FIVE WEEKS after some woman (whose insurance information we still do not have) thought it was ok to NOT look both ways before she pulled out into on coming traffic causing my husband to hit her and total The Van, our insurance finally gave us a settlement on The Van (but withheld the deductible, even though the police report states very clearly that the other driver was at fault.)
When we first found out they had totaled our van, we were mad because we didn’t want to get a new car. We were only a year away from paying our van off, OH! THE UNFAIRNESS!
But then, I was all “you know what? We do not have to buy a new car! We can just buy a used Ass-tro van (because I have Deep Love for Ass-tro vans) so that we can be in the same position that we were before the accident! Surely, we can find an old Ass-tro van for less than 9,000!”
Ha! Ha! Haaaaa!
Did you know they stopped making Ass-tro vans in 2005? And did you know that people who bought Ass-tro vans before 2005 NEVER TRADE THEM IN? Because they run forever! And because they hold 8 passengers! And are built on a truck chasy!
I was not alone in my Ass-tro love. The world loves Ass-tros.
We did find a couple that were in our price range, but the mileage was outrageous and they were thrashed on the inside. And I wasn’t being picky, either. I was willing to accept a few dings and scratches, but I was not willing to drive around in a car that had chunks of plastic missing and holes in the carpet.
I spent hours on Autotrader and looking through newspapers and calling dealerships and visiting dealerships and telling car salesman to STEP OFF.
We were getting desperate, because we’ve been renting a car since the accident happened and did I mention that we’re paying for that out of our pocket because we still don’t have the other person’s insurance information? (And we’re not allowed to knock on her door and ask her for it, because that would be a “violation of her civil rights”?! HAaaaajajaAAsasaa2!@!!441!!)
Last night Tony stopped by a dealership to check out a non-ass-tro van.
He liked it.
He liked it SO much, that he spent 7 hours at the dealership, trying to work out a price/payment we could live with.
At 10 pm last night, he rolled up to the house with the salesman in the van.
“If you like it, we’ve worked out all of the financing and it’s yours. BUT THERE’S NO PRESSURE TO BUY IT, even though the sales guys drove it all the way from another city that is 45 minutes away! Seriously! No pressure at ALL!”
The good news for everyone was that I loved the van. Not as much as I loved The Ass-tro. (Ok, maybe I do love it more than the Ass-tro, because it is luxurious and it has a center console! And a cd player that works! And the front bumper that isn’t tore in half! But, I am not ready to admit it yet, because, like Lena said, I am not ready to let go of the “Let’s go for a ride in Mah’ Big Ass Bumperless Ass-tro Van!” joke just yet.)
I took it for a spin around the block and loved the way it felt to drive. I loved the way the dash looked; I loved that the payments will be cheaper than my van and not for SEVEN YEARS. I loved everything about it.
Well, everything except the smell. Thank you, dear smokers, for ruining The New Car Smell for me. I really appreciate that, asshole/s.
The papers were all written up and ready to go, all I had to do was say “Yes!” and write the check for the down payment.
Oh, the power!
I said yes, whipped out the checkbook and in less than 5 minutes, I was the proud owner of This Van.
I’m happy that we were able to put an end to THAT portion of a Car Accident Nightmare, but man, we still have a lot of crap to settle. Like, you know, getting the other drivers insurance information so we can get our money back for the rental car and getting our deductible back from our insurance company who really had no right to withhold it in the first place.
I never imagined we’d still be dealing with this shit FIVE WEEKS LATER.
Anyway.
Did I just write an entire post about buying a van? I did, didn’t I?
The (Junior High) Graduate
On Friday, my First Baby graduated from junior high. I had been on an emotional roller coaster in anticipation of the event for weeks. It was very much like the summer before he started Kindergarten. I cried for an entire MONTH that summer. Every time I would think about leaving my son in a classroom with a bunch of people he didn’t know, I would begin to sob.
