The Humpty Hump

When I turned 40, everyone said that I would stop worrying about things that didn’t matter like how I looked or what people thought of me. I was supposed to feel completely safe and secure in my own skin. Self-acceptance and #grateful was in my bright beautiful future. What I got was the constant need for a nap and to pee. Was I turning 4 or 40?

I knew all that 40 and fabulous stuff was crap.

As 41, 42, and 43 rolled by, I just became more irritated with the everyone and everything around me. And I still need to nap and pee way more than normal. And that skin I was supposed to be secure in, was larger than it used to be. Where did these 12 pounds even come from?

I’ve always eaten what I want and have never been good at dieting. I’m more of a cut-back kind of gal. Like today, I limited myself to 15 Spicy Cheez-Its instead of the serving size of 25. But cutting back no longer works. I’m convinced that I could exercise for 6 hours and live on Triscuits and Tic Tacs and still not lose a pound. Trying to give myself some love was getting harder and harder.

Turing 44 wasn’t any better.

I had this awful feeling that I was too late. That I had missed my chance to do something with my life. Add in a those extra pounds, a bad knee, gray hair, and eye bags, and you’ve got a prescription for Lexapro. 

All of this sounds very vain but aging gracefully is hard. Yes, I am grateful for my health, my family, and the life I have built with them but I can’t be alone when I say that I hit a plateau and thought that there wasn’t much more. My children had reached ages where they didn’t require much beyond clean underwear, a hot meal, and a ride somewhere. My husband and I were settling into 20 years of marriage and I felt like middle age was constantly slapping me across the face. Part of me started to surrender thinking, well, I had a good run. I certainly wasn’t old but for the first time in my life, I was feeling every year.

Well, then came 44’s meaner, uglier older sister, 45. 

I was really getting sick of myself at this point and I’m sure my family was sick of me too but they still took me on vacation.

We were having a beautiful time on Michigan’s Mackinac Island and I booked myself a birthday massage at the hotel’s spa. I love massages and was really looking forward to someone rubbing out all the knots and angry places on my body for one solid, blissful hour. I practically skipped into the locker room to undress, put on my spa robe, and retreat into the lavender scented relaxation room. Once I settled myself onto a leather chaise I tried to turn off my brain so I could enjoy the soft tribal music and bird songs. For me, there’s always that panic where I wonder how I’ll react if a big hairy man comes out to introduces himself as my massuse. Or, what if it’s a sexy man with an exotic accent? Will I make a break for it or will I let unknown man hands explore my body while softly asking, “How does that feel? Harder? More pressure? Softer?” Oh God, please don’t be hairy or sexy. Luckily, a lovely small woman, probably ten years older than me, came out to greet me. Perfect.

Rub me down nice lady.

She had a very calm and motherly vibe. She didn’t want to make small talk, which I appreciated. I just wanted to completely zone out and melt into the experience. The only question she asked was if I had any areas that needed extra attention. I told her that my neck and shoulders were always sore so she started concentrating on those places, kneading and rubbing away the tension. It was heaven. (I probably could have fallen asleep if I didn’t have to pee). I was warm and cozy and feeling amazing. That is, until she gave me the worst news of my life.

She told me I was getting a hump.

She then lectured me on how I need to take care of myself and how important posture is and then showed me some exercises I could do to strengthen my back muscles which would help my hump.

My hump.

I was wishing that the big hairy guy would have come out instead of this mean lady.

Happy 45th  freaking birthday.

After that disastrous experience I was certain that I was a hideous freak and everything that was good in the world had come to a screeching halt. Not only did I have a hump, I also had gray pubic hair growing from my head, love handles, a neck that was started to sag, wrinkles, and a zillion other little things that made me want to crawl in a hole and die. This is very dramatic I realize but 45 was merciless.

This was my rock bottom and the most pathetic, vanity soaked depression ever. People in the world are actually suffering and I can’t stop looking at myself in the mirror. Recognizing this makes me feel even worse. Ugh. I deserve a hump.

Shortly after my hump diagnosis, I decided enough was enough. If I was going to be a humpback lady, I would carry it with pride. Well, not really. I just decided I was sick of obsessing about stupid shit. And if I was going to obsess about stupid shit, then I would write it down and share my shallowness with the world.

And so, LivingTheFreakingDream.com was born.

I honestly do want to connect with people and see if anyone thinks and feels like I do because I have found that not many people like to be honest about the ugly things in life. There has to be someone else out there with a hump, right?

