Figuring Out How to Be a Step-Mom, with Several Fight Club References

Hi.  I'm Dani.

(We've met.)

And. . . (*deep breath*) I'm a Step-Mom.

Hmmm. . . so I guess this blog is not going to scream 'encouraging!' when my opening statement sounds like the introduction one might make at a (court-ordered) appearance in an Anger Management meeting with a focus in the arena of Kitten Fetishes, or Narcotics Anonymous.  But, if I have learned ANYTHING from watching 'Fight Club' repeatedly (seriously ya'll:  REPEATEDLY.  I really cannot stress this enough.), it is SEVERAL things: 

1.)  Helena Bonham Carter might be one of the strangest, loveliest women on the planet.

2.)  All NA, AA, MAD, etc. type meetings ALWAYS serve coffee.  And it is okay if you smoke. (Though it IS frowned upon at the Sufferers of Tuberculosis meetings.)

3.)  I am NOT my f*&^ing khakis.  (This one is SO true.)  I don't even like the way my butt looks in them.  At ALL.

4.)  I think Edward Norton is JUST SO MUCH BETTER than Brad Pitt in that movie!!!  (I must say, I feel a bit guilty for even writing that.)  But I just love Ed Norton SO MUCH MORE than the traditionally hunky (and BUILT) heartthrob.  Of course, it could be the fact that Mr. Pitt cheated on his wife.  (Done that girl WRONG!!  . . . WROOOONG!!!)  I don't care that he cheated on her with She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.  I don't care that she's breathtakingly gorgeous.  So what?  You made VOWS, dude.  (And, just for the record, I think you'd make a really shitty knight.) 

. . . I guess I'm just one of those people that REALLY loves movies, and when I go, I like to be able to completely suspend reality for the time that I am there.  And even though he is gorgeous and actually CAN act (though I was never TRULY convinced of this until I saw '12 Monkeys'), I can't really do that, or enjoy the experience, if I am constantly distracted by what a screaming pile of turd-monkey the main character is.  Through extensive discussion with peers, I am almost certainly alone in this line of thinking.  It does not appear to be the general social consensus among straight women of a certain age.  Curious. . .  So I am forced to wonder about why this is. . .  But different thoughts for different days.  Moving onward!

So I am, indeed, a Step-mom.  (*Insert hideous cackle here.*)  And we all know that that title carries with it certain. . . shall we say. . . "evil" connotations?  So I'm just going to come right out and pump three rounds of the strongest ammo money can BUY into the damned arrogant White Elephant in the room and just say it:  I blame Disney.

                           

For the whole CONCEPT of the 'Wicked Step-Mother.' I blame them.  I blame them completely.  I don't know what kind of jacked-up mommy-issues old Walt had going on, but just MY personal opinion?  Dude had demons.  Take a quick sec and think about exactly how many Disney heroes and heroines had mothers that were actually ALIVE.  Not to speak ill of the dead. . . I just believe he had some issues.

My step-mother, thankfully, was NOT wicked.  =)  Insane?  Quite.  Completely out of her mind?  (But in a good way.)  Oh, most certainly.  But NEVER wicked.  She was far from perfect, as am I, and she made mistakes, as have I, and as I will most certainly continue to do.  It is just the way of it, I guess.  But I will say this:  I have never seen two people (namely: my Daddy and Step-mom) absolutely lose their minds over and fall instantly and head-over-heels in love with a baby like they have with my son.  =)

 (Nolan and his Pawpaw =)

(Nolan and Lon =)

Step-parents kind of get the shaft, completely unintentionally, but the shaft nonetheless.  I AM a step-child!  I understand it.  For whatever reason, children usually seem to feel that they owe some sort of allegiance to their biological parent, and feel the need to express it from time to time.  I will admit, it took me a while before I realized the REASON for this behavior from Dev, but after that -- I was fairly cool with it.  But OH!  The first time Devin and I were playing in the den and having a good time and then out of nowhere he said, "But I still like my real mommy better." . . . I almost cried right then and there.

