Stupidity Strikes Again

Just before I was to leave for a beautiful week-long stress-free trip to the beach last week, stupidity struck again. It's like I'm some sort of magnetic force for stupidity these days, and I must say, I'm not enjoying it one bit. Especially when it is brought on by the same person who sponsored stupidity's visit the last time it came around.

I've been told a lot of things in my life, but none so stupid as this: "You really shouldn't care so much about your friends". Um, what? Now, call me crazy, but I really do care about my friends. I care for some friends more than others, but in the grand scheme of things, I don't believe that I have ever cared "too much". And really, with the way the world is going these days, is is such a bad thing if I do?

Now, I will be the first to admit I don't have many friends. Well, not many female friends anyway. Being a female myself, I have a hard enough time dealing with my own mood swings and evilness, and can only take a certain amount of psycho at a time. But the female friends I do have, I wouldn't trade for the world and would punch you out in a second if you crossed one of them. If you are a friend, I'll hold your used kleenex and give you a shoulder while you cry, and will hold your hair back while you puke (though, be forewarned you may make me puke, too). I'll go to tupperware parties you host when I have 2 cents in my bank account and I'll drive in the middle of the night to a vet hospital where your horse/dog/cat is about to have surgery and you need company. I'll spend the night with you in the waiting room when your dad is in the hospital because your family is too crazy to make you feel better. I'll watch your kid's t-ball game in 100 degree heat and will get up at 5am to call you if you don't trust yourself to listen to the alarm clock so you can catch a plane. You need me? I'm there. But don't ever tell me I care too much. That's just a bit too much stupidity for me, and as all my friends know, I don't handle stupidity very well. At least there is a cure for ignorance, right?

Every woman knows that there is a difference between "Real" friends and "Convenient" friends. I made the mistake of trying to make a convenient friend a real friend. Unfortunately, there seems to be a universal law that prohibits this from happening, except for maybe during an eclipse. I tried anyway. I failed miserably. And my real friends are shaking their heads saying "I told you so", and they did. Oh, they did. But I thought maybe I could bend the rules of the universe. Silly me. I won't be trying that again. Did you hear an explosion sometime today? That was the sound of that experiment blowing up in my face. Oh well. I have some wounds, but they'll heal. Besides, I have my real friends to lean on. And never in a million years would they tell me I care too much, nor would I tell them that they do. Real friends can't care too much. It's against the rules of the universe.

Faith Cannot Overcome Stupidity

Once upon a time, I was often told by friends and family that I could always see the good in people, the good in situations, the good in the world, no matter how bleak the outlook seemed to other people. I'm proud that, often, I can still carry on that way, though adulthood brings you a plethera of reasons to see the world as a cup half-full. But I like to be happy, like thinking the world is a good place, full of more good people than bad ones. I tend to surround myself with people who are honest and love life and carry themselves in an honorable way. But every once in a while, my faith in people gets blown to smithereens like a seagull sucked into a jet engine. Pieces of my faith are splattered about today, and I'm not sure if it can be put back together.

My faith in people has been tested before, don't get me wrong. And often, I knew that my faith in someone was, in itself, in good faith. But never before has someone so blatantly and rawly looked me in the eyes and then squeezed the trigger. Never before has someone taken the past and so delusionally twisted it into a new reality. Never before have I not had some retort, some response, some reaction to gather up my pieces and carry on. I am at a loss.

Without going into all the sordid details, I can tell you this. Some people do not deserve such blind faith. Some people are far too stupid to realize that friendships are fragile things, but based on a common thing- truth and trust. When one thing is obliterated, the other follows. I'm not sure why that seems to be such a complicated concept. I'm not sure why some people are so stupid as to think that when they full out admit to being deceitful, that everything will be ok, simply because they admitted it. Stupidity can only be excused so many times. Stupidity, though some might think would decrease with time, seems to multiply rapidly with each year that goes by. Stupidity, at its purest form, is cancerous. It spreads through braincells at warp speed, engulfing any bright spots or intelligent notions.

Though I often forgive friends and they forgive me, as good friends are bound to do, some things cannot be forgiven. Good faith, in some cases, just simply cannot overcome stupidity in its purest form. Stupid is as stupid does. I've been dumb enough to have faith when I was told it was a waste of time. I won't make the same mistake twice. Bring the mop and broom. It's time to clean shop. Faith needs an extreme makeover.

And The Fat Rolls On

When you are faced with wearing a swimsuit in front of another family for an entire week, do you buy a head to toe swimsuit cover? When that family is also related to you, does that make it better, or worse? Or do you just let it all hang out?

Where, oh where, did I put my 21 year old body?

The beach beckons. My body is desperately wanting to hide.

Shoes Are A Universal Language

When my son was 6 months old, I couldn't wait until he could crawl. When he was 9 months old, I couldn't wait until he could walk. When he was 1 1/2 years old, I couldn't wait until his meaningful babble became meaningful words. Everyone always tells me, "Just wait, you'll wish you could take that back when it happens." But that has yet to happen. I love each advance in his journey to become his own person, and I love watching him grow into a little man.

I'm always so curious to know what awaits us, what adventures are ahead in the world of child-rearing. Now that my son is 2 years old, I cannot wait until we have conversations. We have them now, but they are still somewhat one-sided and parrot-like. They usually go a little something like this:

"Mama, outside?"
"No buddy, it's too hot right now. We'll go outside later."
"Mama, outside?"
"No, we'll go outside later. When the sun isn't so bright. Let's color instead."
"OUTSIDE?!!!???!!!"

