The Weather Becomes Her

I was listening to  blasting "Last Dance with Mary Jane" tonight (my outrageous behavior continues) and had the ghastly realization that if I want to smoke pot, I could. I could chart it in with what Dan calls my "outrageous" behavior that began in early November, and add pot to the list of familiarities people associate me with. Add it to the list of prayer intentions that my mom mentally (and verbally, actually) composes for me when we are together.
The problem is, I don't really feel like smoking pot. It just seems like it would make life a little more interesting to have my kitchen smell like it, when it should smell like, oh, I don't know, chocolate chip cookies? I imagine Dan the D-bag walking in and asking with a semi-startled, bordering on concerned if he wasn't too cool for concern, laugh if I'm stoned. And when I confidently say Yes, daring Dan to challenge me, he narrows his eyes briefly, says "Hmm."  and heads to the computer.  He won't address it till he leaves, when he'll look at the baby and say "Well, have fun getting stoned...?" Ah, funny scenario, but not really worth the paranoia that ensues when you are not an actual pot head.
The urge to do drugs in my kitchen is interesting, though.  Am I craving excitement? I'm not the kind of mom who doesn't get out, Ned makes sure of that, so I don't think I have cabin fever. And my kids are normally behaved, whiny and tempermental, but they are sweet and cheery little girls. So I have no crazy stress there. Ned and I are fine. (Really.) He would probably ask if there was any weed left if he smelled it in the kitchen, but we're Fine.
I think I need a change. I'm always wary of giving in to needing a change, because it seems like a slippery slope, like I'll end up needing a new house every 6 weeks by the time I'm 40. But I think I need a change. I think I'm bored F-ing stiff by humanity and life. I think the Buffalo freeze has entered my brain and I am not longer allowed to be stimulated. (It was 5 degrees this morning.) I might need a new friend. I might need a new car. I might need a new couch. Somehow a new friend seems like the easiest accomplishment.  A huge, angry, authentic African American woman seems like a great match for me right now. I don't take her s*hit and she don't take mine. Everything on the table and no holds barred. No Neds for her, she would show me the silly little white girl that I truly is. I really think that would thaw the anti-humanity freeze that has attached itself to my mind. Maybe I'll tell Ned he can smoke pot freely in the kitchen if he finds me a nice, sensible, angry as hell, big as hell, black as hell Woman to be my new best friend.

Misery loves company. Wanna come over?

I'm pretty sure that my identity crisis has become a full fledged, albeit incredibly functioning, depression. It might be because I stopped washing my hair every day. It might be seasonal. It might be just me. But all I want to do is drink beer, eat chicken wings, and watch movies. I joined Netflix, and am cramming as many movies as I can into my free trial. I ate chicken wings and didn't count them. Or regret it. Or make sure Ned had his fill before I dived in (almost literally.) I never thought chicken wings would make me happy, or movies, (I would say beer, but...) but these days it's a whole new ballgame here on Roanoke. Or at Charlie O'briens. Or in (as Jackie, who ain't the happiest camper herself, and I dream about on the phone together, yelling over screaming children in the background) "a dark room with movie after movie, calorie free food, and addiction-proof cigarettes." Yes, this is what Jackie and I collectively yearn for. No wonder our sister Ro calls us the Simpson sisters.)
It's so bad that this morning I asked Ned to drop my latest Netflix flick in the post office box before dropping the girls off at school, so it would go out at 8, and hopefully my next movie will come tomorrow. I told this to Kiwi Herman today, and she gasped and called me "alarming". Well, fudge. What the hell am I supposed to do? Although a practicing Catholic, I'm an "atheist at heart" (some call it practical. Who knows.), and a lukewarm soul at that.  My mind is not being exercised, and my big decisions are in truth trite moments pulling me through the day. There are too many addicts in my life, and just when I think I've got it all figured out, my MOTHER (damn her) tells me she thinks I'm having a break down. I don't like Ned anymore, and my nieces and Bff's kids are being enrolled in a 4 hour a week kindergarten called "Holy Cherubs".  Hello, semi-homeschooled kids around 24-7. So long, shopping excursions and lunches. I don't even like shopping anymore, anyway. I do like lunch though. Which reminds me that I don't like Ned anymore, because today when I told him I was gonna buy a Groupon (in which I would pay $10 for $25, mind you) to an Irish Pub by our house, he snappily said "why don't you invest in some spoons instead. I can never find any spoons. You get all these good deals, why don't you get a good deal on silverware."  Holy freakin cow.  Charlie Sheen may know a thing or two about how to live. Goodbye, wholesome. Hello, bender.

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Snowboarding With Stacy

I forgot to mention, in the throes of excitement over my flannel pajamas, that for Christmas, Ned also got me a one-day pass for....snowboarding. Did I mention that I Am Not Athletic? At All? I could look at this situation kindly, and think that Ned sure does have a lot of faith in me. Or I could look at this suspiciously, and wonder if Ned knows the 1st damn thing about me. Positive Pig is going with the former.
So, tomorrow is the big day. I'm going with my friend, whose name I would love to cleverly disguise, but, as Jackie says, is just SUCH a 'Stacy'. And Stacy she is. She drives a red Bronco and drives it like it's a RED BRONCO. I have never felt more safely unsecure in my life. I think her car is one of my favorite places to be. She's also the daughter of a cop, so she glides through intersections with no glance back, and signalling is optional. I feel like I'm in the cool kid's club when I'm in her car.
She's picking me up around 9:30 tomorrow morning. Ned is watching the baby (Toddler. Okay, I get it. She's not a baby anymore.). Yes, Ned babysits our kids. No, I am not a feminist. He loads my bank account and I keep house. F-ing sick. Works for me.
Ned stared at me a second too long when he got home tonight and said "I hope Kazy's okay tomorrow." That's what he calls the baby. (Toddler.) My sister Ro has pointed out the irony more than once, since, really, there's "nothing crazy about her." I think Ned is fully competent of dealing with uncrazy Kazy.
NDW commented today that after my roller blading scenario, she doesn't even want to know about my snowboarding experience. Well, me either. But I think I am going with the right person. Stacy is Nice. Just like Ned is Nice. (We have been together 10 years and he is still the nicest person I have ever met. Does that throw you for a loop? You can be negative and nice. Ned is.) I haven't exactly tested her yet (besides always making her be the DD), but I'm pretty sure she won't leave me on the Bunny Hill. If she does, I'll blog about it. That'll show Stacy not to F&$k with Postive Pig.