And for the past few weeks, every time I would think about that same little boy walking across a stage to receive his promotion certificate, I would cry.
I was pretty much alone on The Emotional Roller Coaster, because My Baby’s Daddy is one of Those Men who do not cry.
Crying is for wimps! Men do not cry! If I cry you will think that I am weak!
He has had a few moments in which a tear has formed in his eye and rolled down his cheek, like when he watched my vagina stretch to the size of a pumpkin as our babies were born, or when Shelby died on Steel Magnolias. And I swear, each and every of those 6 times that I saw him (almost) cry, I started sobbing because “oh my God, it’s so beautiful when you show me you’re emotions!”
Last week, we were sitting on (not) our bed talking about various things—like all of the Car Accident Drama (because OMG, there is drama, people.), how much we hate our insurance company (which rhymes with Jerk-ury), Kobe Bryant and our children.. My husband began talking about our oldest son and how hard it is for him to believe that our first baby was graduating from junior high.
All of a sudden, he started to cry.
I mean, really cry.
And because I honestly can not watch my husband cry without breaking the hell down, I started to cry with him.
We just sat there and wept about how fast our First Baby has grown. We talked about all of the thousands of memories we’ve made with him over the past 14 years. We sobbed as we pondered how the saying “enjoy them while their little” is so cliché, but so damn true. Because one day he was running around in his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles jumpsuit showing off his killer ninja moves and we blinked our eyes and he was filling out high school paperwork and checking “Military” as his career choice. (But let’s not even TALK ABOUT THAT right now.)
We sat there talking, crying and laughing about this beautiful child that we conceived in love—the child who was obsessed with Snow White as a toddler and would cry and scream at nap time because he wanted to watch “Hi Ho!” The child who really isn’t a child anymore, but a budding young man, with a fuzz’stache and Man Voice who will be walking onto a high school campus as a freshman in just a few short weeks.
We talked about his promotion ceremony. How would we feel when they called his name? I predicted we would cry, because if just thinking about it made us sob like sissies, how could we NOT cry in the actual moment?
Friday came and that moment I had imagined in my mind for the past few weeks finally happened. I was sitting there, with my good for nothing camera, waiting for them to call his name. Tony started poking me on the shoulder.
“There he is, Y. There’s our boy!”
I turned to my right and saw my son standing there, looking all handsome (and awkward) in white shirt and tie. I felt this wave of emotion take over my entire body. I took a deep breath, expecting to break down in tears.
But I didn’t. Instead, I felt this unspeakable joy.
And love.
And pride.
They called his name from the loud speaker. I jumped up out of my seat and started to cheer as he walked across the gym floor.
“Whooo! Hoooo! Way to go Andrew! WHOOOO!”
I was so excited and caught up in the moment that I almost forgot to take a picture.
Luckily I was able to snap this picture (with my piece of crap camera) before it was too late.
I’m a little sad this is the only shot I got of that moment. Because that’s a moment that I never want to forget, for as long as I live.
I don’t write much about my son on this blog, and some may think it’s because I don’t love him as much as I love my daughter, but those people would be so very wrong. I stopped writing about my son when he stopped being a little boy and started being a young man out of respect for his privacy. I don’t ever want my son to hate me because of a blawwwg. But, today I’m making an exception. Because promotion from junior high is a milestone that must be acknowledged and because I am so proud of that kid and the man he is shaping up to be.
(I’ll have to ask for his forgiveness about the “Hi! Ho!” reference, though. Thanks to Joelle for pointing THAT out.)
That young man, whether he knows it or not, holds a huge chunk of my heart in his still growing hands, because no matter how grown he is, in my eyes, he will forever be the baby that made me a mother.
Birfday
Today is Ethan’s birthday.
Guess how old he is?
I’ll give you a hint.
And I’m all “Ha! Ha! SO FUNNY! He’s 10.”
Ten years old.
