Buckets of Joyfulness, and other crap I've realized.

Epiphanies suck because they happen just when you're all busy crying and feeling sorry for yourself and shit. 

So we all know it's been nearly a month since I've blogged. Did I mention the giant hematoma in my stomach? The constant bleeding for four weeks? The multiple trips to the hospital to see the surgeon, the ultrasound, the constant changing of sterile pads and gauze that now make my period look like a pleasant walk in the park? "Have a happy period"? Oh, I will. I will because a period in no way resembles the bleeding that might occur when one is stabbed in the stomach - which is pretty much what I lived with for several weeks.

Then there's the fact that all three gremlins are home for the summer, my family was wound up to the point of busting a spring or twelve, the house looked like it had been hit with a weapon of mass destruction by the time I could start cleaning it again, and I have a part-time job to go to; we can see where a serious lack of creativity may have occurred.

Have I been a little depressed? Anxious? Unhappy? Downright fucking miserable? Perhaps. Not only does this lend poorly to writing, but to living in general. It is really hard to want to do much of anything when you're chronically unhappy, and I've had many reasons to feel that way.

But what I gained from this experience - this fairly unpleasant, stressful experience - is that it helped me hit some kind of emotional bottom. I hit these every so often; a low point in which I have to reassess exactly what I want in life, where I want to direct my limited energy, and what I need to do to achieve those things. Naturally the exhibitionist attention whore in me has made a to-do list, in no particular order, Maven-style (you may want to take notes):

Fall in love with my partner all over again - without making three more babies together (emphasis on the NO MORE BABIES part, thank you).
Some wise person once said that marriage is like a garden, and that it can get overcrowded with weeds if you don't tend it, and those weeds get huge and overbearing and get little spikes on them and end up choking the life out of the pretty little flowers of love and affection, and then the dandelions turn into fluffy things that get caught in your nose when your partner blows on them, which sends you into a frenzy of resentment because why couldn't he blow that shit the other way, and you end up sneezing your way to divorce court.

Or something like that.

Underneath the years of baby-making and child rearing and financial stressors and all-nighters and tantrums and exhaustion, there are two people who love each other and miss spending time together. When you're buried in babies, it's easy to forget that this person is the reason you have those beautiful little beastlies in the first place. Reconnecting with Geekster has become a big priority in my life, every day. We're talking more, working together more, laughing more, going out together more, and putting in the effort to make our relationship the heart of our family. It's awesome. I feel like I have my best friend back. Eighteen years together is a long time, and I'm looking forward to the next eighteen.

Spend more quality time with The Gremlins Three without going bat shit crazy.
This pretty much goes without saying, but the horned wonders are the little moons that circle my planet - or, at times, the meteors that crash into it. They either control the tides or render large creatures extinct - both important roles in planetary evolution, really.

The boys need more of my positive attention so that maybe they can stop seeking so much of my - ahem - negative attention. Now that I'm able to move around and drive again, we've been hitting up museums and parks with more frequency. I've been putting my fear of epic meltdowns aside and realizing that if someone starts screaming, we can always leave; it doesn't mean we shouldn't go in the first place. Yes, we have a four-year-old who challenges everything right now and an eight-year-old with special needs who can get very defiant, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't go out and live - intelligently, of course.

This weekend, we attended a family-friendly BBQ. We stayed just over three hours, then packed up after dinner and said our goodbyes. Everyone was calm and playing nicely, so why did we leave just then? Because Geekster and I knew that we had hit the sweet spot: The kids had played enough and were just tired enough that they would likely leave happily. If we stayed much longer, we'd have to take off quickly with someone screaming and kicking while in the fireman's hold over my husband's shoulder. So the trick is to go out and experience life as a typical family, but also know when it's time to head back home for some decompression time. At any rate, the boys seem a lot happier lately, and as such we are all a lot happier. And this is saying something, considering it's summer: the cosmic joke on stay-at-home-moms.

Extended family: yes, I really do have some.
I'm fortunate enough that my parents and siblings and grandma all live in the same town as I do. And yet I don't see them nearly as much as I'd like. This is a damn shame, because they're all awesome people (it's genetic) and we should see a lot more of each other. So another priority for me is to connect more with them. I feel a little sorry for them that they don't get a Maven fix as much as they should, so we can call this an outreach program. You're welcome, family unit.

Friends - those great people you wish were family because they know exactly what to get you for your birthday.
This shouldn't come as a big surprise to anyone, but I'm really popular. This became even more apparent over the last few weeks, as people regularly checked up on me post-op, and did everything from drop off a coffee and a hug to clean the house and cook us a meal. My friends deserve a standing ovation for being so wonderful (I just need to finish my coffee first, ok?)

