Socks

Nothing in life is perfect, and everything has the potential to cause problems. It’s just a fact of life. But over the past few years, I’ve realized my intense dislike for an incredibly common, every day item. Socks. Yes, socks. Every day I loathe them a bit more. Or I would loathe them… if I could ever find them.

You can’t find socks. No matter how many socks I throw in the washer, a considerably lesser number finds its way out of the dryer. Is my lint trap hungry? Do our feet stink, and they’re hiding? Is someone breaking into my home and stealing them to replace their missing socks? Am I absolutely insane? Where are my socks?

Buying more isn’t an option. It’s just not. Because when I buy more socks, I don’t find more socks. I lose more socks. Then I get more angry and frustrated with the amount of money I continue to spend on tiny little foot covers that just won’t hang around.

Then there is Saydee. My dear, sweet, doofy dog. She’s a German shepherd and lab mix, but her personality is one-hundred-percent lab. Completely. And her head is slightly small for her body, which is funny, but completely unrelated to the topic at hand. Okay. Back on track. So I buy Saydee the cutest, loudest, most annoying toys in the world. I also buy her the fluffiest, snuggliest and chewiest toys. Basically, if it’s a dog toy, I buy it. But Saydee. Dear sweet Saydee. She eats my socks. She eats my husband’s socks. My kid’s socks. She just looooves socks. Why Saydee? Why?

Then there’s the joy of adulting. Once upon a time I could throw on sneakers and weird, awkward squished up socks with anything. Because when you’re a kid, who cares? But in the adult life of looking professional, sleek, cute etc… socks apparently matter. But now I can’t just buy big-ass packs of socks and go along my way. Nope. It’s not that easy. There’s athletic socks for when I get off my butt and onto some sort of workout equipment. There’s no show for low shoes, there’s peep toe for heels I don’t want to stink. There are boot socks. Did you know there are socks just for wearing with your boots? (Well, there are. Right? I know!!!! ) Then there are socks for wearing converse, socks that are really just tiny pieces of weird stocking material to keep my flats from killing me, fuzzy warm jammie socks, then there are husband socks and kid socks.

And kid socks. See, kid socks have some kind of magical seam in them. This little seam is apparently not in adult socks. And it’s a mean seam. It makes every single sock my 6 year puts on “feel funny”. These socks are not good enough. And my six year old needs to try on 4 or 5 socks before she decides she will allow it. And of course this sock that finally passes the sock test of the six year old decides to attack my poor innocent child as soon as a shoe is placed over this sock. I’m dead serious. Every single day is a full on war with a sleepy child as she is innocently targeted and attacked by these “funny-feeling” socks.

Seriously. Socks. The least seen, the least important, easiest item to replace in my wardrobe, causes the most stress out of any clothing items. Why? Why does this happen? Socks should not cause anxiety. But they do. They do. And I hate them. Completely and entirely hate them and their entire existence. Damn you, socks. Damn you.

Well Then. That was Awkward

So. Have you ever been murdered with eyeballs before? I mean yeah  I’ve heard the phrase “if looks could kill” but I mean, have you actually felt like someone was actually, seriously trying to murder you with their face before? Up until today my answer was no. As many of you know, I had quite the ridiculous experience with work, being pursued by a married man and then becoming the obsessive stalkee (I may have made that work up) of his wife. Well. I had enough of that and decided to put everything on blast (see previous blog post) and the communication from her finally stopped at that point. I honestly have no real ill feelings toward her. I understand that she loves her husband and she’s willing to believe what the man she has spent almost two decades with has to say. I’d like to think we all would side with our spouses, because we all want our other halves to be great, loving, sincere people. So, while I don’t know what stories she was told and how true any of them were, I understood her hostility. I just wanted her to leave me alone. Anywho, so she left me alone. The last few months have been quiet, the paranoia when checking my email, Facebook, Linkedin, and walking into my own front yard has died down quite a bit. But today. WOOOOOO. Today.

