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Get your drag on…

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I’ve begun the final countdown of gestational glory and I’m loving every round inch. I feel decidedly feminine and enchanted, constantly. The only downside is the voracious heartburn that plagues me morning, noon & night. Last night was particularly awful, and I was awake most of the night in my unsuccessful attempt to sleep sitting up while holding my treasured bottle of Tums. Kept company by hilarious text messages that have me laughing, biting my lip and shaking my head at myself- I am only that much more thankful I have a very manageable situation like heartburn to deal with.

My darling friend Miss Fabulous had invited me to my first drag show, and I think part of my sleeplessness could be attributed to nerves.

I’m a huge fan of Rupaul’s Drag Race. I pine for a gay friend, daily. I love my girlfriends. I love my guy friends…. but damn what I wouldn’t give for a vampy mix of the two. A friend that can reminisce with me about boys that kiss well, and how much size really does matter, while sharing makeup tips and shoes. I love the beauty of my small town, I treasure the clean air, etc… but damn IT… we have a serious shortage of cross-dressers and gays.

So an invitation to a drag show? Absolutely yes please, and thank you.

But…

I’m so pregnant, so sober, and so truly shy by nature. Add a little gin or vodka and hang the fuck on… but with a diet Coke in my hand I am as sweet and demure as it gets.  So I’m nervous… and so tired after a night of acid reflux torment. I try to nap and think about everything I need to pull off this miracle night out. My favorite saddle shoes are 4″ heels and definitely not what you see in the maternity store. I must wear fake lashes and I need to master that big hair teasing the shit out of it until it’s made you 5 inches taller nonsense. I have one dress that fits… and it only fits because it’s Lycra. My beloved 36DD chest has grown to an impressive 36F. It takes a cocktail or 3 to get me out of the house with the ladies on display, and I’m armed with a diet soda or cup of tea. To put it mildly… I’m shaking in my stilettos and I feel naked before even getting my dress on.

But I can’t wait!!!

I meet Miss Fabulous for dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant and have to avoid all my favorite things because I only have three Tums in my pocket and I know I’ll be in hell for the show if I eat anything I truly love. Simple salad and water, and she asks how my first day of maternity leave has been. I’ve been working on a blog about the true perils of serving and the real assholes that make it difficult, while struggling with one aspect- the fact that my very least favorite customer is quiet discernible if I describe her in detail.  I start to describe her, and recognition instantly flashes across the face of my dear friend. Fuck. Welcome to the hell of writing carefully in a small town.

We giggle about the irony of it all, and head next door, to the show. I’m nervously chewing my Tums and sipping ice water while we wait… when that same customer… otherwise referred to as “Crazy scissor-hands” walks up to say hello. Again…. I love the clean air. I love that my children swim in a beautiful crystal clear lake. I’m a crunchy mama and organic to my panties… but what’s a girl gotta do for a day of strangers? Is it so much to ask that my children’s teacher not be a douchebag ex-boyfriend of mine? Could I please spend a day without seeing a single soul I went to high school with? Clearly not.

I’m awkwardly sober and feel like my pregnant body has been shaved, perfumed and dipped in liquid latex. My darling friend is friends with the almighty drag queen. The gorgeous Misty Boxx walks over to say hello and I’m speechless. She’s tall, tall… with makeup so perfect it makes you lean in to look at the perfection of her lash lines. She has flawless skin, full ruby red lips and she smells like heaven. She has thighs that make you rethink every noodle you ever chewed happily and shoes I’d buy off of her feet. Everywhere I look, there are women too beautiful to be women… yet some of them are.

I must admit… my first thought when I met her was:  “I wanna be a drag queen when I grow up.”

The music starts and they vanish, only to return momentarily in lacy minis and silky satin corsets. Misty walks out in a pair of my favorite black cheeky panties and a corset. I rethink the whole carb hater diet again when she spins in her stilettos and leans down to brush her cheek against mine and take the dollar out of my awkward hand. I’m struck head on by how utterly marvelous it is to be a girl. She’s soft, she’s glamorous and winks at me as she turns to strut away. Fuck me runnin, I love a dancer…. naked or clothed… nothing beats a confident woman taking her clothes off.  I don’t care who you are or what kind of equipment you prefer, I’m right. I’m also struck by how much more feminine a man can be. His/Her thighs are so phenomenal in heels that it makes me want to go home and play in my closet.