The thing about friendships is that they are relationships, and as such require their own bit of emotional landscaping. I've given a lot of thought recently to what makes a good friend, and how I can be a better one. What I've concluded is this: Good friends leave a conversation feeling mutually enriched, fulfilled and positive. This is how I want to feel when I interact with my friends and, just as importantly, this is what I want to give back to them. No head games, no passive-aggressiveness, no manipulation, no drama. Just good stuff, love, laughs, support, hugs. I think I'm a good friend most of the time, but having given it a lot of thought, I see room for improvement. I know this is shocking, being as I'm so fabulous and all, but it's true. So I'm going to focus on bringing joy to my friends' lives, which will only serve in bringing me joy as well. And then we'll all have buckets of joyfulness, and I'll likely get a Nobel Peace Prize for discovering said buckets and ending all wars.

Attitude. Oh, do I ever have some.
What I've been reminded of recently is that happiness is a state of mind. It's a choice. It's not something that is created or taken away from outside influences. Yes, there are big catastrophic situations that can suffocate a person's happy for a time. But, overall, most of how we see life is based on how we choose to see it. I've had plenty of reasons to be unhappy for a good while. But you know what? I've had plenty of reasons to be happy, too. I've just overlooked those in favour of focusing on the negative stuff.

As such, I'm making a conscious effort each day to look for the good stuff in my life and celebrate it. There may be plenty of suck, but there will always be plenty of suck. There will also be many things that are plenty of great. I'll deal with the suck, but I'll also invite in the great. And thus, I will be even more kick ass than I already am, if that's even possible.

Buckets of Joyfulness, Batman! You've hit on something big! (See? It's already happening - my buckets are being mainstreamed into the English language)

What's big on your priority list? (Other than reading my blog, of course...)

How to be Popular Even When You're Kind of a Douche

"A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart, and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words." - Unknown.

Remember a couple of weeks ago when I wrote about feeling like absolute garbage? Well, you can breathe again: I'm feeling much better. You can probably gather that from my last few posts about my awesome life. It was a blip on the radar screen of life, albeit a decent-sized one. The Maven is back full-force, spreading greatness to all her sheeple.

But surprisingly, this post is not about my greatness. If you're a friend of mine, it's about yours. And if you're not a friend of mine, pretend you are and feel good about yourself for a few minutes. But, like, not in a stalker-ish way because that's creepy.

When I was at my absolute lowest, when I felt quite alone in the world, all I had to do was send out an SOS to a friend, and - ka-pow! - I had a drive to a restaurant, a cup of coffee in my hands, and someone to listen and tell me everything was going to be okay. The friend in question was the first person I reached out to, and she responded without hesitation. I doubt she realizes the impact of her simple act of kindness, but it was immense. I am indebted for a very long time. Good thing she likes coffee.

What I realized - and what is key for me to remember in those yucky times - is that there are many other people I could have reached out to who would have done the same thing in a heartbeat. And with that in mind, it's hard to feel alone.

That night was but one of many recent reminders that my life is full of amazing human beings. There have been so many more acts of kindness in the last little while. I'd list them all, but you wouldn't believe me. I hardly believe it myself. This weekend alone had me feeling so happy that I almost blew up in a sticky mess gratitude. It would have taken Geekster weeks to clean me off of the upholstery.

All kidding, all ego, all narcissistic tendencies aside for once, I don't know what I do to deserve the quality of friendship in my life. I really don't.  I tell my husband all the time that I must have a social horseshoe placed somewhere in my lower quadrant, because there is no other reasonable explanation. My support circle is forever expanding, improving, and filling to the brim with these loving, supportive, far-more-awesome-than-I-am people. I am humbled by their strength, their wisdom, their courage, their resilience. They are truly what keep me going some days when chaos tries to pull me under. And I have three boys, folks, so believe me: my life is well-acquainted with chaos.

There are days when I spend far too much time trying to figure out how to give back to everyone. I really don't think I give out nearly as much love as what comes in. I am a mooch of epic proportions. I don't keep up with everyone like I wish I could, I don't always promptly return phone calls or emails. I admit to feeling enormously guilty about that. I'm like a bad boyfriend who takes and takes and takes and doesn't even call on our anniversary. No flowers at the door, no declaration of love in the Facebook relationship status. My name should be Chad or Tad or some other heartbreaker jock name that makes you want to cry into your pompoms.

Tonight, while trying to decide what to blog about, I threw the question out into cyberspace via a status update. The suggestions I received ranged from "sibling rivalry" to my obvious Facebook addiction (I'll have you know I can quit any time I want to.) While I was looking over the list, the answer became clear: My friends. I shall write about my friends, and thank them from the bottom of my heart for being wonderful.

I shall dedicate this post to them because, in the end, who cares whether I return phone calls or ask people about their day? If I write one blog post about everyone, that will make it all better. We'll be even Steven. Then I won't look like a douchebag moocher anymore because I'll be thanking everyone, bulk-email style. People love that stuff, right?

Right?

Don't argue with The Maven. I'm drowning in my own popularity. I must be doing something right.

