Movie Love... Where's My Script??

Spoiler Alert!! I watched a chick flick and I'm hating the "L" word..

Ah... love. When two people are so perfectly suited for each other and they don't even see it until it's almost too late. That rush of emotion. That rush to find one another so they can profess their true feelings. That happily ever after. That, is movie love.

Real life love in my world, or as I like to call it "L", is more like, "Oh crap, what now?" We do not "L" in my presence. I do not "L" under any circumstances. When "L" enters the picture everything goes to hell in a hurry and it's just not worth the aftermath.  When love enters my life it's more akin to the jarred food aisle in the grocery store. Sooner or later, someone is gonna drop the biggest jar of pickles off the top shelf and it will splatter and spread and leave sharp shards hidden where you can't see them but you'll sure know when you step on one. No one knows when or how far down the aisle it will happen, but it will happen, and the poor sap just trying to get by has to clean up the mess.

Hi. My name is Sap.

Real life love. Blech. I want the movie love. I want some nine time, shiny trophy winning writer to come up with the romance script of a life time and just hand it over. Along with the producer, director, supporting cast, a fabulous backdrop and a really great man who loves me until time stands still. A man who knows everything there is to know about me... all my quirks and irks. I want someone to know my favorite flavor lollipop or how to make my favorite sandwich or which side of the bed I sleep on and why. Is there anyone out there who knows what I'm most afraid of? What makes me laugh until I can't breathe? Where is the man who wants to know all of these things and more just because he wants to know? Where's my damn script???

I've been proposed to more times than Elizabeth Taylor. I've never been married. Not once. Not because I didn't want to be. I do... or, at least, I did. It's just that, I found that once a man knew he had me, once I accepted the proposal and the ring was on the finger, he stopped wanting me and wanted something or, more accurately, someone else. He just forgot to tell me there had been a change in plans. I had to find out in the most interesting ways that my script had been re-written and the leading lady had been replaced.

Do people ever find that movie love? I mean, do people ever fall in love and stay there in that emotional wave learning all the aspects of the other person? I'm pretty sure it's not all perfection if true love does exist, but, does it exist? Or is it only in the movies? If it exists, why hasn't it found me yet?

I was told I wouldn't find love just waiting for it to come to me. I had to go find it. So I went looking. What I found wasn't pretty. It belonged in a New York dumpster. Then I was told that if I wanted to find love I needed to just relax and wait, that it would come when I wasn't looking. So, I quit looking. What came along  looked great in the beginning, but after a couple of years it resembled chum and started to have that same gut wrenching stench.

I decided that I badly needed a break from the whole "L" thing. I took what one of my friends calls a "man-cation." I completely stopped dating. For like 3 years. I even wore a wedding ring to keep men away. The farther away from me they stayed, the happier I was.

Then, one day seven years ago, I had a moment. It was one of those eye contact moments where the world disappears and it was just the two of us. My heartbeat quickened and my breath caught. Bubbles and rainbows. He serenaded me. Took me places and treated me like I was the most important person in the world. He proposed on the beach with dolphins playing in the water and we celebrated, having dinner in the mountains under the watchful eye of a coyote. It was magic. Bubbles and rainbows. Then. life came strolling by, popped my bubbles, smeared my rainbows and crapped on my happiness. He found someone else. I found out about her when he, get this, invited her to have dinner with us. Yes, I am dead serious. He proceeded to rob me blind and leave a stack of bills in my name. Obviously, this man didn't read the script.

Or maybe that really is my script. Maybe I've been type cast in the role of  Perpetual Sap #1. The hopeful one always looking for love but never actually finding it. I guess someone has to play that part, but why? Why does anyone have to be PS#1? How about if everyone finds their true love and lives happily ever after? Get the writer on the horn, we're changing the last 3 scenes. What do you mean he won't answer?

Well, either I get a new writer or I quit. Scratch that. I just quit. Find someone else to play the part of PS#1. I'm tired and I no longer see the point. I don't want to be PS#1 any more. Find a new starlet and pop her love bubbles. I'm actually quite happy as long as I stay away from romance in all of it's deceptive forms. If romance writers were ever to ask me for my idea of a romantic evening, I'd have to say, for me it would be a large bowl of perfectly chilled chocolate pudding, all of the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, my most comfy sweats and my hair done up in a perfectly coiffed ponytail.

