Dear Mr. Unavailable …

I have to break up with you. I’m sorry, I know this comes as shock, but I just can’t do it anymore. I love you, and I have loved you since I first started dating in my teen years. Actually, I think I’ve loved you since I was about seven and I chased you around on the playground.

I always thought I could fix you, Mr. Unavailable. That if I were patient enough, loving enough, kind enough, smart enough, enough enough, you would suddenly and magically transform into someone that wanted to go all in with me.

You have misled me too many times and frankly, I’m tired of your crap.

I finally, finally got it — I can’t fix you. God knows I’ve tried. But I’m not the real fixer, He is, and for some reason it’s a lesson I have to live over and over.

It doesn’t matter why you’re unavailable, Mr. Unavailable, because the end result is the same for me. I slip into the comfortable relationship with you because it’s so familiar. I know this dance. Or should I say I know what it’s like to be a wallflower in love, waiting for you to finally pick me.

I say I want a nice guy, but instead I’ve been picking the challenging ones. The ones that don’t love Jesus, or the ones that say they do but don’t mean it. The workaholics, the underachievers, the closeted gays, the ones that aren’t over their exes, or the ones that only text at midnight after a few drinks — I’m not making excuses for you anymore.

Why am I waiting for you to love me, Mr. Unavailable, when I’ve had a perfect love in front of me this whole time? Jesus loves me, and if I’m good enough for Him, then I’m good enough for me too.

I don’t know what your problem is, but I have finally recognized my part in it. I trusted in myself and my own abilities too much while simultaneously doubting my own value. Isn’t that insane? No wonder I keep pursuing crazy men.

Needless to say, it’s not you, it’s me. I didn’t get divorced just so I could make the same mistakes over and over again. After three months of first dates and an unrequited crush or two, I’m going to stop obsessing.

If you don’t like me, you don’t like me. I can’t make you like me. Jesus likes me, and you know what? That’s enough for me.

Goodbye Forever,
Jenny

Cheers to 2014!

At some point, this actually happened.

At some point, this actually happened too.

Happy New Year, y’all!

Holy crap, so 2013 happened.

There is a suitcase on the floor of my room right now that has a pair of Cole Haan pumps and a dress that needs to go to the cleaners. It’s been there since I got back from New York. In October.

Side note: When I did the Huckabee show, I ended up wearing Uggs with my dress instead of the dress shoes. Because I’m me and cold and also the red eye flight the night before.

Anyway. The suitcase is still there.

Oh yeah, also I went to New York City and met Mike Huckabee, and did a quick segment on his show. Such an awesome experience! La la love the peeps at Fox News.

So life has been a little bit busy, slightly overwhelming, and generally surreal as I’ve been adjusting to being single for the first time since I was 18. Only now I have kids. Single at 18 is different than almost divorced at almost 31, that’s for sure.

Laundry now consists of three baskets on top of the washer and dryer — one for me, and one for each of my daughters. Things get a quick fold as they come out of the dryer, and that’s it. Thankfully we’re all girls and don’t have a problem changing downstairs as we’re practically on our way out the door. Also thankfully we have blinds.

We got a cat. Oswin is awesome. Her name is short for Clara Oswald. 10 points for you if you get it.

Thing 1 turned 10. She’s going to Virginia on a class field trip in April. What kind of school is this? Oh yeah, one that also teaches her Latin and Mandarin and most importantly cultivates her love of learning.

Thing 2 is in kindergarten. Interestingly, her teacher is the little sister of one of my high school acquaintances. Small, small world this is. She is loving every second of it. Thing 2, not necessarily the teacher, but her teacher is so awesome that I bet she’s (mostly) loving it too.

What else? Oh yeah, I got a full time job. I’ve been freelancing at The Stir since its inception, but they needed a full time staff writer at the exact moment I needed a full time job. Perfecto! That’s mostly why I haven’t been blogging here. I write 33 posts a week for them. By the end of the day, I’m more interested in cuddling girlies or zonking in front of Hulu than updating y’all on my life.

Speaking of updating y’all on my life … I started this blog post on the first and now it’s the fifth. Did I mention that I’ve been busy??

2013 was a crappy year. It happens. You know what though? Life throws you curveballs. God in His infinite wisdom refines us in ways we never saw coming, but ultimately, if you love HIM at the end of the day, and trust not in yourself or in His other creations, but just in HIM, He will not lead you astray.