There are skinny ones, chubby ones, some in dresses and some in panties. It’s all just… sensational. With one exception. Someone is vying for mother of the year, having brought her 5-6 year old son. He’s glued to an iPad and the queen with the microphone calls attention to it, making the whole room cringe a little and laugh at the same time. His mother is unaffected by the shame. It’s after ten, he’s seated between a bunch of adults waving dollar bills and she’s cheering with her empty martini glass and being actively ignored by the server. Thankfully after a few tipsy meddlesome mommies, she takes her little guy and leaves. Perhaps strangers aren’t all that cool, after all.

What are cool? Drag queens. If you haven’t been? You haven’t lived. Get your drag on and live a little!!! Sober or tipsy, pregnant or not- it’s one for the bucket list that you’ll want to experience again and again.

I’ll go with you… in my latex… or perhaps in stilettos and a corset next time.

:)

Serving with a side of baby.

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Both of my children arrived early. My son was two weeks early and my daughter… five.

Tomorrow, I will be exactly 32 weeks pregnant… which means this lovely little girl could arrive any time in the next 4-6 weeks.

I have two weeks left at work and if I weren’t out of time, I would continue right up to the moment I went into labor.

Which is precisely what people brace for when I approach their tables now.

C- “OH GOD, you’re about to pop, huh!”

C2- “Are you sure there’s only one baby in there? I think there’s two. That happens you know. I’m pretty sure you’re having twins”

C3- Wow! You’re HUGE!”

All of these comments were made by women, I might add. Men have been so fantastically complimentary that I feel quite beautiful, thankyouverymuch.

I work with the most wonderful bunch of people…. and frankly they’re closer than most of my genetic family members. I’m your garden variety extremely pregnant woman. My back aches. My ankles are swollen. I get heartburn from a sip of ice water. I’m less than comfortable and beaming with the happiness created by the imminent arrival of a baby I only ever dared to dream I would, could or should have.

My boss is the quintessential perfect big sister…. and she’s younger than me. I work my ass off and provide great service because I love her and I want her to succeed as much as I want to pay my bills and feed my children. She’s so much more than a boss, and even more than just a friend. She’s family, she has faith in me when I’m doubtful and she is the bright smile that greets me each day and waves me home at the end of each night.

My co-servers are my chosen sisters. Women I adore who represent every dynamic and beautiful facet of feminine strength you can imagine. We are more than a team, we are a force to be reckoned with in perfectly pressed black and ever present beaming smiles. We won’t just serve you- we’ll stick in your brain as one of those magic nights you had with your wife, your kids… or yourself. We love what we do and it shows because we work with people we want to spend time with. Our restaurant is not just a fantastic place to eat, it’s an experience with the finest group of happy friends you would want to be part of.

My kitchen boys. Sigh… the same men I had such a weakness for in the past who are so incredibly attractive and dynamic. Not only can they smile your bad day into a giggle… they can cook the perfect steak and make you feel gorgeous in a pair of hot polyester maternity pants. The man behind the swinging door… My sweet Mr. Commitment, bless his heart… is afflicted with the same disease I used to have. He encrusted my steak with pink peppercorn the week I was craving pepper. He makes incredible food look like art… and he wants most what he cannot have. He’s a phenomenal man and deserves an equally incredible woman… he just likes the douchey girls. Bless his heart… I hope he knows at some point how much more he’s worth. Some lucky woman deserves to steal him away from the crappy girls that waste his time.

My favorite, Mr. Perfection blows us all away on a daily basis. Our executive chef next door, who runs his own kitchen… but also comes next door to save us when we need saving. He’s a one-man-miracle, fixing appliances, planning menus and running two separate restaurants with a level of respect and kindness I’ve never seen… and my dad is a chef. He’s the gentle one who wants to know how the night went while making the kitchen fix you dinner after hours. I had a crush on him for years but he’s perennially single and married to the job. The restaurant is his lady and our success is, in many ways; thanks to him. He’s become a dear friend and it’s refreshing to know that not all chefs have traded their souls for cooking skills. They can be good men and good at what they do. He’s proof.

