Diary of a MILF in Progress

Neurosis or personality quirk? You make the call

Tuesday was a culimination of a lot of stressful things, and I was not at the top of my game. It's been a very rough few weeks, and I'd be lying if I said I was dealing with it all well.

Casey passed by, and I gave a distracted response to his greeting. I considered avoiding him, since my mood and looks were not exactly impressive, but in all honesty, I hoped that chatting with him could cheer me up. So, when my 1:00 meeting was abruptly called off (due to the overwhelming and sudden influx of additional tasks for my boss to face), I took advantage of the breather to stop by and apologize for my less-than-optimal interaction earlier.

He asked what was wrong, and I gave a very condensed, vague overview of my getting chewed out by the boss because of a series of misunderstandings and dropped balls, my frustration at The Husband acting like a somewhat self-absorbed and oblivious ass, the recent devilish behavior of my children, and a general lack of motivation.

"And," I concluded in frustration, "I look like crap today, partly because I am putting on weight everytime I manage to lose some!"

"It's all that pot you're smoking," Casey said facetiously. "Seriously, black tar heroin or cocaine would be much more slimming. Pot just gives you the munchies."

"Nicotine is an effective appetite surpressant," I countered, "and cigarettes are a lot cheaper."

"Yeah, but then it gets all in your hair, and your clothes..." he scowled.

"Eh, good point," I conceded. "I could just to back to my eating disorder."

"You had an eating disorder?" he asked, surprised. "Bulimia?"

"Yeah, not severe," I explained, "when I was in high school, some, and mostly college. My parents probably didn't even realize it, because I was living on my own."

"That's pretty cool!" Casey exclaimed.

Most folks hear about my mental issues and consider me flawed. Casey takes my screwed up past as an interesting layer to my personality.

What'cha waiting on, McCall?

An email exchange from earlier this week:

To: A bunch of people
From: Dana
re: May 18

Natalie and I are going out to El Perro Fumando this Friday around 5, should anyone care to join us. (Some of you already indicated that you care to join us, but insisted on a reminder, since apparently I'm everyone's secretary these days...) Anyway, join us if you can, and if you can't, we reserve the right to talk about you behind your back ;-)

To: Dana
From: Casey
re: Re: May 18

Talking about me behind my back sounds ok but I think it's better if you talk about me while I'm standing right in front of you! ;)

To: Casey
From: Dana
re: Re:Re: May 18

Come stand right in from of me and I'll talk about you as much as you'd like me to.

(He still hasn't taken me up on that, but the day is only halfway over. I don't really expect him to show, although it would brighten my day.)

Happy MILF's Day

Oh, was yesterday Mother's Day? This past weekend was supposed to include some sort of recognition for me? Here were my gifts for Mom's Day:

• The chance to spend quality time with all three children while The Husband played some golf on Sunday morning
• A bonding moment with my mother-in-law, as I finished cleaning the house before she babysat the progeny so that I could get to church on time, since The Husband wasn't home from his chili-tasting contest
• Time to connect with my mother, as she and I helped my sister set the table and clean up after dinner (Sis cooked, since she was the only non-mom female in attendence)
• The Husband refrained from making a smart ass remark about my "Hot Wife" shirt (well, didn't fully refrain, in that he said "Since it's Mother's Day weekend, I won't make a joke about the shirt being false advertising.")

All joking aside, it was a fine Mother's Day. The Daughter made me a card and a cardboard/popsicle stick flower in art class, The Elder Son had a gift bag created by the kindergarten with a spot of tea and a decorated spoon (very cute), and I got lots of hugs and cuddles from The Younger Son, who is still a bit young to be expected to participate. But I do miss the days when people were surprised to find out that I was a mother, based on how I still looked like I was too young/thin/cute to have gone through pregnancy and childbirth.

Off the wagon

I did something this morning that I am not particularly proud of. On the way to the office, I stopped at a convenience store and bought a pack of cigarettes. I pretty much quit smoking in college, not long before I met The Husband (which is a good thing, as he would have never given me a moment of his time had he known that I smoked), but every year or so I get weak. It's been over three years since my last pack, and that's the longest I've gone without giving in.

I can't say for sure why this week sent me back over the edge. In the past three years, I've had other times when my stress level was higher and my selections of coping mechanisms was tighter. But something about taking my certification exam this past weekend (which I think I failed anyway), and the preparation for both a Board meeting and a conference for my add-on boss in taking place within weeks of each other in June, and trying to determine what we're going to do in relation to The Younger Son beginning school...well, I broke.

As soon as I stepped up to the counter, it all came back as though I'd never stopped. Rattling off the specifics of what I needed (Virginia Slims Ultra-light Menthol), the unconscious habit of tapping the box against my palm before I opened it to compress the tobacco, the automatic movements that allow me to steer with one hand while I flick the butt with my thumb to tap away the ashes out the window...It only took a few drags for the headrush to hit.

This pack will last for three or four days, and then I will be a non-smoker again. But I can't help but be disappointed in myself for falling back into the need to chew gum and leave the window open to attempt to hide or mask the smell of a nasty habit that I haven't been able to totally leave behind.

Color me surprised

I stopped into Dan's office to say hello, and as we were talking, Isaac stopped in as well.

"I'm seeing red all day today!" he said, "I just got done talking to Ruth, and now Dana's here." Ruth, like myself, is a redhead. Just a few days ago, when I framed the timing of an event as "back when I was still a blonde," Casey noted that Ruth and I are the only redheads in the office. I mentioned this to the guys. They thought for a moment, trying to establish if anyone else sported a fiery head like mine.

