Sometimes a little retail therapy isn’t a bad idea.

It’s over!

Would you believe that this was the end of a 3+ month stay, that was originally supposed to last 2 weeks or so? It’s not entirely his fault…trust me…there were many reasons why the stay lasted as long as it did (job stringing him along, then not happening was the big one). Just the same, I feel relieved to have my home back.

This is a big house, for me, anyway. I have three levels, each of which is larger than my old condo. This was *not* a space issue, but rather a lifestyle issue. He’s messy, like a total clutterbug. I’m not a neat freak (I write as I see the dust behind my monitor), but I like a sense of organization. If he’d kept his stuff to the “guest quarters” (finished basement, complete with its own living room, bed, and bath), that part wouldn’t be an issue, but somehow, his stuff just spreads out. Ack!

The bigger problem was mentality. He’s cynical and unhappy about life in general. While this cynicism can lead to many shared laughs at society’s expense (I’ve got a dark humor streak myself), it’s exhausting when the commentaries are constant…like a knack for finding faults without suggesting solutions. I’m relieved to now just have to bring myself up from my own energetic lags rather than fighting off someone else’s.

Ahhhhhhhh.

Oh, one final thing: I’m likely to start writing MUCH more often now.

Pardon the lack of posting. I’m spending my days up at the new digs de-Laura-Ashley-ing it, then my nights back here at the condo packing and preparing for Monday’s move.

Deep thoughts are on hold. :)

Literally on the “dream” part, that is. Sometime this morning, I dreamed of a man who just blew me away. Maybe that isn’t the right term…but whatever the wording, he completely charmed me, without actually trying.

Where: at a church. At a freaky, icky megachurch. Why, oh why? I was completely rolling my eyes at being there, and he got that, but he also somehow was able to look past the joke of it all (even though he “got” why I rolled my eyes) to see the real Jesus behind it. It seems like he had some sort of formal role. Youth pastor? College? Something…he was working with youngish, single people.

sheesh…trying to get this down while I remember anything…

Oh — he was leading some sort of group therapy-type session, and I was giving him grief about it as a participant. Challenging him, making jokes, but somehow, he saw through me that I was serious about it, just trying to stay sane. Guess it was after that ended that we actually talked.

He liked my daughter. I loved watching him talk to her.

Hmmm…looks. Nice-looking, but not stop-the-car-gorgeous. Normal, but attractively normal. When he became beautiful was when he talked. His personality brought him up to drop-dead stunning — to me, anyway. He was smart, funny, loving, sensitive, oh, and did I mention smart?

And, at some point, he hugged me. I can still feel his warm hands on my back and arms, and I felt so…safe. Is that something an independant gal like me is allowed to admit? I wanted to just hold and touch, not even in any sexual way, just…exploring his face and learning the features by braille.

I lost a shoe. I was limping around the church standing on my tip-toes with my right foot to compensate for my lacking shoe, some sort of strappy heel. At some point, one of the guys (friends of “the” guy) came to me with a box of shoes that people had lost and told me that most of them were obviously someone else’s shoes, but this one (pulling one out) looked like it could belong to me. It wasn’t the right shoe, but it was tailored, elegant, and lovely in a box of platform flipflops and teenagerish clunky heels. I wasn’t touched, so much as I was relieved…and gratified…that he’d realized those other shoes couldn’t possibly be mine. I have grown-up taste, after all. (huh? on this part…)

I went with “the” guy back to his home, and there was a homemade pie, ready-to-bake, sitting on his steps. He explained that (female friend) had left it, that she often left him pies. For some reason, I wasn’t jealous. He had pets. A bunch of pets…mostly dogs. One dog in particular who “likes no one” walked up to me and climbed in my lap. I was in.

Sometime around this point, I woke up to my daughter’s climbling all over me in bed as if I were an obstacle course. The room was slightly cool, but I still felt warm all over, from a random person who many not exist in a random dream that could have been caused by last night’s pizza. Just the same, I’m enjoying the slight glow.

Within the past month or so, I decided that dating was a waste of time and that I just couldn’t be bothered to care (I’ve mentally written a post on that two or three times, but couldn’t even be bothered to write *that*). But this man…oh, if I met this guy…I think I could care. So maybe it wasn’t just me. Maybe it *was* them. Both, actually…they just weren’t right for me

A comment on an earlier post made me realize that perhaps I should give Anne Lamott’s work a look. (Paper bag over head…I haven’t ever read her!)