The one sad fact of the job is that sometimes people leave… and my dear King Sushi has left the building. When I got this new job after escaping the hell that was my old job, I walked in to see curly red hair and sparkly mischievous eyes grinning at me. Once upon a time I would have fallen in love with his wicked ways and gotten my heart broken along with all the other girls who couldn’t help themselves… but I love him like a brother and I understand him like a friend. My Little Red loves him just the same, and he’s family in ways few people are to us. Walking in to see an empty spot where he used to be grinning is as much a death in the family as when your oldest goes away to college. He’s a hot head, he’s a red head… he pissed us all off on a regular basis…. and I miss him so much that his absence is the only thing that makes my upcoming work hiatus a little more bearable.

So yeah… my legs ache…. and I may have a few more varicose veins than I did a month ago. I slip into my black clothes, glide some lipgloss on and look forward to every minute of my night with the family I feel so blessed to have found.

They say when you love what you do, you never work a day in your life… and I love being a mother more than anything, but I love my job too.  This job has taught me that when you really have a family… their absence stings.

I’m going back to work after baby Quinn is born, which I never thought would happen. Honestly in my mommy heart, I would rather not… but it’s more than a job. It’s my family, and I love them. They lift me up when I’m heartbroken and hopeless and they have taught me the one thing I struggled so hard to learn about myself.

I’m an amazing server and I kick ass and take names with a wine key. I memorize your favorite things and catalog the shit you hate. I know what you drink, I know which hand you use and I remember your spouse, children and grand-children’s names. I don’t just go to work, I come to serve.

A year to the day I got fired from the worst job I’ve ever had… I am living proof that even the darkest days can give way to days brighter than you ever imagined.

I am reminded not to settle, and would hope my work experience would inspire anyone stuck in a job they hate, with people that make life miserable and don’t appreciate you.  Life is short and time is fleeting.

Do what makes you happy ♥

Change is good…

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heirloombabes

It’s been a long hard winter full of everything I love and can’t stand, all in the same chilly moments. It snowed again today…

It’s been a blend of cold feet… wet socks… and a warm cozy house full of smiling faces I adore coming home to. A foot rub from the man I adore, who loves me more than anything… even while I whine about my achy sore pregnant feet.

The magnificent daughter of mine that makes every day worth living, just keeps upping the ante and raising the bar in her own life. Excellent grades, hilarious points of view and a warm bath waiting for me after work when I come waddling in. I spoil her. I admit it. I don’t apologize for a second for it, and I have every reason to. She helps where help is needed, without being asked. She makes every single moment she graces, better. She’s the most wonderful person I know, and I’m lucky enough to be her mom.

I sing to her. I buy her favorite food. I talk openly about the mistakes I’ve made and I apologize daily for them. I make amends and try harder to be the mom she deserves, every day. I’ve learned so much in the last year, and in losing my relationship with her brother, I’ve learned to make every moment in her life with me, count. We read “just one more” chapter. We stay up late. We eat ice cream for dinner on occasion.

While life is unspeakably beautiful… my dear son, continues to want nothing to do with me.

He recently turned 18, and the icy nothingness continues. It was the worst day imaginable, and I wonder sometimes if that’s all it’s ever going to be. My ex husband hated his mother growing up. I’m not entirely fond of mine. It seems to be a family epidemic that nobody wants to change. It seems to just be the way things are. It’s a huge loss and a huge waste for all of us.

18

I grieved the loss of him all day, stuck some candles into an eclair and sang to him in absentia. My whole life took a different path because I knew more than anything that I wanted to be his mother. I learned what real love is with him, and he gave me the greatest joy I’ll ever know in being his mom. I couldn’t not celebrate the 18 years that changed us all.

18ago

Love and forgiveness make every second of the day, better. Carrying around hate and heartache is like choosing to have cancer.  If this miracle baby in my belly has taught me anything, it’s that you should never ever limit yourself from dreaming or working to achieve the dreams you really desire. Life really is too short. A dear friend of mine died of cancer this winter, at 36. Another dear friend of mine remarried and adopted two babies. There is happiness and loss everywhere you look, but it’s up to you which you choose to surround yourself with.