*Weeps*
Every year, I bring some kind of treat to his class on his birthday so that his classmates can share in his birthday celebration. And that treat is always store bought cupcakes. I always have great intentions of baking something really special, but I am not one of those mothers to which those kinds of things come easily.
You know which moms that I’m talking about– the ones who can turn a fart bubble into a beeYOOtiful chocolate cupcake with twirling ballerinas on top. You probably ARE one of those moms. I am, in fact, the complete opposite of those moms.
I am The Mom who stresses out for weeks before every cupcake occasion because I want my cupcakes to be totally awesome, but I know deep down in my heart that no matter how hard I try, they will never be as good as The Mom who turned her fart into a singing cupcake. So, I usually cry a lot the night before because “I’ve failed as mother. I’M A FAIIIIIILUUURRE” and go buy a few dozen cupcakes from Costco instead.
Today was different though. Today, I had this freaking Rad with a capital R idea. “I’ll buy these cute little heart shaped tin foil cups, and I will put pre packaged cookie dough inside of them and I will bake them, and then I will frost them and THEN! I will carefully write the number “10” on each and every one of them to symbolize 10 years of life!”
Honestly? Those treats were not hard to make and yet by the time I was done, I was sweating profusely and ready to lay on the floor and die. I wasn’t going to let the kids see me sweat though. When I got to the school, I put my brave face on. I walked over to the benches with my trays of heart shaped cookie cakes and was all “HAPPY BIRTHDAY ETHAN! Who wants a cookie?!”
You should have seen the kids faces. They were really impressed with my cookies. I’m talking seriously impressed. I started to feel better about myself, maybe even a *little* bit proud, but then some kid in a red shirt had to go and ruin it by shouting out “where are the drinks at?” (In a very judgmental tone, I might add.) Oops! Drinks! Riiiiight. Of COURSE I forgot about the drinks. But, in my defense, it’s hard remembering things when you’re trying to make perfect #10’s while your daughter is holding onto your leg, sniffing your butt. (No, Seriously. That’s my daughter’s new thing—sniffing my butt.)
I almost felt like a failure of a mother, until I looked up and saw the smile on my son’s face. He was so happy that I had taken the time to make these little treats for him and his friends. And he didn’t care what they looked like, or that I forgot drinks. (And napkins. Ha ha) All he cared about was that I was there, acknowledging his special day. All he cared about was that I took time out of my day to do something special for him.
I love that kid.
Pee Pee
On a scale of 1 to 10 (10 being YOU’VE RUINED YOUR SON FOR LIFE) how bad is it that I yelled out “make sure you go to the bathroom before you get on the bus!” to my 8th grader as I dropped him off at school for his field trip to an amusement park today?
I sometimes forget that my son isn’t 5 anymore and doesn’t need for me to remind him to go potty before taking a long trip. But, I can’t help it. I worry about his bladder. I don’t think I’ll ever stop worry about his bladder. In fact, I’m pretty sure that on his wedding day, I’m going to shout out “MAKE SURE YOU GO PEE BEFORE YOU WALK DOWN THE AISLE!”
I have bladder issues and all that really means is that I have to pee every 5 minutes and I get scared when I take long car rides (or attend important events) that I will have to pee and there will not be a restroom for me to use. Just ask anyone who has driven in a car with me for longer than 15 minutes and they will tell you that I panic when I feel the urge to pee, even if I just did pee at Starbucks 10 minutes earlier.
I know It’s wrong of me to project my bladder issues onto my children.
It’s funny how your kids grow up and graduate from junior high and yet, they’re still your little boy and you still have this intense desire to protect them from harm (and from having an accident on a bus ride to the amusement park.). Suddenly, something that you’ve said to them for their entire life –like “go potty first”– is no longer appropriate or necessary because “oh my God, mom, I am going to be a freshman in high school next year, I think I know that I should go to the restroom before I leave.”