So while I was managing not to cry, because Devin had done nothing wrong and I didn't want to make him feel bad about it, I started thinking about how to best respond to him.  So I said to him the only thing I could think of to say:

"Sweetheart, you're SUPPOSED to like your mommy better.  She's your mommy!  I love MY mommy!  Everybody loves their mommies!  So it's okay -- I'm not your mommy.  I'm your Dani.  And that just means that I'm someone else you've got that loves you very much."

And the greatest miracle of all is that, for the child that NEVER stops asking questions about ANYTHING and EVERYTHING, THAT actually seemed to be a good enough answer!

. . . I swear, sometimes I even amaze myself with my phenomenal and (to be QUITE honest--'amazing') parenting skills!!  It's like a freaking GIFT from the GODS!!  I should probably sacrifice a goat.  Or sell books that tell everybody else how to raise their kids.  Sadly. . . my twisted and often morbid sense of humor HAS caused 'issues' in the past.  Perhaps I should just speak with a publisher.  Or a shrink.  One of those.  Yes.  Yes, now I'm sure of it.  That's definitely the way to go.)

But were it not for Disney and all their 'wicked step-mother'-mongering, their evil queens, and their poor helpless girls locked in towers (by the way:  WHY were the girls locked in the towers??  Nobody ever TALKS about THAT!  Maybe they did something despicable!  MAYBE they committed a crime SO heinous that the whole town cried out for her death!  And maybe the ONLY ONE to come to her aid was her step-mother!  "Spare her!", I'm sure she cried.  "Just let me keep her in the high tower!  You'll never have to see her again!"  And yet somehow it all got twisted around, and the poor step-mother gets the bad rap.)  Damn you Disney!!!!!  (*shakes fist at sky*)  Were it not for you, then I firmly believe that society in general would probably have a very different view of the women who perform this thankless, wonderful, exasperating and terrifying, for-the-rest-of-your-life feat of magnificence.

And, though I never in a million years expected to feel this way:  These kids are mine.

=)

Nolan by birth, of course.  Devin I met when he was just a couple months shy of his second birthday.  His dad and I had been dating for a few months, and were making a conscious decision to be cautious when it came to 'meeting the children.'  (It was a very big deal.)  We both agreed that before we crossed that bridge, we should decide EXACTLY how it was that we felt about each other.  We had only met at the end of August. . . this was around October or so. . . and that's not a very long time. . .

We were in love.  =)

(One night before we got married.  Our "Getting Hitched" Party =)

 

There was no wondering and no questioning and no thought of any other man on the planet from the very moment I saw HIM.  He was the one that was made for me.  I found him.  =)

And so it was only after a while that we decided it was time that I should meet them.  (It's so strange to think about now, but when Michael and I had JUST started dating, there were several times when I would talk to him on the phone because we weren't seeing each other because he had both of his boys over that weekend.  =)  I didn't begrudge him for it at all.  Boys need strong male figures in their lives, and Michael is one of the most honest, decent, and deeply KINDEST men that I've ever had the pleasure of meeting.
So I met Devin first, because he got to come see his dad more often (because his mom lives closer). 

I still remember walking into the loft (I had actually DRESSED UP to meet a not-quite 2 year-old!) in my long, billowy, ankle-length white dress.  Official Reason for Wearing the Dress:  It was very hot outside, and its spaghetti straps allowed for cool comfort.  ACTUAL Reason for Wearing the Dress:  It made me feel all swirly and ethereal and charming.  And that is EXACTLY how I wanted Devin to see me.  (I was TERRIFIED!!!!  What if I didn't LIKE him??!?  WHAT IF HE DIDN'T LIKE ME?!?!?!!  As it turns out, I had nothing at all to worry about: for the first half of the evening he just stared at me, and for the second half, after he realized that I would play with him, he COMPLETELY took advantage of the situation. =)

Devin was a pirate, and a knight, and a Jedi, and ultimately a child after my own heart <3

(Devin, lurking around the den wearing my elf-cloak and keeping downtown Birmingham safe from Sith Lords.)