Now that, my friends, is my idea of the perfect evening.  Movie love is overrated by teenage girls who have not lived the real lie. I'm well beyond those years of dreaming of love eternal and well into the years of loving my own space and not washing someone else's underwear. I'm beyond the years of compromise. I do what I want, when I want and I do it all without having to call anyone to let them know. I eat cereal for dinner and burritos for breakfast because I can. I control the remote.

I suppose I did find real life love. I just didn't find it in a man. I found it in myself. In learning to be a solo act. So, this is love, huh? I can deal with this.

You can trust me. Yeah right.

Have you ever had that love at first site moment with anyone? If you haven't, and you finally do, it's a lie. Don't believe it. There is no love at first sight. There may be a moment when you realize that this person will be significant in your life, but don't kid yourself into thinking it's going to be roses and puppies and flying hearts.

Why can't we have the "run for your life this guy's going to ruin you" at first sight moment? Wouldn't that make it easier to live happily ever after? At least there would be some warning. Maybe not a big flashing red light, but something would be helpful.

Believe me when I say I'm not one of those women who needs a man in her life. I don't pine for a husband or daydream about my wedding day. I've been known to go for years turning down would be suitors. I'm almost 45 years old, still single and quite happy about it. If I had ever pined in the past, which I don't remember doing, those days are long gone and forgotten. I'm too old to be trained and too old to want to train.

I'm convinced now that I was right to stay single all these years. I'm much better off as a single than a couple. It's never bothered me to be the third or fifth wheel when I go out with coupled up friends.  Being able to flirt with the cute guy at the next table and not have to worry about my significant other getting jealous suits me just fine.

The thing is, while I used to have a lot of fun flirting and dating when I was single, when I make a commitment to someone I honor it. I'm in it whole heartedly. I don't look around to see what else is out there. I don't do anything I can't tell them about. I wouldn't want it done to me (again) so I don't put another person through it.

I just don't understand why other people can't be the same way.  Is it so difficult to be true to the person you've chosen to be with? I don't think it is, but looking at my past relationships I must be the only one who has this thought pattern.

17 men thought I was wonderful enough to propose to. I didn't say yes to all of them. The very few that I did say yes to, apparently thought that while I was the one they wanted to marry I wasn't the only one they wanted to sleep with. Excuse me? What's up with that? You want to share your life with me and the contents of your pants with everyone else? I don't share my toys. Buh-bye.

Will I date again? I don't know. At this point I'd rather not have a man in my life...ever. I'm not so trusting in this not quite old age I've reached and the professions of love have become rhetoric to my ears. If another man says "I'm not like other men" I'm likely to die laughing at his sincerity. "You can trust me" has become the equivalent of "Hand over your wallet and no one gets hurt."

Date. Not a chance in hell. People ask me all the time if I miss the male companionship. I can honestly say no, I don't. Do I miss having someone to go out to eat with or go to the movies with? Not really. I've been known to take myself out and be quite happy with the dinner conversation.

Besides, I've got my kids and that's really all I need to keep me happy in life. They are my best friends and the reason I have my sanity, although sometimes they are also the reason for my insanity as well. At risk of sounding like Barney, I love them, they love me.  We stick together through the thick and thin of it all. Thank God for my children. I can trust them.

The Perfect Relationship

Define a perfect relationship. Everyone has a different idea of what the perfect relationship would be. A few people have actually found the perfect significant other and are as close to the perfect relationship as they will ever get. I envy these people. They no longer have to swim precariously in the deep end of the dating pool. They have found the fish of their dreams.

The perfect relationship. Is it having someone who has the same interests and opinions as yourself? Or maybe someone who doesn't mind listening to you whine when you've had a particularly bad day? Someone who will take on half the responsibility of the household and all things that pertain to comfort and cleanliness? Maybe, just maybe, it's having someone who, no matter what, will always hold your hand and lift you up when even you don't know how badly you need it. Quite possibly, it's none of these. I could be romanticizing something that is just as simple as finding someone you can put up with and who can put up with you.

