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There is a draft of a post regarding the unique experience I had in the hospital waiting room today, with my former in-laws and my ex-husband’s new girlfriend.

Suffice to say that he is, at least for now, The Boy Who Lived.


The view. It is different from up here.

I tend to be a fairly thrifty person, if frugal means something along the lines of “I will give anyone money for an extended loan, I will splurge on something for someone else, but I do not buy things for myself unless I absolutely have to.” I also happen to have not very trendy taste in shoes. I think my shoe sense got caught in the ’80s somewhere, back with the white keds and ballet flats, flats because I do not wear heels. I think I last bought heels for my wedding, which was in 1996. In any case, I hate going shoe shopping because it violates both of those sensibilities, and probably several others as well.

Since my work uniform is khakis & a solid color shirt (assigned by day of the week, heaven forfend I should get my days confused and wear the wrong shirt, because the whole office would probably be thrown off and go out drinking when it was only Thursday), I purchase a comfortable pair of brown shoes, usually sneakers, to wear. Really, I just hope to catch the issue of Glamour in which I am featured with one of those black bars across my face. Since I wear those shoes every day, they show some wear. And since I hate to shoe shop, they get to the point of near tatters before being put down. Over the last several weeks, “shoe shopping” has crept onto my To Do List, but there were more important things to do, like fawn over Joshilyn Jackson at the Decatur Arts Festival, or stalk Mir, or hey! start blogging again.¬† But tonight, after a kidfree meal with my dad and sister, she and I went shoe shopping. And there we made mischief, of one kind and another.

I found the brown comfortable shoes. Then my sister found some sandals which don’t have the flip flop thing that goes between your toes. I can’t wear things between my toes. They hurt me. And you can’t find sandals without the things between your toes, I have tried. For several years, I have tried, as the sandals I last found have slowly disintegrated into a pile of leather, fabric and toe jam. I think those shoes are older than The Dude. So, when my sister found some, I bought two pairs, one in brown, one in black. That’s how I roll: basic neutrals. They go with anything, you know.

And then, on the clearance rack, I saw them.

The sparkles caught both pairs of our eyes. As one, we were pulled into the vortex of sparkly fuchsia, or is that purple, or is it just bright pink? And the height of the heels. . .I didn’t measure, but those suckers are six inches of stiletto, or I’m buying the next round. Really, just looking at them made my knees hurt. There was no way I was putting them on.

But. . .

But they had sucked me into their gravity well, and resistance is futile and all that. Plus they were on the clearance rack! I had picked them up before I knew it, ostensibly to mock them–because that’s what I do to shoes, I mock them–and somehow they ended up on my feet.

And SOMEHOW I managed not to tip over onto my face because they cantilevered me into this horrible posture and after a few minutes I felt comfortable enough to put one foot in front of the other. And soon, I was walking across the floor. . .one foot in front of the other, and soon I was walking out the door. Seriously.

Those are my feet, there.

My feet, in my shoes. You can't see, but I'm nervously clutching the racks of shoes so I don't go splat on my face.

I came home with 4 pairs of shoes, one of which is a sparkly hot pink purpley pair with 6″ heels. And no, I don’t have anything to wear with those shoes. Do you have any suggestions?

(Note: honesty demands I admit that the heels are only 4″ high, but 4″ is still 3.5″ higher than my next tallest pair of heels.)

Sex and the single woman

The other day, I was driving the kids someplace, and Dude (which is what my 7 year old son shall be called in this blog) says to me, “Mom? I really think you ought to start dating again.”

Gosh, thanks. Because I totally was waiting for the go ahead from you before socializing with someone¬† of the opposite sex. We all know how children put the happiness of their mothers before their own, right? (In one of the Girlfriends Guides to Something Or Another, there’s a statement to the effect of: If your child had the choice between you being miserable in the next room or fabulously happy a state away, the child would go for miserable in the next room. Big picture people, children are not.)

But apparently, Dude thought that just because I don’t date while I have them under my roof, I don’t date. Kind of like that monster, if you can’t see it, it can’t see you? (So you put the towel over your head?) This isn’t the first time he’s brought up dating. The first few times it was about his dad dating. I found out today that his dad is dating the ex-wife of a friend’s fiance. A city of 4 million people, and yet it still feels like college.