But there was no escaping the fact that it was (for me, at least) a situation fraught with possible perils and disasters at every turn.  And yet we persevered, and continued on our path.  Because we were each just enough of a realist to know that. . . it most likely wasn't going to be easy.  But it was sure as hell going to be worth it.  =)  And hey---  We were in love.  <3

When I met Cana, Michael and I had driven to Montgomery to pick him up from school.  He was just 12.  And the cutest, skinniest kid I had ever seen.  (Michael always called him "Minnow.")  The three of us went to Taco Bell and joked around as I AGAIN tried to get over my terror of "What if he doesn't LIKE me??".  But it turned out that he was a pretty chill kid, easy to get along with, and with a dry sense of humor that I TOTALLY appreciated.  So we went to see 'Casino Royale', and a few months later, after Michael had proposed to me, the three of us stood in our kitchen while Michael asked Cana, "What would you think about us getting married?"

. . . And I held my breath until he answered, in typical pre-teen Cana fashion, "That's cool."

(I am Jack's Enlarged Sense of Self Satisfaction.)

So step-moms sometimes get a bad rap.  And maybe it takes a special type of person to do it properly.  'Properly' here, meaning: with love, patience, and the ability to sometimes have really thick skin.

So though I love all THREE of those boys with every bit of my heart, I am NOT going to pretend that this step-parenting business is easy.  Because it is SO NOT.

But it is NOT SUPPOSED TO BE.  It's hard, and it's head-achey, and fun.  And it is SO MUCH WORK.

AND IT IS SO MUCH WORTH THE WORK AND THE EFFORT!

And even when I want to strangle them or tie them up by their toenails. . . how unbelievably lucky I am to have them all.

=)

Rainy Days and Mondays Always Bring Me Down. . .

. . .Okay, fine.  Yes.  I know its actually Tuesday.  (Wednesday, to be precise, by the time you actually read this.)  But it's a gloomy-as-hell Tuesday, dark clouds, rain varying from light and warm to torrential and vindictive in the span of a few seconds.  So outside time has been SEVERELY limited today.  =(  Which means that I didn't get my 'lose-your-mind-just-be-your-body' walk this morning with the baby. 

Also, I'm finding it harder and harder to sleep at night (and don't know why).  I go to bed at 12:00 to 2:00-ish, and still I sit bolt upright in bed, wide-awake at anywhere from 5 to 6 a.m.  . . . Generally still in the panicked grip of a fierce and grisly nightmare that is only just starting to fade.  It has become, excuse the pun, 'tiring.'  ;)  The reason I am sharing this is because I'm afraid that I might be ('possibly'. . .JUST 'POSSIBLY') prone to have some unpredictable and little bitchy outbursts today, and I am endeavoring valiantly to head them off at the pass.  =)

(This is my unpredictable and slightly bitchy look.  I think the photo really bares that out.)

(I would like to add here, PURELY in the interest of honesty and integrity, that it is NORMALLY my dearest one bitching at me.  His favorite personal subject is that of my smoking.  He had stopped the daily lectures for a while there . . . but now he's returned full-force, which I can only imagine is the same way in which Sylvester Stallone returns in 'The Expendables 2.'  (And I only say 'I can only imagine' because I CAN ONLY IMAGINE.  Because I would rather be pummelled by drug-crazed Pandas, carrying firearms, with nothing left to live for, and looks of grim resignation on their adorable and deadly little faces than EVER have to sit through that smoking loaf of the pony.  You are ALL already QUITE rich.  So for the love of God---just stop. 

And YES.  I KNOW that smoking is bad for me!  But I'm having a rough go of it at the moment, and evil though they may be, they also make me feel (a measure) better.  And I KNOW that he only bitches so PASSIONATELY about it is just because he's worried about me.  And I understand that.  However.  Though this may be flawed logic, and feel free to disagree:  Women live longer than men.  That is a FACT.  *I* don't want to be left here alone without him.  Not ever.  So I guess I just prefer to think about it as levelling the playing field, so to speak.  Long paragraph short:  I WILL quit smoking.  But it will NOT be today.)

So to sum up so far:  I'm not having a super-awesome day, I am stressed about money, and a million other things, I am worried about my husband, and I am a little depressed.  As you readers should well-know by now, this is NOT a new, or even a unique, occurrence for me.

But I know now, not only from personal conversations with friends and family, or just the sheer number of people occupying shrink's offices these days (like so much cattle), that I am FAR from alone in this.  I won't die from it.  (It just feels like it sometimes.)  But I am fairly awesome.  And I can even be brave. . . when I have to be.

