Marketing...

You've seen them, haven't you?

Coke's newest gimmick to sell 20 oz bottles this summer...

Now, most normal people would think this was a cute idea.  They may even pick up an extra Coke if they happened to see a name they recognized while waiting in the check out line at the grocery store.

But I am not normal.

I can be psychotically mildly obsessive when it comes to these things.

Particularly when I have an extremely common name and STILL couldn't find one with my name.

Really, Coke?  REALLY?

Game on baby.  

GAME. 

ON.

Now, I'm not a crazy person. (Depending on who you ask) I did not make any special trips out to my local Walmart/Target just to look through the names. But, you know, if I happened to stop in to pick up, say, gum, I would take a quick peak.

And by take a peak, I mean strategically empty one compartment of the bin into a shopping cart and then load the contents of the second compartment into the one I just emptied, checking each one for my name. Finding nothing after hundreds of bottles.  

Zip. Zilch. Nada.

After hundreds.

But I did find quite a few that I could give away.

So I did.  

Randomly.

While they weren't home.

And had no idea they were coming....

At my sister's...

I picked some up for surprise Christmas gifts...

I found Tony...in diet... cause you know he's watching his waistline...

For my friend before she left for work...

I surprised the boy's friends with the retro Coke-A-Cola bedroom...

Youngest's School Psychologist from elementary school...

Randomly left one for a co-worker...

And you know what?

It made everyone's day. And they all now know I'm a certifiable nuts-O.

And after a few days, I got this random text from a different co-worker....

.....and it made my day too.

So how 'bout you?  

Who are you sharing a Coke with this summer?

Plastic In The Dirt...

"You can paint that house a rainbow of colors,

Rip out the floorboards, replace the shutters,

But that's my plastic in the dirt..."

