Mirror, Mirror Shattered on the Floor…

The Kid broke my mirror. It hung on the wall behind my bedroom door and was the only full length mirror in our apartment. I used it daily. Not excessively – a minute or two a couple times a day. I hated looking in it. I’ve avoided mirrors for as long as I can remember.

I cut my own hair and it shows. When I look in the mirror I see my uneven, unflattering hackjob. And if I look long enough, I see my deflated bank account. I can’t afford a professional haircut.

My face looks awful. My skin is sensitive to stress. When I look in the mirror I see the flaws – the bumps, the lines, the splotches. And if I look long enough, I see toddler tantrums, disputes at work, errands to run, diapers to be changed, meals to be cooked, cleaning to be done, bills to be paid. Sleep that’s not to be had.

My body is thin, too thin, and out of shape. When I look in the mirror I see a lack of curves. A lack of tone. And if I look long enough, I see years of anorexia accusations and skinny jokes. I see a lack of the time needed to exercise and feel good again. Wrecked and ravaged confidence.

When The Kid broke my mirror, I was irritated. It was the only mirror I used. A few quick, agonizing moments a day to ensure that nothing had gotten worse. I needed to see that I still had hair. Check that my face hadn’t fallen off.

A week after the mirror was broken I set out to buy a replacement. The store had one in stock. A closer look revealed a long, horizontal crack that wandered from one edge to the next, splitting the glass in two. I left empty-handed.

Now, a full month later, the spot behind the door remains bare. When I close my bedroom door expecting to see my reflection, my problems, I see white wall. I see four screws that protrude awkwardly from the emptiness, supporting nothing but air. But if I look long enough -hard enough – I see what could be. What I like to believe will be. I see Kodak moments with The Kid, a job I enjoy, a sufficient bank balance, good health, and a little more time. And then I think about my mirror, the shattered pieces that had fallen where my feet now rest. And I remind myself to do something nice for The Kid – a thank you for doing me such a huge favor.

Wanted: Pea for Two-Pea Pod

Image from: http://danidoodle.com

Ask if I want to get married someday – I’ll vehemently deny any such intentions. Ask if I’m lonely – I’ll laugh and assure you I am not. Ask if I want more kids – I’ll slap you. Twice.

But secretly – as in I’ll never admit this to anyone other than you, dear blog – I fantasize about meeting that “special someone”. Some strange part of me longs to be a pea in a two-pea pod. I don’t need – or necessarily believe in – love at first sight or happily ever after, but I do need a connection. A romantic relationship involving a shared desire to be together, mutual respect, and compatible personalities/lifestyles.

Why does that sound so easy? I’m fairly certain it isn’t, but I’m up for the challenge. My sights aren’t set on marriage and/or more children. For now, I’m simply looking to rent out a little space in my pod, because it is a little lonely in here. I’ve been single for three years. That’s embarrassing. This pea is officially on the prowl.

Writing the Wrong

I’ve been gone a while. I couldn’t write for a bit and I’m not sure why. I tried several times, but the words weren’t right. They didn’t flow, they didn’t fit. I suppose I thought they were wrong. In retrospect, I wish I had continued writing anyway. I should’ve let the words lie jagged on the page. I should’ve let them be. They weren’t wrong at all. They were mirror images of their subjects – the changes that occured, the confusion that incurred. I was afraid to look. I didn’t want to see the flaws. I didn’t want to see something I liked only to have an ugly florescent light switch on and wash it away. At the time, I needed to live in the moment and not relive those moments later through writing. That chapter of our lives is lost now. I don’t like that, but we’ve got more. This book’s not over. It’s barely begun.

The past few months were marked by new beginnings. We have a different life now, The Kid and I. We moved to southern New Hampshire, just the two of us. I took a job in Massachusetts and enrolled The Kid in daycare. We stumbled a bit, but have since regained our footing. Now we’re ready to run, to live a little. And right or wrong, I’m gonna write.

Bottom Line of Rock Bottom

I am a single mom.

I live in my parents’ basement. I have no job, no money. I have no friends, no boyfriend. I worry

all

the

t i m e.

I don’t like myself much these days. I’m sad. I’m sorry. And I worry.

I love my son.

But I’m sad. I’m sorry. And I worry.

My life wasn’t supposed to be this way.

I am a single mom.

And I’m sorry.

Thawing

For nearly two months New England has been pummeled by snowstorm after snowstorm. All the white stuff had many people seeing red. Commute times were doubled as workers battled roads slick with varying mixtures of ice, slush, and snow. Children were held captive within their schools and homes where teachers and caregivers scrubbed Crayola-colored walls and Play-Doh encrusted carpet to an unnerving symphany of shrieks and whines.