(Best pic I can find of me looking brave.  I'm sure there are TONS of other pictures, depicting just that, but I have been unable to locate them at this time.)

And, whether I like it or not, it will most likely happen again.  So I have decided to compose a list of all the odd, and oddly effective, things I do to try to steer away the 'Mean Reds.'

First off, I ALWAYS watch the opening theme to the old 80's cartoon show, The Gummi Bears.  (This was a GREAT cartoon, by the way.  If you've never seen it?  Go out and buy that first season.  It is a decision that you will NOT regret, my friend.  (You'll thank me later.)  Spoiler alert:  The secret really was in the Gummi Berry juice. But those bears were warriors.  WARRIORS!!!!)



So I watch this whenever I'm low.  And then I sing the entire theme song.  Over and over again.  ALL day long.  (*even in the bathtub*)  And, while *I*, and, I daresay the ducks, find it nothing short of delightful,

(Those are, in fact, the MINIMUM number of Duckies required to be by our tub at all times.  It was a law that I was completely unclear on, and in fact completely unaware of.  Devin swore it was true.  But he still has yet to produce the paperwork.)

other members of the family have expressed rather dissimilar attitudes.  And THAT is when I say, in my MOST snooty tone (and I can manage a pretty good 'Snoot'), "It's called 'CULTURE', family.  Look it up!"  (It is roughly the exact opposite of eating dinner on trays while curled up on the couch, watching t.v. and checking your facebook every 7 1/2 minutes.)  (*And I'm looking at you, here Michael.*) 

But I have learned that it is just incredibly difficult to look very 'snooty' when you are lying in a bubble bath, and bathing with a Winnie the Pooh bath puppet.  (Sidenote:  I LOVE that Pooh-puppet.  He just seems so. . . HAPPY to be helping get me clean.  =)

. . . . . .  o.0

Wait.  He could . . . not be as innocent as he seems.  . . .EVERYONE has a secret.  Could he be a. . . puppet-perv?  . . .??  . . .Great.  Now I can't use the Pooh puppet again until this whole ugly mess has been sorted out. . .  Guess I'll just resort to the Toy Story wash cloths.  (They make me happy, too, and will do, in a pinch.)

(Innocent bath cloth, or devious predator?)

Gummi Bears and Pooh puppets aside, I find that Christmas lights make me feel good.  Very happy.  =)  I strongly suggest that you try it. 

I also find that peculiar socks are another seemingly magical cure to the blues. . . cheers ya right up  =)  How long can you stay sad when, every time you look down at your feet, you see:

                (And yes --- They're all mine.  It's a sickness, really.  But I swear it helps.)

So if you don't own several dozen pairs of completely ridiculous socks, I still have a few more suggestions.  Keep in mind, though, that this is just what helps ME.  If YOU have any suggestions on things that help YOU --- PLEASE feel free to let me know!!!

I like to play with rubber duckies (or just LOOK at them, even).  I find them soothing.  I like to lose myself completely in the pages of a good book.  (*I'm looking at YOU, Dean Koontz.*) 

I like to walk for an hour in the morning, EVERY morning.  Pushing a stroller, and whether I feel like doing it or not.  I like to get back from an hour of walking, covered in sweat and feeling glorious, and remember that I could've easily skipped today.  I could've just stayed in bed.  Or on the couch.  Or done any of a DOZEN other things that I would SO much rather be doing!!  But as strange as it sounds, it feels even BETTER if you have to make yourself do it.  KNOWING that you could've just skipped it.  No one would've known.  But you did it ANYWAY, and THAT FEELS GREAT!

I like to color my hair.  I feel it only responsible however, to advise you to NOT permanently color your hair if you are showing signs of depression.  (This is how I ended up, during a particularly morose period as a young adult, with hair that sent me spiraling STRAIGHT into an unintentional Morticia Addams phase.  So just trust me on this, m'kay?)  So now I use a chalk recipe (sidewalk chalk = BRIGHT colors!!) that I found on pinterest.  My husband was not NEARLY as awed and amused with the green and blue streaks as *I* was ("But it washes right out!!  It's a freaking scientific BREAKTHROUGH!!!"), and it is now referred to as 'The Chalk Incident.'  Many good towels were lost.  (Somehow Michael NEVER seems to have 'INCIDENTS.'  How is that even POSSIBLE??  Is he faking?!?  . . . Is . . is he a cyborg? . . .?)

o.0

Its just not natural.  That's all I'm saying.

