Everyday Italian...

Ah, winter dieting has approached once again. Every year at this time I take stock and realize I cannot zip my pants, and the fear sets in over what I will look like when the sun hits my face... ( i.e. thighs).

It is a bit of an obsession of mine.. this body. I realize now that the experience of being checked out naked in the shower by a bunch of teenage boys was (as I look back) like thirteen year-old rape, and so my body image has been distorted over the years. I was born with a beautiful body, but like all women, I pick it apart, analyze it, drag it in the mud, take it to lunch and then feel guilty that I ever let it eat a thing. It's a vicious cycle, but most women understand the pain and confusion. Perhaps, I a little more so.

I went through periods of anorexia and bulimia most of my early life trying to attain a level of perfection that no one but Barbie and Giada seem to have. The illusion of the beauty-obsessed media, an over-zealous skinny model-type mother with an attitude, and the horrific thought of leering shower stares at my prepubescent nakedness have left me perplexed and raw about what I look like today. I don't know anymore and (frankly) have stopped really giving a shit. Having white hair is disheartening enough without this strange pre-geriatric, post lymphomatic girth and so... I continue to lie about not caring, fight the fight, be hungry, work out like it is my profession and...   watch cooking shows to ease my sorrow. As I plan a September trip to Italy, I am practicing my Italiano and watch Everyday Italian... my favorite. It is what I do in the winter frost when I am hungry and wait for the thaw of spring. I watch her show, go grocery shopping and whip up my version that same evening. I, of course, am not allowed to overeat any of it and so I continue to inflict wanton mental suffering upon myself... as I smell the fragrant garlic in olive oil and fresh basil while deliberating the wearing of shorts in the upcoming warmer months.

I do love that sexpot Giada.  After my demise, I am reincarnating as her life partner.

Ciao. A più tarrrrrrrdi.

All I need is a mustache and a plane ticket...

Friday is just Tuesday with a drinking problem.

Why should I be afraid of dying of cancer? A meteor could hit my house any second now.

What me worry?

For the record, I don't believe in funerals or burials. I think taking room up in a cemetery on Earth is just ridiculous. Viewings are grotesque. Depressing black clothes reflect sadness and do not celebrate a beautiful, joyful life. Instead of all that insane hoopla, I am having a very large party at the dance studio with all my favorite hip-hop music. I may request a signature drink, line dances and balloon rides. If my kids insist on having a traditional funeral, I simply refuse to be a part of it.

Smack it up, flip it, rub it down.

a decision...

When I was twenty-seven years-old, I had my first baby. When he was two years-old, I decided to take him to a mother's day-out. I had trepidation because I knew that no one loved him like I did. I dropped him off anyway because all the mothers did it. He cried.and.cried. I went out to run errands thinking about nothing but him the entire two hours I was away.

Anxiously, I parked the car when I returned, walked up the daycare stairs, wondering how my sweet little baby boy had faired without me. There was a door with a small round window in the middle like something in a restaurant kitchen. I looked inside the window which was about as tall as I was. As I looked around the room there were about twenty highchairs lined up.  I was looking for my baby in the lineup. I found him. He was around seventh from the left of the twenty in the highchair parade. He looked vacant. Sad. Lost. Alone. I had never seen him look this way, and it was an earth-shattering, life-changing moment.

As I looked inside the round window his eyes met mine, and it was at that moment that I realized that I would never leave him (or any of my babies) in public daycare again. He raised is arms up to me as to say..."where have you been?... I love you so much... you are the love of my life, Mommy...  please get me the hell out of here now."

I did. I never looked back.

If I had been a single mother, my choice may have been different out of necessity. I am the mother of a two income family who lived with one income because of this experience. I was broke, lived within a very small budget and rarely had anything for myself even though I had three more babies. I don't live with one regret having made this decision. It was all due to that one afternoon.

A decision. The right one for me.

12 days...

Live it. Believe it. 

Lower expectations (the root of all pain)

Valentine massacre...

I think some people think that love is only relegated to boxes of chocolates or warm and fuzzy feelings. And so when nitty turns to gritty and pitty gets downright shitty, the unrealistic expectations regurgitate until there are straying eyeballs, and then *woops* a bright and shiny new partner with big tits or a large bank account appears. The heartbreaking part of this is that children become involved and (sadly) their lives are built on their ego-filled parent (or parents) who will inevitably do it again (and again). 

I don't get this.

Most of these types don't understand that marriage is a marathon not a series of orgasmic sprints piled on top of each other. Leaving is easy. Anyone can do that, but sticking with it and making it work is worth exploring -  since most people can't do it. 

Marriage isn't what they think. There is nothing even-stephen or fuzzy-Mclovey about it. Sometimes they have to sacrifice without getting one single thing back...  many times, years go by when things are not peachy, fuzzy or fun...  if they could hold onto these truths and stop making it all about "their needs," they might get what they asked for in the beginning...

a real marriage.

My husband's mother is eight-four and crippled. That is, until you take her to Nordstrom or Macys when she becomes a Gold medal awarding-winning bargain shopper. If you take her to Saks, she elevates and heals people at the makeup counter, and walks on water afterwards. Call Joel Osteen for a prayer vigil...

 it is a freaking miracle..

You can tell you are getting older when you wake up in the morning, look in the mirror and need to say... "cut me Mick."