Shame On You

I was standing in front of the closet, folding clothing and hanging slacks and generally glorying in my neat-freak tendencies, when I heard her voice BOOM through the phone at Mr. Right’s ear:

“L~, WOULD YOU FUCKING STOP IT ALREADY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I froze. I turned. My tongue curled with readiness in anticipation of the yelling that I was about to start doing. ‘He’s four years old you unbelievable BITCH’ was running through my head, along with the stock ‘How dare you’ and ‘You call yourself a MOTHER?!?’ lines. And then my eyes fell on Mr. Right, who was laying on the bed with his hands over his eyes and a strange look on his face that somehow managed to convey resignation and physical distress all at once…and my burgeoning ‘That constitutes abuse – ‘ was swallowed in a gulp rather than voiced to the room. “It’s not your place” whispered the angelic little devil perched on my shoulder, “who do you think YOU are? It’s Mr. Right’s son, let him deal with it. Can’t you see how upset he is, if you get involved you’re just going to make things worse for him!” And I turned back to my laundry while Mr. Right continued talking as though The Incident had never happened.

For two days it ate at me; I didn’t do anything. Mr. Right didn’t do anything. I stood aside in the face of verbal, emotional abuse to a barely-five year old and I Didn’t Do Anything About It. After my own experiences with abuse growing up, I should’ve thrown caution to the wind and DONE something, but instead I let somebody else’s feelings or opinion or whatever matter. And not the feelings of the only person involved who did matter – L~. There are no words to express the shame that I felt, that I still feel, and the disgust that lingers like a bad taste on my tongue.

So last night I confronted Mr. Right about it, while he was driving to another city a few hours away for the Big Interview that he hopes is going to be his ticket out of the military and into a salary that sets him up for life. (And allows him to have the financial backing for a really good lawyer.) Yes, we talked about it on the phone, not because I’m a coward but because the shame and wrongness of the situation had eaten me up so badly that I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“We have to talk about something that’s been eating at me for the past few days. The other night when you were on the phone with ex-nonwife I heard – “

He interrupted, ‘I know’.

“Babe, that’s emotional abuse. What do you think that’s doing to L~’s sense of self-worth and ability to communicate effectively? He’s at the age now where he’s absorbing everything he does; or he should be, anyway. She Cannot Do That. Doesn’t she realize that his issues in Kindergarten are probably, at least in part, a direct result of this??”*

‘I know,’ he said again. ‘A part of the reason we broke up was because of that type of behavior, and I have tried to make her stop but nothing works!’

“It is unacceptable and I will not stand by and bite my tongue if she does that again. Either you tell her, or I will.”

And on it went, for about an hour. He told me about his sense of helplessness, how he feels much like David in the face of ex-nonwife’s parents and their goliath financial resources. How he concedes to her right now because if it ever became a fight, she would run to Mommy and Daddy and they would buy her the biggest, fastest-talking lawyer that money could find. And he would have nothing, and possibly even less time with his son if ex-nonwife was feeling resentful. As it stands, he told me, he feels like a deadbeat father only seeing L~ every weekend. And what happens if the military sends him away again for a month before he is released at the end of January? He wants sole custody, but he is nowhere near prepared yet for the fight that will likely result. He promised me that he will not continue to allow her to speak like that to L~, and that he is going to make arrangements to change their custody schedule in order to minimize the potential of The Incident happening again.

But if it was my child…

Le sigh.

*Mr. Right got an email from L~’s Kindergarten teacher in which she detailed the difficulties that L~ is having in school as well as the behavioral problems that she’s been dealing with. I may blog more about this in future but for now, I just don’t feel like thinking about it.

MoneyMoneyMoneyMonaaaay....Mo-NAY!!

As of October 27, 2012, I am a non-smoker.

Again.

