right before my birthday every year.  Is it just me, or once you pass 30, do you start treating your birthday as if it's New Year's Eve, with all kinds of life-changing resolutions, and party hats to boot?  At this time last year, I'm sure I'd just quit smoking, considering I was pregnant and all, so here I am for round two, minus the baby bump.  Well, unless you want to count those 25 pounds still lingering around my midsection as being "the baby bump."  Which they unintentionally are, I suppose.  Gee, thanks Caleb.  Now I'm even more depressed about this whole birthday thing.

Let's not stray, however, too far off this beaten path.  Let's get back to the whole "birthday" idea, or the fact that I haven't posted on this thing in almost a year.  I guess that goes with those Birthday Resolutions I was referring to.  Here, in no particular order, are the things I am planning to do once I turn 37.  I mean, once I turn "thirty-seven."  (It's much more gentle not seeing it in terms of digits.)

in my dream last night.  I'd forgotten I'd registered for a contest, similar to those "Win a Carnival Cruise for Two" that EVERYONE wins -- you know, the ones in the corner of the Chinese takeout restaurant, so when you're waiting for your takeout Chinese food to be ready, you decide to take a minute to fill in your vital information on a slip of paper no larger than a business card.  You can hardly even write that small, yet somehow you "win" ... all you have to pay are the $300 per person "port charges" and listen to a half-hour spiel about land ownership in southern Zaire. 

Yeah.  And people (including someone I know) still think you "win" these cruises.  Yikes.

Anyway, in last night's dream I was contacted by the press and members of the now-defunct acronym NASA (thanks for the "change," Obama) in regards to a contest I'd entered.  I'd won.  I was the fourth and final civilian chosen for a space mission, which (as dreams would have it) was set to last an "undetermined amount of time."  (Who regulates these dream missions is what I want to know.)

Of course, I accepted, even knowing I was pregnant (yes, even in my dreams the little onion makes an appearance), but I figured I could hide that small fact from NASA if I just sucked in my guts, which, by the way, worked like a charm.  So much for the government physical.  Mwah ha haa.  Was I a little nervous and a lot selfish planning to take this space flight for an "undetermined length of time" knowing I was pregnant?  Sure.  But then I remembered, in my dream, that according to Discovery Health's program, "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant," things like this happen all the time.  They don't take their prenatal vitamins, either, and their children turn out just fine, so what difference would it make if I were pregnant while in space?  Absolutely none.  My thoughts exactly.

Mission day arrives, and the press is having a field day.  Of course, they've set the four of us up to look like saints and heroes, and who can blame them, really?  The "four of us" are two girls and two guys, and I'm pretty sure one of the guys is Ben Affleck, a la "Armegeddon."  Keep that reference in mind, because I'll be using it again shortly.

We eventually blast off into space, and I'd tell you how beautiful it was, and how we somehow, even in the vast vacuum, managed to get snowflakes and ice on our wings, (the snowflakes being the size of volleyballs), but then I'd have to kill you, just like (here's that reference again) the mission was going to kill us.  Just like "The Abyss," there was no return trip planned.  But here's where things get interesting.

We'd been gone about a week, just long enough for the newshounds to have started doing some digging, and as I was floating miles and miles out of Earth's orbit, knowing I was never going home again, I started to wonder what type of shit the press had found out about me.  I'll be honest, I had a pretty wild adolescence with an even wilder early adulthood.  Would I have gone from America's sweetheart to America's poster child for how NOT to act in youth?

Have you ever sat back and wondered how you'll be remembered after you die?

Not who or how many people will attend your funeral, but how you'll be remembered, exactly.  Will the world find out one of your secrets, and exploit it?  Will you go from someone's best friend to most bitter enemy, because they "can't believe you ever did that"?  (Whatever "that" was.)

It's weird.  I never cared about anything like that before, but the feeling in my dream was so real, being removed from society as a sudden national superhero, then wondering what type of disfiguring truth they've come up with to make you into America's next monster.  It's a strange animal, life.  Society.  Makes me wonder.

I made a statement in my pre-bed Facebook status update last night that read:  "The new me will wake up tomorrow.  Be ready."

Apparently the new me is a very early riser.

One would think that after yesterday's misfortune (waking up early due to a low battery alert on a certain someone's new work phone) that I'd learn some sort of lesson, which I'm happy to say I did.  I went to sleep last night in pink, foam earplugs.  Certainly now, a little low battery tone wouldn't get the best of me.