But no one tells you about this aspect of being a parent. No one tells you that one day your son will no longer need you to remind him to go potty and so one day you just shout it out because you love him and don’t want him to be stuck on a bus with a full bladder and no where to go pee. Then, you realize what you’ve done and you can only hope that the only person who heard you was the proctor directing traffic in the parking lot so that your son doesn’t hate you for the rest of your life because you felt it necessary to remind him to go pee before he got on the bus.
Test
This is a test of the “Oh my GOD I’m about to go all Half Latina on some hosting company ass if this thing does not start loading already” system. This is only a test. If this were an actual post, I’d be talking about how sad I am that my son now has a Man Voice because wasn’t it just yesterday that he was my little baby boy?
Because there really are only two possible explanations.
Last Sunday I received an email from a published author who I will not name because chances are you’ve never heard of him and my little blog probably gets a ton more traffic than his website does, and I don’t feel like sharing it with him.
The email was short, sweet and to the point.
“ You have one of the worst, most pathetic — and most poorly written — blogs on the Net. Aren’t you completely embarassed? Or are you just … stupid?
My first reaction was something like “Embarrassed has TWO R’s you raging asshole!” Then, I started to freak out because why in the hell was this supposed “professional” taking time out of his obviously very fulfilled, rich life to email little old me to say such things? WHY?
I could be wrong, but I think he was trying to hurt my feelings.
Or maybe The Gun Fingers sent him over the edge and he was like “I have to tell this stupid bitch that her site is pathetic or I will not be able to go on living!”
What he said didn’t hurt my feelings because I’ve always said that I don’t think I’m a a good writer and that my blog sucks. But, I can’t for the life of me understand why a “professional” writer who has written books would feel COMPELLED to send such an email to little ol’ me.
It’s almost as baffling as people who send me emails telling me that I’m fat because I EAT TOO MUCH JUNK FOOD!!111!!! As if I’ve not written repeatedly about my issues with food and not being able to stop shoving it in my mouth.
Speaking of shoving food in my mouth!
On Sunday PigHunter was all “I’m going to take you out to lunch! But! Only if you agree to go to the restaurant to which we have a Buy One Lunch Get One Free card!” Because I have absolutely no shame when it comes to The Coupons, I was all “sounds great to me! Let’s go!”
So, we headed off in our rental car (because we still do not have a settlement, nor do we yet have the police report which means that yes! We are still paying for that rental car out of our own pocket!) to Spaghetti Eddies where we would partake in a meal that would taste twice as good as it actually was because a meal always tastes better when it’s free!
We arrived just 15 minutes too late to try their fabulous brunch, so we began to look over the lunch menu. There were things that I wanted in the worst way that were breaded and covered in cheese, but when the waitress came to take our order, I shocked myself by saying “I’ll just have the grilled chicken with tomato sauce and vegetables, please.”
Tony, being the Awesome Weight Loss Support Buddy that he is was all “That’s all you’re getting? No pasta? No bread? I thought you wanted artichoke pizza?” And I was all “Well, I DO want those things, but I also am trying really hard to make better choices so that I can be a thin person again! I am thinking like a Thin Person, baby!”
And I was really proud of myself too… until they brought the food out and I saw my fucking plate of broccoli and chicken.
Suddenly, I was filled with rage, anger and a little thing I like to call “Squish The Foam”. You may be in disbelief that a person could feel “rage and anger” over a plate of chicken and broccoli, but that is because you probably have a healthy relationship with food in which your happiness is not tied into every fucking piece of food you put into your mouth.
“I want to take this plate and throw it against the wall!” I said to Tony.
“Why?”
“Because it’s just like 3 strips of chicken and stupid ass broccoli and I want what you have. Pasta! Feta cheese! Bread!”
I could see the worried look on his face, because when mama aint happy with what she ordered aint nobody happy.
It took me a few minutes to get a grip. THIS is why I’m fat, people. Because eating healthy KILLS ME INSIDE. Because vegetable do not give me the same satisfaction as a plate of buttered up pasta with various cheeses and bread.