~ John Mayer (1983)

~~~~~~

This month marks the ten year anniversary of my closing on this house.  A year prior I had been left with two boys, one and two years old, no job, $7 in the bank and a 10K bar tab that my (soon to be ex) husband was kind enough to run up on MY credit card.  He had left for his "better life", one that didn't include me and only the occasional non financial and more fun responsibilities of parenthood. And while this better life of his included freedom from the chains that tied him down, it also left him free to become homeless multiple times and spiral out of control in health and mind. I didn't have the luxury of having a hiatus from life, and did what I had to to ensure stability for the boys. I let go of a lot of pride, moved in with my parents and saved.  I worked when I could, I rarely had any me time, and stayed focused.  In less than a year, my divorce was finalized and I purchased a small house with a lot of potential.

Windows were replaced. Walls were painted.  Carpeting went in.  Slowly it started to feel like home. We didn't have much, having lost or sold off everything in the divorce, but I had what mattered, my sons. I spent my days ripping out and relaying insulation, cutting holes in walls, and rerunning electrical wires and outlets.  Each time I found a little memento of the family that lived here before.  Company photos, newspaper clippings, the stamps that are the background of this blog... all found in nooks and crannies of our home.

The yard was no exception.  Bob, the man who owned the house before me, who had been raised here by his grandmother, was FAMOUS for burying things in the yard.  We have found everything from asphalt, brick, flagstone, shovels, coins, oil cans, old bottles, glass, tonka trucks, rocket igniters, and weird pieces of plastic. Having removed hundreds of random pieces or rock and metal during the front yard renovation, Tony is NOT a fan of Bob's methods. I am more used to it, figuring it to be just a fact of life.  He had after all, lived here off and on for over 40 years.

Yesterday while I was at work, Tony started ripping up the flagstone patio that we have at the base of the back stairs.  The goal is to even it out, level the stone, and make it a bit wider than it is now.  Not a huge thing, just VERY labor intensive and hard on the back.  When I got home, he had it all ripped up and had dug down about 6 inches to start leveling it off.  Once I got home and revved myself up with some Advil, I went out to help him start dry laying the pieces.  As we went along, we pulled the medium sized rocks from the dirt before dry laying the stone so that they would be less wobbly while it was still a work in progress.

And so we went along.  Removing rocks, laying flagstone, pick up a rock, move the flagstone, pick up the ...wait...that's not a rock...

...it's a plastic turtle.  Encased in dirt, missing a googly eye, it was Oldest's turtle toy from when he was maybe 5.  It was HIS plastic in the dirt.

And with that, a new chapter of our home's history was unearthed.

Meanwhile Back At Mamma's...

"...the porch light's on, come on in if ya wanna..." ~ Tim McGraw

Actually it's the back light.

But we're home.

All the time.

Anxiously awaiting pay day.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I am in no way complaining about feeling broke.  In the last month I have spent out a lot of money on things that are luxuries.  Central air installed in the house, 6 days of hotel rooms, and new sneakers for Oldest and myself just to name a few.  There's been plenty of money spent on non luxuries as well, like home owner insurance, a full tank of propane, and about $600 worth of co-pays and non insurable extras that I wasn't expecting.  Truthfully, I never take for granted how fortunate I am to be able to pay for all those things in cash, and as much as I mumble about going to work every day, I appreciate that it keeps the roof over our heads, food in the bellies, and shoes on our feet.  Literally. Tony works as well, but our finances are kept separate for the most part, and while he pays a large amount of the expenses around here and randomly hands me proverbial blank checks to do with what I want, I still feel as though it's my responsibility to balance my money appropriately.

And for the last two pay periods, the balance has been dead near zero.

Truth is, it was not really that long ago that every pay period was down to the wire. As a single mom I was the only momentary support for the boys and financial priorities were 1) mortgage 2) day care, and 3) everything else necessary for existing. Our fridge was never full (mind you, now a days it's still never full because Oldest has got the teen tapeworm and eats it ALL.) and quite often I was scouring the attic for things to sell on eBay.  Nonetheless, we survived.  We always managed.  And for the most part, I never worried about how we'd make it though.  I just kept going, day to day, pay check to pay check. So last pay period, when we were down to $4, I kind of looked at it like a challenge.

We went no where we didn't need to go.  Every trip was consolidated with somewhere else.  I said "No" when the kids wanted to go for ice cream.  I resisted hitting the grocery store because I was "in the mood for insert whatever here" and made what we had on hand for dinner instead.  I window shopped online for fabric for the curtains instead of getting tempted in the fabric store. And the finally, Friday came and all was good in our world again.