A quick search on Amazon helped me realize that I’ve actually hear her interviewed, and that I’d already considered one of her books — she was featured on the Infinite Mind’s program about Writer’s Block! After perusing the list of her books on Amazon, I picked two more, so here are my purchases:

• Bird by Bird — I have to admit that I harbor the fantasy of writing a book (NOT a novel) and becoming published someday. Next week, I actually will start a short writing workshop that one of the moms in my local group is creating — focusing on the memoir, right up my alley.
• Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith — This one will likely be one that will push my buttons just as well as Blue Like Jazz did back in May. Wow, has it really only been a few short months since I discovered this wonderful world of “progressive” Christianity? It’s amazing how much one simple book recommendation could enrich my life.
• Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year — I had no idea that like me, she was/is also a single mom. Considering that Maya turned one Friday, this should hit home.

Woohoo! Books!

Not sure what’s triggered it, but I’m getting comment spam now.

From here on, the first time you comment, I will have to manually approve it. Once I know you’re a “real person,” your comments will appear right away. I’m unsure how this will affect folks who’ve commented before, but I’m guessing that I’ll be starting from scratch. Thanks for being patient, guys.

Sorry for the inconvenience!

Bad blogger, bad! Bad!

I neglected to post that I’d be out of town for the past week. Um…I was out of town, but back now, so posting should resume before long.

Several site I frequent have reported a deluge of comment spam within the past couple weeks. Until today, I thought the only recourse was for them to turn off the “anonymous” option. I learned from Orac’s site today that this isn’t the case.

Blogger now has a word-recognition feature that blog owners can switch on to require posters to enter letters into a field before the post is accepted. It’s not a perfect solution, and it requires more work for each comment, but if it kills the spam, it’s likely worth it!

I’m on a bit of an unplanned blogging break — life’s just kept me busy enough that commenting on others’ sites has been more fulfilling than writing my own spiel.

In the meantime, I found this in the comments on NinjaNun’s site. It’s so wrong. But so funny.

If you care to see what we’re looking like these days, I just got a ton of photos back from the photographer.

Slideshow here.

Oh, and my wtfwjd? sticker arrived! Now, am I *really* going to put it on my car? Hmmmm…

From The Publishing Law Center, emphasis is mine:

Section 107 of the Copyright Act, entitled, “Limitations on Exclusive Rights: Fair Use,” is the statutory codification of the fair use doctrine. This judicially developed concept strives to balance the public’s need to know and be informed against authors’ incentives to create. The copyright law contemplates that fair use of a copyrighted work without permission shall be for purposes such as (1) criticism and comment, (2) parody and satire, (3) scholarship and research, (4) news reporting and (5) teaching, and that such fair use will not result in the infringement of a copyrighted work.

Some people really should learn to take themselves less seriously.

Today kind of sneaked up on me. I feel as though I should have something deep and moving to post in honor of a birthday, but you know…I just don’t.

Maybe that, in and of itself, says a lot. This year, my birthday just didn’t really seem like a particularly important event to me — I’m just marking another year gone by. So what?

There’s a small part of me that finds that having a child is part of that — there’s no biological clock ticking. Before pregnancy, whenever I met someone new, consciously or not, there was always a calendar in my head. Let’s see…if this is the one…we’d date for at least this long before getting engaged…be engaged for a bit…get married…be married, no kids for a while. The youngest I’ll be when I have kids is (age). After the dust settled from discovering that I was pregnant (and making the decision to become a mother), I remember this occurring to me — I know how old I’ll be when I become a mother. I’ll be 33. Silly, isn’t that?

I’d love to have another child someday, not because I liked being pregnant (I *hated* it) and not to go through the miracle of birth again (although that was better than pregnancy), but just to actually give Maya that sibling relationship. When I watch others’ kids, the dynamics between siblings just fascinates me, and there’s a connection that I’d love Maya to experience. That said, that desire isn’t important enough to me for me to pick “just anyone” to be my partner and that child’s father — so it may happen, it may not.