So far so good. I’m using the patch/gum combo and the tried and true waiting-it-out technique. It’s been both harder and easier than I thought it would be – the cravings were few and far between, and over the past 2 days I’ve only had to chew 5 pieces of gum. Not bad. But that was the weekend…it’s Monday now, and the true test of my willpower began at 7:30 this morning when I climbed in my car, coffee in hand, work on the horizon. I might’ve traded my soul to the devil for that first morning smoke; if I’d had a pack stashed away somewhere, I probably would’ve lit one up and relished every drag while mentally chanting ‘I’m just having one; just one; just one…’. Fortunately I’ve had a lot of practice quitting, and I know better than to play that game and pretend that one won’t lead to two or three or ten. So I popped a minty gum in my mouth, chewed it four times, tucked it in my cheek and started driving with the radio turned up.

The cravings are definitely worse here at work. I’m on gum # 2 as I type this, and it’s only 10:40 am. I learned long ago that stress is a huge trigger for me…besides the fact that I just bloody well love smoking. I love the smell of cigarette smoke, the taste of it, holding a cigarette between my fingers, watching the smoke curl around my head. The experts say that nicotine is both a stimulant and a relaxant, and for me it’s also a social event and a way to release pressure, especially during the workday. By nature, I’m a horrible workaholic who gets so involved in my job that I’ve missed important life events as a result. For five minutes here and there throughout the day, the need for a cigarette forces me out of my black hole and allows me to take a mental break. And gawd, it tastes good with a coffee!!!

I’d like to say I’ve quit for very altruistic reasons, like my future children’s wellbeing or even my health. Cigarettes are a carcinogen. They cause emphysema and have been linked to infertility and heart disease and a host of other dire medical conditions. Mr. Right and I plan to start a family within the next year or two and I know for sure that I don’t want to be the woman with the belly out to China smoking under the glare of perfect strangers. More importantly, I don’t want to be forcing toxins on my innocent, unborn child, nor do I want to be a cigarette-toting role model for my children. I want to have the best chance I possibly can to get pregnant. I want to be able to run again without stopping to catch my breath, and not get colds that instantly lead to bad coughing fits. It’d be nice to stop having to listen to rude people who feel it necessary to comment on my smoking habit, and respond with subtle, sarcastic quips. And I sure won’t miss standing outside in -35 degree weather freezing my junk off for a temporary fix!

No, the real reason that I became a non-smoker this past Saturday was for the money. I don’t have any. Thanks to some unexpected expenses that have occurred since I purchased my house, I am officially on a strict and extremely tight budget for the next few months that doesn’t allow me to spend over $300/month on cigarettes unless I sacrifice something important – like heat and electricity. I like my disposable income and am willing to trade this vice in order to have that financial stability back, because at the end of the day I like money more than smoking. I like purses and shoes and books much more than cigarettes. I like a working hot water tank and a new furnace much, much better than putting another nail in my coffin. So, though it may seem to be a shallow and trivial reason to quit something that could, say, give me cancer one day, it’s still the best reason I’ve got. And it’s going to have to be enough.

Because man, I want a smoke.

Bad Artwork as a Result of Self-Pity

Last night I apparently decided to do a very commendable job of feeling sorry for myself. I moped around the house, oh-woe’d me up the wazoo, blinked back unnecessary tears, cursed every little perceived slight...all to the sympathetic but bewildered audience of one sensitive Border Collie and a cat. I had PMS and was wallowing in it, all by myself.

Mr. Right had gone to his son’s very first soccer event, where ex-nonwife was also in attendance along with mutual friends. By gawd I had a right to feel sorry for myself! I pictured him sitting on the bleachers next to the quite ample girth of ex-nonwife (who, of course, didn’t look nearly half as good as I did waiting for him at home in my bright yellow sponge-bob PJ pants, size Medium thank you very much!), who batted her stubby eyelashes at him while she flirted and sweetly pumped him for more money. I’d mentally freeze frame and draw red horns and a mustache on the image of her, then insert myself in a kick-ass pantsuit, hooker boots with spike heels and perfect hair. She would cringe back, hissing like the devil’s minion as I sashayed towards Mr. Right, my hips swaying to a tune of cha-cha-cha-cha-MEOooooW! Look at what he traded up to, my body would sing, and eat your heart out chicky! I wouldn’t even have to slay her – my awesomeness was so epic that violence wasn’t required. I would shame her with a look and Mr. Right and I would float away, hand in hand, to a tune of Happily Ever After.