Was I surprised when, at 5:30am, his new alarm clock goes off on his phone, loud enough to scare the shit out of me even with earplugs in, loud enough to obviously scare the shit out of him, considering how he jumped a foot off the bed?  IS THAT BULLSHIT REALLY NECESSARY????  Since when do people have such lack of common courtesy, such a negative amount of respect for other people in the house?  There is just absolutely no excuse for it.  He antagonizes the new dog as if he's a child, going out of his way to get this dog to not like him, staring the dog in the eyes so the dog will growl at him ... at 5:45am in the morning.  Why?  What is the point?  To prove you're more manly than a dog?!  I'm so over it.  I'm so completely over it. 

This whole period of my life is going to go down as one of the most messed-up in my personal history.  I've never dragged myself thru the mud, over the thorns, down the ravines, up the chasms, across the fjord to make something "work" that obviously has no business "working" at all.  What more sign do we need to just leave it alone and go our seperate ways for now?  What more needs to happen?  Do we need to walk away absolutely hating each other, just so we can say we "tried" and "gave it our best?"  How can this possibly be either of our "bests?"  I'm embarrassed and ashamed for the both of us.  I just wish he'd see it. 

I'm sorry but when your live-in boyfriend sits on your couch and you're pregnant and he's calling friends to plan a weekend vacation to see a football game in Dallas, you're looking at two people who obviously do not need to be together one minute longer.  In a "normal" relationship, that's fine.  But when you haven't spoken a word to each other all day, and the foundation of your relationship is in a state of complete disarray, yeah.  That's a problem. 

Be free, little man.  Go on your weekend vacations.  Go frolic in the open fields, breathe the salty air, ... but don't expect you're coming back here "when you feel like it."  Time to neuter this relationship and snip it in the buds, pronto.

I guess, when it boils down to it, we got pregnant so quickly that we never really got the chance to know each other at all.  Sad, in reality.  Really quite sad.

Thanks, Whitesnake, for that inspiring title line there.  Why I'm singing Whitesnake at 7:49am on a Sunday morning is beyond me, but many many many things are beyond me these days, including why the hell I'm awake, why the hell people insist on bringing their cell phones into the bedroom at night, just taking the chance that at 6am, something is going to chime or vibrate or ring or shimmy ... and I'm the one who has to pay the price because I'm the light sleeper.  I don't understand courtesy anymore, and I feel like every time I say something, I'm the one being a bitch for actually speaking my mind.  I mean for crying out loud, look what's going on in the world of "friendship."  I'll leave it at that. 

Remember Shirley Manson and her beautiful band, Garbage, and they're poignant and fitting song "I'm Only Happy When it Rains'?  Yeah, that's me lately.  I'm so miserable right now that I could just give up, and I don't even have a clue as to how to fix it.  When Richard and I are apart, all I can think is how much I want him back, how much I want to see him, how much I want to try again to make things work.  When he moves back in and we think things are going to work, they don't.  They actually go right down the tubes is what they do.  Is it truly possible to love someone but just to not be compatible at this certain juncture in your life?  Is it possible that I really do love him, and that eventually this could work and be great, but that now just isn't the time?  And if that's the case, how does a person deal with that?  ("A person" being both he AND I, in this case.)

I'm just going to let that simmer for a while.  I can be sad when we're apart, but when we're together and I'm inconsolably miserable, all I'm doing is bringing both he and I down.  I get annoyed at the things he does, annoyed at the things he doesn't do, and when I speak my mind, I'm a "nag" and a "nitpick."  When I bite my tongue, I hate myself on the inside.  

Sigh. 

I understand fear.  There are many things in life to be afraid of.

Some of the first few times Aidan would go somewhere with his dad, I'd have horrible nightmares (and even morbid daydreams) about Aidan slipping his hand out of the palm of his distracted dad in a busy parking lot, taking off without looking, and getting crushed by a car.  I'd imagine someone breaking into his bedroom window and whisking him away in the dead of the night, me sleeping peacefully in the next room and never hearing a thing.  Sometimes, when Aidan was an infant, I'd wonder what would happen if I died in my sleep during the night, and I'd imagine Aidan waking hungry in his crib a few hours later, crying when no one came to comfort him, and I'd wonder how many hours (days?) would go by before someone would be worried enough to come check on me. 