Pressing onward:

I like to curl up and watch REALLY funny movies.  I like to play games with, and take pictures of, my son.  I LIKE to drink coffee, my current poison of choice being Strawberry Shortcake flavored coffee, mixed with a little Chocolate syrup, healthy doses of sugar and non-dairy coffee creamer, and just a dib of Irish Creme flavored syrup.  Stir well while still hot, then pour the contents into a blender.  Add 1 large cup full of ice, and blend for about 8 seconds.  Makes two servings, makes your heart start pumping, makes you capable of doing all those things you wanted to do, if you could just stay awake long enough, and, IF you're ME --- IT MAKES YOU HAPPY.

I like to do something (ANYthing!) completely absurd, like. . . I don't know, standing on my head for no reason whatsoever.  Just cause I can, ya'll  =)  Oh!  And I like to draw!  I call this one 'Purple Magic Demon Kitty'.  (Reviews have been. . . mixed.)

                            

I like to cross stitch, and sew, and play Neopets (AND Pokemon), and it is ALL really just basically the SAME THING:  mindless, therapeutic, meditation.

A chance for me to get my mind OFF my Mind.  =)

So again, feel free to try any and all of these, and let me know what you think, and if you're willing to share any of your OWN oddball tendencies!!  (Also, if you try these, and they WORK. . .  "You're welcome.")

What I like most about depression is remembering that it IS going to pass.  It is not forever.  And, like the most gruesome of nightmares, when you wake up -- and its over! -- ALL you can feel is this awesome, overwhelming sense of RELIEF!!!

Because you DID come out on the other side.

You made it.

And life WILL, once again, be beautiful.

But you MUST remember this!! 

And never, no matter what you EVER do, don't you DARE let yourself get bitter.  (We have a virtual pinkie-promise now, which is a socially binding contract.  That means I'm gonna hold you to it =)

                    



Our Hangout Stories--Part One. (Edited.)

                    

At various times throughout my life, I am reminded of a scene with Val Kilmer (playing Jim Morrison) in the movie, The Doors.  In the scene, Jim is surveying his surroundings, taking it all in and marveling at it all, (I think he's at a birthday party--but I could be wrong) and is heard to say:  "This is the strangest life I've ever lived."

                                            
This has always stuck with me.  And I've found myself embracing this exact same sentiment more times than I can count.  So I will openly admit that this same sentiment crossed my mind more than once during our 3-day, hiking, sunbathing (or sun-"scorching," depending on whom you ask), good-vibe, Brazilian Carnivale'-ish atmosphere that WAS our first Hangout Fest.  And it was jam-packed with every conceivable persuasion of person:  Guys dressed like Super Heroes, girls in bikinis with their bodies painted in every beautiful and imagineable color. . .  Girls in tutus, girls in knee-length fur boots, girls in bikinis that appeared to have very personal-seeming, dancing relationships with their oversized hula-hoops.  --("GET A ROOM, HIPPIE CHICK!!!")-- 
". . . It's not just a hoop, man.  It's like. . . it's like an extension of ME, ya know?"  (I DID NOT know.  Not even remotely.  What I did know, however, was that she was pretty obviously on mushrooms, and was probably going to feel pretty gross in about an hour or so.  Just saying.  Now it would appear that I have become the Festival Mom: Been there, done that, and now feel it's my duty to protect the younger generation from themselves.  Also?  That was an actual quote, ya'll.)
And it is ALL I can do to NOT place a smiley face at the end of that last sentence.  

(. . . So I'll just do it here.  =)

And, in any place OTHER than a music festival, you would probably be inclined to stare, glare, snicker, or disdain.  Or, at the very least, believe that each and every one of these people were quite obviously QUITE mad.  (And yes, they are.  You kind of HAVE to be, in order to actually GO to a music festival.)  But the music draws us, all these different brands of weirdos, and in the beat of the drums and the squeal of the guitar. . . we all find each other.  And we all rediscover that we really AREN'T all that different after all.

But I've been chasing rabbits.  This blog DOES have a point. 
Somewhere. . .