DIE, EVIL ex-nonwife, DIE!!!

 

Then I’d blink the image away and find myself back in reality, standing in my kitchen, alone. I have no problem being alone – I enjoy periods of solitude and occasionally require them to recharge. But last night I felt left out. Logically I know that’s not the case; I’m not ready to meet the ex-nonwife or be involved in the ‘firsts’, and I’ve told Mr. Right that. But in the midst of last night’s pity party, I felt slighted. He’s off with his little family and I’m not a part of that, was the thought that ran repeatedly through my head.

Sunday night I had my family over for dinner, after which my sister – who is pregnant again! – went to the emergency room and left my 2.5 year old twin nieces to hang out with Auntie and Mr. Right. I got a little glimpse into how perfect my life could be when I bathed those babies and tucked them into the bed in my guest room; a little piece of me, sleeping safe and sound in the next room while I cuddled in bed with Mr. Right. Everything I want, so close and so possible and yet still so impossible. I’m ready for a baby, I’ve been emotionally ready for years and financially prepared since TMP; I’ve even been having dreams lately about it. Mr. Right and I have had many serious discussions on the topic; when we first started dating, I told him up front that I absolutely must have children. We’ve contemplated what our genes would look like combined into a little boy or girl. But I know he’s not ready to take that step yet, and the biggest things holding me back are: 1) the still relative newness of our relationship, we’ve been together for less than a year; 2) Though he’s at my house 90% of the time, we do not live together in any official sense; and 3) His financial ties with the ex-nonwife. There’s no question of love and respect and caring; but all that alone won’t sustain a relationship, and if I’m to have a child with the involvement of the father then I want to know that we’ll be together for the rest of our lives, as does Mr. Right. But yesterday I found myself wondering why I’m waiting. I could be actively trying for mommyhood right now, I could have a child before my 33^rd birthday and finally see my biggest dream realized. But instead I’m waiting on a man, putting my number one desire aside Again for something else. Waiting to see if we’ll have what it takes to last. What if, a year from now, something happens between Mr. Right and I and I’m forced to start all over again? Why should I continue to deny myself and not have My Own little family instead of just taking charge and actively going out and getting what I want? It goes against my very nature; I’m not a wait-and-see’er, I’m 100% a go-getter. But I want Mr. Right and I want children, and I’m relatively certain that Mr. Right would not be ok with me getting knocked up by a turkey baster. Hell, I’m not even sure I’d be OK with being artificially inseminated right now, when the possibility of having a child with the man I love exists. And yet this feeling of having everything I want within my grasp but not having it, not being totally certain I’ll ever have it, scares me. Makes me sad. Helps me feel sorry for myself when my hormones are out of control and inspiring tears for no reason. Mr. Right, upon arriving home, noticed that I was out of sorts and questioned me on it. “I have PMS”, I told him, and he comforted me while I held the tears in.

For now, I keep this all to myself. I don’t tell Mr. Right how it feels to know he’s with ex-nonwife instead of me, that he’s sharing these family moments with her and I’m alone. I know that will eventually change, and I also know that when it changes it will most likely come with a separate set of issues. When it comes to the baby thing…well, it’s more difficult to be resolved about that. Part of me is tempted to ask him how he’d feel if I went the sperm donor route, just so I would know. My logical brain whispers at me to just stuff it down, and give it 6 months. Just 6 months. He’s worth it.

