Men are from Mars.

So last week I heard this really loud noise – it sounded like a bunch of Indians riding through on a buffalo hunt. Turns out it was just the sound of stupid men everywhere, gushing over a ridiculous article that somehow made its way to Yahoo news.

Yes, I’m talking about that article. The one that says if men stop helping with women’s chores and run more traditional households then they’ll have more sex.

This is why spouses sometimes kill each other.

My husband emailed it to me and copied our lifers (you guys remember Homeschool and his wife?). My initial reaction was to respond to my husband with, “I think someone hacked your email, because I know you’re not this stupid.” But, I knew that those two would give me content for a blog post, so I waited eagerly for the bantering to begin.

And it did, of course. In order of appearance:

Homeschool’s wifey: “I’d leave a flaming bag of crap on your doorstep if it wasn’t Marley’s doorstep too.”

Homeschool: “I think there’s something to this. One of the shows my wife most enjoys is Mad Men, where this type of division of labor is almost institution. Hmmmm. So in summary what I have learned (scientific proof) is that the amount of time our wives spend sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, dusting, cooking, laundry, sewing patches in socks and underwear (yes, I have some with unintended holes), toilet scrubbing, and window cleaning, the more sex that Mike and I will get?”

Mike (my DH): “OK, so I agree with Homeschool on everything but the last line where he mentions he and I having sex.”

Homeschool: “A logical heterosexual male would infer that the sex each of us would have would not necessarily be with each other or even at the same time or place…but rather with our respective wives at our own convenience (chores, schedule and travel permitting). Which brings me to my next question…Mike, when you find yourself in a sand trap or just off the green, do you find yourself reaching for your wedge or your putter?”

Mike: “Leave my short game out of this, Homeschool.”

It writes itself. You are welcome. Happy hump day. Unless, of course, you have chores to do.

It’s not me, it’s you.

 

I try to avoid writing in the heat of the moment because my emotions can’t be trusted. One minute I’m ready to push someone off a building and the next I’m going, “I’m sorry baby, I didn’t mean it…”

Hence the reason I haven’t posted in almost four months.

But anyway, here’s a topic that I’m pretty sure every person with a vagina will chime in on: men are from Mars (or maybe a different galaxy) and women are from Venus.

Which sometimes works out well, because otherwise we’d have nothing to talk about at happy hour.

However, while I appreciate manly muscles and the living in the moment thing that boys seem to have perfected (can you believe that guy ate six Saltines in ONE MINUTE?!) they typically suck at communicating. And then they deflect this flaw by saying things like, “Do we have to talk about everything?“

Um, yeah. TEAM PLAYER.

It’s like they’d rather contract a deadly hantavirus than have a three-minute conversation to fix, or at least smooth, a conflict.

Let’s use my life, for example.

Not a word has been spoken between my stepson and I about our little run-in from August. Which is how the boys in my house would like to leave it. I, on the other hand, would like to have a little pow-wow over some video games and pizza so I can move the heck on from stepmom outsider hell.

Since that is most likely a pipe dream, I’m trying to channel this inner anger and resentment into workout classes. I’m thinking if I have to live with a big white elephant in the room, I’d rather do it with a size 8 ass.

So anyway, it’s not me…

The year that shall not be named.

 

This day last year, I was spread eagled on an operating table, enjoying a nice little Valium snack and waiting for the anesthesiologist to get the party started. My husband was cracking me up, talking about how he was gonna take the stirrup contraption home with us and turn it into a comfortable little experience for me, like a Sleep Number bed. His eyes were happy, and all I could think about was that I hoped the babies we were making would have those beautiful blue eyes.

Some days I think back to that morning and that feeling of excitement and I’m jealous of that girl. She was fiery and happy and full of hope and dreams.

A year later, I still can’t believe our IVF cycle failed. The weeks following that negative pregnancy test were filled with tears, frustration and fear of the future. Not to mention the morning of Nov. 4, when I was speeding down the freeway, rushing my husband to the emergency room because he had a stroke, pleading with God that I didn’t care if I ever had children as long as my husband would be OK.

That fucker tried to die on me! Joke’s on him though because God’s on my team and sentenced him to another year of marriage with me. Lucky him.   