I’ve cried a million tears, and regretted a million stupid and thoughtless mistakes I’ve made. I’ve lost two years of his life, a punishment greater than any disease, bad relationship or shitty job ever was in my life. It’s like having a lung or kidney removed. Life goes on every day and the sun still rises and sets… but I’ll never be as whole as I once was and neither will he.

peasplease

It’s choosing to turn the page and live a solid life example that changes the tears from wasteful to productive. I planted seeds for my garden and started scrubbing walls and baseboards. I cleaned up the messes I’d chosen to overlook and as a result have found myself in a cleaner cozy place with a few garbage cans full of wasted time and disaster.

I’ve worked at being a better friend and am blessed to have better friends in my life as a result. I stopped feeding the unhealthy relationships I’d given so much to, for so long. I adopted new family. I didn’t just turn the page, I threw the old moldy book away and wrote my own brand new story.

I’m facing not working and being home full-time again, which scares, saddens and excites me. I see newborns everywhere I turn and I pinch myself for being so lucky to have another tiny life to love. She’ll be here in 12 weeks or less and I am SO excited I can hardly stand myself. I have so many things to knit I’ve stopped knitting and finally started sewing the fluffy soft vintage chenille bumper pads for the bassinet. I’ve filled the greenhouse full of sprouting flats of my favorite vegetables, and my darling Superman has already roto-tilled my entire garden.

My belly has grown… and I absolutely love it- and can’t wait to meet sweet baby Quinn. July can’t come quickly enough.

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The peas have come up along with beets, flowers, peppers and too damn many heirloom tomato plants for anyone to plant, let alone while I’m seven months pregnant. I’ve ordered baby furniture purely for the garden. I’ve made the most of what I have and have found real peace as a result.

Change is good. Going to sleep every day with a clear head and a healing heart is a lot better than the self imposed doubt and chaos I’d created for myself.

It’s all baby booties and bean sprouts these days… and I thank my lucky stars every day for every single stitch and stem.

Truth is…

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Not writing makes me a bit of a basket case… I’m beginning to realize that although I treasure my new-found privacy… I’m a bit dull without my morning, afternoon or evening vent.

But dull can be nice when it means your private thoughts stay private.

Until they don’t.

I made the fatal mistake of falling in love with a mama’s boy- and had the displeasure of reading about myself on her blog yesterday. Not a high point, considering there were a few sentiments expressed about him that he hadn’t shared with me.

Well alrighty then.

It’s rather unpleasant to be on the receiving end. I can admit that. More than anything, it’s a lesson for me to not vanquish in the silence my pregnancy has created.

I know you all think I’m humming nursery rhymes and knitting booties… but come on. I live in the real world too.

Have I found the perfect man? No, because he doesn’t exist outside of romance novels and what’s left of daytime television. Am I living an endless string of blissful days? No, because reality is messy and being pregnant in the first 6 months of any relationship, even the strongest ones… is problematic at best.

I’m exceedingly annoyed by any and everyone who treats me like a first time mother. In less than a month, I will be the mother of two teenagers. One of whom will be able to legally buy cigarettes and vote. This is not my first fucking rodeo and if one more person offers me advice I’m going to murder someone, belly bump or not.

My relationship is less than stellar these days. He works out of state and I’ve spent most of my pregnancy alone. I sort of like it, if I’m going to be completely honest. I love the time alone with my daughter and frankly I have the sex drive any pregnant woman can relate to. His absence helps me not to annoy him- and I’m treasuring my last few months at the job I love.

We have a commitment that’s strong and enduring, but we have differences of opinion that separate us by more than physical miles.

I’m having our baby at home, and my best friend will be there…. something he is not a fan of. Also something I’m not even remotely willing to reconsider. I’ve had two babies- and I know the comfort that can only come from another woman when you’re in the throes of childbirth… and she’s really been there for me in all the moments he’s missed. She’s my right hand girl, and as necessary as calling the midwife. His ego will recover, but this birth will only happen once and it will be on my terms, come hell or high water. I thought all men left the details pertaining to childbirth up to the woman actually going through it?

And then there’s the shots….