I’m sitting in my lovely cubicle at work when I suddenly realize I was bourbon chicken for lunch. Not like fancy bourbon, like gross, liquidy, mall bourbon chicken. SO me and my gal pal from work load up into her car and head for the mall. I’m sitting there, picking up my soy sauce and collecting my things to meet up with my friend who is picking up her food at another restaurant. I turn around to scan the room, see if she’s still ordering or waiting for me. People are everywhere. It’s lunch time, on a weekday in a busy little city. So it’s pretty full. So I’m scanning all of these people, and my eyes graze across this middle aged, blonde, maybe a little tired looking woman; and I think to myself Man, that woman looks PISSED. I keep scanning and I can feel this heat on me. So I turn a little back to this woman. Then I realize why its so damn warm all of a sudden. This incredibly angry woman is staring right at me. Not past me, not through me in some daydreaming state, but drilling her icy eyes into me, trying to find my soul (and probably hoping I don’t have one… which I do). It takes me a minute. Because I have never met this woman in person. I have obviously spent a whole lot less time staring at her pictures than she has apparently been staring at mine. Because this woman managed to zone in on me in a crowded ass food court although we have literally never met before.

Then it kind of hits me. By hits me I mean smacks me in the face like a boulder. An angry, tired middle aged boulder that kind of looks like it forget to brush it’s hair that morning. But a boulder none the less. This is HIS wife. This is the woman that caused me to have to stop writing my blog for months, that caused me to have to make all of my social profiles private. The woman who spent occasions messaging my husband just to let him know what a whore she thinks I am. So this is her in person. Hm. But like any disaster in real life. I cannot stop looking at her. In fact, me being the person I am, I walk up to my gal pal and end up giggling uncontrollably. Because what the hell else do you do in this awkward situation. I mean I know I’m laughing. I know she’s crazy. And I know there is a small chance I am about to get shot in the middle of the mall food court. But for some reason I still laugh.

I have never felt like it has taken longer for a cashier to ring out a single lunch platter before in my entire life. Ages went by in between the time my girlfriend managed to get her card and out when the cashier swiped it. A few seasons may have gone by. My six year old could have completed college in the time it took for this moment to go by. She meant that glare though. Man did she mean it. She turned around and watched me leave the entire building. I kept waiting for the moment. When she tried to approach me, or shot me… but as you can see here, I’m still kicking. At least for now.

Anyway, there isn’t much that happened in this story. But I thought of a million clever and bitchy things I could have said once I was out of the situation. But that’s how it always is. Always the snappy genius after the fact. I’m sure she’s already checked my blog a few times today. So I’ll just say sorry you hate me. Sorry you had to see me in my fabulous and adorable business casual outfit and that I probably ruined your nice kid free trip to the mall. Hope you are well. Please don’t kill me in the food court. K,thnx,bye.

And to the rest of you. I think I’m over the hiatus thing. I’m officially back to write all about my ridiculous life for you all to pretend to enjoy. YAY!

Here’s to You Mrs. Hull

I’ve rewritten this post in my mind about fifteen times in my head over the past week. Sometimes it’s snarky, catty and down right mean. But others it’s apologetic and empathetic. But I’ve decided to aim for an earnest and sincere approach.

Let me start by saying, I am sorry you are hurt. I am so sorry you feel pain over the recent events of your life. Anyone who knows me (which you do not, in any way shape or form) knows that I would never intentionally inflict pain upon another human being. This isn’t because I never have ill fillings towards others, but because I feel I have no place in the judgement or justice of others. Nothing in this world gives me the right to label another human being, and I refuse to do so.

Let me make a quick cut to the end image here in case you don’t want to read this entire lengthy post. Nothing I say, nothing I do, and nothing about me can or will ever fix the place you are currently in. I do sincerely hope you can find peace with or without your husband, but I am not and cannot be the person to bring that to you. No matter how many times you privately view my LinkedIn, stalk my blog, follow me on my numerous random social media outlets or send me (and my husband) insulting messages, my life can never ever fix yours.

Moving onward.

