Wednesday, September 22, 2010
This week will mark the two year anniversary of my blog, Crying Over Spilled Milk. For those of you that have joined me in this journey, let me take a moment to say thank you. It has been quite a rollercoaster we have been on these past couple of years, hasn’t it? A few downs, many ups and a couple of “I think I’m going to puke” moments. But somehow, through it all (even the poop stories) you have stuck by my side through the stink; laughing with me, crying with me, pitying me, but most importantly you’ve been praying for me. Your compassion, understanding and love means more than you know. So thank you, thank you, thank you!
Let’s recap this journey, shall we?
The tale began with a divorce; a divorce that crooked me into a cynic; a divorce that made me question God; a divorce that turned my world upside down and broke my heart into a million pieces. Two years ago, I didn’t comprehend why I had to go through all that heartache. I couldn’t wrap my arms around believing anything good or just ever coming out of such a travesty. At such a young age, I found myself alone, frail and broken, grieving a relationship that ended up being a great disappointed to both parties involved. My heart told me it wasn’t fair. My mind told me I didn’t deserve it. God told me nothing because I refused to listen.
I was bitter and angry. It felt good to put the blame on my Ex’s shoulders. But mind you, I had guilt. Crazy guilt. The kind of guilt that crept in and consumed my mind in the most silent of nights. But I wasn’t ready to face it. Medicating myself with anti-depressants, working until all hours of the night and slipping further and further into a state of apathy seemed to be the only treatment to alleviate the ache in the pit of my stomach.
Starting this blog helped me process what had happened to me only a few months before. Writing down my thoughts and sharing them with people who actually seemed to care is what initiated the learning and growing process for me.
I learned that in the moments when you are unabashedly bawling your eyes out is when you receive the most clarity. I learned in the silence and in the lonely nights how to enjoy myself, for once. I learned that it’s hard to forgive people but it’s even harder to forgive yourself. I learned that once you reach forgiveness for someone else, it gives you an indescribable joy and peace and I’m hoping to one day know how fully forgiving myself will feel. I learned that when I prayed but felt like God wasn’t even around, that Jesus heard my every word wept and he held me in his arms through it all. I learned that laugher can be the best medicine. I learned asking people for their opinions doesn’t always feel good and sometimes can hurt deeper than you thought. I learned to trust in God’s providence. I learned that it’s okay to grieve hurt, even if it’s self inflicted. I learned how to take the blame for my own actions and release the burden off of people’s shoulders that didn’t deserve to carry it on their own. I learned that I hurt many people deeply. I learned the pain of recognizing it all.
But, I now know all those tough lessons were preparation leading me to a deeper understanding of the love of our Heavenly Father and into the arms of a man I thank God everyday for. There are times when I am sitting with my husband, watching him laughing at a funny T.V. show, helping with the dishes or carefully concentrating as he shaves his beard and I silently thank God for my previous divorce so I never take for granted the love he and I share. Through God’s precious grace, I have been giving a second chance at a beautiful family. He has blessed me with Buckethead and two amazing step-kids. I now have the love of three very special people who build me up, encourage me and love me despite my flaws. He has turned this story that was once a tragic one into a beautiful love story.
I am anxious to see where this story of my life heads. All I know is that I have a great partner in life who I have committed my heart and soul to that I can’t wait to go through this ride with. Maybe one day, Crying over Spilled Milk will have an entirely different connotation (I’m talking babies, people!) for Buckethead and me. But, where ever this road leads us, I will remember to be thankful for all of it. You live, you learn. You cry, you learn. You loose, you learn. You love, you learn.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
One little task that kept me busy recently, was I decided to "update" the master bathroom in our house. Although there were many advantages to marrying my sweet buckethead (he can reach the top shelf, he's a human heating pad and he's a pretty good kisser, too) one of the coolest bonuses was that I moved out of my 700 square foot apartment into a beautiful home. However, since he has lived in this house we now share for going on 9 years, sometimes I feel like I need some of my touches in it to make it truly home to me.
But trying out your creativity for the first time on a very expensive house, can be a little intimidating, not to mention kind of stupid. It would be one thing if I hadn't been a wall texturizing virgin, but reading a "how-to" instruction guide via google as my only preparation, may not have been wise. Regardless of Buckethead's fear we would end up with a disaster on our hands and an unfixable problem on the walls of his largest investment, he agreed to let me spread my creative wings and fly.
After the taping alone took 4 hours, I was starting to highly regret my decision. However, pressing on, I spent the next two weeks stripping wall paper, texturizing, painting, tearing down mirrors, making 4 trips to different stores to find mirrors and hanging mirrors (all with Buckethead's help, of course). Below it the result of our hard work.