Through every trial, He will prevail, but one thing I’ve learned over the last several years is that you have step out of the way of yourself, let go, and let God.

Here’s to a lovely 2014.

Cray Cray Crazy Beautiful & Busy Life

Oh my goodness. Today I ran around like a one-armed wallpaper hanger on crack and speed. Or are crack and speed the same things? I don’t know, I’ve never been very fluent in drug-lingo, having never partaken of things like crack or speed, and also I’m not a cop and I’ve never appeared on an episode of Miami Vice.

Regardless, today was crazy busy.

It was my first day back at The Stir. I wrote about silly school districts unintentionally giving kids heat strokes, and also Miley Cyrus’s VMA debacle. You know, because that hasn’t been talked about enough. Can people please stop talking about Miley? Oh, I should take my own advice? Hmmm … well then let’s just say I wrote some social commentary about teen culture in America.

Also in there somewhere, I carted the kiddos to school, which is now a 30-minute commute, saw my therapist and went through the usual emotional meat grinder and came out a lovely sausage at the other end (or something), picked up my brand new kindergartener at the ‘transitional’ 1 pm pick-up time, ran home for an hour to relieve Furbaby and cuddle with said kindergartener, ran back to school to pick up the fifth grader, and ghostwrote a couple of fundraising emails for my other job. Also laundry, dishes, breakfast, lunch, dinner, homework, and bedtime stories.

I’s is a leetle bit tired. And I can’t wait until next week when I can pick both kids up at 3 instead of this skewed pickup time nonsense. But only one more day of that for me, because Leif is in charge of them from tomorrow evening until Sunday! Holla! Don’t get me wrong, I miss them like nutso when they’re gone, but I’m glad they love their daddy, and honestly, it gives me a few days to play catch up. I might even put that pile of clean laundry away! Hahahahahaha — I almost believed myself there for a moment.

So many people have asked me over the past several months … how are you going to live? It’s been asked in various contexts (emotionally, financially, sanely, etc.), but the answer to them all is one day at a time. At least for right now.

It’s odd and strangely freeing to not know exactly where I’m going to be a year from now. I’ve always been the girl with The Plan. The Plan has changed every now and then, because hey, life requires adaptation, but right now there is No Plan other than love my girls like crazy, work hard enough to pay the bills, and rely totally and fully on God.

I’m sure His Plan is better than My Plan anyway.

Here’s to a good night’s sleep. Goodnight and God bless!

The Real Fixer

I’m a tool.

That’s what she said!

I swear it will make sense in a minute. But I gotta set it up first.

If you were an evangelical teen girl in the late nineties, you probably had a colorful woven bracelet that said F.R.O.G. You wore it with your WWJD? bracelet, along with your True Love Waits ring and your short-shorts, because you were in high school and your legs looked fabulous, even though you didn’t fully appreciate them at the time.

F.R.O.G.

Fully. Rely. On. God.

And if you’re anything like me, you told yourself that you did.

I’ve been a Christian my whole life, and probably only remember the exact moment I asked Jesus into my heart because it came as a result of my brother dying, and my barely-cognizant toddler self wanted to go to Heaven too.

So. I’ve always relied on God to see me through the tough times.

Except maybe I didn’t.

I said I did, and I thought I did, but now that I think about … I’m unconvinced that I ever actually did.

Here’s the deal: I like to fix things. I like to teach, preach, educate, and share. I like to put myself in other people’s shoes and try on their rose-tinted glasses, and offer mine for them to try on too. I want to understand people, and I want them to understand me. It’s why I’m a blogger, people.

It never occurred to me that I might come upon a situation I couldn’t somehow fix. Maybe periphery things, like that chick at work that possibly didn’t like me, or a bad hair day, or when the movie sold out before I bought my tickets … but even those things could be fixed in a way. Be nice and stay out of Crazy Chick’s way. Wear a cute hat. See a different movie or go to a later showing. Fixed and done.

Here’s the thing about being a fixer — it feels good. It feels really, really good to see people experience happiness and know that you had a part in it. The Christian part of me tried to give the credit to God, even (especially?) in my own heart, but the pride I felt in being the tool God used to change something on this earth for the better betrayed that credit.

It’s probably like a mirror thinking it’s beautiful when a pretty face gazes upon it.