So here we are, a year later, and it feels like the universe took a big flame thrower to every dream we had. Nothing is what I wanted it to be. We don’t have a baby, we don’t have any money, and now even my stepson has decided I’m not his family. We are exhausted and mad as hell.

However, you can’t keep a tiger in a cage. The world may have knocked me down but it’s gonna need some fucking backup to keep me there. I’m coming up swinging.

Just watch me own 2013.

A (kind of) love letter to my husband.

After a year like this, most people would’ve thrown in the towel.

A stroke, cancer, two failed IVF attempts at $35,000 cash, a psycho and delusional ex-wife, and a severely misinformed and emotionally unhealthy teenager, and here we are, clinging to passion and faith. Now how’s that for a testament of love and commitment.

Yesterday was our four-year wedding anniversary. There have been a lot of tears, a lot of disappointments, a lot of obstacles in our marriage this year. But I’ve never been more proud of anything in my life.

Oh, and there’s been lots of great sex.

What first attracted me to my husband, aside from the fact that when he walks in the room I transform into some kind of John Mayer-esque groupie who fumbles words and has to will my clothes to stay on, is that he’s playful. I know that if I show up at his office right now and tell him to ditch work so we can go golf or mountain bike or ding dong ditch some unsuspecting friends, he’d do it. He makes life fun. He dares me to jump out of airplanes, and snowboard over rails, and I do it because I know he will do it with me.

Yesterday he had a bunch of coworkers and students call me to wish me a happy anniversary. He sent a beautiful bouquet of flowers to my office. It was not lost on me that he was publicly displaying his love for me to make it known that he’s still in this with me, proud of me, committed to me…even though his son and ex-wife are going to such ridiculous and untrue lengths to spread otherwise. I appreciate the little things he does like that.

Every once in a while he reads my blog so I figure what better time and place to make my own public statement of my appreciation for him?

Sometimes the little, unspoken but understood things he does for me mean more than the big stuff. For example, sharing his French fries with me is nothing short of an act of God. The dude loves him some carbs and I’m sure he fantasizes about going all ninja on my hands any time I reach for his food. But instead through gritted teeth he smiles at me and offers me more.

Also, I love nothing more than sitting at bars with friends or being at parties. He has hobbies like fishing, but I relax and find fun through socializing. He can’t stand parties or crowded bars. It baffles him why I would want to sit and sip whiskey for hours, so when he shows up and does it with me, it makes me really, really happy.

When we found out IVF didn’t work, he came to my office with lunch. He had the top off the Jeep and country music blaring on the radio (I love to drive around aimlessly like that), and I know what he was trying to show me is that our life together is still going to be fun and full of romance.

He’s kind, thoughtful and full of integrity. I trust him and depend on him. I respect how hard he works and how he always takes the high road. He’s a gift for sure and I’m thankful he loves me back.

So even though I’m not happy right now, and there’s a black cloud hanging over us, I still want what I wanted on Sept. 6 four years ago: a life with him.

Even through all this crap, I am one lucky bitch.

The best advice of the summer.

“Just because someone calls you an asshole doesn’t mean that you’re an asshole.”

This, my friends, is the best advice I’ve received all summer. It came from a woman I admire immensely – she’s completely sure of who she is, she protects her marriage, she’s a great parent, she’s a great mentor and she’s able to just move on when she realizes someone is a complete waste of space. Which I’m insanely jealous of. I hold on for dear life, trying to see and hope for the best in people, even when it’s clear that someone is fucked up beyond all recognition.

Any coward can run and hide from their feelings. It takes true strength to confront them, ask for help and be vulnerable. Instead of making fun of my tears, my family should be happy I’m still shedding them. Because when I stop, that’ll be the day that I’m checked out.

So skid #2 got a giant tattoo of his parents’ names on his side. And in front of me (but of course not in front of his dad), he said that it’s because that’s how his family should be. Well, news flash, homeboy. Mommy left Daddy for a lesbian threesome. And then Daddy married someone who actually loves, respects and appreciates him and you. So since he was purposely hurtful, I asked my husband to tell him he needs to keep his shirt on when he’s in my house.