Michael and I loaded the car and went down early that Wednesday morning.  (We got to eat sausage biscuits in the car!!!  I was THRILLED.  Not sure why, but for my entire life, eating sausage biscuits in the car has always been the very personification of giddy joy and luxury.  Not to oversell it, but it was awesome.) 

We got there in time to have two full days on the beach!! ---just the two of us!! =)  . . . So we parked our respective heinies in his and hers beach chairs and/or towels,

took shade under the umbrella when needed, revelled in the not-quite-drowned-out-by-the-ocean (and quite AWESOME) playlist that Michael had been kind enough to prepare for us,

listened to the sea, the sand, the surf, the music, the world!  And to add the icing on the cake, my husband was there, enjoying it all with me, not three feet away.  =)

                   And NOT to mention!!! 

                 --People Watching--!! 

Dark-lensed sunglasses were a prerequisite, and were firmly fixed to my face the entire trip,

                 

 in an attempt to deceive other beach-goers into believing that I was NOT, in fact, watching THEM.   . . . "WHAT??  You think you're the ONLY one with a hot body on this beach?!?  Maybe I was simply taking in the majestic scenery!  Maybe I was enjoying a private moment of personal reflection!!!  Did you ever think of THAT?!?  Huh??  Did ya?!?  Huh????"  (But by the way, in the interest of honesty, and because I believe very deeply that truthiness really is the best policy (when applicable), then yeah.  I was totally checking you out.  And, with surprisingly little hesitation, I would gladly kill you if it meant that I could possess a stomach  that flat.  Nothing personal, mind you.  Just business.

Did I just say that?  I take it back.  (Frankly, I'm ashamed of myself.)  How do I know that you aren't currently training for the Olympics, and subsisting on 215 meager calories a day?  Who am I to judge you?!  Really?  You rock that Olympian body girl!!  . . .So what if you never get your period again?  Those things are WAY overrated in my opinion anyway.  You know how the old saying goes:  "People would gladly kill you for a stomach that flat."  I *think* that's how it goes. . .  I forget.  (But I'm pretty sure it's a famous quote, and was probably written by some wry and witty genius.  PRETTY sure.)  Lesson:  Flat stomachs are DANGEROUS.  Life's funny that way. . .

Michael and I came to Hangout Music Festival for the first time in May, 2010.  (Posing on the Hangout Chair was pretty awesome, and pretty much required, and pretty much has the makings of a family tradition.)
                   

This was the first year of the festival, and every music-lover across several states had their fingers crossed that this would become a yearly occurrence.  A music festival?!  In Alabama?!?  As in, only a 4 hour drive from our FRONT DOOR?!?!?

                                     
(*Four hour drives are tougher on some of us than others.*)

At the BEACH??  What's NOT to like?  =)

. . . Except for maybe that Gulf Oil Spill, that had happened only one month earlier.  But, if the promoters were worried about it causing turnout to dwindle, they have a LOT to learn about music lovers.  We don't just NOT GO to a festival.  We camp out in the rain, we get filthy, we play in the mud, we survive Nor-Easters from the quite-flimsy safety of a QUITE flimsy tent, we turn over ankles, we sweat, we dress like we were at Carnivale' in Brazil, and we pay WAY too much for Maui Wowies. 
                       
But we GO.  Because the rain, the crowds, the heat---THEY DON'T MATTER.  We only came for the music.  It is our release, and it is our way.

And by God, we are better for it.

But the reaction to the spill, particularly it being as new, and as worrisome, as it was, was, and this is no exaggeration:  insane.  News organizations were set up on practically every corner doing interviews, requesting sound-bites from all the dirty, bleeding-heart hippies, donations were being taken up, and random kids were wandering around with signs that proudly, AND angrily proclaimed:  "CLEAN IT UP!!"

In addition, the weather got rather angry on the second day, and intermittently on other days as well, but Michael and I grabbed a couple of ponchos, parked out butts on the soggy wet beach, and refused to let it ruin our good time  =)

  (*Me.  Being a trooper.  And waiting for Keller.*)

As evidence of such, here I am in my ever-so-attractive poncho, heading BACK out into the POURING RAIN, to see yet ANOTHER show!  (Michael says I look like The Happiest Hazmat Worker in this pic.  I tell him that that sounds like the title of a Disney Movie.)