I started to eat the vegetables and in all fairness to them, they were delicious. I tried concentrating on the flavor and how good they were for me and not on how seriously I wanted to murder the nutritious plate of food that sat so beautifully prepared before me.
After a few minutes, I felt full. FROM BROCOLLI! And chicken! And I also felt good about myself for having made a [mommy voice] Good Choice [/mommy voice].
I can only imagine how ridiculous this must sound to anyone reading, but for me, it’s those (crazy) little moments that are going to define my success on this journey to lose weight. I’m learning that it’s not the end of the flipping world if I don’t get extra caramel on my iced latte, or if I skip the pasta and go with the vegetables instead.
It should be so simple, but for me, it’s just not. I would have thought by the time I was ripping multiple gray hairs from scalp every morning I would have these things figured out and mastered, but alas, I do not.
But I promise my self, my children and my husband that I will try every day to do better and to do my best because this isn’t about fitting in a size 7 anymore. This is about living for as long as possible so I can watch my children grow up and have babies.
(And maybe, quite possibly this is also now about living for as long as I possibly can so that I can continue to write and publish one of the most pathetic and poorly written blogs on the Net, just to annoy the ever living piss out of Mr.Published Author Man.)
Yeah, baby
My parents are going to Palm Springs for a few days and my mouth is watering from the excitement I feel at having the house to ourselves.
It feels just as exciting as it did when I was 18, engaged and still living at home when my parents decided to go on vacation for a week! And I couldn’t go because I had a job! And me and Fiancé Pig Hunter could have “picnics” without fear of my mom or dad driving up and catching us partaking of one another’s “all beef and tuna sandwiches”.
I want to text message all of my 3 friends and be like “OMG, mom n dad r leaving 4 2 days!! Party at their house! P.S bring a 40!!”
But really, I’m just excited that for two entire days I can read TMZ without my mom looking over my shoulder going on and on about what a waste of time it is to read about celebrities and their drugs and their sex and their SIN!
I’m also happy that for 2 days I will not have to listen to my mother’s thinly veiled insults that are neither thin nor veiled.
Example-
Me: I hate it when he says things like that, but he learned them from me, he acts just like me.
My Mom: I know. That kid wants to be just like you….Unfortunately.
Don’t feel too sad for me though, my mother does love me, she just doesn’t like me very much. But more on that later as there is already a post in which I try to define my relationship with my mother sitting in “draft mode.”
I can only imagine that my parents are just as excited to be getting away for a few days because 5 very loud Mexicans have invaded their personal space and I’m sure they would love nothing more than to do things like “Pray” in peace. (That’s RIGHT they’re going to spend their time alone in that beautiful hotel room PRAYING because, just like YOUR parents, my parents do not have sex!)
And that is why you will not hear me complaining about my parents, because as annoying as they can be, the five of US are more annoying. Also, it was very kind and generous of them to offer their house to us. I am truly grateful. So, out of respect for the kindness, I will not from talk about them in a negative way—with ONE exception.
I WILL write about one of my mother’s disgusting habits. Like, wiping the kitchen counter tops with the SAME dish rag she had just wiped the steak juice off of the WOODEN cutting board with and then throwing that same dish rag in the washer with a load of clothes I had just put in that contained articles of clothing that TOUCH MY VAGINAL AREA.
(And it wasn’t even a “hot water” wash either, people. I honestly didn’t think people who weren’t my Grandma actually did stuff like that.)
Anyway.
The Parents are gone and I can’t decide what I want to do first. Have The Legal and Jesus Approved Sex? Or drink some wine in the garage (because I wouldn’t even dare to bring Devil Water inside of this house, for fear of being struck down by The Lord Himself.)
I think I’m going with The Sex.
My Fingers are Too Tired To Type a Title.