So thank you. Really and truly, thank you. Until I come up with better ways to give back, this will have to do. It goes without saying that every girl needs good people in her corner, and my corner has an entire pyramid of broken-hearted cheerleaders yelling "Why, Chad-Tad? WHY?!?" 

Embracing my Inner Loser

I had a conversation today with my good friend The Guilt Goddess. We were on her front porch and I was getting ready to leave after brightening her day with my presence. It went something like this:

Me: [blah blah blah something or other leading up to]... me being so popular and everything.

Her: You mention your popularity a lot.

Me, shrugging: Probably. I am rather proud of it.

Her: But you don't have to, you know. You can be popular without announcing it all the time.

Me: ... But what's the fun in that? Besides, you're probably more popular than I am, or at least as popular. Maybe. So it's not like I'm bragging.

Her: Sure, but I don't have to tell people.

Me: You just did.

Her, trying hard not to throw something at me.

Me: I'm not that bad. I mean, I kid around, but I'm pretty humble, really.

Her: Oh my God. Did you just say you're --

Me: In fact, I think I'm probably the humblest person I know.

Her, rolling her eyes.

Me, having an epiphany: ... I bet that's what makes me so popular. My incredible humility...

Her, laughing because she can't control how much she adores me: Get out of here!

She loves me, that one.

***

Popularity. I throw the word around a lot, but frankly I've never looked up the definition. Let's see what the dictionary says, shall we?

pop·u·lar·i·ty

n.

The quality or state of being popular, especially the state of being widely admired, accepted, or sought after.

Interesting stuff. Let's break this down and see if I, Humblest Woman Alive, fits the bill and can grab herself a head cheerleader outfit.

Am I widely admired? Tough call. If by "widely" we mean on a global scale, like Ghandi, then no. If, however, "widely" implies the two little gremlins who thought I was Queen of Bosstown because I made them some peppermint-scented playdough this afternoon, then yes. In the wide open space of my kitchen, I am admired. Check.

Accepted. Well, that depends on who you're talking to. There are some people who don't accept me. In fact, they downright don't like me. But I tend not to like them, either, and I learned in math class that two negatives cancel each other out and become a positive. Therefore, they don't count. And, when I eventually take over the world by being really fabulous, I'll probably decree anyone who doesn't think I'm a splendid human being a mutant, and send them to live in the badlands where their opinions won't matter. They can eat raw meat and build huts out of shunned fashion items, like pleather and legwarmers (those should have stayed in the 80's as they have no place in this millennium) Therefore, whether I'm accepted at face value or because I strike potential fear into the heart of naysayers, I think we have this part covered. Check.

Am I sought after? Hell yes I am! People seek after me all the time: they want spare change, or would like me to pay my cellphone bill, or come find me to say that my child is screaming because I accidentally left him in the other aisle at the grocery store and he's terrified... And speaking of children, my (still three, because I haven't lost any at the store yet) gremlins are forever seeking after me so I can make them food and settle arguments and the like.

Very, very check.

I guess that settles that, then.

***

I was never a popular girl, and it only grew worse with every passing grade. For example, I had the opportunity - nay, the privilege - in grade 7 of being the biggest loser in my high school. The year started off with me being gifted the nickname of "Zenji" due to:

A) Having a lot of acne, and
B) Being "dog ugly" like Benji the dog, who was actually pretty cute if you ask me

As you can imagine, walking down the hallways was a very pleasant experience. That may be why I started keeping liquor in my locker. It made going to and from class a little more tolerable. Being slightly buzzed Zenji was better than being un-liquored-Zenji.

At least, until Zenji ended up in rehab a year or so later, but I digress.

That fantastic year ended with having hairspray sprayed upon the back of my sweater, followed by a fun game of "Let's see who's match will light Zenji on fire." Someone won, but forgive me for not remembering which of the two girls it was. I was busy stopping, dropping and rolling. Thankfully there was no scarring, unless you count the emotional kind.

Anyway, the point of that unpleasant walk down memory lane is to provide enough background so as the reader understands my unhealthy lifelong desire for popularity. I always figured that, if I were simply a really cool chick that everyone liked, then life would be good. I would get what I want, I would be instantly happy, and the world would be my oyster.

I never did care much for pearls, though...

***

So, Zenji grew up, and eventually, through a series of important transformations brought on by that icky thing called "maturation," became The Maven. And, as we've established, The Maven is a fantastically popular gal. However, I need to state a few things about life today that are markedly different than what I thought they'd be:

For one, life is not perfect. Apparently, popularity does not stop your children from getting very sick, or prevent unexpected car repairs. It doesn't lower the cost of your satellite package either, which is a real bitch. Oh, and another thing? It doesn't do your laundry. That's probably the worst part. It's hard to be the glamorous woman people expect when I'm all sweaty from hanging out the clothes on the line. Popularity should totally come with a housekeeper.