And then the next round of medical bills came, the new premium for the home owner's insurance, the discovery of an empty propane tank (hot water), and the blow out of Oldest's sneakers.

So here I am again.  Returning unopened vitamins because I can use the $15 for gas (What was I thinking anyway?  TWO capsules, TWICE a day?  No one has time for that.) and foraging the freezer for long forgotten meals to be made.  And though all this, you know what I've discovered?  That despite the whining from the kids of "starving" and "it's not fair that we have no dessert", knowing that I won't be throwing freezer burnt food away makes me feel less wasteful.  Finally making those cookies from the mix way in the back makes the house smell good. And being caught up on laundry, because there's no where to go and Youngest seems to like hanging out in his boxer shorts all day, makes the people in this house smell good.

Yeah, being stuck in the house isn't all that bad, especially when it's pouring buckets outside.  It gives me the chance to change out the buckets it's pouring inside up in the attic.

It seems the whereabouts of the leak is still eluding us both.

And the roofing cement/tar is all gone anyway.

And... there's no money to buy more right now even if I could find the leak.

*sigh*

Is it Friday yet?

I Am NOT That Friend...

I spent two hours this morning trying to get out of bed.  Today it was not the ankles, leg pain, or fatigue that it has been for the last year or so, nor was it the result of an overindulgence in sugar or tequila the night before.  The latest inconvenience is the fireworks inside me that hopefully will be resolved after a strong consultation tomorrow with a new, better informed, doctor.  I did drag my booty out of bed, despite Youngest's faint whispers of "starving to death", but mostly because I know better.  Having had this issue for 20 years, I know the worst thing for me is to crawl up into a ball and sleep it off.  I must walk.  So I did.  Slowly.  Around the kitchen, holding the counter top until the Advil laced breakfast kicked in.  When the sharp pains were reduced to a heavy ache and the shaking hands had stopped, I headed to the grocery store walking though the store, slowly,  holding the shopping cart for support.

I came home, made tuna for Youngest, yelled at Oldest to get off the fecking computer, and started prepping the coating for the chicken tonight.  I threw in the spices, the gluten free flour, smelled the bag.  "Smelled the bag," because Skippy told me to, she makes me laugh. Somehow, I don't think I'll ever get it to smell like hers, and that's okay. I'll smell the bag anyway.  And laugh.

Every day we wake up and are given the choice of how we will be that day.  Most days I choose to be awesome.  Today was not one of those days.  Today, I dialed it in.  I ran through the motions on auto pilot, enjoying the moments, but managing them in a clinical, ordinary way.  Later, I invited myself and the boys to meet up with a friend after dinner at one of the local ponds.  We sat and talked about what had been going on as of late, deaths, symptoms, kids, husbands.  The normal.  When we were leaving she said to me "One day we are going to get together and talk about something other than feeling old."

Sitting here tonight I realized that will never happen.  Why?  Because I get it.  I get it all. You tell me your stuff and I not only understand, but chances are I'm going through it, know someone going through it, or can Google how to fix it. People somehow know this and gravitate to me.  I love this.  It gives me a purpose.  People know that they can count on me, that I will do anything and everything to help them feel less alone.  They depend on me.

But I am not a squish ball of comfort.  I can offer no solace, no warm and fuzzies, no empty, empathetic "I'm sorry".  Let's face it, we all have plenty of people who can give us that, both sincere and not so sincere. Quite simply, I am NOT that friend.  I can't candy coat it.  If your life sucks, I'll agree with you. I'll tell you that you should never wear shiny red shorts from 1985 to the grocery store, especially if they've been bedazzled. I might even forbid you to go and hide the shorts when you're not looking.  If your kids are throwing rocks, I'll yell at them for you.  And if mine are throwing rocks... the whole playground will hear it... and know we are going home if it happens again. I'm depressed, and yet I'll drag your depressed ass to that playground for some good old fashioned venting.  I'll convince you to go to the doctor for the same symptoms I have, and when you're diagnosed before me, I'll compare test results and look for holistic options. I'm an all in kind of girl, completely vested in the outcome of my friendships, be they real, imaginary, long distance, or next door. And while I can not even seem to make my own days awesome lately, I will try my damnedest to make yours a little bit easier.

Even if all I have to give is fried chicken.

Which by the way, was delicious.

Not Your Traditional Fourth Of July...

Me: "Do you want me to bring anything to the cookout?"

Aunt: "Your great sense of humor and wonderful smile."

Me: "So, if I show up with a watermelon, you'll know I woke up cranky."