Anyway, my stepson, who’s used to getting and doing whatever he wants, whenever he wants, didn’t like that for once, it wasn’t all about him. At first, I told my husband I was proud of his son for being receptive to their conversation instead of turning on me like an angry, dumb teenager. Man, was I ever wrong.

Instead, he started saying really mean things on his Twitter account, such as “She needs to get outta this house” and “You’re not my family just because my dad married you.” So I tried to approach him about it on Sunday night. Instead of fixing anything, he blew up at me and blamed me for everything his mother blames me for (unfairly, and mostly lies). Later on, he told my husband all the reasons he doesn’t like me and why I’ll never be his family.

Several things bother me about this situation. First and foremost, what a horrible excuse of a mother that woman is. How in God’s name she ever thought it would be appropriate to pit her son against his father is beyond me. No wonder their funny, affectionate child is now a moody, mean, manipulative teenager. He’s being emotionally abused by his own mother. Second, she has clearly transferred her lack of respect for my husband to their son. That their son would actually believe that his loving, amazing father would let a total stranger come in and turn his dad into a puppet?! So ridiculous I can’t even comprehend it.

Also, there’s a serious life lesson that I wish he’d learn here. And that’s that if you’re going to put hurtful things about somebody, anybody, in print, then you should suffer the consequences. In his case, I hope that the recruiters he’s trying to make contact with to play basketball in college don’t look at his Twitter account and see a child who is mean, lacks judgment and could be a problem for a program. And, I hope that he realizes he’s damaging his father and my reputations by doing what he’s doing. It’s disrespectful and childish.

On the surface, I know that he is a spoiled and manipulative teenager who will hopefully grow out of it someday. His dad has taught him the difference between right and wrong and has been an amazing example of kindess and fairness. So it’ll be on my stepson to determine if he’s ever going to be adult enough to confront his situation and make good choices based on his own experiences or if he’s going to be his mom’s puppet forever. All I want is for him to be happy and well-adjusted. So if he decides that’s without me, then so be it. But he’ll have to suffer the consequences of how deeply he’s hurting his dad.

And the ex is a lost cause. She’s a crazy narcissist who clearly lives on another planet in her brain. She’ll never be a good person. Or even honest. And the fact that she’s so obsessed and fixated on me gives me immense satisfaction.

Obviously, I’m deeply hurt. I’ve wasted my 20s trying to be what I thought my husband and stepsons wanted and needed me to be. I made the mistake of trying to fit into their traditions and hobbies and life instead of demanding to be on an equal playing field. I’ve been guilted into paying for things and doing things that hurt me. And now, I just want to be happy. I deserve to be. I work hard on the clock and in my relationships, and I’ve earned respect.

The worst part about this whole situation is seeing tears streaming down my husband’s face. I know he’s in pain and he’s scared to death that he’s going to lose either me or his son. He’s probably ashamed that his son is acting the way he is. He’s angry that he can’t fix everything. He’s angry at how unfair everything is. And it’s probably hard for him that since I’m the focus of all this hate, I can’t just sit back and be happy and supportive. I do hope that he chooses to protect our marriage, to be a parent instead of a friend and to help guide me through the things I need to do to help mend the situation. 

I am lucky that my husband is kind, calm and fair. I need his help to be productive instead of angry and vengeful. He’s a great teacher and I need him to lead me.

I 100% believe that when the marriage comes first, just like we promise in vows, everything else falls together.

Fuck you, hormones!

I’m about to let you all know the truth about me. Just when you think you know just how crazy I am, I turn around and show you I’ve got a whole underground basement of crazy hidden beneath all this awesome.

I saw a news story last week where a woman blamed her hormones for a road rage incident. I 100% can relate. There’s a Subaru that tries to play chicken with me sometimes on the way to work and depending on the day, it turns me into a potentially dangerous psycho that fantasizes about ramming my truck right into the back of that thing. I even told my husband I want the huge guard on the front of my truck, and secretly it has that stupid red granola wagon’s name all over it.

FUCK YOU, whore-mones!

Im enjoying a triple dose of the hormone crazies. For example, on Tuesday night, I was folding laundry. Out of nowhere I went all ex-wife on a missing sock like, “I dare you to come crawling back, you SON OF A BITCH!” And I’m not joking. I LITERALLY SCREAMED INTO THE AIR AT A MISSING SOCK. Thank God my dog was the only witness.