Most people that I’ve encountered in the last ten years are always grateful and always happy and always say nice, polite things. I’m so tired of being polite. I’m so tired of meaningless chatter about the weather and how busy we are. I’m actually not that busy.

Anyway, obsessing less about my age and weight and of course my hump, and focusing all that ridiculous energy into doing something I like, has been therapeutic. Kind of. That and Lexapro. But, the good news is that blog posts and possible story plots of future best sellers now occupy the space in my brain where I used to wallow.

And it feels good.

And what I finally figured out is that there is no age where you flip a switch and become something you weren’t before. Everyone who says that is full of crap. What I needed to happen at 40 was to regain some control over my future. Being a wife and a mom is great but in 5 years, my kids will be gone and I refuse to be that mom that can’t get out of bed because her life has no meaning without her children. And so I’m finding meaning and 5.5 years into my 40’s, things are starting to look up. I’m still vain and I still care what people think but there’s definitely a better view from this plateau.

And maybe I should thank my hump for reminding me to stop slouching in misery and start sitting up straighter and looking forward.

So, you want to be an author.

I have decided to write a book.

I know what you’re thinking and I’ve thought it too. Gazillions of people think they are talented writers. The truth is that only a tiny fraction of them find any kind of success. I get it but I’m arrogant enough to think that I can be one of the few that end up on the couch with Hoda and Jenna talking about my hot new best seller. I see them marveling on how I managed to do this in my 40’s and then it would turn into the “it’s never too late” story which will then make me feel old and bad. Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself.

For the past three years I have been consumed with writing. I’ve taken courses in writing, I dream about writing, I journal, I started this blog. I even have a twitter account and I thought twitter was only for politicians.

I always said that I wasn’t creative enough to write fiction so instead I thought I would write a memoir or do freelance editing but the idea of writing a book has been nibbling at me for a while. So, two days ago I started writing and I only have 1300 words but I’m obsessed. I can’t stop thinking about this story and where it could go. However, if I think too hard, I get heart palpitations so I’m just going to take it one day at a time.

There’s no deadline. I’ve got nothing but time.

Me and my laptop.

And the sound of the drywall guy in my kitchen—singing.

I may be 60 before it’s finished but hey, Hoda and Jenna are right— It’s never too late.

Such a Good Wife by Seraphina Nova Glass. Narrated by Xe Sands.

This book captured my attention from the start. Mel is a mother and wife who is struggling to care for her family while also trying to remember dreams of her own. This is extremely relatable. I felt Mel drowning in the responsibility of caring for a special needs child, a snarky teenager, an almost too kind husband, and her live-in, non-verbal mother-in-law who is slowly dying from Alzheimers. You can’t blame the gal for needing a little excitement in her life.

As the story unfolds, Mel tangles herself into a web of lies and deceit. I found myself tangled up with her, holding my breath, gritting my teeth, and feeling the weight of her guilt. I was so absorbed in her emotions that I felt guilty when I saw my own husband. I had to shake off her stress and remind myself that it’s just a book. (I love it when that happens even if I do end up with stress acne). It got really intense as Mel dug herself deeper and deeper. I was listening while out for a walk and found myself slapping my forehead while saying out loud, “this is a terrible idea!”

My relationship with Mel was solid but not so much with the others. I kept waiting for Mel’s mother-in-law to play a role. I really expected her to not be so lost in her disease. It would have been fun if Claire (the MIL) had been an observer of Mel’s behavior and then shocked everyone with her discoveries. I also thought that the shallow neighbors would have caused more havoc and lastly, I thought for sure that at least one of the members from the writing group would have been on to Mel. But no. Mel snuck around, completely undetected and the one person who could have blown it all up, just faded away.

So much chaos and build-up to an ending that was just, meh. It was uncomfortable because it was so out of character for Mel and though I felt her need to protect the ones she loved, it wasn’t believable. I think that an epilogue would have helped. Something ten years in the future maybe. An unraveling of sorts instead of the neat “swept under the rug” ending. Maybe there will be a sequel?

I love audio books. I listen while I exercise, while I fold laundry, while I prepare dinner, and any other moment I can. I love them even more when the narrator fits perfectly with the characters. Xe Sands is extremely talented but her voice for this book sounded so haggard. Yes, Mel was tired and overwhelmed but she was also a young woman who was still beautiful, sexy, and desirable. The gravely exhaustion made the seduction and affair feel not quite right. I absolutely expected Luke to be some playboy she would never see again. Like he just picked up desperate women and didn’t actually see anything in Mel. After a while I felt a bit annoyed and just wanted her to take a nap and wake up refreshed and energetic. Maybe a V8? It didn’t keep me from finishing the book but I think a bit of sexy mischief in the narration could have gone a long way. And one final pet peeve, I think describing something (other than food) as delicious, should be used sparingly. Like once is totally sufficient.