~~~~~~~~~

The Fourth of July is my favorite holiday because people tend to forget their views of how bad things are in this country and take the time to CELEBRATE how great it is to live here, free to have their own political views and stuff their faces with hot dogs and lobster tails. In the past we have even joined in a day early to celebrate the third of July, a tradition that has gone on here every year since the 1800's with exception of the WWII years in which lighting the Massachusetts coastline wold have been like painting a bulls eye on our little piece of heaven.  This year was to be no different, as the weather was holding and work hadn't been too stressful.  But as I wound down the (92 degree-90% humidity) night, settling into my newly acquired central air conditioned home (not the home, but the AC), I realized I lacked the energy to go anywhere.  

And I died a little on the inside.

I love the bonfires.  I had planned it out in my head... the chairs...  towels... snacks... flashlights... and when the time came, I couldn't work up the gusto to walk down to the beach.  And while Youngest had interest in going if it was low tide (to search for hermit crabs and new starfish),Tony did not share in my enthusiasm and Oldest was content chillin' in his room.  So I stayed in, reveling in friend's Face Book photos of their beach's bonfires, squirt gun fights, and ceremonial burning of the Christmas tree.

The town's festivities have been rescheduled for a later date, which I can honestly say I can't remember ever happening before.  Hurricane Arthur is breezing by, stopping barges from docking in the harbor, and thus preventing any launching of fireworks. The rain did not move in until later in the afternoon, allowing the 5K that Tony was running to go off as planned.  Even after cortisone shots to the heels, I still can not run or walk the way I used to and this is slowly eating away at my soul.  Not because I loved running, but more because when I ran I was mentally disconnected.  No one could bother me to find a lost iPod, ask me what was for dinner, or complain about their missing National Enquirer.  I could be lost in the music, my feet hitting the pavement, the satisfying pain of my lungs filling with air and exhaling it all out, completely.

It's hard to be supportive at 8am.  Waiting at the finish line for Tony is bittersweet for me, I love seeing him cross the line, but the music and adrenaline of the moment gets to me.  I want that to be MY finish line, OUR finish line, like it used to be.  And right now it just can't be. Instead I watched, snapped a picture, and held back the tears of what was.

The doctor circus has become more complex than when last I posted. Doctors now a days seem to be really good at running tests and not as good at diagnosing. I am still off sugar, (minus Tony's birthday "cake" and a impromptu Hershey bar) and I will say that I my joints are feeling MUCH better. The pain in my hands has woken me only twice in the 6 weeks I've stopped refined sugar, and the cravings are gone completely. I meet with the Rheumatologist in two weeks to discuss my results, symptoms, and no doubt run more tests.  I meet with the Podiatrist Thursday to discuss my feet, that upon further investigation, may no longer be a podiatry issue, and more a symptom of a larger picture.

I had two "emergency" visits to the doctor last week in which they pulled 11 (total) vials of blood to sample, test, and retest to reveal semi-conclusive results.  Nothing says party time quite like being inverted on a table so they can get the last two vials from you before you pass out.  I meet with the new specialist to determine if this new issue can be waited out or if it requires intervention.  Trying not to worry Tony, I tried to simplify it the best I could.....

Basically, my insides are bursting like small roman candles... like my own personal fireworks display that no one else can see.

And trust me... that's a Fourth of July tradition that no one wants.

Where Credit Is Due...

The beginning of summer is tough for us.  The changing routine and ample supply of heat and humidity, whirls through this house like a tornado, touching down when we least expect it.  Youngest was in the path of one such touchdown tonight, resulting in his being sent to his room at 4 o'clock not to be heard of until the next morning. Unless of course, you include the recorder concert he held in his bedroom for us all to hear, before promptly passing out around 6pm. By the time Tony got home from watching the crushing game with Belgium, I really needed to relax.

I turned the water on, got into my birthday suit, reached into the cabinet and find... nothing.  Sure, I could have thrown on the bathrobe, run downstairs hoping to not wake up Youngest as I breeze through his room, grab a stack of towels from the laundry room, run back upstairs, restock the closet, strip nek-kid again, and hop in, but that wouldn't be easy.  And I needed easy.

So I asked Tony.

I ask Tony for a lot, and he never says no. Ever. Stop and get groceries? Yip.  Take out the trash? In a minute. Take me for ice cream, feed the fish, shut off the lights when he's already in bed, tell me that I'm not broken when I've just left the doctor circus?  He's on it.

Truth is, he's always on it.  For a very long time it was always just me.  There was no one to get me towels, pick up a kid, or help me out of a hole.  And while you'd think that it would be tough holding it all together all the time, most of the time it was empowering not having to rely on anyone. If I never relied on anyone else, I could never be disappointed.

But slowly and surely I started to rely on Tony.  Small things at first.  He'd drop off milk before work on the back steps, help me grocery shop, strip the sheets and make the bed after I left for work on Saturday. Then (almost) three years ago we got married, and in the interest of full disclosure he took on a lot of things around here.  So many in fact, that I can't even list them all. Unless of course, he stops doing them.  Then I can list them, in painful detail.

Which is wrong, and yet I can't seem to help it. I was so used to doing it all myself that it's hard for me to admit that I'd be lost without him.  Because the truth is, I married well this time around.  He knows what it takes to be true to himself, what it takes to run a home, and that being a parent is 24/7.  Even more important, he knows that being a husband is for an eternity.

And I thought it might be important for him to know just how much I love being part of team G.