There was a time where I would use this blog to vent every frustration, to work through every fear, every emotion. Whenever I was feeling sad, I’d sit down and write through it, sometimes sobbing the entire time I was typing away at the keyboard. I’d feel better almost immediately after writing it, and almost always regret having written it 5 minutes after hitting “publish.”
Writing was therapeutic for me. It has been since I was a little girl. There’s just something about writing through a particular emotion that I have always found comforting. When I suffered a severe depression in 2003, I learned that while writing through my depression was a valuable tool, I needed professional help as well. So, I went and got me a psychiatrist, a therapist and various prescription drugs (which I no longer take.)
I also learned that when you’re open with your thoughts, your emotions, your fears, your mental illness, people will use that shit against you. They will twist your words, they will mock you, they will call you names and so on and so forth. Now, I’m not a sensitive person. I’ve developed pretty thick skin over the years. I’ve had to in order to survive in my family. We’re a pretty brutal bunch and it’s not uncommon to be teased about everything from my weight, to my overly protective nature, to the way that I dress. I have learned to laugh at myself and to even take it a step further and be self deprecating every chance that I get. I’ve also learned that when complete strangers say nasty things, it’s more about them and their insecurities than it is about me. But, not always— I certainly give people a hell of a lot of material to use against me.
I have recently found myself extremely guarded about what I post online. I think it was good for me to pull back a little. However, I think that I’ve taken it to the opposite extreme. I’ve been avoiding writing about anything that involves my “feelings” or “the sadness that I feel deep within my soul because the life as I knew it has been completely turned upside down and my husband is depressed and not helping at all to get us out of this situation and I am the only one obsessively looking for a house we can afford and trying to get a better job and saving money and why isn’t he helping me? Does he want to live with my parents forever?” and instead writing about things like van heaven! And bean dip! Because hahaha! No one can use bean dip against you. (Except, they totally can, because did you know that the reason we don’t own a house is because I spend all of my husband’s money on BEAN DIP! 8 dollars a day to be exact!)
I recently confessed to Liz that I find it hard to write the way I used to, because I feel more guarded and protective of my feelings. She said something that I think about almost every day.
“You have to speak your truth.”
And she’s right. She’s right because I have hundreds of saved emails from women who have written to me to tell me how much they can relate to the things that I write. I’ve had women tell me very personal things that have made me weep because I know how they feel and NO ONE should feel that way about themselves. I have emails dating back to 2005, because those emails have meant the world to me and sometimes, when I’m having a really bad day, I’ll go back and read them. I feel so grateful to every single person who has taken the time out of their lives to send me an email telling me their stories, or offering their moral support, or giving me advice, or telling me their praying for me and my family.
I am sorry if you’ve sent me one of those emails and never received a response from me. Truly sorry, because as many excuses as I could give you for not responding, there really isn’t an acceptable excuse for it at all.
I’m not even sure where I’m going with all of this because what I was TRYING to say is that I want to find a healthy balance in which I write about things that are important to me (like my weight “issues” and my “feelings” ) and at the same time hold some things back because, really, The Internet doesn’t need to know everything.
One of the reasons that I love having this blog is that I can go back and read about things that my boys said and did four years ago. Things that I probably would have forgot about had it not been for this blog. I love reading how I felt when I found out I was unexpectedly pregnant with my daughter, or when Tony told me he wanted to “put a cup on my ass.”
The truth is my life is pretty shitty right now and I am sad most of the time. Not depressed, sad. That doesn’t mean that I am unable to find “joy” in my life, it just means that sometimes, I get sad. I’ve avoided writing much since moving in here with my mom because I’m really working hard on holding my true feelings prisoner inside of my head and pretending that “I’m FINE!” because if I say how I really feel or let that shit out, I don’t think I would ever stop crying. So, I save my tears for my pillow at night and put one foot in front of the other with a pretty little smile during the day.