"Sue has some red, doesn't she?" Isaac asked, referring to my and Ruth's boss.

"Weeeell, sort of," Dan hedged, "but hers is red from being colored not red because it's red."

"How do you know for sure that Ruth and I are natural redheads? We might color our hair too." I countered.

"No, there's a difference. My mom used to color her hair, and my dad would be askin' 'What did you color your hair red for?!' and she'd be all 'Well, I didn't mean for it to be red!' Your red looks like you are supposed to have it that way."

Which is good to know, considering the amount I pay in upkeep to have folks asking why I stopped lightening my hair to blond and reverted back to my "natural" color.

Love means never having to say "I don't care"

I got a message from our head meeting planner, letting me know that the electronic registration for the September conference will be active soon, and requesting that I begin soliciting responses from my group as soon as possible.

While we fixed dinner together last night (I started the grilling, since The Husband was busy keeping the yard from becoming a jungle, but he took over because the grill is his domain), I approached the subject of his attendance.

"So, what have you decided about coming to Florida for my conference in September?" I asked. "I know you would have to miss the football game on that Sunday, so what's the final verdict?"

"I think I'll have to miss the football game regardless," he answered. "My parents would have been watching the kids if I go out of town, but they will be going to the game."

We reviewed the logistical points about the trip itself, the timing and the impact on his work and whether he would have anyone to golf with while I was in meetings. It's doable, but not ideal, and finally he put the ball in my court.

"It comes down to your decision," he conceded. "If you want me to go, I'll go. If you really don't care, I may as well stay home."

The truth is, I don't care. I'd rather save our travelling for a time when neither of us is working in excess of 12 hours a day. But, based on fifteen years with a man, you figure out what is and is not appropriate to say.

"It's not that have any objection to you going," I replied. "It's just that I would hardly have a chance to spend any time with you while you are there. When we go on a trip together, it's nice to actually be together, not just staying in the same hotel."

And apparently, that was just the right thing to say.

Flirtus interruptus

Casey was in on Monday, but as soon as we started to chat, one of our co-workers from the third floor stopped by and monopolized the conversation (for a long enough time that Casey insisted that I sit down, because the idea of my standing in high heels was starting to hurt his own back!) and before I knew it, quitting time had rolled around and I had to pick up The Daughter and the Elder Son from school.

Casey was in again today, and I stopped by just before noon, on the off chance that he had not gone out with the other guys (Shel mentioned that she saw "her boys" heading to the elevator while I was in her office moment earlier). And, surprise surprise, he was there working on the computer with his back to the doorway. I sauntered in and rubbed his shoulders to get his attention. We made some small talk about the recent benefits meeting, and how people get worked up about nothing whenever there is talk of changing how the bonus pool is distributed.

"You know me, Dana," Casey sighed, "I don't count on that money no matter what. If you give me a dollar more than what I've got now, I'm happy."

"I understand," I replied. "I mean, I'm happy that I get a bonus, even if it's going to be smaller than what we used to get. The fact that our raises are bigger means more to me anyway." And I saw an opening to change the direction of the conversation.

"Which is more fun anyway?" I asked, "My budgeting the bonus money, or shopping for a new outfit with strappy shoes?"

"Definately the strappy shoes," he smiled, admiring my high heeled sandals and newly painted toenails. "I like the way those pants fit, by the way."

"You missed it yesterday," I pouted. "I had the good underwear and thigh high stockings. But you weren't here to notice. Not that you would have known just by looking..."

"See, you really should go with no underwear at all!"

"Ah, but you can't tell just by seeing me whether I've got a thong on or nothing at all. Besides, I need to wear something when I have a skirt on, since I do have children who might need to climb on me before or after work."

"Alright," he conceded, "I can see your point. But turn around, let me see if I can tell the difference today....hmmmm....nope, I can't actually tell. So, I'll assume you don't have anything on at all."

Just then Shel appeared at the door.
"I'm sorry to interrupt social hour," she broke in, "but do you know where I can find a cart? The meetings room is locked up, so I can't even borrow the ice bucket, and I need to get set up for this meeting..."

"Check with Natalie," I offered, "I think she has a key. Otherwise, I don't know where else to look."

And, despite her contention that she was wicked busy setting up the meeting, Shel proceeded to start a discussion.

"Hey, Casey, I didn't know you had those tattoos! They're awesome."

"Thanks," he replied, pulling up his sleeve a bit more to show the design. "They go all the way across my back. I can't believe you didn't realize that I had them, though."

"Dana told me you had tatoos, but I didn't believe her. After all, there's no reason she would have to see you with your shirt off."

"I've worked down the hall from Casey for almost two years," I smiled. "This isn't the first time he's worn a short sleeved shirt, you know."

"So," Shel turned her attention back to Casey, "didn't it hurt to get that much done? I mean, mine didn't hurt much, but I think that's because I was drunk."

"What do you have?" Casey asked. And suddenly, Shel was anxious to leave.

"I've, uh, gotta set up for this meeting!"

"Seriously," Casey prodded, "what's your tat?"

"It's nothing, no big deal, I'll tell you...at a later date," she stammered. And rushed out of the room.

Shaking our heads, we tried to regroup to our earlier conversation, but the mood had been broken. I left to eat lunch, Casey tied up the last of his work, and perhaps we will try again next time...