You continuously emphasize the importance of responsibility. Of taking ownership of our own actions, of truly and honestly understanding our own parts in our worlds. For some reason, you seem to need me to inform you of the consequences I’ve faced for my actions. You need me to tell you where I have or have not failed in my attempts to right my wrongs in life. But unfortunately, you have no right to that. My husband doesn’t need you sending him messages from fake profiles on Facebook. He knows what I have and have not done. He knows where I went wrong and where I attempted to correct my mistakes. And I have no responsibility, no obligation to explain to you how that has affected my life. But I’ll tell you it has. I have experienced hell and back and carried continuous guilt for what people think I may or may not have done despite the truth. But while we’re on the topic of responsibility. I’ll take the moment to mention that it seems you yourself have not faced your own actions (or lack there of) in life. Where are you in this equation that you continuously feel the need to shove in my face? Where are your failures? What did you do, (or not do) to allow your life and your relationships to end up where they are right now? You cannot blame someone on the outside for your failures inside. Like you, I lived my life with partial information from a third party. You may have 16 years of pain, blindness and lies on you. But that does not make the deception I faced any less real. I cannot help you with your own part in where you are. You will need to find that within yourself. Somewhere. It’s there I’m sure as I’ve heard about the great mother you are, the strong caretaker who gave up your own happiness to follow around the career of someone else just to end up here. But that’s a strength you must find on your own. I have nothing for you. Nothing that can help you.

“I know what it’s like to grow up with a mother like you”

Do you? Because to me it seems you are lacking the self confidence and self love that your mother should have taught you. A mother like me has taught my daughter that life is beautiful, and never, ever perfect. That her mistakes are her own to repair in whatever way she needs to feel as though she righted herself. That her life is not someone else’s to dictate, to decide what she is or isn’t. And that her facing her consequences is a journey she can take as alone as she feels. She understands the beauty of humanity, mistakes and the importance of only those closest to her. A mother like me will have a strong, giving and real daughter. She won’t attempt to hide behind a divine being and the art of “prayer” to feel better about calling other people whores.

This brings me to my last message. Do not, ever think that God or Jesus or whatever being you believe in looks the other way while you try and disrupt the life I am rebuilding. Do not think for a second that any God would approve of you calling someone a whore, of you stalking someone, and attempting to get in the way of their life after they’ve asked you countless times to let them be. How can you sit there and claim that you PRAY for someone or their loved ones, while purposely getting in the way of them living their lives? Where in the Bible did God give you the right to inflict whatever punishment you see fit to others while pretending to be holy and giving to his spirit? I’m sure the answer is nowhere. So essentially, what I’m getting at here, is that your actions are hypocritical and really paint you in a light that doesn’t show your best attributes.

I’ll say again, and for the last time for you, I’m sorry anything I ever did caused you pain. I’m sorry you hurt and I’m sorry it took you months to realize what was happening in your own home. But I made my efforts to make it stop and even took myself out of my expected career in attempt to make it stop. So don’t think I didn’t have a hand in the consequences, that I didn’t face mine or that I’m not earning my rights as a wife, a mother, a friend, and a brand new employee in a new career.

I wish the best for you. I truly do. And I hope that you can find a way to either fix your marriage, or better yet that you find that strength to move on on your own. But I will never take the insults you throw at me or my husband seriously. Because I know exactly who I am, what I am, and the mistakes I’ve made. Your judgment has no place in my life.

Ku Ku Kachoo Mrs. Hull, Heaven holds a place for those who pray. Those who pray with true intentions and pure of heart. If that’s what you believe in of course. I do hope you make your way out of where you are though. But once again, and one final time, I am not the answer to that. Good luck.

Life

So I got a new job. And I like it. I work all the time. But it’s work that matters and overtime is real life. However, I never get to talk about all the things I enjoy in life lately. Because I live, in this constant knowledge that someone is reading my blogs. Stalking my pages and in the way of my life. So I can’t say much for now. But just so you all know… Thanks you for following my blog, for loving me and for being my support. I’ll return soon ❤

We Get Our Nails Done.

I’m having a tough time with myself at the moment. Life has really imploded and I’m taking a step back to look at things. I’m actually pretty disappointed in myself and my apparent close mindedness over the years.