Everyone seemed to be down to their last cracked and frozen nerve when at last the grey clouds broke, the sun shone, and the snow started to melt. And now, New England is suddenly soaking wet. Icicles drip, drip, drip until they lose their grip, letting go and smashing into shiny, sharp pieces on the ground below. Water runs off roofs in small rivers and trickles down the slippery slopes of snowbanks, leaving driveways under deep pools of water that reflect the golden glare of the sun. The glare burns the eyes that set on it, but it’s hard to look away. Whitewashed eyes need to thaw too. And soon (we hope), the rest of our bodies and minds will follow. Small patches of wet, muddy grass will peer through the white like holes in a snowy blanket. Skin will be exposed after months of hibernation as the Mercury continues to climb. And it’s then that our spirits will rebound. The red that everyone was seeing will fade to pastel pink. We will survive yet another New England ice age. We will thaw.

This was taken two weeks ago…

These were taken yesterday…

Calamity in the Kitchen: Thyme-Toasted Almonds

I’ve never been great in the kitchen. My high school offered cooking classes that I avoided like the plague. Sewing class? No problem. I made some decent blankets. Interior design? Sure. My bedroom-in-a-box project was pretty kick-ass. But cooking? As in flaming ovens and burnt flesh? No thanks. Sign me up for the class that hands out sand-filled dolls in an effort to prevent promote teen pregnancy.

I made it through high school without ever having to lift a spatuala, ladel, or one of those giant fork things. My eating habits changed when I went away to college and didn’t have my parents around to cook and buy groceries, but the kitchen was still out of the question. Freshman year I lived in a dorm. My diet was roughly 50% alcohol, 25% TV dinners and snack food, 15% campus dining hall slop, and 10% Chinese take-out. Sophomore year I lived in an off-campus apartment where I actually had a kitchen, though it was easy to miss under the colorful collection of liquor, cases of beer, and empty cans that filled the sink and cluttered the counters, coating everything in a sticky, stinking film of beer gunk. I cooked a lot of pasta and on occassian I’d fry up some eggs or chicken, but I already had all those damn school books to read and wasn’t about to crack open a cookbook.

Then Monkey came along. Single-parent guilt got the best of me. If Monkey couldn’t have a dad or a happy, stable two-parent family, then I would HAVE to be a perfect mother. This is the train of thought that led to the purchase of a baby to toddler cookbook. Monkey couldn’t eat that watered-down, sat-on-the-shelf-forever baby food. Perfect mothers make their own baby food. I bought some fresh, organic produce, a blender, a homemade baby food storage system and was well on my way to becoming supermom. Turned out that Monkey didn’t care much for the blender and its noise so when he napped this supermom carried that blender outside, set it up by an exterior outlet on the porch and went to town. The neighbors thought I was a raging alcohol, but my kid was gonna eat the best of the best dammit!

I surprised even myself by sticking with it for quite a while and I learned some cooking basics along the way. I eventually toned down my supermom act a bit, but when Monkey was ready for the big leagues – “table food” – I wanted to cook him real, healthy meals. My parents were living in their summer home at the time so I had free reign of the kitchen and Google at my fingertips. I learned to cook various types of meat, poultry, and fish. I baked, fried, and sauteed. I made tasty salads and sides of pasta, rice, potato, and stuffing. Kitchen-speak is no longer a foreign language, though I’m still far from fluent. I’ve got the basics down and am ready to take it to the next level. I want to experiment with different recipes, tastes, and spices. I don’t want to rotate through the same six or seven meals anymore.

I’m setting a goal to try one new recipe a week. I no longer have free reign of the kitchen or any kind of say in the food that’s in it, but everyone currently living in the house is required to cook dinner once or twice a week so hopefully I can pull it off. I hadn’t planned on doing anything new last week so I don’t have a spectacular recipe to share, but I did bake some yummy almonds. We had an unsalted bag of them that had been left behind by houseguests. No one was going to eat them plain so I set the oven to 320 degrees, spread two cups of almonds on a cookie sheet, drizzled them with two tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil, sprinkled with two tablespoons dried thyme and one tablespoon table salt, and baked for 12 minutes. Fresh thyme and sea salt would may have been better, but they were still pretty yummy! I had never used thyme before so this was a quick, simple recipe to get acquanted with it. My only complaint is that the thyme and salt fell off the almonds after a day or two of being stored in a tupperware container.