Here’s to dreams of beautiful, curly-haired blue eyed babies.

~~PS: I can't decide on a blog template, and I don't have time to make one myself. So be prepared for a new look every day!~~

I Ain't No {Step}Mother Theresa

Mr. Right and I had a brief discussion last night about how we’ll fit his stuff into my house when he moves in, a conversation inspired by the new bed that was just last night installed in my guest room. I voted that he sell everything he owns…he gave me The Look and stated that his toolbox will be going in the front hall closet. Which may have you thinking, well, the toolbox can’t be that big if it will fit in the front hall closet, right?

Wrong. This thing is massive. About ten years ago, Mr. Right left the military for a few years to start his apprenticeship as a Heavy Duty Mechanic and he has all the tools to show for it. Tens of thousands of dollars worth of tools that he never uses. In an enormous toolbox that cost a few thousand dollars. OK, that’s cool. I have a room in my house that has floor to ceiling stacks of boxes full of books that I still haven’t unpacked because I can barely walk through the doorway to figure out how I’m going to fit my office desk in with a ton of bookshelves. But man, I had plans for that closet, which is actually more of a small room. I wanted to put a half-bath in there eventually; my townhouse is not huge, it’s a three bedroom with a little over 1000 sq feet and no basement, and has only one full bathroom on the second floor. At one point I had Mr. Right, his son, my sister and brother-in-law and my twin nieces all scrambling to be the first one in the john. But come May, that nice big front hall closet will be the home of a shiny red dust collector.

Which is OK. My books, his toolbox. Fair. In the end he’ll be losing more of his stuff then I will – he’s already said that his furniture won’t be coming with him (I have a beautiful leather couch and rattan rocking chair, and a nice dining table) and he’s going to have to get rid of his big screen TV (since mine is the fancy new model that does everything except cook breakfast). His bed may replace mine; it’s a wonderfully masculine four-post bed frame in dark wood that will look great in the master bedroom. His washer/dryer go, mine stay (they’re also newer and better lol). Kitchen items will be assessed during packing, as will linens and the like. Shouldn’t be a big deal.

Except for one thing that I’m a little ashamed to admit bothers me. Mr. Right and I have been in serious discussion about living together for the past 2 months or so, and one of his requirements (I almost wrote ‘demands’ at first) is that his son has his own room.

Yes, I get it. Hell, during the few years that I sporadically saw my father after my parents divorced, I had to sleep on his couch. Or he’d fall asleep on his couch with a beer in hand, empties littered around him, and I’d crawl into his bed for the night. Was I forever scarred from it? Nope. But I can remember being 16 and asking my Dad why I didn’t have my own bed at his house, listening to the promises of my own space that he never came through on, feeling like he just didn’t give a shit about me. So yes, I think that his son is entitled to a room wherever Mr. Right lives.

*Insert a mini-me in this picture*

But here’s the thing: I have a five-year mortgage on my house. I have three bedrooms, one of which I’ve dedicated as an office/library that will, hopefully in the near future, be home to a company that a friend and I are looking to partner in. When I bought the house, one of the main drawbacks was the lack of a basement; that was offset by the fact that it had been fully renovated and I’d have to put zero money into upgrades. I had, in my mind, a plan for how I would use the space: master bedroom for the obvious. Second bedroom for my office/library, and the third bedroom would start as the guest room and become a nursery within the next 2 years. Mr. Right or no Mr. Right, that was my plan for the third bedroom. And yes, eventually I hoped that the office/library would be converted into a second nursery, that the children that Mr. Right and I create will sleep cozy in their bedrooms on either side of me. 

Instead, bedroom #3 will become a room that is only used 2 nights of the week. And for the most part I’m OK with that…what bothers me is that I won’t have that room if (when?) Mr. Right and I have a child together. Like I’d planned. And I will have to sacrifice this for a child who isn’t mine. It would be different if his son lived with us full time…but he doesn’t. Our children will. Where is the fairness in that??