Everyone has this great idea of what perfection is when it comes to relationships. Are we too hard on people we look at as potential partners in life? When I was a much younger me, I never thought I was. I had a very simple question I would ask myself when I was dating a man to help me decide if the relationship had any longevity. If I answered yes, I would see it through to the end, no matter how bitter that end might be. If I answered no, well, what was the point of going any further? (Romantic, no?) The question, although a little silly, made complete sense in my mind. I would ask myself, "Can I see myself washing this man's underwear every day for the rest of my life?" Yep. That's it. My relationship defining question. It made sense in my mind because, let's face it, washing someone else's underwear can be disgusting at times. Did I find the idea of washing a man's underwear so unappealing that I would overlook all the wonderful qualities they had to offer in other arenas of life and miss out on what could  possibly be the perfect relationship? You betcha. Looking back, I realize that was probably not the best way to gauge how well suited a man was for providing a lifetime of joy, but it worked for me at the time.

So, how do you define a perfect relationship? Maybe it's a matter of redefining your idea each time you meet someone. Tweak your perfect relationship to allow for some wiggle room and see how this new person fits into the picture you've painted in your mind. Maybe the perfect relationship is perfect because the people in them are always allowing for wiggle room. I suppose that could be what they mean by give and take.

Next time, instead of asking myself how I feel about the state of someone's drawers, I'll just sit back and see how the relationship unfolds. Give that wiggle room and watch the show.  Of course, I'm going to have to inquire about his laundry room skills, just in case. Or maybe, I'll just toss the old jockey shorts and buy him some new ones. Give and take. I think I just learned a new trick.

I Remember When

I remember when....

I got invited to all the cool parties every weekend... now, I'm just the bass player's mom.

I had exciting places to go on weeknights... now, I just want to stay home with my coffee and fuzzy blanket.

I could sleep 20 minutes and function for 2 days... now, I can't even stay zzzzzz........

I rode the rank horses no one else would... now, it's a struggle to get out of bed in the morning.

I remembered everything anyone said to me... now, I forget what I'm saying mid... wait, what?

I had a size 5 waist... now, my thighs have a size 5 waist.

I knew everything there was to know... now, I think I knew it once, but I'm not sure what it was.

I could walk in high heels all day and dance in them all night... now, I aauugghhh... that hurt.

I could hear a pin drop at 50 paces... now, I have the t.v. volume turned up to 60.

I could remember everything on my grocery list... now, I can't remember why I walked into a room.

I was going to do things differently than my mom did... now, I sound just like my mom.

I was going to travel all over the world... now, I can say I've been to every corner of  my mind. Twice.

I would take a morning run for the fun of it... now, a run to the corner requires my car.

I don't know when it all became memories. It just happened. Time started sneaking up on me.  It caught up to me. Then it just kept on sneaking by and left me behind, bewildered and bedraggled.

Try to tell your kids that time really does fly and they laugh at you, behind your deafened back of course.  It's not until years later, when your daughter is dying her hair back to it's original color or your son now knows what a prostrate is, that they finally tell you that you were right.

"Mom, you were right."

Aha! Victory! They finally admitted it! Out loud! Now, if they would just speak up a little so I can hear them.

My Kids Make Me Sick

I rarely used to get sick. I had a great immune system and I knew how to use it! Maybe once a year or so I would get a cold, but nothing major. Considering I'm around multiple people, all week long, who work closely with children it was quite a remarkable feat.

I drink a lot of water which I'm told is probably one of the reasons I was so healthy. There was always a large bottle of water close at hand and I refilled it constantly.  My system was flushed continuously.  Ain't no bugs gonna get me down!

Then, one glorious day, a friend gave me a gift. It was a blue, 52 ounce travel mug called Bubba Keg.  This was my new best friend. Bubba went everywhere with me. To the office, to work on horses, rescues, disasters.  Bubba stood vigil on the night stand in case I awoke thirsty in the night.   Bubba would wait for me on a shelf or a bumper. Sometimes Bubba could be found sitting in a tree or behind a cage. Wherever I put Bubba, Bubba stayed.  I could always count on Bubba to have a big cold drink of water for me when I needed it. I was in love.