Let me know if you’ve read this and if you agree or disagree. Thanks 🙂

Introduce yourself, right on.

Did anyone else chant that cheer in grade school? It went something like this….

Hey LA? Yeah?

Hey LA? Yeah?

Introduce yourself. Right On!

Introduce yourself. Right On!

What a dumb cheer.

Anyway, I was in need of some inspiration so I started looking at some old assignments from a nonfiction writing class. I came across a journaling exercise where I needed to list all the weird things about me and then write a short description in third person. I made a few edits and honestly, I can’t think of any better way to introduce myself.

Right On.

My Quirks

  • Never know the right words to songs except Guns and Roses and early Madonna
  • Can’t remember yesterday but can sing every commercial from the 80’s & early 90’s
  • Go to bed really early
  • Not a morning person or a night owl. More of a late morning/early afternoon gal
  • Hate when people talk too loud
  • Inability to tune out those who talk too loud
  • Can’t stand the sound of my husband whistling
  • Can’t browse greeting cards without having to go to the bathroom
  • Hate to be cold
  • Always wears slippers
  • Certain that I missed my calling for Broadway even though I can’t sing or dance
  • Knees crack when I squat down or go up and down stairs
  • Quit running because I was convinced I would die on the side of the road
  • Worry that I may need surgery someday
  • Fussy about socks
  • Hate tags in my clothes
  • Hate the feel of wet wool
  • Love summer
  • Favorite smell is pine
  • Always think I smell farts
  • Wind makes me tired
  • Scared of heights, tsunamis, and going to space.

She was the funny one with the inappropriate comment at the inappropriate time. Probably because she was uncomfortable in her own skin. The skin that itched from a tag that she snipped out but left one pointy corner that poked her incessantly. She was never good at drawing her attention from the things that bother her. Especially women who talk too loud or laugh too often. She really had no tolerance for extremes in any direction. It didn’t matter if it was sound, smell, touch, or even the weather. A strong wind was enough to send her straight to bed. 

Well that was fun. Feel free to comment with a list of your quirks or a fun third person description.

A Personal Essay

This essay was published in the June 2021 issue of Catfish Creek, A National Undergraduate Literary Journal (https://www.loras.edu/majors-programs/english-creative-writing/catfish-creek/#).

It was an assignment in a creative nonfiction class I was taking through Central Michigan University. My professor had told the class about an opportunity to be published so I submitted it and was thrilled when they accepted it for their June issue.

Let me know what you think.

A Prayer for the Biter

My Daughter

Small and lovely and twelve years old. Much prettier than I was at that age. Sweet but spunky with a devilish dimple perfectly placed upon her right cheek. That dimple wasn’t always there. It is the remnant of a collision with the edge of a coffee table when she was four years old. I can still see that perfectly plump cheek with a blue square bruise. It happened when my parents were visiting, and my mom and I left to run some errands. I don’t usually leave my children with my dad. Even though he is well into his 70’s, he has not yet learned what it means to be in charge. To him, in charge means that there is an adult in the house. Nothing more. Nothing less. As I suspected, he settled himself onto the sofa to watch television while my children raced through their new house like wild beasts free from their cage. Circling two small wooden coffee tables and cutting it too close on the final lap, my daughter tripped and met the edge of the table with her face. I can only imagine the shrill scream that would have come from her tiny frame and the look of panic that must have washed over my six-year-old son as he watched his little sister’s face bloom into a swell of deep crimson and violet. I can also imagine the effort it took my dad to pull himself up to standing and shuffle over to the scene. I see him clumsily giving her some ice or maybe a bag of frozen peas, but mostly I see him praying that proof of this accident would fade away before I returned. 

I came in through the front door about an hour later. I was loaded with bags and thoughts of dinner plans when suddenly, I stopped dead in my tracks. Before me was a whimpering little child with tear moistened whisps of blonde hair stuck to a swollen and discolored cheek. That beautiful perfect face. Creamy ivory complexion with caramel colored eyes and just a sprinkle of freckles over the bridge of her nose. I felt as though I was looking at a masterpiece that someone had just spray painted with graffiti. I looked to my dad for explanation, but he just stood sheepishly in the corner. It took weeks for that bruise to heal but when it did, it left behind a perfect little dent that shows itself just as a grin begins to take shape. In the end, that imperfection defined that sweet face and made even more her own. We now refer to her early childhood as PD (pre-dimple). 