These are tangible fears, common, shared by strangers the world over.  With each scenario, you can put your finger on the proverbial bad guy, cheer for the good guy, and hold on to a hope that justice will prevail.

These are things we've been programmed to classify as "scary."

For the first time ever, I'm dealing with a whole different kind of scary:  the "unknown future" scary.  When I tell you it's more terrifying than anything tangible, you have to believe me because, friend, I wouldn't lie about something this huge.    I'm used to being in control.  Aren't we all, to a certain degree?  If you're watching a scary movie and it gets to be too much, you turn it off.  If you're reading a scary book, you can put it down and walk away.  We love control.  We don't put ourselves in too many positions where some sort of ability to redirect the situation isn't at our fingertips. 

So what do you do when you find yourself in an intense, crazy relationship (made crazy tenfold by the raging hormones coursing thru your pregnant system) with a near-stranger you'd thought was perfect when you were still viewing the world thru rose-colored "new relationship" glasses, and you find that after several attempts at breaking up and just being rid of the fool forever, you really can't walk away?  You think you're independent, but find that you suffer more misery without him, and you get mad at yourself for not trying harder?  What if every time you see him, your heart starts racing and you don a smile that even Ajax won't take off, and the person looking back at you from the mirror doesn't look quite as cynical as the girl who used to live there?  Do you chalk it up to fate?  Destiny?  Do you say it "means something" and start seeing invisible strings connecting bits of your life together, suddenly reading the world in a similar fashion to those who believe the "everything happens for a reason" adage?

People, this is scary.  I mean, who the eff AM I??! 

Yes, Richard and I are going to try again.  I'm probably certifiable, but I feel something when I'm near him, and I melt when I watch him with my son, and I got pregnant even when I thought he was "fixed," and I feel like I'm learning so much about myself by really trying to make this relationship work, and it's been a long time since I've learned anything about myself.  Everything I've done for a very long time fit a pattern, MY pattern.  If it was scary, I changed it, or I walked away.  If it was uncomfortable, I avoided it.  But something with Richard just makes me not want to give up, and I'm loving it.  It's almost irrationally scary, but in a good way.

I mean, what's the worst that can happen, right?!!    ;-)

Wish me luck, and thanks for reading.

Real-life packs a wallop on occasion, doesn't it? 

"Oh my God, you'll never believe what happened to me at the grocery store." 
"Holy shit, guess who I ran into last Thursday?" 
"Oh man, check this out, I've never been so scared in my life."

These are the things we tell people, the stories we share with friends and family over three-minute, rushed phone calls on our way to work, coffee breaks at the office kitchen, stories exchanged while sharing a dinner.  Excitement:  it's the message we're trying to send.  There's an element of surprise to these recaps, there's emotion, something is going to happen that you weren't expecting or what's the point of droning on and on, right? 

Listen.  I'm going to share a story with you.  This really happened, and it scared the shit out of me.  My goal in this story is to get the heart-thumping, pulse-racing details down on paper so you, as a reader, can feel exactly what I felt.  I think it's easier to tell a story like this orally, because a storyteller can add inflection, stress, can vary the pacing of their speech, but how can a writer manage to draw intense emotions with only the power of characters on paper, or light on a screen?  Let's try.

**ON A SIDE NOTE:  This is going to be an ongoing project.  I wrote myself into a technical corner with this idea, and although it's definitely a task I'll see thru to the end, I don't necessarily feel like "writing with a purpose" right now this morning.  Nor did I feel it yesterday morning.  Or the day before, which is when I actually began this idea.  Sorry, Chuck.  Definitely another time.

But you catch my main drift, right?  Stories need to be exciting.  There needs to be some element of "I'd rather be reading this or listening to this person talk to me than napping."

Happy days.

Sometimes I forget I'm pregnant, and I look down and think, "Whoa!" but then I remember there's something in there, and I laugh at my own forgetfulness.

I'm here to vent about relationships and social networking, and the validity in regards to both of those subjects when it comes to the phrase, "You reap what you sow."  Let's begin.

Think about your relationship:  any relationship between you and another person.  A son.  A daughter.  Your mother.  Your ex-significant-other.  Your boyfriend.  Girlfriend.  Co-worker.