My son began sneaking drinks from Bubba when I wasn't looking. Sharing his little boy germs with me. I began getting sniffles more often and they coincided with my son having suspiciously similar sniffles. When he got sick, I did too.

Years later my daughter and her toddler germs came along and Bubba became a giant sippy cup for her.  She is adorable and sick fairly often because, well, she's a toddler and who knows why they try to eat the things they do.

Now I have my son and daughter both drinking from Bubba, sharing their germs back and forth and slipping them to me. When one gets sick, the other is sick within a day or two and I, an innocent bystander, will inevitably be next in line for sniffling, sneezing and hacking.

I cannot break them of drinking from my Bubba. I have tried. I bought a miniature Bubba Keg for my daughter so she could be just like Mommy. I bought the biggest Bubba Keg I could find for my son so he could have his very own best friend ready to quench his insatiable thirst.

Guess what? Both of their Bubbas are in the kitchen cabinet ... somewhere. Shuffled to the back because they never get used. My children drink from mine. I am doomed to a life of Bubba sharing.

As I write this, I am sniffling and hacking, coming ever closer to being over the latest illness wrought upon me by my beloved offspring.  I have gone through more boxes of tissue in the last week than I will admit too.  I'm like a tissue junkie. Hiding them from the sight of others. Stuffing my pockets every chance I get.  Shoving them to the bottom of my purse "just in case I need one." Blowing my nose in private so I don't disgust anyone with my grotesque habit.

My children have made me into this weakened shadow of my former self. This is my life now and because I love my children I will accept it.

However ... when my children are grown and living their lives in their own lovely homes, I will visit them when I am sick.  I will drink from their cups.  I will smile when they ask why and answer, very simply, "Because yours is better." **sniffle**

I'm Blind!!

When I was a kid, all of the old people in my life kept telling me that I needed to take good care of my eyes.

"Don't sit so close to the tv."

"Wear eye protection."

"Don't go outside without sunglasses on."

"Don't read in dim lighting."

blah, blah, blah...

I didn't need to hear all of this. I can see in total darkness and the sun is best viewed with the naked eye. I had excellent eyesight. I could see a flea on a mouse a mile away.  I could see up close and I could see details miles away. My eyes were perfect. I didn't need to worry.

See those trees on top of that mountain over there? No? Let me describe them to you.

You can't read that tiny writing? Here, let me read it to you.

Poor little old blind people. Good thing for them I'm here to save the day with my awesome eyesight.

Even in my 30's I could boast of my eyesight while my family and friends were squinting and tilting their heads to see what I was trying to point out to them. Outwardly, I was understanding and helpful. Inside I was snickering and their optical short comings.

I'm not sure when the clock on the microwave went fuzzy but everyone I've spoken to about fixing it says there is nothing wrong with the digital display. Those people need to get their eyes checked because it's an obvious electircal malfunction and they can't even see it.

My children, both of whom have the same eagle eyes I once had, stick things in my face, inches from my nose. It's like being assualted without being touched physically.

"Mom, look at this." says my son and throws something large and white at my face and all I can see is a big blurry thing. It stops just shy of hitting me. I quickly jump back away from the attack. Now I can see that it is only paper in his hand. He is holding it not throwing it and there are black lines drawn on it.

"Ok, it's paper." I say.

"Yeah, but read what it says."

Read what it says? Those are words? What is that? Font number negative two?

I take the paper and squint at it. I hold it at arms length and tilt my head until I can make out that, yes indeed, those are words on that there piece of paper.

I'm now in my early-ish 40's. I am coming to the realization, I'm almost as blind as a some nocturnal creature with poor eyesight.  I find myself squinting to read the labels. I tip my head back, tilt to the left and right, like any of it is going to make the words suddenly jump out at me.  I find the farther away from my face something is the easier I can focus on it. I even bought a cell phone that let's me magnify the words on the screen.

I refuse to get glasses. I'm not at a glasses wearing age. Glasses are for old people. I don't look anywhere near old.  Don't you have to have grey hair to qualify for glasses? I don't have grey hair on my head yet. See?