I do not vaccinate. I will not vaccinate. I’m willing to fight to the death over it if need be. I held my poor baby boy when he was barely conscious with a 107* fever and covered in measles after an “adverse reaction” to his MMR shots. The best thing I ever did was to not vaccinate my daughter. She’s healthy as could be and quite amazing as well. He does not agree and it is a huge problem for us.

I’m one of those annoying crunchy moms that nurses in public, and he’d rather I wear one of those ridiculous tent things to cover up.

I’m not ashamed. I’m not hiding. I’m not wearing a fucking tent.

If I whip it out to feed our baby and some lecherous man sneaks a peek? Good on him, he’s a smart man. My boobs are amazing and I’m equally so for choosing to breastfeed.

Giving up my job, my financial security and my hard-fought independence is downright terrifying, and I’m none too thrilled about it.

But…

I love my round pregnant body. I love the tiny (and sometimes not so tiny) kicks while I’m sitting in the bubble bath every night with a cup of herbal tea. I love the clarity that comes from months of sobriety and sufficient rest and I love, love, love the 18″ elastic waistband on my pants.

23wks

I love the sweet smiles people offer when they see my beautiful belly. I love the wistful glances from the women I treasure. I love the baskets full of tiny socks and impossibly small onesies that fill the beautiful butter yellow nursery my daughter used to sleep in. I love it all, with the exception of the heartburn.

nursery

It’s still real life around here, and I’m still the same independent alpha female I’ve always been…. made twice as stubborn by the added estrogen of my unborn daughter, whom we’ve decided to name Quinn.

I’m not completely inflexible… and strive to be open to suggestions… hell we still need a middle name for Baby Q.

It’s all still a day full of lessons, and I still have a million miles to go before I’m perfect. I’ve learned a lot in the past 36 years…

and I’ve missed all of you ♥

babyquinn

Wishes Granted

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If anyone had told me a year ago that I’d have just about everything I ever wanted by the next year, I never would have believed them.

In fact I probably would have mocked them…. right here.

My life had become something I was trapped by. My choices had cost me nearly everything I cared most about… and it was all iced with a nightmare trip to Puerto Rico in the height of my delusion.

Thomas Murray may be the devil incarnate… but he taught me some HUGE life lessons I’ll never forget, and set me on a different path.

Standing on a pier a million miles away from home with a sinking suspicion that I’d really gotten myself in hot water… hot water so deep I was holding my breath to keep from drowning. I stood alone in my choices and took stock of what my life had become.

Unrecognizable. A nightmare beyond anything I ever thought it might resemble along the way.

A self esteem so low I’d knowingly settled for less than I deserved because I was desperate to avoid the curse of endless solitude. A list of losers plaguing me that had done nothing but cheat, lie and shit all over what was left of me. Not a single good intention in sight.

My first born, lost. All the years of dedication don’t matter for shit if you stop dedicating yourself. Some children are fickle and jump ship when they see it burning. It was my job to keep it afloat and I can’t blame him for not loving me enough to know how much I wanted more than what we had. I hope someday he’s able to remember who I am and until then I love him from afar.

A job that made me sick, literally. Riddled with ulcers and constantly sick, driving to work with nothing but dread in the pit of my stomach… only to sustain myself with shitty fried food and regular post-shift drinking, just to cope. Earning a miserable $3.35 an hour while working the lousy shifts because I refused to kiss the ass of a manager so horrible they should print her picture in text books. Working full time for nothing and no one.

Standing in Puerto Rico, laughing at myself- finally. I woke up. I looked at the old man creeper standing next to me and knew something wasn’t right. I resolved to get my shit together and figure it out. I learned to swim instead of quietly drowning beside the married philanderer busying himself trying to blow smoke up my ass while I narrowed my eyes in shock as I saw the forest for the trees.

I flew home and scotch taped myself back together until the wounds healed. I made changes. I still stumbled, but I was determined to be happy- and to change the things making me miserable.

I reclaimed my self respect and burned Thomas Murray’s house of cards down. I told the truth. I screamed the truth. I tagged him and shared my experience with the many women waiting for his next call, some of whom had been waiting for a decade. I laid a motherfucker bare and made cheating on his wife quite a bit harder. He still stalks my blog. I’ve never heard from him since the shit started to hit the fan and the women came out of the woodwork.

I started to sleep again… sometimes all night long. I quit drinking to mask the pain. I started running again.