Another thing: popularity doesn't end insecurity. What on earth is that all about? It was supposed to make me more sure of myself. Isn't that how the in-crowd works? Everyone relies on everyone else to give them that air of superiority, and then we collectively look down on the peons from our high horses, right? Apparently, that's a big, fat lie. I don't even have a high horse on which to look down at people from. It hasn't made me feel grandiose or special. I still get my feelings hurt, I still cry, I still wonder what's wrong with me - especially during PMS week. I find fault with myself regularly, and I have not become a natural blond with a small waistline and great teeth. Someone didn't get the memo.

Also, I haven't let go of the past, and use that annoying empathy thing frequently. My inner Zenji often runs around and checks to make sure that people feel happy and included. Inside this cold, Maven exterior, loyal Zenji has a big heart. Figures, her being an acne-riddled dog and all.

Finally, I've learned that, while knowing a lot of people is not a bad thing, my tried and true method of having a few close friends is by far the most important aspect of my social circle. I love my girls; the ones I can truly be myself with, call when I'm having a really bad day, rant to, cry to, laugh with and relax with. The ones that read my crazy blog posts and yet still respect me in the morning. The ones that have been there through the though times - and there have been a lot of those lately - and celebrate the good times. The ones who know how jam-packed full of mayhem my life is and wait patiently until the dust clears, or show up with coffee in hand during the eye of the storm.

The funniest thing about popularity? When I stopped looking for it - stopped feeling sorry for myself because I was lonely; stopped wondering what was wrong with me; stopped picking at my flaws and instead embraced who I was and showed it boldly to the world like I had nothing to lose - love and acceptance inundated my life. And it only gets better every year.

My authentic self, the one I display regularly on this silly little blog for the world to laugh at with, is the one people like. And to think I spent years trying to be someone else. Someone "better".

I guess Zenji wasn't so bad after all. She just needed a little Maven to spice her up and help her grow a backbone, that's all.

Why I Should Not be Allowed to Make Analogies

I was glad to have coffee with my fantastic friend Nat this evening. I did so without having read her most recent blog post, which involves a scary trip to the hospital with The Boy and his new friend, Mr. Asthma Attack. This happened only two days ago, and the feelings are still very raw for poor Nat. Seeing your child that sick, with machines monitoring his oxygen levels and a mask full of medicine to help him breath, is one of those scary situations a parent hopes to never find themselves in. Well, she found herself in it, and I didn't realize when I walked into the coffee shop how much I needed to be there for my friend.

I'm so glad I could be there.

It's yet another example of how a bad situation - like Spawnling's illness three months ago, Gutsy's stay at the hospital for pneumonia 18 months ago, and Intrepid's exciting broken femur episode 2 years ago - can be manipulated into a positive. As it turns out, I've become an unwilling expert in the field of childhood injuries and illnesses requiring prompt emergency treatment and hospitalization. I do not like it, Sam I Am. But it is what it is, and I sure am glad to lend that ear and tea (which was free and provided by my distraught friend who was too upset to realize she buys way more than I do).

My company costs about $2.50 an hour. The Maven is a cheap whore. Spread the word.

How interesting that I would happen to write yesterday's post about Spawnling's traumatic experience changing me for the good, and then find myself with someone going through something similar tonight.

Ethereal forces, you keep me smiling.

I wanted to say thank you, once again, to everyone who has been so amazingly supportive over the last few months. I don't think I can say thank you enough times or in enough ways. Whether I know you in real life (lucky you) or only online (in which case you really should put "meeting The Maven" on your bucket list, trust me) your kindness has helped heal this huge gash in my heart. I'm no idiot: the sole reason I've been able to be a strong mom for Spawnling is because I have good backup. A ton of sidekicks. Dozens upon dozens of Robins. Thank you, and if you ask nicely I'll let you use the utility belt.

That's the way the world works though, doesn't it? Give and ye shall receive, and whatnot. It's that whole karmic circle thing: My life was shit on toast, people helped me make new toast that didn't have shit on it, I ate that instead and felt better, and now I'm helping someone else with their choice of breakfast spreads.

That was, by far, the worst, and yet, best analogy I've ever come up with. I don't know whether to pat myself on the back or delete my blog altogether because I don't deserve to call myself a writer.

We had a perfectly good day today, my herd of gremlins, co-shepherd and I. Spawnling and I went to playgroup and he only pushed one little friend, and only because he was overwhelmed with joy (that's my story and I'm sticking to it). We had our friend Jacob over for lunch, and then The Madre over for tea, after which I passed the shepherd's crook over to her for a little while so I could clean the kitchen.

I made one of the world's laziest dinners: sandwiches coupled with a piddly amount of baby carrots on the plate so I can say it comes with a serving of vegetables.

Then I went out for coffee with Nat, and now I'm back here, blogging about nothing extraordinary. Just another example of me being awesome, people around me being nearly as awesome, and shit on toast.

10 Things That Make Me Mayor of Awesometown

1. Aha! I bet you didn't think I'd blog today. I will have a post in before midnight, which technically qualifies as a post for today. So there! Eat your heart out. But if it's made of chocolate, please share. The fact that I blogged after a busy day of doing very little makes me awesome.

