Every year there seems to be something new to fear. Bird flu, terrorism, nuclear war, heart disease.

Yes, these are all scary. But what scares me more than anything? HUCKABEE.

God, please protect and save us from Huckabee.

I survived Christmas. That in and of itself is quite an accomplishment. And I actually enjoyed the day, for the most part. Pretty exciting.

Luckily the day AFTER Christmas brought me back down to earth.

Picture it: A call from the ex-husband telling you that he is moving in with his girlfriend of 3 months. Not a big deal NOR is it any of my business, except for the fact that we have 3 children together. Grrrr.

We discussed the situation and decided (which means that I said it was gonna happen before I allowed him to take my kids overnight) it would be a good idea for me to meet this woman before MY CHILDREN occasionally shack up with her.

So an emergency “I’m moving out of my mom’s house to move in with the woman that I once described to my ex-wife as being “trashy”" meeting was called. The ex and his new female counterpart descended on my home in the evening.

We broke the “news” to the kids… that they would no longer be spending Tuesday and Thursday nights, plus every other weekend, at their most beloved grandmother’s home. A home that they finally started to feel comfortable in and see as their own. They would now be spending a few nights at a “new” house, with Daddy and his new slu… girlfriend.

They took it OK.

Then the adults sat down to discuss things. I’ll spare you the boring details, suffice it to say things went smoothly. It was awkward to say the least. But I kept my cool, and was actually quite well spoken. I was honest and clear about how I didn’t agree with their decision. I let them know that I thought it was too fast to be moving in together, and voiced my MANY concerns. But let them know that I wanted my children to be happy and in a healthy environment, and that I would support them as long as that they could provide it.

In my opinion, the most successful part of the evening was when I actually got a good look at this woman. (Insert a Mr. Burns-ish evil laugh) As much as I’d like to believe or say that I’m above these things, and as petty and stupid as it may be, there was an element of comfort in seeing that she outweighs me by at least 30 lbs and that I’m more attractive than she is I’m such a jerk (but a cuter and skinnier jerk)!

It’s 11:34 p.m.

My children are in bed asleep and have been for hours.

My “Santa” responsibilities are taken care of.

I’ve had my relaxing hot bath and am snuggled up in my bed… alone.

This is the second Christmas since my divorce. And my second Christmas Eve alone in this bed. Yes, it’s warm, cozy, and something utterly divine. And any given night, lying here without a warm body beside me, is something I’m OK with. I’ve become accustom to it.

But in all honesty, I believed, or at least hoped, that this Christmas there would be someone to share it with.

And yet here I am, another Christmas come and, in almost 24 hours, gone. Maybe next year will be different, maybe not.

All I know is that tonight my bed feels too big without someone else in it.

This morning my darling children did something very sweet. They let me sleep in. I did get up about 7:30 to get them breakfast, and then went back in bed for a much needed almost 2 hour nap.

Sweet little angels.

Except when I woke up for the second time, I noticed something strange. Something different. One side of my daughter’s hair was sitting just below her ear, about 3 to 4 inches above where it had been earlier that morning.

“Did you cut your hair?” I asked.

“No.”, which actually sounded more like a question than an answer.

“Emma, did you cut your hair?”

“Ummm, no.”

“I know you cut your hair. Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m sorry. I forgot.” she said, while batting her lovely blue eyes at me.

“You forgot that you’re not supposed to play with the scissors and that you’re not supposed to cut your hair?”

“I’m sorry Mommy. I love you.”

Uh huh.

Truth be told, the “old” do was looking a little ragged, and she did need a hair cut. Her hair actually looks very cute, so let’s call it a blessing in disguise.

Nevertheless, I think I’ll be locking the scissors in a gun safe from now on.

BEFORE

AFTER

(notice, her right side is still a little shorter than the left, but it’s still darling)

On a first date: When your date asks you to tell her something “exciting” about yourself, revealing that you’ve been diagnosed with OCD, but that you’re not crazy–you’re heavily medicated–is probably NOT the best idea. And it’s most likely not her idea of exciting.