My Daughter

The biter at daycare. No one wants to be the mother of the biter because no one wants to believe that their child can switch from a calm and peaceful stream to rocky rapids that toss unwanted visitors violently to the shore. Yes, my biter personified that stream. She was, and still is, beautiful, exhilarating and frightening all at once. 

Multiple times a week I would walk into the center, only to be greeted with a slip of paper that described an “incident” that had taken place where my child was the perpetrator. The judgmental look in Ms. Taffy’s squinty blue eyes made me feel like I was failing at motherhood. Honestly, did she really believe that my husband and I were teaching our child to bite her friends? Maybe she was hungry. Maybe they pissed her off or maybe this little toddler just can’t express herself any other way. None of that mattered really. I left the daycare feeling embarrassed and annoyed. Annoyed with Ms. Taffy, my child, the victim who now wore my daughter’s dental records on their forearm and with my husband who worked horrendous hours with very little pay which meant that I too had to work and raise small children mostly on my own. Oh, the mother of the biter carries the weight of the world on her shoulders. 

One evening, after a particularly awful day at work followed by bumper to bumper traffic along the concrete tube that is I-696, I was exhausted and heavy with weariness. I sluggishly walked up to the door of the daycare. It took all my strength to reach up and ring the bell. I love my children, but I was dreading the second part of my day where if every task didn’t happen at warp speed, Armageddon was sure to ensue. First dinner, then bath time, a quick game, a quick story, and then bedtime.  

I was giving myself a well-meaning but ineffective pep talk when I saw the matriarch waddling quickly down the hallway toward me with her short orange bob swinging atop a short thick neck. I was thinking about how compact her features were but also how she was almost as wide as she was tall. She had that look in her eye, like she needed to urgently tell me something. I felt myself tense and I mumbled quietly through a clenched smile, “good God woman, leave me alone.” She opened the door and said, “Mrs. Adams” but I abruptly cut her off with the snippy response of “who did she bite today?” To my surprise, Ms. Taffy told me that my daughter had been the victim. I have never been so happy to hear that my child was injured. I smiled to myself, feeling that the balance of good and evil was made right again. Her little friend had had quite enough and finally took matters into his own pudgy little hands and bit her back. 

At last, the Golden Rule presented itself and the era of biting ended. I would remind her of this chain of events every time she squabbled with her brother or her friends. Telling her that the universe has a way of leveling itself so always treat others as you want to be treated. I’m sure I don’t say it quite as prophetic as I do in my mind. It’s probably more like a screechy, “if you can dish it, you have to take it!” The point remains. 

Once my husband finished his residency and accepted a job in Traverse City, I was able to resign from my less than satisfying office job and be home with the kids. On the last day of daycare, Ms. Taffy said to me, “I know she gives you a lot of grief, but she has so many qualities that will make her a successful woman.” Unfortunately, none of those qualities served my daughter very well as a toddler so I wasn’t exactly sure what she meant but I held on to those words anyway. I held tight to them with pride and hope. Yes, she would be just fine in this world.

As my daughter became more vocal, she developed a very dry and adult like sense of humor. Her sarcasm sent many of her school friends running to the teacher. They didn’t understand her and frankly, I think they were a little afraid of her. Picture a tiny little blonde, sans front teeth, who loved to sleep with sponge rollers so that she had big bouncy curls in the morning. See that sweet dimple and those bright caramel eyes. Picture her navy knee socks and pink converse with a school plaid skirt and white peter pan collar shirt. Now, see her telling everyone she had a Beyoncé. Imagine the confusion on her fellow kindergarteners. It did not phase her that the word she was searching for was fiancé because the looks of confusion would not have faded. 

Exasperated, my daughter would breathlessly explain how she planned to marry the love of her life, her cat Dino. A ceremony was planned, and a dress was chosen. A rather formal white gown, a replica of Glenda’s from the movie Oz the Great and Powerful. Another furry friend, Belle, would be the maid of honor and officiate the ceremony. Pictures would be taken and cake (specifically Swiss Cake Rolls) would be eaten in celebration. Kids thought she was speaking in tongues and her red cheeks would signal that she had no tolerance for such ignorance. 

 Her greatest downfall has always been that she wears her emotions like a late-night neon sign. If she’s happy, tired, angry, or annoyed, you know it. If she runs into a child that she doesn’t particularly like, that child knows it. I’ve tried to teach her to fake it a little, but she reminds me that lying is wrong. Hard to argue. 