Blast from the Past: Dinner with a Friend

Tonight I had dinner with a friend. With the exception of a few quick errands and whatnot, I hadn’t been sans Monkey in seven months. It was orgasmic. A total of forty minutes in the car listening to my music and singing along. Any other time my little backseat driver would be demanding that I stop. Immediately. Sometimes I don’t stop quickly enough and he cries. My singing makes my child cry. Seriously, American Idol frigged up big by replacing Simon Cowell with Steven Tyler when this kid clearly has a fine-tuned musical ear and no reservations about hurting anyone’s feelings.

Anyway, the car ride was great, but that was just foreplay. The main event was dinner. Two blissful hours of childfree dining. I don’t even remember what I ate, but get this, it was warm. And I didn’t wind up wearing any of it! I even had time to enjoy a couple martinis. Oh and I had make-up on and a necklace. WOAH! Somebody sign me up for Stay-at-Home Moms Gone Wild (Crazy?).

All jokes aside, it was really, really nice to get out for a bit, but that’s not the point of this post. Other than the time we ran into her at the store almost two years ago, this friend and I had not seen each other in five years. And this wasn’t just any friend. She had been my best friend. Since third grade. Our memories go way back. We used to sit on the corner selling water (I wish that was a typo), while drawing detailed sketches of the snack cart we planned to build with three built-in Easy-Bake Ovens. For the record, we had four parents between the two of us and not one of them bothered to mention the concept – and necessity – of electricity and power supply.

Basically, we were – for lack of a better word – retarded. But we were never bored. There was never a dull moment. And we were never going to lose touch with each other.

Then high school hit with all of its teenage awfulness and things changed. The rift in our friendship first appeared during junior year. It’s impossible to pinpoint the catalyst. We simply grew apart and our differences landed us in separate cliques and spawned opposing interests. One semester we had an economics class together and were assisnged neighboring desks. We didn’t speak a word to each other the entire semester. Eventually, there were rumors. And some not so nice things done unto each other. There’s a picture of the two of us in white gowns taken the day we graduated. But, truth is, we walked across that stage bearing grudges. We packed them in our suitcases and took them to college.

A couple years went by. I got pregnant and she reached out to me. I blew her off. I wasn’t in any state of mind for a reunion. But sometimes I’d think about her. Something would trigger a ridiculous memory and I’d smile. I’d check her Facebook page. And I’d wonder. Yet, never act.

Then, last week, she “liked” my Facebook status. I tried twice to write her a message, but stopped myself both times. A couple days later I signed in, opened my messages, typed a quick message and sent it before I could talk myself out of it.

I pushed myself to follow through with the plans we ended up making. Tonight’s dinner. I was surprised by how nervous I was at the thought of seeing her again. My brain was rattling off questions. It would most definitely be awkward. And those grudges – surely they’d come up.

We met in the parking lot of the restaurant. We got out of our cars and started walking toward each other. As soon as I saw her face my outlook on our reunion changed. It was the same girl I sat with under a tree cracking open acorns and extracting the “cheese” when we were 9. It was the same girl I watched scary movies with when we were 13, blankets over our heads, clinging to each other in fear. It was the same girl I smoked my first cigarette with when we were 16.

During dinner we found that everything has changed (she’s engaged, I have a son, etc.) and yet nothing’s really different. Whatever happened in the past is history and while its true that certain histories can demolish and permanently destroy relationships, our rift has proven to be nothing but a couple cracks in the foundation.

For two hours we caught each other up on our lives, reminisced, laughed.And oddly enough never mentioned anything about that rift. 

Time flew. As we left the restaurant and walked to the parking lot we vowed to start seeing each other regularly again. We have loads of memories left to laugh at and plenty more to create. As I pulled out of the parking lot and drove away I felt as though I had closed a chapter in my life while simultaneously jumping into another. Then I glanced at the passenger seat where I had set my wristlet and realized I forgot my leftovers. I wracked my brain, trying to determine if I’d had them while we were talking in the parking lot. I grinned as I remembered that I hadn’t, that I hadn’t even touched them after the waitress delivered them, that I had left them on the table — next to our grudges. And I kept on driving.

The Art of Letting Go: A Story (Part 3)

The next morning my roommate Jenn and I gave Chicago a ride home. We climbed into Jenn’s beat up Ford Explorer and headed to the apartment that Chicago shared with his brother. It was a quiet ride. Partly because no one dared to say anything about the events of the night before and partly because we were still regaining consciousness. My mouth was a desert begging for water and my stomach felt hollow but wrenched at the thought of food. My mind had flatlined. It was numb, thoughtless. If there was any awkwardness lingering it wasn’t going to register on my radar.

We pulled up in front of Chicago’s apartment and exchanged casual goodbyes. “See you later – Talk to you soon.”