In no particular order, some of my favorite things:

• My bed.
• Sleeping in my bed on freshly washed sheets.
• Girls nights out.
• Awesome weekends with my BFF.
• Massages.
• Back tickles.
• Laughing so hard it makes me cry.
• Sleeping under the stars on top of the houseboat at Lake Powell.
• Watching my children play together.
• Raw Cookie Dough.
• “Dance Dance Revolution” with Carlie.
• Puppy breath.
• Midnight skinny dipping in the St. George pool.
• Singing at the top of my lungs in my car.
• A “Bento Box” from The Jasmine.
• Rain when it’s hot outside.
• Kissing someone who is in love with me.
• Molten chocolate cake.
• Reading a good book in bed, with my cat curled up at my feet.
• Getting naked, soaping up, and going down the slide on the houseboat at the lake with the girls.
• My house after it’s all clean.
• When I’m home alone, turning the music up to deafening levels, and dancing like the spaz that I am.
• A Porty snuggle, followed by some intense falling asleep.
• A hot bath before I go to bed.
• Sleeping in.
• Having extra money to play with.
• Hot chocolate with whipped cream.
• Making people laugh.
• Looking at my kids when they are asleep.
• Playing Hand and Foot with my family.
• Laying out in the warm sun.
• Being kissed on that magical spot on the back of my neck.

Sometimes I forget how good I really do have it. This is to help me remember.

Call placed at 3:13 p.m. “Hi… So, my car broke down. I was wondering if you could pick up me and the kids from the repair shop and give us a ride home after you get off work?” NOTE: He gets off around 5 p.m.

Long pause followed by the most dramatic sigh heard in history. “… thing is, I have plans for dinner with Rachel. Can’t you figure something else out? What about your parents?”

My parents who live 25 minutes away? My father who just got out of the hospital Saturday after surgery on his heart?

“Well, I guess I can take all 3 kids to the garage and then we can walk the 2 miles home. In the snow. While it’s dark. During rush hour.”

“OK.”

That’s when I hung up the phone.

Yes, my thoughtful and darling ex-husband, even though you live only 2 miles from me (and closer to where my car is being repaired than I do), don’t put yourself out. I wouldn’t want you to be late for dinner with the woman you see almost daily. Don’t worry about it.

I’ll hire a fucking babysitter so that OUR small children don’t have to walk home in 20-something degree weather through the dark 4 lane streets during rush hour. I’ll just add the child care costs to the rest of everything that I pay for. You’ve got to save your money! What is it that you pay for? Not rent, not food, not utilities, not clothing for the kids. Your mom pays for that. Oh yes, you’ve got your $35 car insurance payment each month, and gas. Yeah, you’re hurting.

When you leave me a message asking me to look up a phone number for you or when you ask for advice on your taxes, your surprise when I don’t return your call is genuinely shocking to me.

“Are you not talking to me?” you ask in a text.

Wow genius, you’re not as stupid as you look.

It would be so easy for me to write 20 paragraphs in an attempt to explain the story. There is a part of me that wants to do it, or maybe even needs it. But I won’t. Because truly, it no longer matters. Because of this, I’ll try to keep it short and semi-sweet.

Last week my 5 year old daughter asked me why I don’t come to her grandma’s house anymore (she was speaking of my ex-mother-in-law, where my ex happens to live, and where my kids go on his “nights”). I tell her it’s because mommy and daddy aren’t married anymore. Her eyes well up and her lip quivers. “But I want you and Daddy to be married. And I want you to be at Grandma’s house when I’m there.”

Today while volunteering at my 7 year olds class, the teacher pulls me aside and says, “I just have to tell you this… it about made me cry. When Ian was writing his letter to Santa, he asked for his mom and dad to get back together. He is such a tender heart.”

Sometimes I question my decision to divorce. Sometimes I even regret ending my 9+ year marriage. Not because I miss my ex terribly. But because it has hurt my children more deeply than I could have understood at the time I made that choice. I did what I needed to do. Yes, I know all of the arguments (if I’m not happy, how can I be a good mom; my kids need a good example of a healthy marriage; blah blah blah).

But the simple truth is for whatever reasons and regardless of my intentions, I failed my children. Maybe it was beyond my control, but I have failed them.