As grumpy as she sometimes appears, she also gives love in vast quantities. Up until a few years ago, she would wrap her tiny body around me and press her warm rosy cheek to mine and tell me all the ways she loved me. She drew pictures of her and I holding hands, she would make me cards and bookmarks with sweet words that professed her love. She would change the words to Taylor Swift songs so that they were just, “mommy, mommy, I love mommy.” She would hold my hand tightly as we walked from the living room to the kitchen. If I sat down, she was climbing on my lap or snuggling up close as if any amount of space between us was too great. If I could fit her in my pocket, she would have climbed right in. In all my life, I have never been so loved.

 I told her once that a day would come when she wouldn’t think that she loved me so much. Her face contorted in utter confusion as if I was speaking in tongues. She scrunched up her nose as she tried to decipher my words and then quickly threw her arms around me and promised me that day would never come. 

My daughter

Twelve years old now and still terrorizing the boys and speaking her opinions freely and without apology. She still has a wicked sense of humor with a laugh that’s somewhere between Woody Wood Pecker and Julia Roberts. She does not describe herself as a “girly girl” but has recently confessed that she does in fact like pink. She still loves me, I know, but she doesn’t reach for my hand that often and is too big to sit on my lap. Snuggling is more about being near but not with our arms wrapped around each other and not with her warm sweet head tucked under my chin. Now, she finds me annoying when I think I’m being quite charming. My hilarious jokes aren’t as funny as they once were and I’m terribly embarrassing in stores when I try to talk to small children. She squirms away when I try to kiss her cheeks and instead of being right by my side, she prefers to be in her room. There are more times now when she wants to expand the space instead of fill it. 

I knew this time would come. I’ve been ready. I’ve read all the right books and done my research on the perils of pre-teen-hood. But still, things are shifting in an odd direction and I feel as though I’m entering unchartered territory. 

2020 has been a defining year for many. Normal life came to a screeching halt, sealing us inside and taking away everything that felt normal. Can I blame my daughter’s personality shift on the pandemic? Can I say that her life has been altered so much that she can’t find her place within it? That would be easy, but we are the lucky ones. My husband’s job had not been affected. I’m able to be home with them. We have all that we need and honestly, I thought we all enjoyed the break from our crazy schedule. Maybe the busy routine kept her grounded and connected to her friends. Maybe she felt more alone and isolated than I realized. Maybe this was a normal part of raising an almost teenage girl. How is a mother to know?

Parenting is really a game of chance. Most days you are just rolling the dice and hoping for the best. I foolishly believed that the hardest part of motherhood was over. I mean, I kept a fragile tiny person alive. I fed her, bathed her, clothed her, kept her safe from scary things like honey, blankets, and processed foods. I taught her not to stick her fingers in outlets or place her hands on the stove. She learned the hard way about running too fast or jumping from swings. Mostly, though, I just loved her. 

Now, that she’s older, we talk and laugh, and I love her even more. I still feed her, but she can bathe herself and keep herself from suffocating at night while she sleeps in piles of blankets. It wasn’t that long ago that I thought about how special these years were where she liked to spend time with me and still said I love you. 

But here we are now at this place where everything is slightly tilted and off balance. I knew she worried about things like burglars, kidnapping, and alligators and I recognized how she liked everything neat and orderly in her room, but those little quirks were just a few of the many reasons I love her. She just needed a little extra assurance that she was safe, and I praised her for keeping her room so clean and tidy. 

Those quirks however, started to bloom sometime in the spring. She began worrying that her brother would fall asleep before her. In her mind, if he was awake, he provided a layer of protection. If he went to bed, she was alone and vulnerable. Next came the need to put things in three’s and then the avoidance of even numbers and then the sadness, anger, and tears. Not the toddler tears that spill over because the cookies are gone. Quiet tears, alone in the bathroom or in her bed. Quiet tears that cannot be consoled because they aren’t understood. Tears with no origin and no destination. It was time to call in the professionals. 

The therapist’s little quaint office with its soft light and comfortable sofa had ironically, just one year prior, been the loud, messy studio of my daughter’s eccentric piano teacher. The foam panels that covered the walls in an attempt to muffle the sound of amateur pianists were now replaced with calming pale blue paint and trendy reclaimed wood shelves decorated with inspirational quotes in white matted frames. The endless maze of cords from keyboards and amps that were secured by grey duct tape were swapped out for a cream shag rug and open bookcases with neat fabric containers. Such a strange twist of fate to be in this room again but for a different kind of therapy. 

