The Horkin OG

Back in 2004, I believed I had a better chance of landing a guest star role on Tommy Lee Goes to College than having a baby.

Which, wasn’t a terrible show, given the premise and early adoption of the reality television arc, and it yielded a decent CD, Tommyland, which I bought and listened to on repeat on my way to and from work and did all the things childless people who wish not to be without children do to occupy their time.

Goddamnit, I had a LOT of free time on my hands.

Much like divorce, people REALLY don’t want to discuss the misfirings of your reproductive parts.  Friends and family often tolerated my ramblings about being lonely and dating shenanigans, but launch a retort to someone’s bad day with, “…at least YOU didn’t have radioactive dye injected into your Fallopian tubes” and suddenly you’re a social pariah.  So, I did what any respectable, barren woman in her late 20’s during the early 2000’s would do, I Googled the SHIT out of every and all topics surrounding infertility from the comfort of my couch while watching Gilmore Girls and, lo!  I found my people.  A community of stunningly brilliant story weavers, willing to share the hilariously humiliating, intimate, mundane, and darkest corners of their journey to parenthood and THEY LET ME JOIN THEM.  Crazy bitches.

I kept my blog close, and hardly anyone in my real life knew about it.  Eventually, my sister found it, and I shared it with a few others, and then I got spotted in my mall, and of course she and I became insta-besties, because that’s what one does when you’re spotted by a follower of your blog while bra shopping with two toddlers in tow, (SPOILER! I GOT KNOCKED UP EVENTUALLY!) and then you take her on a first friend date to Victoria’s Secret to purchase a bachelorette gift and live as friends happily ever after.

It’s truly a miracle I’m allowed out of my house alone.

horkinramblingsThis past weekend, I came across an archived version of my old blog.  Horkin Ramblings, in all her Pepto pink glory, from which I treated Unicorn Boyfriend to some dramatic readings.  Then, as if he hadn’t endured enough, I remembered a collection of posts, from my blog, that a friend compiled for my baby shower, and we read those, too.  Y’all.  It was GOLD.

And I decided, right then and there, under my white twinkle lights, on my deck in desperate need of painting, sipping a glass of $6 wine because we spare NO expense, that I’m bringing Mommyblogging back, OG STYLE.

(I had NO idea what OG meant until, like, a year ago, when I saw Teen Mom OG, and I praised Yeezus for a smartphone so no one knew I Googled the phrase OG, from the privacy of my own living room, except, now, the interwebs.)

But since my kids are now the ripe ol’ age of TWEEN, and would much rather I keep their privacy intact, and since I’m actively trying NOT to get pregnant because at my age that would be just crazypreggopants, and oh yeah, I’m divorced, it’s not exactly Mommyblogging so much as a dumping ground for the essays that will eventually comprise my best selling novel.

Or, more realistically, a blog that’s a fuck ton cheaper than therapy.  You are welcome!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Hope He Grabs This In the Event of a Fire

I assumed you’d always be there.

My first contact as soon as I open my eyes.  The first good morning from my lips or fingers, depending on whether I wake up next to you.  The last I love you long after the sun surrenders to the dark.  The point to my counterpoint.

My steadfast companion in weekend shenanigans.  My sounding board for daily struggles and minutia, an audience for my long, waxing stories, puns and jokes.  My kitchen dancing partner.  The one with whom I (badly, most times very badly) try to harmonize in the car, hoping you don’t hear or judge too harshly when it’s (usually) awful.

My workout partner.  My hand holder, and forehead kisser.

Yesterday, my mind stumbled into a scary, sad place.  One without you in it.

I was driving.  We talked on the phone.  (Handsfree.  Huzzah, bluetooth!)  I had both hands on the wheel, steadily guiding myself into my driveway, yet felt like we were careening at top speed off a cliff.  I told you I thought something was wrong.  That I can’t be things I’m not.  That maybe I wasn’t the girl for you.

I felt sick.

I hung up the phone, and sat in my car.  Sobbing.  Heaving.  Already missing your scent and the scruff of your beard on my neck when you snuggled in behind me as I brushed my teeth.

I went in the house.  Threw on the mask of being Mom and strong and happy for my little audience of two who needed dinner and hugs and kisses and help with homework.  I hoped we could talk later and resolve things, but I hated that I couldn’t see your face.  Responsibilities meant that just wasn’t possible.  

Like clockwork, I messaged you when the house was quiet.  And we could talk.  You said you’d be there in 3 minutes.

And then, you walked in the door.

I hadn’t heard you open the garage, or pull in the driveway, or your footsteps on the stairs.  But, there you were.  With open arms and more red roses than I’d ever seen gathered together in a beautiful bouquet.

You showed up.

We talked.  And I could see your face.  Your eyes said it all.  You were scared, too.  You held me, and assured me, and listened, and offered a hand that hoisted me out of that horrible, terrifying, solitary space, and back on the path where I belonged, with you.

We need to be brave.  And stay soft.  With our eyes and hearts open to whatever comes next.  Because I know, there’s Game of Thrones episodes to watch together, and silly dances in the grocery store, and nights at the arcade with our kids, and trips to the batting cages, and stupid selfies, and snowmobiling weekends, and a million other things in store for us.