2. I took my kid to the park today, even though it was cold and I had to find mitts, and he kept going back and forth between pretending to be a cat while suffocating hugging one of our real cats, and getting his stuff on to go to the park. Then, I hauled my large behind onto the play structures and pretended to be his first mate, the dreaded Officer Mom. When Spawnling started getting upset because it was time to leave, I made a game out of it and we hunted tigers all the way home. Being a pretty decent mom makes me awesome.

3. My husband just said 'Have fun with your N@mBlaProMo' while snickering at his oh-so-funny and highly inappropriate play on words about my month of daily blogging. And I did not bite his lip when he kissed me goodnight, or whack him on the head, or choke him with my laptop's power cord. My restraint makes me awesome.

4. I had a tofu and broccoli teriyaki stir fry for lunch, and spent time in the kitchen post-park trip making a whole wheat pizza dough from scratch for dinner. I've made it before, and while it does take some patience, it tops anything I've bought in the store, hands down. If you ignore the four or five mini chocolate bars I ate in between lunch and dinner (okay, and maybe one before lunch), my health-conscious attitude makes me awesome.

5. I sent a very honest and heartfelt email to an old friend today. I did it without any idea what the consequences will be, good or bad. Honesty is awesome. Communication is awesome. And guess what? I'm awesome, too.

6. By contrast, I let a friend go this week. Well, actually, I think she let me go weeks ago because she's purposely had little to nothing to do with me in over two months (I know, right? Who the heck doesn't want The Maven around?) But I decided it was time to stop hanging on, take the hint, and let go as well. It actually felt pretty good and, while I'm a little sad, I'm not angry, not resentful, not out for blood, or for drama. I'm cool with it and I think we'll both be better off. Isn't that big of me? I mean, wow! I know I'm impressed! Besides, I'm not exactly hurting in the social department; I'm positively surrounded by great people. My cup runneth over, yo. Being more mature about things - and incredibly humble, I might add - makes me awesome.

7. I've started drinking more tea and less coffee. This is not to say I don't drink coffee every day, because that would be a big fat lie. I've simply substituted a portion of my coffee intake with herbal tea. Why? Because it tastes good. Also, I've been home with sick kids for about three weeks. I'm feeling a bit... Twitchy. Agitated. Unhinged. And while a trip to a padded cell for 48 hour observation does sound tempting, with my luck I would end up with a manic neighbour who chats incessantly at all hours. I might as well just have Spawnling talking my ear off while I'm trying to edit a manuscript. It's pretty much the same thing, except I get access to candy and the internet at home. Finding balance makes me awesome.

8. I've been going out of my way to be really nice to people and let them know I care. The easiest way to do this when I'm cooped up at home is to be online. A lot. Way too much. But it does help with the twitching. At any rate, my family has been shown so much kindness over the last couple of months that I want to give some of that back. I figure walking around town with Flutrepid and Coughling might spread more germs than kindness, which sort of defeats the purpose. But commenting on people's blogs, tweets and Facebook statuses will do the job nicely. We're not spreading the pandemic love that way, my friends. Positive energy has been given to me in droves and I've been trying hard to make a hefty deposit in the karma bank for others. You're welcome. Spreading the karmic love makes me awesome (and will likely get me more coffee drop offs. Just sayin').

9. When it comes to the show "The Tudors", I think King Henry IIV is a smoking hot piece of royalty... Wait. That has nothing to do with being awesome. Or maybe it does. Because his hotness is most definitely awesome.

10. I finished this post before midnight. I did! I still get adoration of my loyal blog readers, and some shiny loots. Yes, I said shiny loots. Start saving, because I want something really nice for all this hard work and dedication. Being easygoing makes me fantastically awesome.

Letting Go

I have tried all week to be funny, in between dealing with an annoying cold, many a gremlin fight, and being in a wedding party on the weekend.

I've tried all week to summon up my creativity - because there is quite a lot of it in there - and be the awesome Maven you all know and love. I want to tell you about Spawnling's best friend Mr. Pumpkin, his freak out in the book store yesterday (it topped the library), Gutsy's excellent progress in immersion and the enlightening moments of living with a male preteen.

And yet over a week has gone by with nary a post. Why is that? I've asked myself this question several times. I'm a member of a 12 step program, after all, and self-examination and reflection are pretty much mandatory if you don't want to fall off the sobriety wagon and stagger into Captain Morgan's Tavern.

After thinking about it all day, I've reached a conclusion: I'm angry. And I need to tell you why. I've gone back and forth between wanting to say something and wanting to say nothing at all, but it's time I came clean. After all, this has affected some of you.

So, we're going to take a one day break from my usually hilarious rants and ramblings. Just one day, ok? And then I'll be back to my usually scheduled programming. Sharing this will help me feel better, and since I'm pretty into myself that suits me just fine.