The soft-spoken woman in the casual leggings and lavender tunic was in stark contrast from the piano teacher who fancied button down shirts in bold Hawaiian prints and Birkenstocks with black crew socks. She had such a warm presence that I had to fight the urge to hug her. How inappropriate. I’m not the one there to pour out my heart. Besides, I’m terrible at therapy. I can type my deepest darkest thoughts, but I am far too clumsy to speak them. 

I started to fill the therapist in on what was happening, but emotion immediately took over the tone of my voice making it quiver and echo in my ears while my brain pleaded for me to stop talking. Fight or flight? Always flight. Luckily, my brave daughter politely asked me to leave. Ever so grateful, I awkwardly stumbled out and left her alone to tell her story to this stranger. 

Therapy provided great relief for both my daughter and me. She could finally expel the feelings that had been rolling around in her mind and I could finally breathe because the calvary had arrived and I no longer had to navigate this terrain on my own. 

We were a few weeks in when the therapist asked me to join the session. I climbed the stairs to her office, nervous that I would be asked to participate in the session and wondering if I put on enough deodorant to endure any kind of talking. Much to my relief, she only wanted to talk about my daughter’s progress and suggest that she be assessed for Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Okay. This wasn’t surprising and I was open to the process. I did not feel sad or fearful. I really felt more curious than anything. I hold a Bachelor of Science degree in psychology because I’ve always had an interest in the intricacies of the human brain (really, I just pursued the degree to figure out my own issues but let’s not split hairs). 

Our next step was a televisit with a psychologist. This was weird and the psychologist seemed as uncomfortable as we did but we chatted and answered what felt like hundreds of questions while the middle-aged woman in her living room, fidgeted and did her best to sound professional. I liked her. Fidgeting and uncomfortable is my jam. As the meeting concluded, she told us that some questionnaires would come via email that we were to complete separately. I would fill one out based on what I was seeing, and my daughter would fill one out for herself. I completed mine right away as did my daughter. 

Now, if I thought our world was just a little tilted, soon I would be tipped over, spun in a circle, shaken and left lying in a dizzy haze of stars.

On a very normal Thursday afternoon, I was doing my usual rounds of picking up everyone’s trail of junk and sweeping up cat hair and talking to the incredibly cute but stinky guinea pig. I walked into my daughter’s dark room to pull up her shades and neaten her bed when I noticed her OCD questionnaire lying on her blue dresser. Remembering that I needed to get this to the psychologist, I picked it up.  I examined the way she printed her name and date at the top of the page. Her handwriting seemed so childlike and it made me smile. Perfectly straight letters in purple ink. It didn’t look like the rushed scribbles of an adult and it didn’t have any adornments of a teen. It was just small purple letters spelling out her name. I glanced through the pages and noticed that she checked a lot more boxes than I had. These boxes proceeded statements such as: Checking locks, toys, schoolbooks/items, and so on; Excessive touching, tapping, rubbing (e.g., repeatedly touching particular surfaces, objects, or other people, perhaps to prevent a bad occurrence). None of this seemed particularly scary because I had noticed these rituals. 

It was the next page that slapped me in the face. It was there that everything changed.

Next to the statement: Fear might harm self (e.g., using knives or other sharp objects), was a purple check mark.

That little checkmark sent my stomach into my throat. 

I felt weak and sick, so I sat down on her bed, letting the paper rest in my lap. Just a piece of paper with some purple check marks but it felt like it was alive with electricity. It sent prickly sensations through my legs and forced me to hold my breath until the pulses passed.

 I looked up to see my reflection in her gold framed mirror and the face was not mine. It was a much older woman. A much sadder woman. I closed my eyes and let my head drop to my lap.  Terrible thoughts began filling my mind and I found myself in dark places where I imagined finding my daughter dead. The tears began to flow as I watched the whole scene, including the funeral where I could hear people say, “how did her mother not know she was in so much pain?” How didn’t I know? Tears continued to gather in the corners of my eyes and then ran for their life as I blinked them away. I blinked it all away and did the only thing I knew to do, I walked over to her statue of a guardian angel standing with a child. 

This statue has been in her bedroom since she was born. I placed my hands on the faded, painted figures with chipped corners and began to pray. I offered my prayer, pleading that she finds her way, that she finds the strength she needs, that she has the armor she requires to battle each day, and most of all that she knows how very loved she is. I prayed for my biting two-year old that is now on the brink of womanhood, and who is struggling, clawing her way through her own pain. 

Biting is no longer an option. 

Now, she has to search within herself to get what she needs out of this life. 

