27

(The wonders of a little free time at work...and hilighters.)

My birthday is on the twenty-seventh. Of June. I'll be twenty-seven on the twenty-seventh of June this year and, though I feel that this is some sort of doom's day event, I'm feeling pretty good about being a year older. Well, pretty good about my life. Not necessarily being older.

It may sound awful to some of you happy shiny people out there, but every year that goes by I find that I'm comparing myself to my mother.

When she was 16 she had run away from home, dropped out of school, gotten married and had my sister.

I was painting in my room, rocking out to The Beatles, The Doors, The Wallflowers, Metallica and thinking about my future.

At 25 she'd been divorced, remarried to my father for eight years, and welcomed me into the world...on June 27th, 1982.

I was finished with college, married about 4 years, adopting every stray animal that crossed my path, painting, rocking out to The Beatles, The Doors, The Avett Brothers, Andrew Bird and thinking about my future.

I don't know what it is exactly that makes me want to compare my life to hers, or why I feel good about my life in contrast to hers. Don't get me wrong, my Mom has made some seriously detrimental decisions, but she also rocks. She's 4 foot 11.5 inches and all Trouble. Take notice of the capitalization, or else.

She's been through a lot. Married for almost a decade to a raging alcoholic. Put up with an abusive boyfriend for the next thirteen years. Raised two daughters. And then went back to school when I was nine, and got her nursing degree.

Now she has a good job, a house that's paid for, and a very mild mannered fiance. So, I certainly don't wish she'd changed too much, or else my sister and I wouldn't have the luxury of griping about her now and again. ^_^

Still, I find myself unintentionally comparing our lives. I suppose it's because for years she was the only person I really felt like I knew. We moved so often. I'd make friends. We'd move. I'd make friends. We'd move. My Dad wasn't around. My Mom was all I had. So, I guess it makes sense.

Anyhow, my birthday is Saturday. Yay! ^_^

Oh, and Ben. We had a failure to communicate. Probably my fault, as most all miscommunications are. The newf shares a birthday with my best friend's little sister. MY birthday, and Helen Keller's, is June 27th. Sorry to revoke his "newf"ound birthday prestige.

A Number of Things

I suppose an update is in order. I've ranted and blathered about a number of things in the past few weeks, and I know you're all dying to know the outcomes. Just be forewarned that they aren't very exciting.

The fancy schmancy little house I was so in love with-that had new office space potential? Yeah. My boss is apparently going to see if it hatches into a beautiful little bird, cause she appears to just be sitting on it! $300 bucks cheaper and A-dorable, but I suppose she has other things to consider. What do I know? (That it was perfect, and it had a kitty door. That's what. Sigh.)

My Mom and sister drama? The issue at hand has been dealt with, but they aren't speaking to one another. At this point, I'm thinking that might be best. The selfish part of me would rather be mediator, and keep them both happy, but it can't go on like this. It's so ugly. My prediction is that they'll keep this up for a while, until Jenni(that's my sister) needs some moral support. She'll call Mom, and all will be ignored in order to get along. I'll just pray that neither of them EVER decide to bring "it" up, or all will be lost.

Dinner on Thursday night was yummy. I'm going to ignore the fact that there was only one hot vegetarian dish on the menu, and it wasn't German. Ignoring. Ignoring. The company is what the evening was all about, anyhow. Todd and I, Ari, and Ashley and Ben met Austin. It was good times. Although, I bet a little more uncomfortable for Austin than us, seeing how we all knew each other. Nice to meet you, and I'm glad someone got to eat schnitzel! ^_^

Oh, and the student art show that Ari and I attended rocked. April's great, I was compared to Bernadette Peters, and you were aloud to touch things, which is our cup of tea. Before receiving permission, we were refraining, as normally pressing buttons and licking wallpaper is not allowed(No, the wallpaper was not flavored, much to our chagrin. Upon mentioning the idea to Ari, she replied with a very optimistic, "Schnozberry!"). We shouldn't be allowed out in public unsupervised. Really.

Last, but not least, the thing we've all been freaked out about. Our uninvited house guest. So far, it seems that changing the locks did the trick. We've had no apparent attempts at breaking in, and the suspected party came by late Thursday evening, which is totally out of the ordinary. During his obviously tense visit, the little punk nonchalantly mentioned my Jeep being parked out back, the locks looking different, and that we should give him a key!!! That way he could "come by when we're not home, and check on our critters". I don't think so, buddy! We are so convinced that this is the guilty party. I'm having a hard time being polite, but I'm working on it. The kid is eighteen. I'm hoping moving out will be in his near future. Arrgh.

I think that about covers it, folks. I'm home with a slightly unhappy tummy, but it's sabbath, and somehow that makes everything better. I'm hoping to read, relax, finish a painting, and that my next post will be riddled with pictures of finished projects. Here's hoping!

Why? Why? Why?

It's not often that I feel impressed to verbally bash someone. Leave a puppy in a truck all afternoon, or sit at a green light for an excessive amount of time , and I might rant a little. Might.

This fine day I am going to rant about my family. Why, on this little blue and green planet that God so carefully made, can my mother and sister not get along?! Why?

Is it so hard to be nice to each other from a few states apart? I understand that when you live in the same household it's difficult to breath without annoying one another, but they live in different states. We only get together for Thanksgiving and Christmas. We're all intelligent individuals. Why?!

Without giving any nasty details, it's bad. If they ever speak again after this is resolved, I'll be surprised. Seriously. It's that ugly.