Back at our place we met up with another roommate, Erica, and began our daily routine. We chugged mass amounts of water with almost as much vigor as the Natty Ice we’d downed the night before. Then we slowly started testing our stomachs. Light snacks first – dry cereal, bagel chips, chex mix… Once any chance of upchuck had been ruled out we were ready to feast. Scrambled eggs, macaroni and cheese, microwavable chicken nuggets, loaded baked potatoes, leftover Chinese food. Ranch dressing smeared on top of it all. 

We migrated to the living room balancing rounded plates and water bottles, sprawled across the ratty, drink-stained sofas, and slowly put together the puzzle of the night before. “Do you remember…”, “Did you see…”, “I did what?!” Like an episode of SportsCenter we doted on the highlights, laughed at the mishaps, and shook our heads at the bad plays. Once each of us had laid down all our pieces we had a nearly finished puzzle. This was one of our more successful recaps for sure.

And then the exhaustion set in. Continuing our normal routine we dumped our dishes in the sink and headed to our respective bedrooms for naps (the only real sleep we ever got), homework (in case we ever decided to go to class), and showers.

Alone in my bedroom I slept off the remaineder of my hangover and then laid in bed thinking about the puzzle we had pieced together. Its focus had been the Chicago/visitor mayhem. All of which I actually remembered… But for some reason it wasn’t a big deal. It was time to get up. Time to party… Again. And again and againandagain… I didn’t have time to care. I had a good thing going with Chicago, a connection. And I blew it. But none of that mattered. The connection, the explosion. None of it. I never once thought to call him, to text him, to apologize. I thought, instead, of the night ahead. The drinks, the people, the music, the dancing, the food, the fun. I never saw Chicago again.

I hopped in the shower and by 6 PM we were back in the common area getting dinner together and discussing plans for the night. They’d be the same plans we made every night – to drink, of course, but the places, the people, those were variable. 

Erica was spending this particular night with her boyfriend and Alysia and Roy weren’t home. Jenn and I decided not to call any friends or check facebook to see what parties we’d been invited to. Instead we opted for a quiet night at our apartment complex’s pool. Drunk floating was one of our favorite pasttimes.

We ate dinner, watched some TV, and took our time getting ready. We made drinks that we sipped while slipping into skimpy bikinis and fixing our hair. Carrying towels, margaritas, and a small cooler of refills we clumsily made our way down to the pool which was nearly empty with only a handful of swimmers relaxing in the water. Our hard plastic flip flops smacked the bottoms of our feet as we worked our way over to the hot tub. The noise bounced off the surrounding apartments and echoed across the pool. A few guys playing basketball in the water watched us from the corner of their eyes, careful not to be obvious. We soaked and sipped for a good 10 minutes before they spoke to us.

I can’t remember what we talked about. I’m sure it was the usual. Where are you from, what are your names, we should chill. And so, after a half hour at the pool we were headed back to our apartment with two of the guys – brothers, B1 and B2.

They were in their early 20s, fit, over 6 feet tall, dark-skinned. We paired off instantly. Jenn with B1, myself with B2. We were alone in the apartment. It was quiet, low-key. We put on music and played some pong. A while later the door opened. Alysia and Roy. They walked through the kitchen toward their bedroom. Alysia walked with her head down, not bothering to acknowledge us. Roy walked ahead of her and looked our way. Our eyes met. He was grinning, his eyes were laughing.

Roy and Alysia had lived in the apartment for more than a year. The rest of us had been there for less than two months and still hadn’t quite figured them out. It was clear that we’d never be more than acquantances to them. They seemed to think that we were three obnoxiously loud (true), permanently drunk (also true) girls who just happened to live in their apartment. Fortunately, they didn’t have much interest in leaving their bedroom when they were home and they rarely had friends over so we never battled for territory.

Their bedroom bordered mine and I often laid in bed listening to their interactions. I knew from the clank of bottles and stench that occasionally seeped under their door that they drank daily and smoked weed weekly. They had loud sex. A lot of it. They fought often. Sometimes he would hit her. One night a week they’d venture out of their room and hang out with us, as they had the night of the Chicago/visitor debacle. We’d get plastered and do or say things we’d later wish we hadn’t. In the morning we’d pretend that it never happened and act as strangers again. We learned more about them during these weekly run-ins, but not much. They were students like us, as were most of the complex’s residents. Roy worked at an upscale seafood restaurant and was heavy into cocaine. Alysia was a stripper and her boobs were fake.

A few minutes after Roy and Alysia came home the door opened again. Fast footsteps. The visitor… Shit. I think I told him we could hang out tonight as we drunkenly groped each other in the breezeway last night.  He emerged from the hallway and looked into the living room. He shook his head, looked away, and continued on to Roy and Alysia’s room.