Now this is the point in the conversation where things begin to be hurled against the patio doors, in an effort to convince me that I can't understand what he's asking. Things are thrown, doors are banged, and tears are shed. Believe me, kid, I know what you want. But that's not how you get it in this house. And I commend his efforts to communicate, and hope he knows it's just as frustrating for me that he only gets part of our conversations, as he is sure that I only get a part of them as well. But last night, we had a break-through.

My mom watched my son last night, a weekly ritual that allows my husband and I to escape back to pre-kids for a few hours. My mom, who loves my son dearly, cannot willnot put him to bed. It doesn't matter if we get home at 9:30pm or 11:30pm, we are always met with his little face in the front window when he hears the garage door go up. So, our night always ends with a battle of putting an over-tired kid to bed. Last night, my son was convinced that it was time to go outside. We had our normal tears, but instead of throwing and banging things, he simply went and picked up his shoes, and while tears streamed down his face, he held them up pleadingly. He looked from me to the door, his shoes dangling from his pudgy little hands, and simply implored "Outside?". When I said no, it was time for bed, he cried harder and thrust his shoes upward at me, "Outside! Mamaaaaa, outside!" The fact that he tried to convince me with a pair of sandals and some sincere tears was almost enough to make me give.

Instead, we went upstairs and while he cried tears of exhaustion, I changed his diaper, gave him a sippy cup, and plunked him down in his bed. He promptly lay back on his pillow, his eyes fluttering, and was asleep before I could leave the room. I put his little sandals back, proud that he had learned a new bargaining skill, one that I am sure he will use again today. I can't wait to see what the next advancement is, but for now, shoes will have to be our universal language.

The Ol' College Try Is Harder Than It Looks

Back in the day, myself and my college roommates would be up until Dawn. Not because we had to, but because we just were. Studying, talking, watching movies, whatever caught our fancy at the moment, because staying up until 5am was a skill that we had polished and nutured until it was perfect. Sleep before 2am was for wusses.

This weekend, two of my college roommates are in town. Staying at my house to relive memories and go sweat our asses off at a Cubs game (it's almost 100 degrees here today, but that's another post). We indulge in calories that our post-college bodies just cannot burn efficiently these days, but we don't care. And we try, oh how we try, to stay awake.

Last night, we parked ourselves around the kitchen table and caught up, reminisced about the good ol' days, and sat in chairs that demanded we be upright and only partially comfortable until well past midnight. But we began to wain. In a heroic effort to stay awake, a pot of coffee was brewed, and coffee was chugged. But the eyelids fluttered heavier and heavier, and soon we had no choice but to move to the couch to "watch" a movie. The 40-Year-Old Virgin was no match for age. It was past midnight, our bodies demanded sleep. Soon, the three of us were zonked out. Officially, I think we made it until 2am, but in reality, we were half asleep by midnight.

The days of effortless partying and frivolous burning of the night hours are long gone. But we still try to keep up like we used to, even if it's just for a weekend. After all, isn't that what life is all about? Trying to stay young? Though, we would now prefer to keep up with napping and early-to-bed toddlers than the girls we were back in the day at good ol' University of Illinois. Oh, our alma mater. We're still cheering you on, even if it's from much shorter days with a more sane amount of sleep. I-L-L! I-N-I! Goooooooo Illini!

Bras need longer lifespans

I'm not sure how one defines the lifespan of a bra, but I think it should go something like this:

Price of bra divided by days of use multiplied by comfort level = life span.

Now, one would think this is a simple equation, and that if you go out and buy the most expensive bra, it should last the longest. It should also be the most comfortable bra. WRONG-O!

Now, for those of you lucky enough not to have huge boobs, I hope bra shopping is a much more pleasant experience. You can buy cute, skinny-strapped, fancy bras that are fit to wear out in public. Once you hit 38D, that doesn't exist anymore. Sure, you can try, but the pure weight of your bossoms being distributed across your shoulders on thin little spaghetti straps, well, it's like you inserted a couple of razor blades into each shoulder. Not fun. Not cute. Not worth it.

So, instead, you go for comfort. Ok, should be easy. Nooooooo! If I could count how many bras I've purchased for "comfort" while trying them on for 2 seconds in a dressing room, only to have them jabbing me in the armpit or creeping up to a non-support status after an hour of wear, I'd be a bazillionaire. My bra buying regimen now consists of jumping jacks, toe touches, twists, and reaching for the sky in a cramped dressing room. If the bra stays in place, doesn't try to kill me through my ribcage, and is still less than $50, I buy it. And if it still works like that after the first two washings, I go back and buy that bra in every color available. You think I'm kidding???

I remember the days pre-child when I had cute, perky 36Cs that fit nicely into any bra I wanted. Lacey, colorful, silky, I could buy them all and strut around with pride. Now, not so much. It's all I can do to keep them from annoying the crap out of me. Post-baby boobs suck. So when you find a bra that makes you look in the mirror and say "Well, those aren't too ugly today," you tend to go out and buy multiples of that particular bra. It's just one of the sad facts of giving birth- your body is no longer yours, nor does it cooperate. AT ALL. If I could change one thing post-baby, I'd ask for my old boobs back. I don't even care if they are perky anymore. Just smaller. Less boulder-like.

Today, I am lamenting the loss of my last amazingly comfortable ugly bra, whose life ended in the wash, it's wire jutting out the side like a javeline stuck in a wall. Not going to be comfortable now. Sigh. So now it's back to the lingerie section to try on ugly bras, jiggle, dance, and stretch, to see which one is worth paying $50 or less for. And tonight, when I go to sleep, I will say a little prayer.

God, please let me wake up with smaller boobs. Amen.