What do you mean you can't see?  Put your glasses on.

The Curse And The Kitten

My son has a new kitten. Wait, let me rephrase that.... I have a new kitten that my son brought home a couple of weeks ago. I won't totally complain about the kitten, partly because he and a litter mate were abandoned by momma when they were about 3 weeks old so this makes him an orphan which tugs at my mothering heart strings, and partly because you just can't play mother to a baby anything and not get attached. It's just one curse of being a mother.

The kitten has become another one of my kids. He is a baby with needs he can't possibly meet for himself and I, being cursed to be a mom for the rest of my life, must heed his tiny, squeaky little cries ... no matter what hour of the day he squeaks.

The kitten needs a name. He came to us the night before Halloween. He's orange, a very Halloween-y color. How about "Goblin?" Great! After about a few days I started tossing the name "Gremlin" around. It seemed more fitting as this little guy's forte seems to lie more in the direction of causing trouble than in being scary. Next came "Monkey" because he climbs absolutely everything amazingly quickly and completely without fear. None of these names stuck. They just didn't fit him quite right.

If you live in the mid west or have ever been to the mid west you know what chiggers are. For anyone not familiar with these little nasties, let me tell you, you are soooo lucky!  Chiggers are teensy little bugs that you can't see. They strike without warning and leave extremely itchy bites (think mosquito bites seriously amplified) all over your body that welt up and drive you insane for what seems like forever. Well, it's not a bite exactly, but it's gross so I won't go into the details of what it actually does. Nobody ever get's just one chigger bite. I went to kansas for a week with my then fiance' to visit his wonderful family. By the time we left for home we had 117 bites between the two of us.

We named the kitten "Chigger." He is a tiny little thing. You don't see him coming and you suddenly find you've been bitten many, many times. It's a very fitting name.

Chigger rules the house. He's the newest addition to the 5 dogs and 4 cats already vying for the position of Alpha Animal. I've rarely seen any of the cats since Chigger arrived. I know where Chigger is by looking at the dogs. They seem to take turns kitten sitting.

My dogs, a very large German Shepard, a German Shepard/Coyote cross and the only female in the group, Labrador/Pitbull cross, Irish Setter and a Cocker Spaniel are insanely fascinated by the orange ball of fluff rolling erratically across the floor of the entire house. It's a real hoot to watch the dogs try to figure out how to play with this tiny new sibling with all the sharp edges. They have all curled up at, at one time or another, and taken a nap with the kitten. They adore him even when he bites them. Apparently the Mother's Curse is contagious to animals of either gender. Except for cats. The cats seem to be totally immune to the cuteness that is a baby thing. Sometimes, I wish I were a cat.

Thanks to Chigger I'm jealous of the rest of the world who follows DST. Everyone else got an extra hour to sleep in. Facebook was teeming with people praising the God's of the extra hour. To Chigger, feeding time is still feeding time regardless of the time. The 7 a.m. feeding now comes at 6 a.m. which means, compared to the rest of the DST world, I'm getting up an hour ealier than I did before. Animals don't believe in sleeping in. There is a schedule and we must stick to it strictly or face the wrath of something furry with sharp edges and an attitude.

For the time being, Chigger spends his nights in a small kennel on my nightstand with a space heater blowing in his general direction. It's set up with all the comforts a kitten could need over night. I am proud, and also disappointed, to say that Chigger is smart. He has taught himself how to "grab" the kennel gate and rattle the crap out of it when he wants something.

Just imagine I'm sleeping, quite peacefully. Having a really great dream that I still would like to know the outcome of. All of the sudden my dream and my sleep are both shattered to miniscule pieces by something that sounds like:

CLACK CLACK MEOW BANG MEOW CLACK BANG BANG MEOW BANG

There is no sleeping through this sound. Ever. It is the sound of a baby who needs something ... and it's also annoying as hell. I am compelled to take care of the baby. I am suffering from the Mother's Curse.  No gypsy could cast a curse this strong. I have bite marks from razor sharp little teeth and scratches from playful claws that could shred leather and still, when the kitten calls, I answer as only a mother would do. I am cursed.

Does anyone know of a good place to take Cat lessons?