PigHunter isn’t doing well either and has chosen to isolate himself from me and go to bed early instead of helping me get the hell out of my parents house. I try not to get upset with him, because I know he’s depressed and feeling like he’s failed his family. (because contrary to Popular Assholes on the Internet Opinion- he DOES share some blame in this situation, but I don’t air that stuff here because he’s a good man, an incredibly good father and I love him.) The truth is, we’ve both failed and this has been a huge wake up call for me. Most days I straddle the line of wanting to shake him and say “YES,YOU SCREWED UP, BUT SO DID I AND WE CAN MAKE THIS BETTER! HELP ME MAKE THIS BETTER!” and wanting to just squeeze him so tight and weep and tell him how proud I am for everything he’s done for this family and how it isn’t the end of the world, but the beginning of a new life for us.
The good news is that, with the exception of Gabby at bed time, the kids are as happy as they’ve ever been here at Grandpa and Grandma’s house. They can swim in the pool! Or play video games all night with their uncle! And the only chore they have is to clean up Bandit’s poop! It’s like an extended vacation! I was really worried about Ethan, because he was so devastated about leaving the only house he’s ever known, but he loves it here and I couldn’t be happier about that.
The other day I was in my room with Gabby and my dad called me. I asked him what he wanted and he said he wanted me to come and sit next to him. I got nervous, expecting another sermon on how all of this was happening because I had fallen away from God and if I would just get right with Him, things would start falling into place in my life.
But that’s not what happened. My dad hugged me and said “I love you, Mija.” And I said “I love you too, dad.” And then, he started to cry.
“Dad, don’t cry! Why are you crying?” I said, trying to fight back my own tears, because, “I’M FINE!”
“Because, I love you and I hate to see you hurting this way. I hate seeing you stressed out and constantly worried. You’re my daughter, I love you and I want the best for you and I am sorry that you’re going through all of this.”
Totally didn’t expect that. I wanted to cry, I wanted to just let it all go and tell him just how sad I really feel, but I didn’t, I held it in, except for a little tear that escaped and fell down my cheek while my dad openly wept for me.
He then started to pray for me in a way I’d not heard him pray before. Instead of asking God to “deal with me” for my sinful ways, he asked God to bestow his love and joy upon me. He asked God to show me his kindness and to take away all of my burdens and fears. I just sat there, not knowing what to say or do, fighting back tears because my dad could see through the facade and recognized how sad, nervous and stressed out I really am.
To see my dad break down like that was strangely comforting, to know that he loves me and worries for me.
I needed to know that and I definitely needed that prayer.
And what I really need now is to stop talking about this already and go back to holding it all inside because it’s much safer there and all of this crying makes me look even uglier than I already feel.
But! Before I go, I want to leave you with a little “treat.” (Yes, I am calling it a treat.) Remember a while back I had written another really long post and I told you about some tapes my mom found that contained recordings of 6 year old me singing songs about Jesus?. Well, my mom had those tapes put onto a CD and I just listened to it and now, I am going to share it with all of you, because I know you want to hear me singing songs about Jesus.
Enjoy.
It Would Make Me Very Happy if You Read This Post Out Loud in the Voice of Mary Hart.
Hi! How are you?
Good?
I hope so.
Me? I’m “fine!”
Thanks to some of you, I’m SO fine, that I’m using Gun Fingers everywhere I go.
Someone will ask me “How you holding up?” And I’ll go “just great!”
Pow! Pow!
Thanks a lot for that, Internet.
Oh, Thumbs Up, how I miss you.
Today I called a friend who I haven’t talked to in about 7 days, which doesn’t seem like a lot, but the speed at which crazy things are happening in my life, 7 days in my life is like an entire year in the life of someone whose life does not suck.
Or something like that.
When my friend answered the phone, I was all “Oh, I have something hilarious to tell you! Tony was in a car accident and totaled The Van! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
She was very quiet and said “Y, that’s not funny. It’s not funny at all.”
And I was all “I know it’s not, but! It’s either cry or laugh and I think it would be uncomfortable for both of us if I started to cry, so, Ha! Ha! Ha! Haaaaaaa!”