Whatever. Dime a dozen.

And then my memory blurs. Jenn got sketched out by B1. B1 realized he wasn’t going to get anywhere with her and left. And then, eerily similar to the night before, I found myself sitting on my bed with B2 and the visitor. B2 was going to go look for B1 and asked if I wanted to go with him. The visitor pulled me aside. “He just wants to get in your pants.” And what is that you’re trying to do? I thought.

I left with B2. We walked across the complex to an apartment belonging to another one of his brothers. He and B1 were visiting from out of town. We reached the front door and peered inside. B1 was sitting on the couch playing a video game. B2 invited me in. I was tipsy, but no where near that tipsy. I told him I’d had a good time, but needed to go. He tried again, but I wasn’t giving in. We exchanged numbers, said goodbye. I started walking away when he spoke again. I turned back. “Hey,” he said, “that guy back at your place… He just wants to get in your pants.”

To be continued, yet again…

Winter Thus Far, A Photographic Recap

First snow fall…

Our first ever gingerbread house and a hungry little helper…

Waiting on Santa, Christmas Eve…

Igloo!

It’s been fun, winter, but we are now eagerly awaiting spring and it’s warmer weather!

An Ugly Truth (Of Single Motherhood)

Photo from Zazzle.com

Remember when I planned to be gainfully employed, out of my parents’ house, and into my own place by Christmas? I… I fa… I fai… I FAILED. There, I said it.

I failed. 

Christmas came and went, then New Year’s and yet here I am on my bed in the basement of my parents’ home writing in the dark because the mouse I hear scratching around in the corner isn’t real (read: terrifying) unless I see it.

I do, however, have a confession to make. Remember the six jobs I applied for with the Department of Health and Human Services? I didn’t write a cover letter for a single one of them. I don’t know what I was thinking. DHHS requires applicants to print and mail a four page application as well as college transcripts for each job of interest. The application implies that a resume is optional. I prepared six applications, six copies of my college transcripts, six copies of my resume, and the additional paperwork that a couple of the jobs required stating that I understand the difficult, sometimes upsetting nature of the work. When I was done printing and stapling I had a hefty stack of papers. I contemplated writing cover letters, but talked myself out of it. 

Maybe they have the application for a reason. It’s simple, effective, and cuts the bullshit, which we all know is what cover letters are. I’m sure they’re too busy to wade through five hundred documents for every applicant. A cover letter would just be one more thing to sort through. Besides, if the resume is optional, aren’t I already going above and beyond by including it? Shouldn’t that convey genuine interest in these jobs? 

And now, I’m kicking myself. Jobs aren’t easy to come by these days. Job seekers are going above and beyond then farther to land jobs. If DHHS doesn’t have time to read my cover letters, so be it, they can put them to the side. But if they do, there’s no reason those cover letters shouldn’t be there.

In November I posted about receiving a letter that asked me to complete a test in order to move forward in the application process for one of the six jobs. I took the test with seven other applicants. I scored a 91/100. The test administrator was blown away. She told me several times how well I did then leaned in, lowered her voice to a whisper, and told me that most of the test takers score in the 70s. She told me my results would be sent to the district office with the opening where the hiring manager would review them. She also said I’d receive a letter in the mail re-stating my test results. During my one hour drive home I was ecstatic. Why have I been doubting myself lately? I’m smart, damn it, I can do these jobs and I can do them well. I’m sooo getting an interview!!

HA! A month and a half later and still no letter re-stating my results and no phone calls or e-mails requesting an interview. What gives?! My lack of cover letter? It’s the only thing I can think of. I haven’t officially been rejected (the State’s required to send rejection letters – so far I’ve received four), but I’m sure it’s on its way.

And so, I’m stepping up my game. I’m in the process of applying for several recently posted jobs with DHHS. Cover letters included. Along with this game up-age, I’ve loosened (lowered) my criteria. I’m not extremely fond of discussing my finacial situation, but what the hell, I want this blog to be a brutally honest dipiction of young, single motherhood. Desperation has driven me to apply for jobs that I know won’t pay all the bills. Should I get one of those jobs we would need some sort of government assistance. I know I haven’t yet finished the story of Monkey’s creation and all the jazz that happened after it, but I will say that I do not receive child support of any form from his father. My paycheck, will be our only paycheck. Rent and utilities, daycare, groceries, clothes and such for the kid, school loans, health insurance (whatever isn’t covered), car insurance, gas, etc. The fact of the matter is that this fresh-outta college, single mother probably won’t find an entry-level job with a salary we can survive on.

And there it is. The ugly truth. Read it and weep.