-advised, on the rebound office romance gone bad, she saved me from making a huge post-happy hour drunken mistake that could have ruined more than I ever realized. She saved me from sacrificing a career and a much-need paycheck every 2 weeks when she talked me out of quitting numerous times as I faced utter incompetence and blithe disregard for any manner of professional and ethical rules by various coworkers and managers. She saved me from walking out of a admittedly horrible situation by any standard, and I hated her for it some days. I never appreciated it and I accused her of being just as dirty and underhanded as the administration I fought against. But by her actions, I stayed, and as a result I landed the job I have today. Which I love and enjoy and gives me self-confidence and satisfaction I never knew existed in the 8-5 world.

3 people, who are not my family, or my husband, or my closest of bosom buddies have saved me. They have been my wonderwalls, people I will always be grateful to and for, regardless of our relationship or lack thereof.

Goose bumps

2006-10-23T10:17:00.000-07:00

Last night I decided that I would come in to the office early this morning, so I set my alarm, went to bed early, and I informed my dear sweet husband of my plans.

This morning, before I was even able to turn off the alarm, my husband (who NEVER gets up that early) bolted out of bed and made a mad dash for the upstairs bathroom. Moments after I heard him thunder up the stairs, the upstairs shower kicked on.

Grumbling foul words and snuggling back under the covers, I debated whether or not I should chance it and try to take a shower in the downstairs bathroom. Our water heater is on its last legs, and has a hard time providing adequately heated water for more than one shower at a time, so I chose to stay in bed and wait him out.

Even though I was the one who wanted to get up early and take a shower. I waited.

And I waited. And I waited. While lying in the bed, trying to stay warm, I watched the clock tick away 22 minutes. Then, I heard something.

The flow of water changed. Could it be? Is he done?

Not even close. I heard the nice neat even flow of water change, and I heard the distinct sounds of water sloughing off a person in sheets and hitting the bottom of the tub.

He had been in the bathroom for over 20 minutes, letting the hot water run, while he wasn’t even in the shower. You know, so the bathroom would be nice and steamy and he wouldn’t get cold.

Realizing my morning was screwed, I got up and let the dog out. Did I mention that our dog won’t do his business unless you’re standing on the back porch(sometimes in your pajamas) watching him?

It was 40 degrees outside. I got cold. I had to take a shower. There was no hot water left. I froze my butt off, and discovered that shaving over goose bumps hurts.

That was how my Monday started, cold and wet.

That’s ok, it was better than how my husband’s day started, or will probably end.

DAR, here I come

2006-10-19T12:41:00.000-07:00

Extant

Today I learned that the word Extant means “to be in existence”, as in “those records are extant in the courthouse”.

I also learned who I am today, or at least a small piece of who I am. I learned that my maiden name should have been McCaughtry, and that my great-grandparents are from Chickasaw, OK. I have relatives that I can trace back to England in the very early 1600’s. There was a Colonel in the British Army. A Captain in the Revolutionary War. I’ve seen pictures of a house, still standing, in Maryland that was built in 1758 by a relative.

My paternal grandfather was adopted as an infant, something that I’ve always known as far back as I can remember. His adoptive parents were older and never had any biological children, so his mother died in the late 80’s, he’s had no family save the own he made.

It’s been only recently that my grandmother was able to convince him that for health reasons he should petition to have his records unsealed. We had obtained a copy of the adoption papers that had all identifying information blacked out, which proved to be more frustrating than informative.

We learned that his birth parents were from Oklahoma. We knew that his father was 19 and came home for Christmas break one year and left a little more than fond memories with his 16 year old girlfriend. Though the teens wanted to get married and keep the child, their parents decided that they were too young and the girl, “Lee” was sent to a home for unwed mothers here in Texas.

Today, I know who I am. Where I come from. That I could be a Daughter of the American Revolution if I so choose. I learned that I have Great-Aunts and Uncles, cousins and a heritage I’ve never dreamed of before. I have roots. I have a history.

I also learned that my grandfather, after a lifetime of feeling unwanted and discarded and uncertain of who he really was, is scared. Scared of seeing the siblings he never knew existed. Scared of who they are and what they feel about him. He has to face the knowledge that he will never really know his mother and his father. Imagine discovering your parents, only to learn they’re both dead and gone. He’ll never have the closure of asking why? And of being assured of their love and whether they ever thought of him.

He’s scared. And sad. And uncertain. And he’s a McCaughtry.

Clowns Scare Me

2006-10-18T10:57:00.000-07:00

So, like millions of other people in my age demographic I have a Myspace account. I’ve had it for literally years, back before it became the pop culture phenomenon that it is today. I first used it to recover from a less than stellar relationship, by learning that there were indeed other guys out there who thought I was funny and cute. Never mind that most of them just wanted to get in my pants, it helped.

Since then, I’ve used it to track down old classmates from high school, teammates, ex’s, enemies and lately even my siblings. With one away at college, and not living with the others, Myspace has become a great place for me to connect to my younger siblings in a “cool” non-sister like environment. Plus, it’s just quick and easy. It also gives my parents a measure of relief, knowing that whoever else may be watching their kids online, I’m also keeping an eye out. Not that I tattle by any means, most teenage related shenanigans and rants I find pretty amusing or I can relate too. I just watch for things that may not seem quite right, the obscene comment or the “friend” who’s just a little too old. I haven’t come across anything scary yet, strange yes, scary no.