Some of you may remember a post I wrote a few months ago about a friend who was sick. Terminally sick with ovarian cancer, actually. Devastating news to hear about a friend, and worse still if you're a relative of that person. I've seen her family go through a great deal of strife over the realization that they were going to lose her some day. I also went through my own emotional hurdles, had my own crying fits, wrote her nice letters and went out of my way to make as much time as I could for her because, hey, we didn't have a lot of time left.

I didn't know what I was going to do without her in my life. I wrote about her in my blog and I read, along with many of you, about her strength and her courage. I watched her video diaries to her kids and wondered how her children would go on without her. It was tragic on so many levels.

Then, another turn, tragic in its own way: we found out, quite suddenly, quite unexpectedly, that she apparently never had cancer.

Take that in for a minute. I know I needed to. Actually, it took me days to really mull it over and weeks to accept as fact.

What made it worse is that she didn't come clean of her own volition. Her family reached out to her, then, when they felt they had no choice, to her loved ones, including me. Eventually, the lies started to unravel. Eventually, she confessed to a select few - I being one of them. Her blog had been deleted months before, and she shut down her Facebook account shortly after it all came to light.

Why am I angry? A few reasons. Like a hurricane, she has left a huge path destruction in her wake. So many people stumbled out of the wreckage of her lies bewildered, overwhelmed and hurt. So many people continue to be hurt as a result of the choices she made. That makes me angry.

She accepted money, gifts and support from strangers and loved ones alike, who only wanted to help her. Who believed her and hurt for her and her family. That makes me angry.

She pretended to have a disease that many people are dealing with. That other people close to me have gone through. That people close to me have died from. Name one person who doesn't have a loved one who's been affected by cancer; who's entire life hasn't changed because of the disease. I see people like Jacob and Laurie and Jen who are truly struggling with a terrifying illness, and I think it's a huge slap in the face to them and others. That makes me angry.

She was my friend. A real life friend. A friend I had a falling out with and who I reached out to nearly three years ago. Who I grew close to again. Who I thought I knew. Who I had many coffees and laughs with. Who I went through mutual pregnancies with. Who I told some of my deepest, darkest secrets to. Someone I cried for, hurt for, felt life isn't fair for. I kick myself for getting involved again. I should have stayed away. I'm upset with myself for not picking up on this sooner. I'm upset that this all came to light not two weeks after Spawnling was discharged from the hospital, and that my already fragile emotional state was driven near the breaking point. It's taken me this long to be able to write it out and admit that yes, I am angry. That this makes me really fucking angry.

Is there some mental illness involved? I'm not a professional so I won't jump to conclusions. I have done some research and I have spoken to professionals to try and gain some insight into what, exactly, happened over the last six years. I'll keep my thoughts to myself. All I know is that, no matter what the reason was, I am angry. And how am I going to let go of it? This is how I'm doing it.

See, part of it is guilt. Guilt for reaching out for support from friends and family when I was struggling with her impending demise - that they were so concerned for her, too. Guilt for dragging my readers into an imaginary world, even if I didn't know it was imaginary. I feel bad that so many of you were worried for her and have asked me about her. I need you to know that I believed it too, and that I feel like a sucker. I need you to know that I am not in contact with her anymore and haven't been since I found out it was all a lie. I still speak to a handful of mutual friends but am very happy to be in another part of the city enjoying the controlled chaos that is my life. Because we all know I barely control the typical chaos as it is. Our friendship will not recover from this. I will not be able to trust her again, no matter what. I have lost my friend, but in a different way than I anticipated, and I do mourn that loss.

So there you have it. I think I can let this go now and move on. Part of getting rid of resentment is refocusing my energy on something positive. So, I send out good vibes to all of you who are struggling with cancer or other serious illnesses, whether directly or indirectly. I've put a lot of this nervous energy into Spawnling's recovery from Kawasaki, his appointments and every day management. And I appreciate all the more the fantastic group of friends I have around me, who have helped me process two very unexpected situations in a ridiculously short amount of time. And to my readers who are always commenting, emailing, following and reminding me that there are good people in the world. Thank you.

And now we are done. And I shall go make dinner.

And tomorrow I shall discuss the transvestite stuffed animal.

No, seriously.

Being The Fat Friend

I wanted to thank everyone for the overwhelming response to my last post. I would thank each and every one of you individually, but I'm too lazy. It's summer, it's raining, I have my period and I'd rather write something new with what little energy I have on seven hours of very, very broken sleep. I'm sure you understand.

I will say that Gutsy and I are starting to get along significantly better the last few days. I haven't finished reading the book yet, but I have come up with two techniques that really seem to help: keeping my cool even when he's not, and defusing the situation by making him laugh. This creativity is another shining example of what makes me so great.

My awesomeness: it's visible nearly everywhere you look.

Notice I said 'nearly'. That's my lead-in to today's topic (writers like lead-ins).