Today when I relayed the above stories to the ex, he reacted exactly as expected. “Kids are resilient.”

As heart-to-hearts with the ex always do, any doubt is but a memory. And yet I still feel like an uber ass hole.

I was what you might consider a tomboy when I was little. No, I didn’t want to be a boy, and I did like getting dressed up now and then. But what made me boyish was my insane ability to kick ass and take names when it came to sports, physical activities, and my mental “toughness”. State diving champ at 10 years old. Faster than the boys in 6th grade. Swimming relay gold medal at age 17. Didn’t cry at the dentist when my older brother blubbered like a baby.

I can talk about how awesome I was because that was then and this, my friends, is a whole different story. Tooting my horn about past deeds is like tooting it for someone else… Talking about myself as a child is like talking about a close friend. My current status? I am now in a state of averageness.

Where I DO still shine is in my home improvement abilities. I’ve remodeled 3 bathrooms, partially re-done 1 kitchen, did a complex tiling job in my dining room, tons of painting (but any idiot can do that), laid sheet-rock, installed a few faucets, etc. And these were things that I’ve done on my own. I didn’t need (or get, except for with the clean up) help from the now ex-husband. I was fully capable on my own.

So you’ll understand my frustration at feeling like there is a task that I might not be able to get done on my own. Hanging these stupid x-mas lights on the outside of the house. I’ve never done it before. Scratch that. Once I hung lights on our first home (while I was 6 months pregnant). BUT, the roof was flat, and I was able to hang them from leaning over the edge of the roof and hooking them on the nails that the previous owner had installed. AND, the roof was only one story.

This house… 2 stories, slanted roof, grassy and snowy lawn below. No husband to hold the ladder or find my body at the base of said ladder if I should fall.

I don’t know why I really want to hang lights this year, I just do. I’ve purchased required items, and am geared up. I’m pretty confident that my 5 yr. olds could dial 911 should anything happen. I think I’ll just tell them to look out the window every couple of minutes. If either of them sees me lying in the snow, they should call 911 and tell them to come scrape my corpse off of the lawn.

***UPDATE UPDATE UPDATE***

After I writing the above and was about to post, a thought came into my head. A thought that went a little something like this, “Screw this. Get offa your ass and hang those lights.”

And I did.

I won’t go into the complexities of how I accomplished this, suffice it to say that actually getting up on the roof to place the hooks and lights was much faster and less awkward than trying to do it from the ladder.

There was that pine cone that I tripped on and nearly fell off of the edge, but I managed to escape harm and now have Christmas lights, hung with haphazard care.

I don’t need that hairy back flatulence loving jerk face neanderthal after all!

I know of a number of women who say that they don’t really have a lot of girl friends. Yes, I get it… I understand why. I think it’s really sad and believe that these women are missing out on something AMAZING, but that is not what this post is about.

This past weekend I had one of the most fun girls ‘trips’ I have experienced.

Once a year the women in my family go somewhere and have what we call the “girls retreat”. It’s wonderful, it’s relaxing, and yes, it’s fun. But this was not one of those weekends.

This was an entirely different kind of girls trip… it was “girls weekend in Wendover”. Woo hoo! Not something that I would do with my mother or sisters.

If you’ve read my previous posts, Wendover and I had a falling out a few months ago. It was hell on earth, but I was determined to make amends and give it another shot. My goal this weekend? To hang out with the girls, completely let go of my stress and worry, and have fun!

I was a little sick earlier in the week, and worried that this would dampen my Wendover experience. Not so. I had more fun than I expected. We met some amazing people, truly kicked back and let our hair down, and I was able to ignore (or at least get rid of) the horny men and make this weekend all about the girls.

I feel I must publicly apologize to Cami’s husband. Yes, we saw the camera, denim mini-skirt, and vibrator that you packed in her bag. Sorry, it was NOT that kind of girls trip. But thanks for thinking of us

To those of you out there (specifically women) who haven’t experienced this type of quality gal pal bonding time, I highly recommend it. There is something about free flowing alcohol, being away from home, and around a bunch of drunk men that bring out the best in women. In various ways, we totally took care of each other.

Ahhh… I love my girls!