So, what do I mean by strange? How about this picture of my 12 year old sister, taken and posed by my 15 year old sister.

That’s right. Take time to digest the joint rolled out of paper towel and the fact that it’s not really face paint, but acrylic craft paint. Evidently it was a terra cotta pot painting project gone horribly awry. I never did ask what became of the pots.

This just goes to prove several things:

1 – That perhaps I am less responsible for their weirdness than previously thought
2 - They are much weirder than ever imagined
3 – Clowns are perhaps a little scarier than I supposed

Just call me,
Junebug

Allow me to introduce myself

2006-10-17T13:49:00.000-07:00

I am Wylie Coyote. Genius.

I've been a daughter for 24 years. I've been a sister for 19 of those and an employee for 6.

I've been a wife for 6 months, a house owner for 4 months and dog owner for 1 month.

I’m bossy, insecure, demanding, anal, controlling, sarcastic, sometimes intelligent and occasionally funny.

But who am I? I don’t know. I do know this:

I’m the girl who got a Carebear for her 2nd birthday from the grandfather I never got the chance to know.

I’m the girl who lived on a ranch, in a houseful of boys whose parents didn’t love them enough to take care of them, so mine did.

I’m the girl who lived below the poverty level in Birmingham, Alabama, where a running car and food were a blessing, not a right. Central heating and air conditioning didn’t exist in my world. I’ll always remember creaky floors, frozen pipes, kerosene heaters, rooms without doors, vegetable gardens and playing outside.

I’m the girl who told my parents that my life was just fine till my brother came along. And when my sister came along. And when my other sister came. And the next sister. By the time the last brother came along, I was 16 and decided siblings were kinda cool, even if there were 5 of them.

I’m the girl who ran into a parked car while running backwards down my street. I also said “brrr, I’m dizzy”. Hey, we all make mistakes.

I’m the girl who fell in love at 8 years old, and enjoyed having my heart broken for the next 12 years.

I’m the girl who wanted to be anywhere but under my parent’s roof, who chafed and fought and longed to be free. I learned a lesson, one that I just finished paying off of my credit cards in April, 5 years after I moved out.

I’m the girl who got an engagement ring for my 20th birthday, and gave it back 6 months later. That I gave it back and called it off showed that maybe I was more mature than we could have hoped, but if I’d been really mature, I never would have taken it in the first place. One of those irritating live and learn situations.

I’m the girl who can’t and never has been able to do the “Spock”. You know, “live long and prosper”? My dad has always found this amusing, and has been known to lead my entire family in taunting me with their perfectly separated fingers.

I’m the girl who’s parents are still together after 26 years of marriage. Most of those 26 years were harder than not, fraught with no money, no time, no job, 6 kids, no house, getting a job, getting a house and growing old. Surprisingly, the years filled with money and security didn’t always make married life easier, instead it brought it’s own set of obstacles.

I’m the girl who wanted to have all of my 4 children by the time I’m 30. I’m 24 ½, with no kids. With 5 ½ more years to churn out 4 babies, I’m crossing my fingers for twins.

I’m the girl who’s best friend is in Africa, fighting for the orphans of Sudan, fighting to give them food and shelter, education and love. Sometimes, she fights for their lives, battling malaria, meningitis, famine, drought and rebel armies. I pray that one day she doesn’t have to fight for her life.

I’m the girl who bought a house, where the upstairs AC didn’t work. In July, In Texas. It was a hot summer.

I’m the girl who has always been able to take or leave animals of any kind, and yet now I have a Great Dane who I spoil rotten. If I could get him to stop slowly edging me off the couch when we nap, I’d be happy.

I’m the girl who wasn’t crazy, just a little unwell in 2003. I’m better now. I think.

I’m the girl who met my husband at a Super Bowl party. He was there to hit on another woman. She never showed. I don’t think it was a coincidence.

I’m the girl who got my heart broken but hung around anyway, because I believed in him. It could have turned out like so many other stories, girl waits and waits and waits around on a man who never grows up or never treats her right, but it didn’t. I don’t think it was a coincidence.

I'm the girl who married the right man for me, a man that I would have never picked out of a crowd or based on his likes, dislikes, strengths or weaknesses. Nevertheless, he's perfect for me. I don't think it's a coincidence.

I’m the girl who loves my family, loves my husband, loves God, loves my job, and yet sometimes feel sad and alone. I’m sure no one else has ever felt this way before.

I’m the girl who wants to do something in my life that is noteworthy. I think I’d like to be a writer, but I read and read and read, and I never find something that makes me think that I could write anything half as interesting. And that's saying something, since I read some really crappy stuff.

I’m the girl who would like to have a hobby, but have yet to find something that entertains me more than TV or a book. Sewing sometimes amuses me, but not as often as Gilmore Girls.

I’m the girl who hopes to one day be a good wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend and maybe normal.

I’m a girl they call Junebug.