I realize that those thoughts are selfish and unkind of me, and I’m probably also jumping the gun here. I’m not perfect – I’m not a paragon of virtuous thoughts or Mother Theresa who can give the world everything she is. I’m an occasionally bitchy, picky, anal, sometimes-selfish woman who wants to have a home with rooms for my own children. 7 days of the week. And yes, the prospect of having Mr. Right and his son living with me is cause for the occasional twinge of nervousness. So I forgive myself if, every once in a while, these thoughts cross my mind and I have to suppress them and paste a smile on my face and say ‘Yes babe, I agree he should have his own room wherever you live’. Because if it’s OK for his toolbox to sit in the front closet, then how on earth can it not be OK for his son to have a room in his Dad’s house? Because I’m the adult, and I wouldn’t want any child to feel like I did those weekends I spent with my father.

We’ve got 6 months to figure it all out, and I’ve got 6 months to let go of these silly plans and get over myself. 6 months to get used to the idea of Mr. Right officially moving in with me, and of his son living in the house I own 8 days of the month. 

Whew. Thank gawd I never joined a nunnery!

Change (Possibly the Longest Blog Post I've Ever Written)

Change. It’s a funny thing; often intimidating, often heralding wonderful things…and leaving my fingers wandering aimlessly over the keyboard as I try to figure out how to begin detailing all the ways my life has changed.

A month ago I bought a house. My very first. A three bedroom townhouse in a nice area, completely renovated, that I got for a steal. I spent 4 months jumping through hoops and hunting through realtor ads and changing banks and almost giving up when the Gov’t of Canada took away the 30-year mortgage. I jumped through more hoops, changed my budget, downgraded my expectations just a little and became a new home owner at the beginning of September. It’s been a significant adjustment, mostly due to the fact that I moved out of the small town that I’ve lived in since I was 14 and in to the big city. I’ve always been a country girl, and though I spent a decade or so working in the big city it’s quite a change to live here. It’s noisy. The sky isn’t black at night and I can’t hear the coyotes singing through my window. Going grocery shopping is an event that takes twice as long as it did in my old town and costs more. I can’t step outside my front door and walk to the river with my dog…in fact, I’m hesitant to step outside my front door for a dog walk after dark now. There are a lot of bums. Everywhere. But driving to work takes all of five minutes and I’m within spitting distance of my Mom and my friends. And I’m no longer giving my money away toward someone else’s equity. It’s a wonderful change and I’m sure that I’ll adapt to city life…though I’ll probably never walk my dog late at night by myself.

The next change is probably the most significant. I suppose it began with an ex, my need to move past the pain, and an online dating site that likened me to a guppy. Or maybe it started before that, with my 30^th birthday and the physical ache that’s played resident in my womb since puberty. I had been single for a long (LONG) time, somehow having become That Woman who puts her career first. I’ve never lived with a man, having always been too fiercely independent (and maybe too young!) to take that step. A good friend had been urging me for years to try internet dating, and I finally caved after realizing that the mythical lovers-meeting-over-produce fairy tale was not going to happen to me. So I picked Plenty of Fish. Because it was free. Hey, what can I say, I’m cheap like that!

Up went the witty profile and the standard pictures and my line was cast. I was propositioned in every possible sense – one guy even asked me if I liked BBQ’d cat, another harassed me endlessly about the colour of my panties. And then I met my ex. He seemed normal; he treated me well, made me laugh and wasn’t looking for a booty call. But he had two kids, a co-dependent ex, and an inappropriate distance from that prior relationship. We broke up because his ex lost her job and he was planning to move in with her to support the family (well, that was the primary reason anyway!). I swore I’d never get involved with a single parent ever again.

Ever. Again. Baha. Bahahaha. Yeah, ok then.