(Note to self:  Remember to pitch this idea to Disney.  Don't settle for less than billions.)

             

 

Sadly, by the time we got back and found a spot on the beach, the rain had turned into a DELUGE.  But Keller Williams TRIED, bless his heart, standing at the very back of the stage, so as not to get drenched.  And every so often he bounced up and down so that we could see him over all the equipment that was now covered in tarps.  And, above the sound of the thunder, we got to hear him play this (which we thought was VERY appropriate):

Anyhoo. . . the official festival didn't kick off until early Friday morning, but we managed to get tickets to a late-night Thursday show of Keller Williams doing his (experimental) 'electronica' show.  And we got to see this show INSIDE the actual Hangout!  It's a restaurant/bar/venue, and has the MOST enormous ceiling fan that I have EVER seen, turning overhead.  And we needed it!  I was hot as hell, people were crammed ass-to-elbows, but, as is the way with most festival-goers, nobody got out of sorts, wanted to start a fight, or got miffed when his girlfriend's butt bumped into someone else.  (We festival people are a fairly mellow bunch.)  But wait. . . did I mention?  WE got to see Keller Williams INSIDE the Hangout!!!  HE was awesome, IT was awesome, and Matisyahu even joined him onstage for a few songs!!  Here's some video that Michael took from the show:

    Me.  Around 2 a.m., after the Keller and  Matisyahu show.  Exhausted, ears-ringing, but SO VERY HAPPY =)

 

So, when we WEREN'T catching live music, we just ate lots of Buffalo Wings, soaked up LOTS of sun, frolicked in the ocean (in all fairness, *I* was the only one frolicking.  Michael merely 'dipped'.  I shook my head sadly at him.  *sigh*  What a waste of a perfectly good ocean-frolicking opportunity!!), spent time JUST THE TWO OF US, and got to leisurely sit on the beach and enjoy the musical stylings of the Black Crowes, and . . .

(*insert drumroll here*)

WE GOT TO SEE OK Go!!!!!!!  One of our FAVORITE bands at the time!!!!  (And they do still, in fact, rock!)

We were THIS CLOSE to the stage, ya'll!!  And if I had had an extra pair of (clean) panties . . . well, *I would've thrown them.*  It's not something I'm proud of. . . but it's not something I will deny, either.  Michael would probably not be highly enthusiastic about this "tossable clean panty idea," but really, he is just SO unsupportive sometimes. . .  Besides, I COULD throw something else!  Like chocolate bars!  Everybody likes those, right?  But then maybe later OK Go gets back to their bus and they're all, "Who threw the chocolate bar?  Don't they know I'm allergic??   Does NO ONE read my blog?!?!?!!"

And all this could easily be avoided with one simple pair of clean (preferably cotton), pair of panties.  Cotton, NATURALLY.  I mean, come ON!  . . .I don't want them to think I'm a slut or something.  =) 



Nothing to see here. . .

I don't have anything interesting to report today, so if you're looking for interesting---you've got the wrong blog post.  I'm just trying to keep my hand at writing, so that I don't become absolutely inept, in the unlikely event that I am somehow struck mute one day and am only able to communicate through blogs.  And possibly tiny little hand-held chalkboards.  But only people that are actually in the same room with me at the time will be able to read the gems I spew on my little chalkboard, so I have come to view the blog as infinitely more efficient.  Also--less dust.

So.  What is going on in my world this morning. . .

I've got nothing.

Devin is still here with us, as he has been for almost a week.  I will be the first to admit:  it has been a trying week for me.  NOT that Devin has done anything wrong.  Oh, no.  Actually, he has been more or less well-behaved for the larger part of this week.  The weight of the 'trying' part rests solely on my shoulders, with the real issue being that, aside from Christmas and summer visits (which are generally longer), and random long-weekends here and there, I am not used to having a five year-old in the house.  To the uninitiated, this may sound like a complete non-issue.  But to people who have actually spent TIME with five year-olds. . . they get it.

For example:  Did you know that five year-olds have NO internal monologue?

Totally true.