I’ll never just assume you’ll be there.  But, I’ll fight like hell to be there, too…because there is where you are.  And that’s where I want to be.

Go Sanitize Your Phone, Pukey Phone People.

I’m a bit of a logistical nightmare.

By nature, I plan.  No, not just plan, I PLANNNNNNNNNNNNN to the Nth degree.  I plan the shit out of plans.  I attempt to accommodate for any and all scenarios, and those scenarios have understudy scenarios that need to be prepped and readied in the event that the star of the show comes down with unexpected (unplanned, you say???) norovirus and surprise!!  THEY’RE ON.  This level of planning involves a great number of moving parts, acquisitoning of all the things, and cooperative participants in Current Plan, the Musical!  In which I’d be played by Kristen Chenoweth.

Logistical.  Nightmare.  Fo sho.

Last week, Unicorn Boyfriend invited me up north to partake in some weekend Snowmobiling shenanigans.  Which, can we talk about the absolute ridiculous toll this particular motor sport takes on a woman’s body?  And by a woman’s body, I mean boobs.  Jiminy Cripes on a salted Cracker, the bumps.  Imagine riding a bike over ski moguls.  FOR HOURS.  Like, five. Sports bra be damned, those bumps were BRUTAL.  And, the guys who sled, in response to my comments about bouncy boob pain, are all, “When you hit the bumps just stand up.”  Oh, well ALRIGHTY THEN.  Sure!  I’ve commandeered a 1,000 pound piece of machinery and am trying to navigate through trees and make drifty, slidey turns, and avoid other people and keep the throttle engaged and don’t hit the brake too much when going down a hill, and, now let me add STANDING UP to that list to spare my body the brunt of the bumps.

Don’t mistake my bitching for a dislike of the sport.  It’s actually super fun and I like it very much, in spite of all the immense bumpiness.

I especially enjoy the tandemness of riding with Unicorn BF, and we’ve added this activity to the many things we already like doing together, like working out and cooking and drinking wine and negating all the working out we’ve done.  Synergy, people.  That’s what this is.

Anyhoo, the timeline of this getaway was tight.  Super tight.  We were trying to leave early enough to avoid some snowy stormy weather rolling into our path to snowmobile land, and we’d have to leave Vermont early enough for me to start my shift at work on Sunday night at 6pm.  The drive to and fro is approximately 5 hours under ideal conditions.  The amount of gear one needs to pack for such an outing is immense.  (Jacket, snow pants, boots, gloves, head wrappy thing that goes under a helmet, helmet…)

Here’s the kicker…no actual decision about going on this trip was made until all the info sources were consulted and it was determined snow was in adequate supply, which happened late Friday night.

Last Summer, not long after UBF and I met, we accepted an invitation to have dinner with my friend in NYC on a Saturday night.  On Friday, she excitedly texted me many emojis and said, “See you guys tonight!!”  Wait.  What?  Dinner was TOMORROW, right?  Nope.  She’d inadvertantly got her dates wrong and the dinner was that night.  I received her texts at work, where I was expected until 3pm, leaving what I thought was no time to make it to the city in time for dinner.  I contacted UBF to let him know the change in plans and make alternate arrangements.  The conversation that followed looked a little like this:

Me:  I’m sorry, but dinner is tonight in NYC, not tomorrow, and there’s not enough time to get there by 7, so what else should we do tonight?
Him: Why isn’t there enough time?
Me: Too hard.  So…plans?
Him: Not too hard.  Lots of trains on a Friday night.  Let’s figure this out.
Me: WHAT IS THIS PATIENT COOPERATION AND LOGISTICAL PROWESS YOU POSSESS???
Him: ???
Me: Uh, nevermind.  Anyhoo! You were saying???
Him: You get out of work around 3. Run home, change, pick me up by 430, we can make a train around 5ish, and make it to the restaurant by 7.
Me: Oh goodness.  Your organizational skills are on point.  Also?  HOT.
Him: Go get ready, crazypants.  See you soon.

I’m paraphrasing, of course.  But you get the idea.  He pays attention to details.  He’s calm.  He’s a good mix of planner and fly by the seat of his pantser, which does wonders to placate my OCD and nudges my rigid side to LET THINGS GO, ALREADY.

We had a fantastic time in NYC that night, thanks in no small part to his level head and my low maintenance habits that allowed me to rush home, change into acceptable attire and arrive on his doorstep in record time.  It became pretty obvious that day that not only did we have a tremendous amount of interests in common, and we found fun in one another, but we seemed to make a damn, fine set of partners in making shit happen.

This weekend proved no different.  We worked in concert to make this trip a huge success.  From coordinating pick ups, to organizing a car friendly dinner, to his hand holding through learning this new crazy sport he loves so much, to us packing early and heading back with enough extra time to spare that we stole a few moments alone and rested before I had to leave for work.

I can hear half of you reading this collectively saying, awwwwwwwwww…and the other half projectile vomiting onto your phones because GROSS SWOONY SWEETNESS, BLECH.

Whatever, lame pukey phone people.

Hashtag, bliss.