My daughter

She has so many qualities that will make her a successful woman. Those words come floating to the surface just as I feel as though we are sinking into something very cold and dark. Images of my daughter swim up with those words. I can see her at all stages of her life, and one thing is constant, her strength. She knew that her struggles were becoming too heavy and trying to sink her, so she asked for help. My daughter has so many qualities that will make her a successful woman. Yes, she is brutally honest and insightful, and she will not let this current pull her down. She will rise above and go after what she wants. She will climb out of this and walk with steady steps and if anything tries to block her path, she will sink her teeth into it. 

This is my prayer.

I’m Live!

Holy moly. As soon as I launched this site I thought, “What are you doing crazy lady?!?!?”

I feel so naked, like all the world is judging me. And let’s get real, that’s what people do. I’m sure those that know me are poking fun or rolling their eyes. Well, poke and roll all you want.

It’s like my coffee cups says…Whatever. You would know this if it wasn’t backwards.

Fun Facts

According to growthbadger.com:

  • There are 600 million blogs in the world.
  • There are 5,750 blog posts published every minute.
  • “How to start a blog” is googled 53,000 times per month.

Because of these fun facts, it is highly recommended that you tell everyone you know about your blog. You should also promote it on your social media, send out fliers, yell it from the rooftops and also at strangers in the grocery store. I have only told my husband who refers to it as cat with a blog which is a reference to an old show my kids liked called Dog with a Blog. Now I’m just rambling. The point is, I haven’t told anyone because I’m nervous and excited (or nervited as my daughter would say) and I just want to see what happens.

So, livingthefreakingdream.com is live. Hopefully someone finds it in the sea of blogs. Wish me luck.

Here we go…

This is a blog for normal people written by an amateur writer who enjoys laughing at herself and sometimes others. If you’re bored and want to read something that doesn’t discuss religion or politics and doesn’t encourage you to constantly feel #grateful, then maybe this is the space for you.

This blog will probably not inspire you to do much of anything. But that’s okay. Not all of us can save the world. This blog is simply an outlet for the eternal internal conversations in my head.

So, Welcome to Living The Freaking Dream.

When I first decided to start a blog, I googled— How do I start a blog? This was after I googled— Popular Blogs, Successful Blogs, Blogs for Women, and Rich Bloggers.

I’m not trying to get rich but I was curious.

Once I found Scott Chow’s, The Blog Starter, I knew I had what I needed to get started.

My first task was coming up with a name.

Ooooo, I came up with some doozies.

  1. Wannabe— This was taken.
  2. Poseur— Also taken. Too bad because I had a whole post for this one.
  3. Chasing Earthworms— I was feeling poetic that day. No surprise that this name was available.
  4. Hornets and Hamstrings— Also available. I felt very clever and metaphoric (Is this a word?) when I came up with this one. Hornets were supposed to symbolize the things that chase me away from my dreams while my tight hamstrings hindered my stride. Wow. I really thought I was on to something. I even imagined myself telling the story to Hoda Kotb after I emerged as a superstar blogger. Maybe this will be the title of my first book. Or…maybe not.

Once I realized that Entomologists may be the only people that find my blog, I decided to take a different route.

Living the Freaking Dream is supposed to be light and sarcastic. Personally, I’m feeling crushed by the heaviness of the world and I miss laughing without being reminded of how many people are suffering. I miss gossiping with my old friends without being judged by them. I’m tired of always trying to say the right things to the right people. I’m tired of pretending that everyday is magical. Sometimes life is boring and sometimes it’s overwhelming. Sometimes my husband’s whistling makes me want to rip his lips from his face and sometimes I want to list my teen children on Craig’s List. But, I’m living the dream and even though I don’t always feel #grateful, I do feel hopeful. Hopeful that there are at least a few people like me out there.

Who’s with me?

Anyone?

It’s cool. I can wait……

What am I Cooking?

Well, I’m not sure what’s for dinner today.

Currently, I do not have a kitchen. It has been gutted in preparation for a remodel. So, I have my trusty Instant Pot, indoor grill, crockpot and small convection oven to get the job done. It’s week 2 and I have to say, it’s going pretty well. Ask me again in a few weeks. I may be 10 pounds heavier with a Big Mac in my hand.

So, this week, I am trying Instant Pot spaghetti from one of my favorite cooking sites, The Salty Marshmallow. I will let you know if this is a hit with the family or a miss. I have super picky children but my husband will eat anything I give him and say, “sure is good” in the most sing song-y, sarcastically sweet tone you’ve ever heard.

One big hit last week was an Instant Pot Braised Spiced Beef from another one of my favorites, Skinny Taste.