The Beginning of Me and Ned

When Ned and I were first dating, he took me roller blading. I hadn't been roller blading in about 6 years, but Ned acted so cool, and excited about it, that I couldn't say no. He obviously thought this was the next natural step in our budding relationship. And I duuuug Ned, so off I went.
He picked me up and drove me to the bike trail by his dad's house. We walked into the kitchen, where Ned critically eyed my roller blades. (Yes, they were unused. No, they were not just purchased. I ain't pretending to be athletic, people.)  "Brakes?" he said scornfully. (I replied with an apathetic shrug. I didn't  know the right answer. "Yes, those are brakes, Ned.") "You don't need brakes, do you?" How do I answer that? "Uh, I guess not." Ned efficiently popped the brakes off my blades and happily handed them to me. "Now they're sweet. That's frickin sweet that you don't need brakes on your roller blades. You're such a cool girl. They're like hockey skates now!" Yippee, Ned. I DON'T F-ING PLAY HOCKEY.  I felt like I was in a movie where the dweeby girl gets singled out by the football captain. That's how Ned was acting. He had found his area of expertise and suddenly I was faceless, nameless, and opinionless. Ned was the leader of the cruel game called Sports.
Anyway, I put them on, trusting that I would be able to follow Ned's instructions on how to brake by using the inside of my foot. (Just like all the hockey players. Because I play hockey.) Next step, Ned? I wobbled after him across the street (and yes, I did wait until there was not a car in sight. Not chancing getting run down walking on roller blades in front of Ned.) Ned naturally went ahead of me, and was skating on one toe, waiting for me to just cross the damn street. Did it occur to Ned to cross with me? No. Ned glided in hockey stance across Main Street, assuming I was next to him, and when he realized I wasn't, yelled across the street "Come on! What're you doing?". It occurred to me, with Main Street between us, that communication might not be our strong point.
When I finally got across, Ned led the way. He took one turn, leaving me in the dust, which I really didn't mind, because I was getting the hang of it. Staring at my feet the whole time, but getting the hang of it. Ned would periodically (this was in a time span of about 30 seconds. Ned covers a lot of territory on wheels in 30 seconds.)  make laps around me, chuckling dismally at my weak smile. He looked almost deceived when he found out I couldn't make eye contact, or talk for that matter, while roller blading. His disappointment in me was not allieved when the next turn Ned took me down was a sudden, great steep hill that I took at full speed, arms flailing, all pride deceased as I desperately grasped at anything- trees, cars, Ned himself- to ctach me from this terrible fall.  Nothing caught me, and I fell. And ripped my jeans and skinned my knee. And finally told Ned that I can't stop without brakes, and that I don't play hockey, and that this whole day was a terrible idea. A terrible, terrible idea.

Happy Belated New Year

Well, hullo. If you haven't guessed, it's been a hell of a new year. Blogging took a back burner as some very important things occurred. Relatively important, anyway.
Monie moved back. 10 minutes from me, into a room with a view. So fun. * Ned and the girls are addicted to ice skating. (They only started yesterday, but even my perpetually freezing 5 year old never asked to leave. For 2 and a half hours. Very Big deal.) * I have realized that mothers make or break your emotional well being, and am hoping to lose weight in the process. Sometimes stress= weight loss. I think it's a pretty even trade.  * I started cloth diapers. * Dan the D-bag got a puppy, aptly named Yeats. Not really aptly, but he's named Yeats. He's a husky/lab mix and has turned my seven year old into Responsiblity and my 5 year old into Anxiety. (I have never seen anyone more aware that a puppy can escape in my life. She literally pushes you out the door to keep them closed, all with a frozen smile on her face. )

I am not a dog person. I used to feed our family dog chocolate so he would have a heart attack. (I was young, okay? And... unstable, in retrospect.) But Yeats is...different. He is actually Cute. And smells like a puppy. And is under the ownership of someone who firmly believes in training dogs (and people), so he is starting school soon. Hopefully a trained dog will change my perspective on dogs in general.  The dogs we had growing up were TERRIBLE. They begged under the table for food, they ate off the stove, they chewed everything in sight, and any time you had friends over you had to yell out the window to "Get away from the door!" If anyone opened our door they would be trampled before they knew what hit them. My mom's response to my complaints? "Oh, lighten up, Joey. You're just not an animal lover. Why don't you pray that you like dogs?" WTF? Seriously, WTF? Are we talking about the same thing here, Mom?
Anyway, Yeats has promise. The girls love him, and even Ned gave him a half nod the other day, and called him "little guy." Between Monie, ice skating with Ned, and Yeats, I think I will be able to ride out this ache called Mother, and have myself a Happy New Year.