I’ve always been a supporter of equality, of everyone being equal and really disliked the fast that gender or sex could play a role in any decisions. For some dumb reason, I thought that we, as a society were past most of the issues women faced in the workplace and in life today. And it took a massive explosion for me to realize, that just isn’t true. Not one damn bit.

And in a world where women are still seen as weak, and needy and unable to excel without the help of a man to save the day, we have to somehow still fight to be strong, to stand tall, and to not fall victim to the chatter of others in our moments of success. We live in a world where some men look down on us, manipulate us, and emotionally distress us, yet other women aren’t on our side either. We bash one another judge weight, clothes, career choices or lack there of, and we as women spend so much time feeling honestly alone.

Yet somehow, in all this time that we are supposed to support ourselves but are also forced into being taken care of, we as women are still left to pick up the mess left from everyone and everything else. It’s what we do, it’s how we function. We clean up messes, we nurture the scared, the hurt, the damaged, we organize the chaos and somehow we are supposed to still stay strong.

So in all the havoc of the world. All the requirements, the judging, the pain and lonely life we often live as women, I feel an overwhelming need to remind my daughter, that whatever mess she ends up following in life, whatever mountain of clutter she decides to tackle, that she always, ALWAYS needs to make time for herself, to take care of herself. There should be something that is hers, that she does, without guilt, without question, that just lets her sit. And be, and experience and relax what it is to be truly taken care of, with no strings attached to a clean home or fed children or a successful office.

For me, that has always been getting my nails done. I like it. I feel like a lady, but I get to share my creativity through my nail art, and get to feel the power of being a well groomed woman, while enjoying letting someone else do the work for once. My daughter, she’s only six. But every time I go to get my nails done, I now take her. I get her nails painting. I let her relax and enjoy being taken care of. I get to simultaneously teach her lessons in how to treat people, how to tip and even how to not address foreign accents loudly and publicly.

Because in this world, where we are starting to see all work, no play and no way to be right, I need my daughter to remember she is worth being pampered. She is special. And she deserves something of her own.

Impaled

It happened. It happens to us all at some point. I’m having a great day. I look good, I smell good, I feel good. I’m in the middle of handling something like the pro I am, feeling amazing about myself and everything I bring to the table at work, home, school or wherever it is I am. But then…

BAM!

Oh. My. God. Am I dead? I died! I’m dying right? Is it bleeding???

My favorite bra. My bra that gave the pep to my boobs that allowed me to feel I could take on the world, has turned on me! Et tu, Brute? I feel the death of underwire, stabbing into the underside of my poor defenseless boob. Trying to find its way through my ribs and through my heart, to end me once and for all.

But I’m in the middle of being a bad ass. What do I do??? Tis’ a scratch I tell myself. I’ll mask the pain, I’ll make it through. But in reality, my skin aches, my boob aches, my heart aches at the loss of my favorite bra. The beautiful day at hand shattered, by the underwire of my closest ally. The traitor has impaled me. And it hurts, deep into my soul!

 

 

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*I would like to give a shout out to Victoria’s Secret, for dipping their underwires in some type of rubbery goodness, so I can be softly murdered by my own bra instead of sharply stabbed. Thank you, I love you ❤ *

 

 

It’s Still an Aviary.

Every time I start to feel happy and content with my flock, something happens. My little HappyBird fell off his swing today. He hit the bottom of his cage and laid there clenched up and rolling around. I carefully got his stuff wing out and held him while he breathed heavily and flinched ever so slightly while blinking at me. I initially thought his passing would be quick. So I sat there and I held him.

He didn’t go quick though. He seized and wiggled and sat there in pain. I couldn’t wait and watch him suffer. I raced off down the street, praying that the emergency vet would be open despite the upcoming hurricane, and I took my little lime green HappyBird to finally end his pain.

I lost one of my babies today. My face is smeared with mascara, my heart hurts like hell, and Im terrified to ever own a parrotlet again. But I still have 5 other feathered babies to care for. So I must pick my head up and carry on. But dear lord, I hope nothing else needs to travel the rainbow bridge anytime soon. I’m not sure I can keep doing this.

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Rest Well Sweet HappyBird.