How do those relationships affect your actions on social networking sites like Facebook?  From my own experience, I've toned down the intensity of a lot of my status updates now that I've accepted my mom's friend request.  I occasionally block my posts from her, especially when I'm posting to advertise a blog update.  I love my mom, but there are certain boundaries I don't want to breach with her.  (Funny how I'm okay breaching those boundaries with strangers, though.  Just another point to ponder.)

When it comes to partner relationships on Facebook, do you find that it's "easier' to have your significant other as your "friend" on Facebook, or is it just way too much drama?  I used to think it was great, but I suddenly find myself not so sure anymore, because I can't help but wonder where people draw the line between friendship and it's next-door neighbor, flirtation.  I'm not talking the 90's textbook definition of flirting, as in batting the eyelashes while gazing thoughtfully into someone's eyes, but I'm instead talking about what would be considered the Facebook version of flirting:  when a "friend" of your significant other compulsively "likes" virtually all of their status updates.  How about the quick back-and-forth exchanges and responses to threads, as if they're both sitting on top of their phone or computer with nothing more to do or think about except seeing what the other has or will post?  What about when they comment on nearly everything your boyfriend or girlfriend posts about, be it breakfast cereal or the old "boxers or briefs" adage?  When is the threshold considered crossed?  How much is too much when it comes to Facebook?

I've never been one to suffer jealousy, because my train of thought has always been that if the world doesn't know you're with me, then I may just be prone to forget that I'm with you, too.  Oops.  If you don't want that to happen, you'd better make sure that the world knows about us.  But the bottom line is that social flirting has become a serious problem for now three friends of mine, and in my own strange relationship, I'm beginning to see how those three ladies feel and what drove their relationships to the brink of failure or near failure. 

At the end of the day, the things that stand out to a woman are the way you portray your life, your relationship, your priorities, and your family, and those things let them know that they are the most important thing in your life.  It's similar to saying "Never go to bed angry," by imagining never going to bed without the world knowing where you stand in your life.  If someone posted something untrue on your wall, you wouldn't leave it up for four days for the world to see, right?  In the same way, I think it's safe to periodically check to see that your shit is squared away, and that you're being true to who you want to be true to, for better or worse. 

Is your reputation more important to you than your relationship?  If so, then be prepared to defend that position when asked about it.  Is it more important for you that the world sees you as Mister Popularity?  So be it, but don't pretend to hold your significant other above everything else in your life.  Whispers in my ear in the dark only carry you so far -- if you don't act the same way in public, why should I?

I could go much further and deeper on the subject, but I want to hear from everyone else regarding Facebook and relationships.  If a stranger, friend, or ex-acquaintance is leaving "too much love" on your page, how do you go about setting a boundary?  Do you defriend?  Say something?  These are all relationship issues we didn't have to deal with ten years ago, and I'm curious to see what other people think. 

Later, friends and animals.   :-)

Don't you just hate being the last person to a dogfight?  All the good seats are taken, you have to look around, whispering "What'd I miss" to the strangers sitting near you while their money is quickly changing hands, droplets of sweat in slow-motion cut the sepia-toned air of the stifling room, and then you realize that you aren't actually at a dogfight but rather sitting in your kitchen at your computer, frustrated at trying to find the .exe file on a HotWheels installation disk for your six-year-old, but the sound of the dogfight coming from your bedroom is, indeed, real. 

One hand on your coffee cup, you run/walk toward the snarling/screaming/barking and you're already hollering for them to KNOCK IT OFF and that you're going to BEAT SOMEONE'S BUTT, and upon reaching the door, a streak of black runs by, grazing the hair on your unshaven leg.  One dog, out.  Looking toward the far side of the bed, the scene of the alleged crime, you expect to be able to put it all together, slick like Perry Mason, but instead there lies the second dog, minding her own business as if nothing has happened.  You look back toward the dining room, the direction from whence you came trotting, and there's the first dog, the black dog, the runner, sitting on the floor, wearing the "I didn't do anything" mask, waiting to see what YOUR next move is before she makes her next move. 

You analyze.  Hmm, here is something that looks like a drop of blood.  There are no rawhides anywhere in sight.  Who did that screaming belong to?  You look at the big dog laying in front of you, her stoic face giving nothing away.  A glance toward the living room and the black dog ain't saying nothing, neither.  The conspiracy has begun, and you're on the outs.  More drops of blood on a pillowcase.  A lineup.  Both dogs are patted down, neither giving anything away.  Gums and teeth are checked.  Ears.  Feet.  No sign of injury, but they aren't quite looking at each other, either.  Obviously something has happened, but no one is talking.