Guess now I’m having more thoughts on age.

34. As a child, then a teenager, then a 20-something adult, I never conceived of my being in my 30s. Really, it’s almost as if I never thought I’d get here — like I’d die before reaching this age? I certainly would have never fathomed that I’d be a single mom in my 30s. How horrific! What’s amazing is that I like my life now probably more than I’ve liked my life…ever. That’s not to say that I expect things to stay just as they are; certainly not. Before pregnancy, I’d decided that graduate school made sense to me. That’s still true. Even better, Maya’s entrance into my life has provided a little more focus for the areas I’d like to research. Watching her personality develop…watching her become her own person…completely fascinates me. It’s awesome to watch, especially when I realize the role I hold in helping her find/become herself.

So again, 34. It’s such a non-age. It’s not one that people get all angsty about. I’m no longer in my “early” 30s, and I’m okay with that. Guess that’s about it.

My next door neighbor is a Christian. She’s the sort that makes me want to rename “what I am” (see today’s earlier post). She attends one of the large carnival-of-Jesus type evangelical churches in town (the slightly less charismatic one), and her social existance is almost entirely defined by her church group, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Her house is neat as a pin, decorated with quilts, fake flower arrangements, and at least a small collection of figurines. She drives a silver Honda Civic of indeterminate age, and no piece of dirt would ever dare to adhere to its finish, nor trash remain in its interior. She’s industrious, continually starting (and *gasp* finishing) one project after another to her condo. She’s somewhere in her forties, divorced, no kids…and always dressed very neatly, if perhaps with no style whatsoever (meee-owwww - shutup allison!).

I have no problem with all of the above. Seriously, I don’t.

What I DO have a problem with is this…vibe…I get from her that somehow, anyone who lives their lives in any different way than the way she chooses is to be pittied — they’re somehow lesser.

Lest you think I’m imagining things, there have been a few incidents.

Several months ago (while I was pregnant, no less), she went out of her way to explain to me how she and (upstairs neighbor) had both painted the doors to their storage space off the carports, and wouldn’t it be nice if I painted mine as well? “I have the paint already — you can just use what I’ve bought.” Um…okay…whatever. As it turns out, I asked my condo’s maintenance, and it’s NOT MY JOB to do ANYTHING to this door. They replaced my door (it had a crack) and painted it FOR ME.

When I first told neighborlady that I was pregnant (no, I wasn’t just getting fat, although I did that too), she asked pointedly, “Oh is (exboyfriend I’m still friends with) the father?” No, he wasn’t. She then proceeded to push for details, details that are none of her business. While I’ve made my peace with how my daughter came into this world since, at the time, this was a pretty fresh wound. Besides that, did I mention that perhaps it’s NONE OF HER FUCKING BUSINESS?

A garden runs along the southern wall of my condo. It’s actually “attached” to my condo in terms of responsibility, as the previous owner created it. Last year, for obvious reasons (I was pregnant and hot all the time), I let it go…and weeds and grass crept in. Who am I kidding? They stormed the castle, unpacked their trunks, and made themselves at home! I started working on this garden this spring, just to run into (other neighbors) one day standing outside my front door, analyzing my garden and deciding what they’d like to do with it. Um…well, since it wasn’t (yet) established that this wasn’t an HOA-owned spot — even though I was fairly certain it was my space — I said that sure, I’d love the help, and I’d even feed a workparty. Weeks passed (with my plans on hold) while I tried to arrange for “the day” to dig out the mess and replant. Neighborlady then turns up at my front door and says that (maintenance supervisor) told her that the HOA wouldn’t contribute and that she and (other neighbor) were no longer going to plan to work on this garden. I’d wasted a month waiting for these people. Still, that wasn’t an issue.

Within the week, neighborlady walks by my window toward the garden with (one of her many man-friends from church), and they’re standing outside my window pointing to the garden and talking. I headed outside and asked what they were doing.

NL: Oh, we were just talking about what could be done here.
Me: Why?
NL: Just talking about it?
Me: Well, you’ve said you’re not interested in working on this, so what’s the point?