Four months later I was back online, this time with a whole new set of criteria for Mr. Right. No kids. No kids. NO. KIDS. !!!!! This time I went on dates with several very nice men…one of which I thought had potential, until I found out that he was unemployed. And living with his mother. We remain friendly and I’m sure that there’s somebody out there for him, it’s just not me. Back to the drawing board. Back to 39 year old men sending me naked pictures of themselves…inquiries about my favourite positions…propositions from boys almost young enough to be my offspring...propositions from girls young enough to be my daughter.

And then He messaged me. Physically he was everything that I loved in a man: blue eyes, 6’3” tall, in the military, a few years older than me. What can I say, I’m a sucker for a man in uniform! (Really, what lady isn’t?!?) He made me laugh and we found that we had the important things in common, and enough differences to make things interesting. But...Ah yes, there’s the catch – But: he was the father of a 4-year old. A child who lived with him about 75% of the time. I tried to walk away, I’ll admit it. I told myself that it didn’t matter how well we clicked, or that the chemistry that we had was unlike any I’d ever experienced before. That just meant that I could potentially be hurt in ways I’d never been hurt before. But gawd he was witty, insightful, considerate. I told him that I wanted to take things REALLY SLOW (as in, expect blue-balls and my still putting you off after two months of light petting if you really want to get into it with me) and still he persisted. When they say the military makes men out of boys, they aren’t lying, and I had a hard time resisting this man who is one of the best in character that I’ve ever met. He beat the hell out of me in Scrabble. I was outraged…and tantalizingly turned on. His stupid three letter words three deep somehow meant more than all of my multi-lettered, hoity-toity words. Nobody EVER beat me at Scrabble, and certainly not with ‘blah’ for crying out loud. My dog, who is friendly but cautious with strangers, adored him from the moment they met. He made me laugh. He made me forget my cautious nature and just trust in what little I knew about him, and I jumped in wholeheartedly.

And now here I am, almost a year later, in a loving and committed relationship with Mr. Right. I’m no longer single. Though we aren’t officially living together, he is at my house 25/31 days of the month and we’ve discussed his moving in with me after his lease is up (May 2013). My life has changed in an epic, dramatic, Huge way. It’s wonderful, and at the same time it’s often not easy. Mr. Right’s baggage is tangible, and will Always be there. His young son and I hit it off from the first time we met; Mr. Right often likes to joke about his son being my little leech since he stays attached to my hip during our visits. I don’t love the little guy (yet) but I definitely enjoy having him around. And Mr. Right balances it all wonderfully; our relationship is a priority, he doesn’t have BBQ dinners with his ex or run to her every phone call. He loves me, adores me, and wants to spend the rest of his life with me. We’ve even talked about marriage…once I got used to hearing the M word and not wanting to run screaming like a shrew. Marriage and children and taking each others teeth out before bedtime when we’re both old and senile.

And amidst all that wonder, amidst my learning what it actually means to truly love someone and adjust to living with someone, is the part that’s not easy. Loving him is simple, natural. Living with him requires compromise but isn’t as tough as I thought it would be. The challenge of being the potential stepmother, of having my very own ex-nonwife to contend with, is another issue completely. Of caring about this little person who belongs to another woman, and who will always exist as a very good reason for Mr. Right to be friends with his ex. Though they’ve been separated for almost 2 years, there are still some significant financial ties that remain (a shared bank account, vehicle ownerships/registrations/insurances that still haven’t been sorted out…not to mention that they don’t have any written custody/child support agreement!), and I’ve drawn my line in the sand and told Mr. Right that until their only financial tie is child support he will not be moving in with me. He has been actively making progress with this but unfortunately hasn’t been able to move very quickly, thanks to the ex-nonwife herself.