I've come to the conclusion that I may very well always be The Fat Friend, or some variation thereof. It seems that, no matter what group I'm with, I'm the heaviest of the bunch. I forget that fact sometimes because I like myself so much that it's easy for me to overlook the lack of skinny in my jeans. I only tend to really notice it when pictures of me emerge that are not cropped at the neck. These sometimes make me sad for a few hours. If I were a queen, I would simply order a ban of all such pictures and demand that those in existence be burned in the town square. Then I would do some random flogging, but only because I like the word 'flog' and also enjoy abusing power.

But I digress.

I'm not a self-hater. I'm really not. There are aspects of me I don't enjoy - like my genetics - but I actually think I'm pretty great overall. About the only time I start to question myself is when I'm around a group of women who are significantly smaller than I am and go on and on about how fat they are (and they're not fat - not even close - which is so infuriating). It's apparent that, if they were my size, they would carve the fat off their bodies with a kitchen knife before going out in public. That type of poor body image is contagious, and so I attempt to fill my friend basket at least 75% full of women who care about their health but not necessarily the number on their scales (these friends tend to have the least amount of weight problems - imagine that!) Those women don't see my weight and don't really care too much about theirs; they take notice of how their pants are fitting, try to eat reasonably healthy and get a bit of exercise, but that's where it ends. That's where I want to be: healthy, but not obsessive. I admire that trait and I think I'm nearly there.

Being The Fat Friend is also hard when you happen to surround yourself with very beautiful people, like I do. I don't purposely invite them into my circle, but rather they flock to me like moths to a flame; a chubby little flame that bounces light off their elegant wings.

I know my friends like me because I'm cool and funny and talented and positive and terribly smart. But I also wonder if I'm more approachable because I'm not a threat to anyone's ego. I mean, who's going to look better in a summer dress? There's so little competition. Heck, I don't even own a summer dress. I haven't had one since I was about sixteen. That's over half a lifetime ago.

It's not like I'm feeling sorry for myself or anything. I have been gifted with many great things in my life; addictions and cellulite balance me out nicely. I can't be too perfect or no one would hang out with me, right? That's why I have to keep this jogging thing to a moderate level and not go all crazy with the weight loss. If I hit Skinnyville I've gone too far, and my Facebook event invites will drop dramatically. By maintaining a certain level of pudge on my frame I pretty much ensure my continued success as a popular girl.

As with everything else in life, fat is what you make of it. If I can take enough off that my heart will want to keep beating for another 50 years, yet not take enough off that I get snubbed at the park for having great legs and great hair (there's a fine line between admiration and jealousy, ladies), that would be perfect.

But in all seriousness, I'm likely never going to be a very small person. I just don't care enough about what other people think and I like food too much not to eat it, or to barf it up afterwards. If I hover in the early teens in dress sizes that will be perfectly acceptable. As it is, I've lost a full size in my first few weeks of running, and it feels damn good. I'm still The Fat Friend, but I may put in for a name change so I can be known as the Slightly Less Obese Friend. With any luck I'll be The Borderline Healthy Weight Friend in a few months. I don't care to be much more than that, as I can still enjoy pastry and whole fat lattes without worrying about gaining 8 pounds in a sitting.

And, if I ever have a Fat Friend of my very own, I'm going to take her out shopping for a stunning summer dress so she can feel like she's rockin' the park instead of hiding her blindingly white legs in those capris. Maybe I'll get one of my own little dresses then, too.

The Continuing Adventures of The Maven and Pixfish

I've moved up the running ranks enough to have a partner; someone I run with more often than not and who keeps telling me I'm doing a great job even though I'm well aware of my obvious sucktitude. Her name is Daring D, and, on top of giving me a run for my money (that was a pretty awesome pun, if I do say so myself) she owns a Wii Fit. I had no idea how cool they are, and now I want one. Considering I just took out a mortgage on new shoes (think the second most expensive ones at a specialty running store - ack!) and an iPhone, I don't think I'll be getting the Wii Fit any time soon, so I'll just have to keep mooching hers.

I have a foot injury, by the way. Nat, From Nat's Brain , helped me diagnose it. It's this one, and it sucks. I'm almost pain-free at this point and am looking forward to running again, but it's been four days and I'm positively jonesing. I can get addicted to anything if I really put my mind to it. I also should admit that I'm secretly proud of my injury, as if I'm somehow more badass for having one: "Oh, the limping? It's nothing. Just a foot injury from running. Did I mention I'm a runner? You know: one of those people who runs? Want to see my new shoes?"

It's been fairly busy this week. Pixfish and I have been all over the place. Naturally, I documented a few of our outings. It's been nice getting to know my new best friend. I learn stuff about her every day. Observe:


We went for a late night run with Daring D a few nights ago. She wore her headlamp for added visibility. PF is a safety girl.


Pixfish wants me to get a Wii Fit. She wants me to, can't you see? Geekster, do you not understand how important this is to her? I think we need to seriously consider getting one in order to preserve my special friendship.