And then when I couldn’t get a stain out of a brand new tank top, I went all Edward Scissorhands on that shit. I walked outside in a sports bra and shorts and let’s just say I kicked the trash can that the evidence went in. The problem is, I put it in our neighbor’s bin. If they saw me at least nobody has reported me yet.

I was so tired from losing it on inanimate objects all night that I passed out sideways on our bed and it’s entirely possible I was still in workout clothes.

And that was just Tuesday.

Yesterday I cried when I woke up and cried when I went to sleep. My friend saved my family from me and forced Blue Moons down my throat last night. (OK, OK…I was a willing participant.) She listened with compassion while I told her my master plan to rid the world of little men with Napoleon complexes. (Did anything trigger this? Nope.)

So call me crazy but I haven’t blogged or tweeted because who wants a record of this week? I’m lucky my husband hasn’t committed me yet. (Though, he’s close.)

I keep looking at myself in the mirror and saying things like, “GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, you crazy bitch!” and “I really do hope they serve beer in hell. You’re on a fast track straight to the bad place.”

To make a long story short, I’m trying to get back to normal. Wine helps.

Stepmom = Badass

Hell. On. Wheels. Or in heels. Either one is pretty accurate on any given day. In a good way, I think. Having a little bit of attitude helps me wade through the weeds every day.

Here’s the deal. As stepmoms, we come on to the scene with several immediate disadvantages. The first being painfully obvious: we are not part of the biological thread that makes up the original (albeit broken) family. We’re outsiders from the get go. We weren’t part of the original family dream. We weren’t there in the delivery room. We weren’t there to kiss bumps and bruises. We weren’t part of molding family traditions and holidays.

Instead, no matter how much they love us, our stepkids associate us with a painful part of their lives: their parents’ separation. I honestly believe it doesn’t matter if we came on the scene 20 years after mom and dad’s divorce. We are still huge medians in the middle of their family unit. That doesn’t mean they don’t want us around…it just means there’s a force bigger than us at play with their basic feelings and loyalties.

I wholeheartedly admit that I’ve made some serious mistakes as a wife and stepmom this year (I’m to blame for a lot of the emotional separation I feel with all three of my boys). I let the negative parts of being a stepmom, coupled with my own insecurity and sadness with unsuccessful fertility treatments, ruin my self worth.

That’s why I’m so thankful for my recent revelation. Moment of clarity. Whatever you want to call it. And I bet you can’t guess who started the whole damn thing.

So me and skid #2 used to be thick as thieves. And bio-mom was pissed about it. I’ve watched her do everything in her power to try and sabotage our relationship since day one. But I gave her more credit than she deserves – I assumed it was just something happening among adults. So imagine my surprise when his friends mention to me that she’s inferred they should stay away from me. So no freaking wonder he changed toward me.

And then it hit me. I’ve been sitting around moping about how my stepson doesn’t worship the ground I walk on anymore. So what?! He’s 16, not 10. Of course our relationship changed. I’ve just been looking at it the wrong way. And handling it the wrong way. At what point did my self worth rise and fall by what a 16-year-old boy thinks about me? I didn’t even care about that when I was 16. And the thing is, my reasons for feeling like he doesn’t like me are just downright stupid and probably inaccurate.

Stepmoms, unite. Because the truth is, we are badasses. With a capital f-ing B. WE ARE ENOUGH. Exactly as we are.

And in my opinion, part of being a badass is believing that nobody else has the ability to determine what our story is going to look like. Who says our lives are supposed to play out like a prewritten script? Where’s the adventure in that? We should be focusing on what we DO bring to the table instead of where we might be missing a play or two. So I’m not a parent. I’m still a bonus family member. And they’re damn lucky to have me. (And I’m damn lucky to have them.)

So let’s start a movement. A movement where we feel as good about ourselves as we should. We rise to the challenge of loving our stepkids for no other reason than WE WANT TO. No obligations, no physiological pulls. ALL. CHOICE.

And that is awesome in itself. So take a virtual bow with me.