I have never in my life been judgmental. I’ve never met her, never even talked to her, and yet she is almost a physical presence in my life and I just can’t seem to stop myself from forming an opinion that isn’t very flattering of her. {A little back story here: my two sisters and I were raised by a single mother who didn’t receive any child support. She worked two jobs and did whatever was necessary to give us at least the necessities of life, including putting us completely before herself in every possible way. So I have little sympathy for single mothers who live under a sense of entitlement and don’t put their children above their own wants. I don’t care if that sounds harsh.} She was recently unemployed for almost 3 months. Not because she had to be, but because she’d decided it was time to make a career change and didn’t want to continue working in a daycare. She wanted to be a receptionist instead, and I guess she figured that depending on her ex to support her financially during the 3 months that she loafed around and took trips to the mountain was a better option than just working somewhere until she’d found her dream job. I’m sorry, did that come across a little sarcastic?? Apparently she pulled something similar while she and Mr. Right were together and it was a part of the reason they separated. Anyway. Then the phone calls…I appreciate that they are friendly and civil to each other, but get frustrated when she calls him at supper time under the guise of his son wanting to talk to him, and keeps him on the phone for 30 minutes while she discusses problems she’s having with her car. Don’t get me wrong – he’s also a party to those conversations and could dissuade such talk but doesn’t. She also calls him when their son misbehaves during the day or while he’s in her care, and expects him to rectify the issue. Over the phone. Really?!? There’s also been a few times where her actions could be perceived as her playing games – she drove 3 hours to another city on one of the days my BF was to pick his son up, didn’t let him know that she had gone anywhere until the scheduled pick-up time, and then didn’t bother to come back until almost midnight. And the newest thing: she’s been living with a friend for the past several months (since she lost her job), where her and the little guy share a room, and a bed. {Because she didn’t want to tough it out at a daycare until something better came along.} Now that she’s got her $14/hr receptionist job, she’s told Mr. Right that she’s moving into an apartment at the end of the month that’s going to cost $900 rent/month…and in December or January she plans on trading her car (which is actually in Mr. Right’s name and one of the financial ties that he’s trying to sever) for a new vehicle. I pointed out that nobody is going to approve her for a car loan with that income/expense ratio; he said that her parents will foot the bill. She’s over 30 and her parents support her financially…really?!? Then she had the nerve to ask him if she can have the bed that Mr. Right has at his place for their son.

When he told me all this, when he tells me everything (which isn’t often, he’s pretty good at keeping the situation out of our relationship), I try my damndest to put myself in her shoes and at least sympathize with her situation; he’s the one who ended things, which it seems she didn’t want as she asked him to try again several months later. That’s hard on ANY woman, and I’d imagine it must be worse when it’s the father of your child. And along comes another woman…yeah, gotta be tough. I also do my best to just nod and smile on the rare occasion when Mr. Right’s frustration gets the best of him and he shares her latest drama, but gawd, it’s hard. I’m not a wilting flower at the best of times; I’m outspoken and opinionated and strong-willed. So biting my tongue when I just want to tell him that she’s taking advantage of him…well, that’s hard. He tells me that he does it because if she’s OK then their little guy is OK, and I definitely admire and love him for that. But sometimes I’d like to grab the phone from his hand and tell her to go buy a fucking backbone. I have no illusions; I knew going into this that it will be more difficult, because I'll be a Stepmom. And Mr. Right - and the little guy - is worth the ex-nonwife drama. So, having said (all) that, TMP has obviously been placed on hold. Hopefully for better things!

Oh, and we mustn't forget about my job. The job I absolutely loved...until about 3 months ago, when my boss, who was mentoring my career, quit and was replaced with someone who is only a few years older than myself and has a quarter of the experience I've got. Who, during our first departmental meeting, told us that she wanted the office to be 'prettier' and proceeded to bring in bug-infested plants. Who works banker's hours and takes two hour lunches. A change is coming for me very soon...perhaps in the form of a friend and I opening our own accounting business. More to come on that later!

For the most part this past year's change has been for the good, and I find myself living in a happy little space where I'm optimistic about good things to come. One of which may include a new name for this blog...  

Any ideas?