I got fired. I deserved to. I called that nightmare manager a Cunt and lost my unemployment along with the worst job I’ve ever had. I acted irresponsibly, for sure- but I also only voiced what everyone else says under their breath. I’m actually proud of myself for having the balls to call a spade a spade. They all say it, I just took responsibility for it. I don’t regret it. I got banned for life and they hired my child. All’s well that ends well, right? I got a new job. I applied for a few, but the one I really really wanted… I got. I fell into a honeymoon of a serving job working with adults that acted like it. I made new friends and lost some too. I learned that some friendships are conditional and if they’re lost so easily- they never really were there to begin with. I bloomed. Some of my favorite customers found me at my new grown-up job, and I started with a raise from day 1. I made more money. I made new favorite customers. I learned to make a mean martini and flourished in an environment that champions my role as a mother as much as my value to them as an employee. For the first time in three years… I was able to call in sick. I love my job so much it will be really hard to give it up.

I went on a date with someone nice. I was so disenchanted at that point I tried my best to get out of it, and went under protest- to be completely honest. I didn’t go to any great lengths… ran a brush through my hair and put some lip gloss on. No makeup. No sexy clothes. Just my favorite jeans and a t-shirt and my bone-deep distrust of anyone with a penis, comforted only by the fact he was a dear friend’s brother. I met my Superman. I sat and ate dinner with a man determined to look me in the face and listen to what I said. I watched him and realized that I had been completely correct when I’d told my friends I couldn’t choose for myself. I fell in love with good intentions, kind gestures and integrity so pure I’ve never met anyone who even remotely comes close to being as good as he is. I honestly wonder if anyone else has ever come close. He loves me and my daughter as his own. He spoils the hell out of her, for all the right reasons. He has the family I always dreamed of having, and a mother who is just like I want to be. He is the man I waited for.

I grew a beautiful garden. I canned more than I’ve ever canned before. My pantry became legendary and I healed my own broken heart while feeding my family. I remembered the things that make me healthy and threw out the things that didn’t. I learned to thrive again.

I quit drinking. I quit medicating the pain I was working overtime to avoid. I’ve dealt with serious depression in facing the loss of my son and all the pain it brings. It’s not easy to wake up every day missing half your heart, but I’d rather talk about it, and give a voice to my pain instead of nurturing a vice. I’d rather spend that time I’d wasted doing what I love so much. I read stories with my daughter. I let her sleep in my bed. We cook dinner together and have been sewing too. I treasure each moment with her because I realize the aching loss of their absence. I pray. I spend more time trying to be a good friend and working to return calls, remember birthdays and be present in the moment.

And then… I got pregnant. :) Superman and I had laughed over lunch one day and he’d gotten suddenly serious.

S- I really want a child of my own. I understand if you don’t, but it means a lot to me.

J- I’d always dreamed of just one more…. but I’m 36 and do not want to be 37 and pregnant. Yikes. I have one in high school and one in middle school.

S- Well then let’s just leave it up to fate.

Out came my IUD… and two weeks later? lol… yep. Pregnant. This very much meant-to-be baby flew right in… and of all the irony… I’m due on my 37th birthday. I’ve never seen a due date, so chances are very good that I will not, in fact, ever be 37 & pregnant.

In the last week, I’ve woken up to tiny taps and bumps from my round stomach. It’s been so long since I felt a baby kick, my first response was tears. I’m so grateful. I’m so humbled. I have a million memories from my son and daughter that make me smile when I think of all the times that went by too fast- and I feel so fortunate to get to experience it all again… and with someone I love so dearly.

Once upon a time, or perhaps a hundred times… I said a silent prayer.

J- I just want one more beautiful child. One more chance to be what I love more than anything- a mother. A blessing of a baby with a man I truly love.

I’ve seen so many prayers go unanswered- or worse- nightmares realized. I’d given up on the hopes it could all be better.

Then I found my faith, found myself and found that when I put my mind to it- even my wildest dreams can come true.

Here’s proof. Our little Parker. A baby sister for my darling Little Red & the son I love so much. A baby made out of true love and endless faith. The tangible equivalent of the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Parker16wks

Dreams. Have them, foster them and if all else fails- chase them…

Because fairytales do come true.