Also, I believe she might be a bit of a kleptomaniac. That's my running partner's shoe...


I think my BFF might have a little problem with coffee. Every time I see her the girl is guzzling down some java. When you're drinking out of a cup you could likely drown in, it might be intervention time.

When I brought this up to Pixfish, she rolled her eyes and told me she's a pixie/mermaid, therefore she can't drown. Duh.

(She's clearly in denial. I'll keep working with her.)


See? See? There she is with a latte again! She's apparently found a new dealer in Jess, my single mama friend who's new abode the gremlins and I defiled sullied tainted visited last Thursday. After speaking with Pixfish, Jess informed me that the reason she has both a tail and wings is so she can hang out with the swimmers and flyers.

"Jess, Jess, Jess," I explained calmly. "If Pixfish were bi-mythical, do you not think she would have told me? We have a relationship built on trust and acceptance; surely she would feel comfortable sharing her life choices with me. Now please stop pretending you know her. You were with her for two or three hours. I've known her for seven days. That's, like, a lifetime of getting to know someone."

How very wrong I was. Because, after taking a few more pictures, I realized there are some things she has been keeping from me.



How did I never pick up on this before?

Judging from these photos, she's clearly a swinger.

And just when you think you really know someone...

Worthy of my Love

Are there any longtime readers in the crowd?

Of course there are. There would have to be. I mean, who wouldn't want to be reading my crap prose for nearly two years? I'm sure Google's servers get congested every time I put a new post up. They're going to start charging me or demanding I put some ads on my page or something.

Those of you who've been around for a while might remember my friend Fallout Girl. I cleverly named her that because we had a falling out which caused us to not be in the same Starbucks together for about two years. It was an awful time; I knew she frequented the coffee house closest to both of us, so I made a point of going to the second closest one, which was actually quite far. Then, when I added up how much gas I was using, I got up enough courage that I thought I could see her without either bursting into tears or taking off at a mad dash. However, I would do a drive by the store to see if she was in it before actually walking through the doors with my head down.

Eventually, I grew some ovaries and decided I needed to tell her I was sorry for my part in things. That I had acted immaturely and selfishly, and that I wanted nothing more than for her to know that I regretted what I had done.

Isn't that big of me? I know. I astound myself daily with my wisdom and acts of bravery. I'd like to believe that somewhere in the world there is a shrine of Maven, where people go to meditate and ask for guidance.

(If there is a shrine of Maven, it's probably an cork board covered in creepy monochrome print-outs of my internet pictures with holes in the eyes. I somehow think that's more likely. Terrifying, but more likely.)

Just as I was patting myself on the back for how amazingly mature I was, Fallout Girl not only accepted my apology, but wrote an even more compelling letter, disolving me into a puddle of crying mess. Bitch stole my thunder.

So Fallout Girl's name is actually Emely, and she's way cooler than I am (but don't tell her that because she'll rub it in my face). We've rebuilt this friendship from the ground up and have made it stronger, better, faster, longer.

Wait. No. That's a Kanye song.

Em and I have so much in common, and although very busy schedules have kept us apart more than we'd like, when we see each other it's like we never left the lawn chairs. We laugh, we cry, we're just our crazy old selves. I can tell her anything and know she'll still love me (I believe that's called "co-dependence" but we'll keep that hush-hush as well, alright?)

To put it simply, when I talk to her it's like the sun is shining a little brighter. She has a big spot in my heart.

Now here's the Oscar-worthy twist in the tale...

I just had to pause a minute to take a breath and wipe some tears, because writing it out is so hard: Em has been battling cancer for a few years and was in remission for quite some time. However, it's back with a vengeance and her prognosis is not good. Really not good.

I think you know what I mean.

I told Em that every two or three days I have a little cry about it. When I saw her this morning I said I was about due. I've just changed the sign to read '0 Days Without An Incident'. Dammit.

The positive side to this is that she's doing what we all should be doing: She's living life to the fullest right now with honesty and humour and vigor. How many of us can truly say that?

That's right: Only me and Em. So let us lead you by example and get on the happy train.

I'm just trying to steal some thunder back.

I've been asking myself how I can help her when she needs it most. What can I do for her as her friend and a fellow mom of three? There are so many things, big and small. I think I'll figure it out as time goes on, as her needs and those of her family change. But one thing I know I'm good at is making the girl laugh. She even likes my terrible blog. She tells me all the time, like one of those slutty groupies, just hanging off me and such.

... I wonder if she has a shrine? I haven't been down to her basement in a while. Do my pictures have eyes? Maybe I should check my hair for missing locks...

One of the things I promise to do is give her something to laugh about on a regular basis. I shall continue to blog several times a week in my ridiculously funny and talented way - not because I'm ignoring how sad I am, but because there's nothing better to laugh at than my life. It's almost tragic.

I encourage you to go read Emely's blog. Give her some love and support. I know I will.

Love you, my friend.