And who should be the mediator? Ah, yes. The little sister. The nice one without a potty mouth (Seriously, folks. When they're mad, these women put sailors to shame.). The one that's at peace with everyone in her family. Even her less than constant alcoholic dad. Let's call her and rant and cry. It calms her down and helps her sleep at night.

I actually like that they both know they can talk to me. I just wish I could fix things between them, and I just don't think I can. :(

Yeah. So, I can't really focus to post about anything else right now. It's the mama drama at the moment, and I apologize. Hopefully, I'll have cute crafty things for you tomorrow. Along with a little list to lust after. Until then. I'm off to Ari's for girls' night in! There might be a boy or two involved, but we'll get rid of them before the night's over.

Why Can't We All Just Get Along?!

I have just had a very uncomfortable experience with a very angry person. Ugh. Is it just me, or is it extremely unnerving to attempt to soothe a savage beast?

Keeping my calm in the face of anger is my forte. As I may have mentioned, I grew up in a loving, but emotionally, and sometimes physically, volatile home. At age five I knew to keep my mouth shut and listen, or it would just be worse. I am completely capable of listening and remaining objective...if it's not personal.

This was personal. I managed to keep cool, but it was so hard. SO. HARD.

Even when I disagree with someone I can always see at least part of their argument. See and understand. Biting my tongue is easy. Loving in spite of disagreement is easy. Being called a HYPOCRITE because I can see and understand where someone is coming from, but still not agree?! Not so easy.

The conversation ended like this:

ME: You know I love you and I understand where you're coming from. We might just have to agree to disagree here.

THEM: Well...*huff* I love you too(undertone of I want to strip you of your ability to think for yourself and make you my mini me).

I'd call that a success, were it not for the heavy heart I now carry. I hate when I can't soothe someone by just listening...when they aren't satisfied until you give up your belief and adopt theirs. Not. Going. To. Happen.

Deep healing breaths.

Tricycle Motors

Daily I am reminded of the fact that I really like little people. Not like adults of small stature or leprechauns, but little people. As in munchkins. Miniature adults.

Tonight it was Miss Eva. My friend's daughter. She's almost three and so freakin' cool. Smart and funny. Not to mention adorable.


So, why do I have trouble typing, let alone saying, what they really are? Ch- ch- children. Seriously. That hurt.

For as long as I can remember I've been a little uncomfortable with the idea of mother and child. The whole parasitic pregnancy deal. The entire concept has mortified me since I was about eight. I was full of questions.

Really?! It grows inside of you, mooching nutrients, until it's so big it has to bust out! From where?!

Oh no no no. Not okay. I just kept seeing that scene from Spaceballs where that alien pops out of that guy's chest, and does a little number right there on the counter.

Then there's nursing and changing and all that jazz. It pretty much all scares me stupid. Not to mention when they get older.

The thought of not being able to protect them from everything is probably the one that will stop me from being a mother. I just can't stand the thought of the things that happened to me happening to any little kid. Let alone one that I bring into this world.

This is why I'm amazed at the fact that I love the little tricycle motors so much. Seriously adore them! They're amazing little sponges, full of resilience and strength. I love to be around them.

They scare me half to death. Yet, I'm crazy amazed and inspired by them.

Sweet Memories

Let me preface this post by saying that you've probably noticed frequent referrals to my childhood. I know I mention it every now and again. Okay. Okay. I admit I have some strange fascination with how whacked my childhood was, and how amazed I am that I turned out even semi-functional.

Okay. Deep healing breaths.

This morning I woke up with an itchy bottom lip. *Sigh* For those of you not blessed with this lovely affliction, that means I woke up with a fever blister/cold sore. I like to call them itchy hell bumps. Because, well that's what they truly are.

So, I woke up with an itchy hell bump this morning, which immediately sent me careening back to the second grade. My Mom is an R.N., which regardless of what I thought at age seven, does not mean Real Nurse. As the daughter of a caregiver I had been introduced to a world of knowledge that most young children shouldn't know. Like herpes, for instance.

I can still see Mrs. Greene(G), who always pronounced my name incorrectly, standing in front of my desk. Hands pressed firmly on her hips, she argued with me about the ginormous itchy fever blister on my little pink lip.

G: What happened to your lip, Miss Legg-E?

Me: It's herpes.

G: My dear, it is most certainly not herpes.

Me: Yes it is. I got it from my dad.

G: Well, don't tell people that!

Me: It is. It's a simplex.

G: Who told you that?

Me: My Mom. She's a Real Nurse. My name is Heather Legge. Not Legg-E. The E is silent(I had to throw that in there).

She got concerned and pinned a note to my shirt, which I was to deliver to my mother unopened. So, I read it on the bus, deemed it babble and threw it out the window. It was the one and ONLY time I ever littered, and it was all that dumb hillbilly woman's fault!

She never even followed up with a phone call! If she was worried I'd been abused, why didn't she call? Of course, at the time, I couldn't have cared less. I knew I was right. My dad had a fever blister and kissed me when he dropped me off at my moms. Two weeks later I had this red itchy bump on my lip, and my mom was tearing my dad a new one for kissing me and/or letting me drink after him. Then she went on and on about herpes simplex one and two, how contagious it was and that it would never go away.

As far as I can remember, Mrs. Greene never asked me another personal question. She still said my name wrong too, which always burnt me up. If I'd known how to spell her name I'd have started referring to her as Mrs. Green-E.

Wench.

Ah, memories.