Yesterday we had to go get all of our personal belongings out of the van and release it to our insurance company so that they can take it to Van Heaven. ( I refuse to believe that my van is going to the junk yard. Van Heaven, people, it’s in Van Heaven.) As I was pulling things out, I started to cry, because for as ugly as that van was, I freaking LOVED that van.
Can I tell you the story of my van? Please? Because talking about it makes me feel better.
A few years back, my sister left her van with me when she went to NY. I fell in love with it. Sure, they’re ugly and people make fun of them, but dudes, you can open that side door up and let the kids pile in and to me? That was awesome.
When we decided that it was time to get a new car a few years back, I immediately made it known that I wanted an Ass-tro van.
“Really?” Tony asked, in a very disturbed tone.
“Yes, really.”
“What about a Suburban?”
“No. I want an Ass-tro van!”
“What about a, um, anything other than that big ugly van?!”
“No. I want an Ass-tro van!”
He did manage me to get me to agree to test drive a few suburban’s and other cars that I do not remember because I was obsessed with the dream of owning my very own van and therefore did not really pay attention to the stupid other cars that were not Ass-tro vans. However, none of those stupid other cars impressed me and so I was all “Let’s go back to the Chevy dealer and pick out ma’van!”
And it just so happened that they had the Perfect Van there waiting for me. White, with running boards, ski racks, power everything, privacy glass, etc and it was in perfect condition (only one year old.)
I’ll admit that at the time we bought that car, we were the worst negotiators in the history of negotiations and we did not get a good deal on the car (something that has haunted me for the past 6 years. Yes, SIX YEARS and we still had 13 payments left. See? I am not lying, we got screwed.) But, we were able to get the monthly payment that we wanted and so we signed the papers and drove off with Ma’Van that night.
And oh, how I loved that van.
In the 6 years that we’ve had it, I’ve not complained about it even once. I had nothing but pure love for that van. People find that hard to believe, because “it’s a van! And it’s ugly! Surely, you can’t love a giant, ugly van!”
But I did. I still do.
It was perfect for us. My boy’s needed me to pick up their friends from school? HOP RIGHT IN! Tony wanted to take the boys camping? Just pull out the back seat and everything fit! Unexpectedly pregnant with our third child? Not a problem! There’s room for 8 of us!
You wouldn’t believe the ridicule that I took for that van, and you would not believe how little I cared because screw you all, I chose it and I love it and you can all suck it hard.
I know that I sound like the biggest asshole in the world going on and on about a stupid van, but like I’ve said at least 2069 times in this post alone, I loved that van and was looking forward to hauling buttloads of kids around in it for at least another 5 years.
But now, it’s gone. Forever. And in just a few short days the insurance will offer us a settlement for it that will probably be just enough to pay it off and we will have to start all over with a car that I will hate with a passion because it is NOT MY VAN and it will NEVER BE MY VAN.
Now, if you don’t mind, would you please bow your head in a moment of silence for The Van?
Thank you.
NOT.
I always try to find the humor in situations. That’s what helps me through most days.
Laughing at myself, it’s “how I deal“.
But I can’t find anything funny about the fact that some woman didn’t look both ways before she pulled out onto a street that my husband happened to be driving on (with my daughter in the car) and that as hard as he tried to brake, he hit her and now our van has been declared a “total loss” and the difference between the amount we still owe and the amount of the blue book value is less than $3,000 and um, no one got the woman’s insurance information because she was injured and well, now we’re not only homeless, but also van-less and there’s just nothing funny about any of this.
I suppose I can take comfort in the fact that no one was killed, but not really because the woman was injured and Tony has a hard time walking and is in pain all day at work and my daughter is traumatized and afraid to ride in the car.
I suppose I’ll find the funny in this at some point, but right now, I can’t see it.
(Although, come to think of it “Hi! I’m Y and I’m homeless…AND van-less!” is kind of hilarious. Is it not?)