And all I can think with a baby on the way is that this is going to be my life with two children.

I think I'll start saving up for a household video security package.  Ain't NOTHING getting by me from now on.    ;-)

Also, a van that reads "Mystery Machine."   Because if it wasn't for you meddling kids ....

Side note:  93-day rejection yesterday morning from GUD:  Greatest Uncommon Denominator for "In Eden."  Bummer. 

I'm feeling a bit like the Princess from the old "Princess and the Pea" story, but instead of there being a pea underneath my mattress, there's a plum-sized fetus in my belly which is making it very uncomfortable to sleep, not to mention the only shorts worth wearing are athletic, elastic-waisted jobs.  For the most part, these are fine and acceptable shorts (as a matter of fact, I heart Adidas and Umbro both), but I'm sorta over putting on a button-up shirt and having to top it off with a faded pair of soccer/running shorts.  

If they were Landon Donovan's shorts, ne'er a complaint would cross these lips, mind you, because when folks asked, "What's with the shorts?" in regards to the "dressing down" portion of the outfit, I could comeback with a snappy "Uhmm, you mean LANDON DONOVAN'S SHORTS?"  Seeing the awe and amazement in their eyes, I'd then whisper, "Yeah.  That's what I thought."

But they aren't Donovan's shorts, they're off the rack shorts from some outlet store, and now I'm discussing them on a Saturday morning as if they're vital to the fabric of society, a cornerstone of the Establishment.  For God's' sake, get a grip:  they're shorts.  Let's move on.

I have a few stories to find homes for today, and a buddy o' mine (to whom I can only refer by his last name, despite the fact that I'm older than he) has Facebooked me another recommended website for locating homes for homeless stories, a la Duotrope.   I need some luck, man.  My perseverence is wearing thin.  93 days for a rejection?  And "Becoming Stan" has been out to Dark Discoveries for about 140 days.  Do these people think I'm made of time?  Well, I'm not.  For the record, the human body is mostly water.  Drink THAT, slow readers.

I'm still trying to figure out how to make a relationship work when both parties don't seem to want an actual relationship.  It's an interesting concept.  Certain features of our dynamic are incredible, but I can be a bear (read:  bitch on wheels) on occasion, and he's not good with that.  He sort of shuts down, which makes me angry because I'm not a fan of shutting down.  Unless it's me shutting down, during which time it's completely acceptable.  See how that works?

I went to brunch yesterday with some amazing women -- gorgeous, intelligent, funny -- and we discussed some of the issues common to our relationships.  I think there's a book in there somewhere.  For Frith's sake, someone's got to learn from our mistakes.  I can't even put into words how great it felt to sit and converse with two beautiful, strong women, both single moms, and realize with each statement how much we can benefit from just talking about our problems.  I was floored and amazed to realize that our gripes and complaints all seemed to stem from the same flaws in the male psyche, despite the fact that our significant others are from such different backgrounds (age, location, marital status, etc).  In other words, it's not like they're assholes because we landed guys from the same clique.  Nope, they only have one thing in common:  the genitalia to call themselves men. 

I just caught myself thinking, "So help me, if Aidan grows up to act like this..."   What's up, moms?  Why'd you let your boys grow up to be douchebags?  (I hear a country song.)

Time for cereal.  Check you later.  

PS:  Landon Donovan, if you're reading this, I'd wear your shorts with pride.  Just sayin'.

Hmm.  Here I sit at my wee netbook, my livejournal page open like a blank canvas, and I can't quite narrow my thoughts into something appropriate.  I posted an entry this morning from 10 May, which I'd kept private since then.  As I reminded myself of its existance, I noted the first inkling of doubt hidden in between the lines and realized I probably should've jumped ship back then. and kept some of my sanity and a portion of my self-respect.  Sadly, I decided to go against my norm and keep trying, which became nothing more productive than beating a dead mule for not pulling its share of the load:  pointless, and a waste of my own time and energy. 

In an attempt to focus my thoughts and get back in the habit of blogging, I'm off to mow the grass.  I guess it will take a while to get back into the morning writing routine, but stick with me.  We'll get there.  In the meantime, at least my chores will get done.

Later.