I forget what else was said…but it comes back to me that NL went on to tell other neighbors that I was “rude” to her. I explained to them the context of what I said, and my other neighbors kind of responded, “ohhhhhh…” I also gave a little background and said that in several other instances, NL had intruded into my life, and that she didn’t seem to have much of a concept of appropriate boundaries. (Other neighbor) replied, “yeah, NL seems to have boundary issues.” I don’t think I’m crazy, you see.

In the time since then, I’ve tried to be nice to NL. I’ve helped her move around a dining table she was (industriously) stripping and restaining. I’ve had the ocassional small-talk conversation with her. But still, we’re nowhere near anything that could be labeled “friends.”

Why this rant?

She has (yet another male friend) over, and is showing him around and pointing out another garden that the HOA replaced (at her request, and she maintains it). While they’re standing outside, I hear MY NAME. She’s talking about my garden. The one that I dug out ENTIRELY BY MYSELF. The one I spent a couple hundred dollars replanting. The one that already has weeds creeping back in that I haven’t pulled out yet.

This shouldn’t bother me. It shouldn’t. So why does it? Why do I feel such utter annoyance at NL? Why do I want to go grab her by the shoulders and scream, “I’M SO THRILLED THAT YOUR LIFE IS EVER-SO-NEAT AND COMPLETELY DEVOID OF STYLE AND COLOR. I’M SO HAPPY THAT EVERYTHING IN YOUR LIFE STAYS IN PLACE. BUT GUESS WHAT??? IT’S YOUR LIFE, AND I WOULDN’T TRADE YOU FOR THE WORLD! NOW GET YOUR NOSE OUT OF MY BUSINESS, DON’T TALK ABOUT ME ***EVER AGAIN***, AND LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!!!”

That wouldn’t be very Christ-like, would it?

And I’m supposed to love this person. SIGH. I think I have a long way to go.

…turned out a little differently than planned, but was still good.

The song for the day was Shawn Colvin’s Whole New You.

You have the right to get down on your kness
you have the right to make yourself believe
you don’t know my name
but I don’t care
you can do it
cuz you have the right

To shake the loneliness and shine the light
take all your tears save ‘em for a rainy night
go and wish on every star that’s fallen
shake your head and wonder when it’s all to good to be true
like a whole new you

So don’t lose the way
You can do no wrong
And don’t spend your days just trying to be strong
when you don’t know your name
you know it’s okay, you can do it
cuz you have the right

To shake the loneliness and shine the light
take all your tears save ‘em for a rainy night
go and wish on every star that’s fallen
shake your head and wonder when it’s all to good to be true
like a whole new you
it’s too good to be true
like a whole new you

Shake the loneliness and shine the light
take all your tears save ‘em for a rainy night
go and wish on every star that’s fallen
shake your head and wonder
shake your head and wonder baby
go and wish on every star that’s fallen
shake your head and wonder when it’s all to good to be true
like a whole new you
it’s to good to be true
like a whole new you

Doesn’t fit my life perfectly, but it does enough so (the chorus, anyway) that I just smiled and felt pretty darned contented. I never knew how much my world would change with my daughter…or perhaps better, I knew it would change, but I didn’t know how much I’d LOVE how it changed.

Yes, I’m talking about class, you know, like castes? Lots on my mind about this today, so I might as well blog it. Along with that, I might just add a category called “Snotty Bitch.”

More to come…

Thanks (again) to Margi.

My daughter hit nine months today, so we’ve been busy doing the doctor thing, and my thoughts have more been on her instead of the topics that fit here. Good lord, she is so freakin’ tiny!

While at the doctor’s office, my pediatrician noticed a “hip click” on Maya’s left side. We’re being referred to an orthapedist for further checking, because this can be indicative of hip dysplasia. Being the good (or is that neurotic?) mom that I am, I researched infant hip dysplasia as soon as I got home. YIKES.

I pray that this is really nothing, and thank god that I’m shelling out the large payments monthly for a good health insurance plan. Even if I’m spending more monthly than I might have out of pocket…when things like this arise, there’s no question about whether to go to the specialist. We just go.

PLEASE. FTLOG, put on some bike shorts! Barring that, please have your spotter stand at the foot of the weight bench instead of the head while you do chest presses.

Would you please tell your creature the songbird that 3:15am oustide my window is *not* an appropriate time to start singing your praises?

Thanks.