This beef was so tender and full of flavor and just the right amount of heat. I had mine with rice, cheese, jalapeños, and tortilla chips. I had it in a tortilla with pepper jack cheese for lunch the next day. It would also be good on a toasted bun or on your car bumper. It’s honestly, that good.

I really, really hate it when people review recipes but then totally change the list of ingredients. But, I must admit I changed a couple minor things.

First, I used crushed tomatoes and not diced because my kids hate chunks of tomato. Next, I did not use a cinnamon stick because I didn’t have one and I thought it might be weird. I’m sure it’s delicious with, but I chose without.

Next time I will top with avocado and sautéed onion, peppers, and mushrooms. Yes, there will definitely be a next time.

Tell me what you’re cooking this week. Please.

Update

The Instant Pot spaghetti was a success! I was convinced that the noodles would be a gooey mess but they were actually perfect. I had a few technical difficulties, like tripping the circuit because I had my Instant Pot on along with the mini convection oven for breadsticks and the microwave for peas. (The outlets in my temporary kitchen aren’t used to so much action). I also splattered sauce all over the wall and myself as I was trying to press the uncooked noodles into the sauce. Other than that, it was smooth sailing. There was plenty of tasty sauce but not too liquid-y as some of the comments had warned. I took the advice of fanning out my noodles so that they wouldn’t clump and it worked perfectly. I will definitely be making this again. Thank you Salty Marshmallow!

What am I Reading Today?

I am currently reading Dead to Her by Sarah Pinborough.

I’m about halfway into this novel and it is not what I expected. I’m a little, dare I say, shocked at the direction this story took but I’m hooked and I can’t put it down. I have no idea what is going to happen next and for me, that is the definition of a good book. More to come after I finish…..

Update

I just finished Dead to Her and I loved this twisty storyline. This book took every direction possible and every character was a little nuts and/or really unlikable. I don’t think I’ve ever read something where I wasn’t rooting for a character. I realize that seems like a dig but it isn’t meant to be. I think Sarah Pinborough is brilliant for developing these characters so well but not allowing one to stand out as the victim. I felt completely satisfied with the ending. I highly recommend this book but be aware, there are some areas that made me blush and feel a little like a prude. So, maybe don’t recommend this one to grandma.

What am I Listening to Today?

I love to hold an actual book but I also have come to love listening to books. I started this after my playlist bored me on runs. I needed a better distraction so I tried a book. At first, it was a little weird to stay engaged and if I don’t like the narrator’s voice, I have a hard time liking the story but over the years, I have found voices I

recognize and I look for books with these actors. It’s really an amazing talent to be able to change the tone of your voice for various characters without the listener (me) even noticing.

Some of my favorites are Richard Armitage who narrates The Tattooist of Auschwitz by Heather Morris; Finty Williams who narrates Three Sisters also by Heather Morris; Julia Whelan who narrates The Great Alone by Kristin Hannah; Blair Brown who narrates City of Girls by Elizabeth Gilbert; Patti Murin who narrates The Book of Two Ways by Jodi Picoult; and Nancy Peterson who narrates The Black Swan of Paris by Karen Robards. And one of my all time favorites is Saskia Maarleveld who narrates The Alice Network by Kate Quinn. These are just to name a few and are just a handful of examples of their work.

So to answer the question….

I am currently listening to The Bookseller’s Secret by Michelle Gable and narrated by Eleanor Caudill. It’s two stories in two different time periods. One in the 1940’s and one in the present. I’m more interested in the present story than the past story but I’m only a few hours in and I’ve been distracted with freezing cold temperatures during my jogs/walks and constant commotion in my house because of a kitchen remodel. I will keep you posted on this one.

I recently finished The Wicked Sister by Karen Dionne, narrated by Kristen Sieh and Andi Arndt, and it was a really good, really dark, thriller. I also like Dionne’s The Marsh King’s Daughter, narrated by Emily Rankin. Both take place in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and both will keep you guessing while gripping the edge of your seat.

Let me know if you’ve read/listened to these books or any others you can’t put down.

I’m always looking for recommendations!

Update

I had exactly 23 minutes left and my time ran out. This is what happens when you get audio books through your local library. I love my Libby app and I love and support my local library. I do not love when I don’t pay attention to how much time I have left to finish my book. Because someone else was waiting for this title, I have to go back into the hold line and wait again for my turn. OR, I go in search of a hard copy which is what I will do. If I didn’t love this book, I would bother but I do love this one. It took a minute for me to connect but once I did, I was fully invested. Wannabe writers like me will love this story about writers—especially writers with dried up creative juices.