I can and do schedule my dating around my kids, because in general, I have them every other week. Friday is our swap day, so we have fun all weekend together, then Monday through Thursday of school/work, then ZOMG I AM SO TIRED OF DEALING WITH YOU TWO, GET OUT OF MY VAN NOW BEFORE MY HEAD EXPLODES as I drop them off at school Friday morning. Then I have fun all weekend and week apart from them. It’s really the bestest custody schedule either as far as I’m concerned. Whatshisname and I live about 2 blocks from each other; he’s in the house we bought together & I am in a cootie free home, so there are several times when we drop by the other’s house during the week (and as I type this, I realize I have to go by there when I hit post), but there is plenty of time from Friday to Friday to conduct a social life. (OH, I have got to tell you about the Nanny Trials and Tribulations. Someday soon, I promise.)

I am, in fact, dating Someone Special. He will be reading this blog (hi there!) but I don’t plan on talking about him too terribly much. Suffice to say, this is a perfect relationship for me right now. He’s got enough going on with his life and his children that he doesn’t bitch about my No Dating With The Kids policy, which is good. I still feel like a giggly gawky 12 year old with him. I think that’s pretty good as well, because I’ve been seeing him on the sly for long enough that you would expect the giggles to have worn off by now.

Even though Dude has expressed concern for my social life, I am not quite ready to introduce him to my Someone Special. “They” say it’s a bad idea. Maybe if we were going to go to an event, and he was going to be there. . .maybe. I mean, I met plenty of girlfriends/boyfriends of my parents, and I don’t think it had a huge impact. (But also, in the words of my sister, who could tell?) So that is something that will maybe possibly maybe be a coming attraction in the months ahead. Don’t be too worried. He has heard all of the stories; I think he’ll stick through meeting the kids. I’ll have to remember to reassure Dude.

Where was the Girl Child Who Shall Be Nicknamed Later in all of this? Reading. Missed the entire conversation. Not a surprise.

Why this blog name?

So, yesterday, I was bitten by the blog bug. Hard. In a delicate place, see? No, here. Where I’m pointing! It hurts really bad! Fine. It hurts worse than it looks.

But I couldn’t blog at Mommylogue. I locked it when the Late Unpleasantness of 2008 seemed to be getting a bit more unpleasant. (It didn’t get as bad as I thought it might, and it got better. But we won’t have to hash that all out now. That is the Back Story, to be doled out in dribs and drabs.) I could have unlocked it and just kept going there, but. . .

But. That blog was then. This is now. I am no longer the SAHM, Homeschooler, talking to myself type I was then. I am more. . .me. Half the time, I don’t have kids. No, I mean I have them, but they are around the corner at Whatshisname’s. I started a blog since then, with that sort of hat tip to the wannabe actor I was once, called Second Act. I think I posted twice. It didn’t work for me.

That brings us to yesterday, when I wanted to blog, but didn’t have the name. I made the next logical step, which was asking my facebook friends to name the blog. I got several suggestions; none were perfect but some were enough to start me thinking about what I want my collection of rambly thoughts to be. And somehow I thought of this. Google “It’s the laughter” lyric and you’ll get “The Way We Were” as sung by Barbra Streisand. (Whenever I say her name, I want to say it the way Sandy Patti did, when she talked about wanting to sing like. . . never mind.)

Since I don’t have lots of time right now, I am just hitting post. It’s the words, right? You won’t care that I’m using the default WP template, that I have barely customized. . .right? That sort of like my house, there are still places that need to be sanded and painted, that it looks like I started living here before I got all moved in. That will have to wait until some other point in time. Not today. I could either write about why I like this title or customize. You choose. Or rather, I choose, and you either read or not.

Memories, to me, are the scattered pictures. I like to talk about things I remember, be reminded of things I’ve forgotten. And I don’t choose to forget the bad times, I just don’t remember them FIRST. And I always, always, always will choose to remember the laughter. The olive socks. The root beer barrels. The “we made it.” The spider plant. The “turn out the light.” The big talking heads. That whatever it was don’t have tails. Those are all inside jokes, all memories with someone, even if that person will never read this blog. But they are the things I will choose to remember, to write down. Not that I’m Madam Panglossa, because I will also write down my pain here; as the shrunken head said in Harry Potter 3, “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.” This will be my brain dump, where I process out things that I need to talk or write about. It’s cheaper than therapy, which is not so much in the budget right now. (And my therapist is talking about retiring, which is just a really crappy thing to do to someone who has been your patient for over 20 years.) So yes, I’ll talk about the bad stuff here, because if I can’t tell you, who can I tell?

But it’s the laughter I’ll remember, whenever I remember the way we were.