(I can only assume that this holds true for ALL five year-olds.  Except for the ones with chalkboards.  Then I can only IMAGINE all the dust that must surround them.)

But for OUR five year-old, no chalkboards or internal monologues exist.  EVERY single thought that wings through his five year-old noggin is immediately verbalized.

And he thinks a LOT.

About EVERYTHING.

And tells you about it.

Without.  Cease.

So, as you can see, it is not really an issue with the CHILD, so much as it is an issue with ME not being used to having a mini-human sized talk-radio program turned on full-blast all day long and following me around and arguing with everything I say. 

So I try to be patient.

I count to ten a lot.

Sometimes I count to thirty.

And Tylenol is my very good friend.

But most of the time, I just feel really guilty.  Because I don't want to be a hard-ass.  I LOVE this kid.  I think he's AWESOME.  I want him to ENJOY his time at our house.  But at the same time, and I've thought a LOT about this, it is my responsibility to teach him certain things.  If I DON'T---I'm just being lazy.

So we have certain rules at our house.  And I don't think they are extreme, or too hard to understand.

Don't jump on the furniture.

Don't play on the stairs.  (Poor kid is only slightly more coordinated than I am.  I have an enormous fear of sending him back to his mother with a concussion.)

Don't scream at the top of your lungs.

Don't play baseball in the house.  (This one is really just so the inside of our house remains intact, and we don't have to replace the majority of our belongings.  Still, some days it just feels selfish.)

Don't repeat "I'm sexy and I know it" twelve times in a row.  (This one is because I don't feel that 'sexy' is something that a kid his age should be saying.  And also because I don't want to have to explain to his teacher why Devin feels that he is so much sexier than the other children in his kindergarden class.  Again---selfish.)

So as you can see, there really aren't that many rules to adhere to.  But for some reason, every time he comes over, it's like he has completely forgotten ALL of them.  Probably because no such rules exist at his house.  (Probably because his mother has no such compulsions about keeping her furniture intact.  Probably because she's just not as selfish as I am.  I'm probably just a really bad person and should not be put in charge of small children.)

Even as I write this, Nolan is eating the tiny rocks out of the fireplace.  I feel certain that they couldn't possibly be nutritious.

THOSE ARE JUST FOR DECORATION, NOLAN!!!

So what I'm trying to say, is that I have had a headache for the last 5 days.

And it was really only aggravated by getting pegged in the forehead with the laundry room door two days ago ("I'm sorry I hit you in the head with the door, Dani."  "I am too, Devin."), and being head-butted by the baby when he was in a sleep-stupor and really just wanted to be put to bed.

My fault for not being as sensitive to his needs as I should be.

Guess I'll just have to try harder.

Also, in a complete non-sequitur, my husband (who is both adored, and usually more adept at sizing up my mood) finally coaxed me into watching The Notebook last night.

I would like to preface this by saying that I cannot watch Bambi, Dumbo, Pinnochio, those Sarah MacLaughlin commercials, or any movie/commercial/internet meme about childhood bullying, without being disturbed for DAYS on end.  Those 'feed the children' commercials destroy me.  My mental state is fragile at best.  Understand?

So I thought my husband understood this about me, and I begrudgingly agreed (after FOUR YEARS together) to watch The Notebook with him. 

What I'm saying is that I TRUSTED him to KEEP ME AWAY from movies like The Notebook.

And he completely betrayed me.

We get to the end, I'm bawling, the credits are rolling, and all I can say is:

"What a HORRIBLE MOVIE."

WHY DID YOU MAKE ME WATCH THAT???!??!?

And he's all "But wasn't it a sweet love story?"

And I'm all "Oh, I don't know what was sweeter:  When she couldn't remember the man she loved, when she couldn't remember her LIFE or the children she HAD with him, or when they BOTH DIED AT THE END!"

So I went to sleep last night thinking that I really need to get my ass in gear and write the story of how Michael and I met and fell in love, so that he will have something to read to me to bring me back to him for ROUGHLY FIVE MINUTES when I am 85 years old and diagnosed with dementia.

Some movies just aren't for me.

I should really do something to Michael for putting me through that.

Spiders in his sock drawer SOUNDS extreme, but YOU don't know the GRIEF and personal anxiety that movie caused me.

I'm open to suggestions.