Monday, September 13, 2010
After a year and a half of slipping in and out of the services unnoticed, Mark and I finally joined our church this weekend. I should mention that it wasn’t completely my fault that this took so long. Becoming a member of this church wasn’t as easy as I thought. You can’t just walk up the aisle to the preacher with arms wide open, fill out a piece of paper and give a scout’s honor that you were baptized when you were 8. Buckethead and I had to attend a 5 hour member’s class before we were allowed to add our name to the church’s Holy Roller roster.
Regardless, Buckethead and I were pretty excited about the class. Mind you, we were told that the class would give us the opportunity to get to know other people in a more intimate setting that is hard to find in a church of 4,000 members. So, Saturday morning arrived and I promptly jumped out of bed, preparing myself for the day’s festivities; eager to break bread or share a latte’ with our fellow brothers and sisters in Christ.
Rocking a pair of jeans with blinged out crosses (I thought it was a nice touch) and a button down shirt that covered enough skin even my father would be pleased, we grabbed our table number upon arrival and headed over to meet the other table occupants that I had dreamed would become our new best friends—good friends; the secret casserole recipe trading type of friends.
But then we met “The Millers” at table number 4. I check my number to make sure this isn’t a mistake. I check it again. My number is still 4. I then proceed to stare at my number really hard and cross-eyed in hopes that I may have some superpower I’ve never known existed that would allow me to change the number with my complex mind…..nope, that didn’t work either.
My heart drops into my stomach and I start frantically looking for someone to barter my pack of juicy fruit gum and a gel pen for an incognito table switch. But I recognized my hunt was useless; no one who want to trade us. My original hope for friendship quickly vanished.
Before I continue, I must note that I do feel somewhat guilty about my initial judgment. I mean listen, my heart isn’t coal black and I don’t reek of sulfur (except after a late night visit to Taco Bell). My mom taught me you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover and besides, I was at a church function for crying out loud! But you don’t understand. There we sat across from 4 of the most unhappy, socially awkward people I’ve ever met in my entire life.
Attempting to give the family who’s tense glare and failure to blink made me more nervous that the time I got stuck in an elevator for 2 minutes with a man who had a striking resemblance to Bin Laden (turned out he worked in the basement deli). But guess what? My initial opinion was correct. These people REFUSED to talk with us. They wouldn’t say a word other than to mumble that they were “The Millers” that they didn’t like their old church, and that they had nothing to say. It was more likely that Brad Pitt would walk into the room shirtless to serve me a hotdog than this family attempt to get to know us.
Seriously. I'm waiting Brad Pitt.....
And to make matters worse, every 30 minutes we were suppose to have a group discussion that they voluntarily chose not to participate in, leaving Buckethead and I to discuss “get to know you questions” amongst ourselves. So Buckethead got to learn that I loved red wine and worked in HR. With my head perched on my hand, I gazed at the table to our right who were laughing, fellowshipping, and frolicking amongst a field of wild flowers, holding hands, singing ring around the rosy together (well, close enough). I was envious--jealous. I even tried to lean towards their table and laugh along side of them but it didn’t work.
In the end, I didn’t get the fellowship I was hoping for, but I did become a member of the church Buckethead and I hope to grow our family in for years to come. And to look on the bright side, at least we didn’t have to end our team building with a trust fall or anything…”The Millers” sooo would not have caught me.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
I have a confession. Mind you, I've been needing to confess this for a long time, however I've been too embarrassed to face the music. What can I say? I guess I'm a follower. I hate being different. Now, I tried and I tried to change, but my efforts were useless. I tried to ignore this feeling but it kept coming to the surface like the aftertaste of bad sushi. But I realized perhaps it's time to come clean. So, here's the truth:
I hate shows about cakes.
It's CAKE, ladies. I don't need to watch Cupcake Wars, Cake Battle, Dream Cakes, Who's the Boss of the Cake or whatever the crap is called. I mean, how does TLC get away with these pathetic excuses for a T.V. show? I would rather watch a make-out scene from the series about the creepy old couple that have 19 kids than be forced to sit through an hour long segment about the drama of baking.
However, my girlfriends love these shows. I smile during the conversation of these cake shows, nodding my head in agreement so hard I nearly have a concussion. But, I just can't relate. Aside from the fact I like to EAT cake, there is nothing else in my realm of interest that would make watching these shows remotely entertaining.
That being said, it makes me question: Does this make me less of a domestic woman? Is the fact that I would rather watch Jersey Shore get their GTL on, or people busting it on Wipe out embarrass my gender? Perhaps I am flawed as a homemaker. Are we all suppose to enjoy cooking shows? Who killed JFK? Does this define us as women? Did Yankee Doodle really name is feather macaroni? Should I fake it, till I feel it?
Sometimes I feel like my transition into suburbia is completed. Until, I try to sit through an episode of some cranky, fat people frosting a cake and then I quickly realize-- nope, nope, not there yet.