The problem with this line of thinking is on the other side of the coin. If, as God’s tool, I can create peace and happiness and harmony, then when bad things happen it must be because I wasn’t a good enough tool. Must. Try. Harder. Change tactics. Find a new solution.

A better tool could’ve fixed it. A better mirror would’ve reflected something beautiful when confronted with ugliness.

And as good as it feels to be the tool that creates beauty, that’s as bad as it feels to be the useless, discarded tool that’s no good at fixing things.

The past several years have been a slow process of untangling myself from thinking that I had to put up with the bad parts of life, because obviously if I’d done a better job of fixing them, they wouldn’t have been be so awful. I never declared anything broken — I just hadn’t found the right combination of duct tape and elbow grease to fix it.

In other words, I was not fully relying on God to be The Fixer. He was merely the power behind my glorious Tool Self.

Instead of feeling grateful that God had chosen me, out of all the other people He could’ve chosen to accomplish something good, I took the credit for myself like a hammer might take credit for pounding in a nail.

Newsflash: It doesn’t matter which hammer the carpenter uses. Feeling bad and taking the blame for not being able to fix something is as futile as a hammer feeling bad for not being able to hit the nail on the head.

The hammer must rely on the carpenter, and so must we also rely on God.

Otherwise we are on dangerous ground, becoming like King Saul, who refused to wait for Solomon to perform the sacrifice. Do you know what happened when Saul took it upon himself to do what he considered to be the Lord’s work, but didn’t actually trust and rely on God to get it done according to His perfect will and own good timing?

And Samuel said to Saul, “You have done foolishly. You have not kept the command of the Lord your God, with which he commanded you. For then the Lord would have established your kingdom over Israel forever. But now your kingdom shall not continue. The Lord has sought out a man after his own heart, and the Lord has commanded him to be prince over his people, because you have not kept what the Lord commanded you.” 1 Samuel 13: 13-14

Saul’s lineage would’ve ruled the kingdom of Israel forever, but because of his own selfish desires to be the fixer, instead of totally relying on God, he screwed himself over.

Let’s not be like King Saul, mmmkay?

How appropriate that God the Fixer sent His Son to earth as a carpenter.

God knows the blueprints of our lives, and if we can only yield to Him, He will use us for His glory, and we will become His treasured tools, as inseparable from Him as a two-year-old from a favorite lovey.

Bottom line: Pay attention to God when He keeps trying to use you as a screwdriver, or an angle plane, or a chisel or whatever.

He made you and He knows your purpose. Stop beating yourself up because you’re a monkey wrench that did a horrible job trying to be a clamp.

God has a perfect plan for you, and you are the perfect tool to accomplish His grand design. Trust that He is using you exactly as He intended, even if you never thought about yourself in that way. It is only when we decide that, as tools, we know better than the carpenter that we run into trouble.

Be a beautiful, glorious tool.

That’s what she said.

(I told you it would make sense.)

The Girl with the Bible Tattoo

bible tattoo

God is in the midst of her

How bad is it gonna hurt??

Come on. If you don’t have a tattoo, you’re wondering. If you do have some ink (look at me with my hip, I’ve-now-been-inked language!), you remember wondering. Because fact of the matter is that in order to get some permanent body art — you gotta break some skin.

For the record, skydiving was way more terrifying.

Wait. I take that back. Telling my mother I got a tattoo was up there with jumping out of a plane.

“You’re 30, Jenny. You can get a tattoo,” Ashley reassured me.

“But but but … my mom!”

For the record, mi madre was great, and loved the scripture reference, and made no indication at all of any inner thoughts along the lines of OMG MY DAUGHTER JUST DISFIGURED HERSELF AND WHY WOULD YOU PUT A BUMPER STICKER ON A PORSCHE?

Thanks Mom.

It took seven minutes and cost $50. I didn’t cry even though I’m a total crier. My artist Roger said he was impressed about the skydiving thing — he said he didn’t have the guts for it. Yes, I mentioned it like 8,000 times, because I had to convince everyone there that I wasn’t a wuss. And by ‘everyone’ I mean me. Roger had a neck tattoo, by the way.

That’s right, the dude with the neck tattoo thought I was badass.

Then later he said he was glad I turned out not to be a screamer, and I uttered that’s what she said under my breath because obviously I had to.

Anyway.

I love it.

God is our refuge and strength, 
a very present help in trouble.

Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, 
though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam, 
though the mountains tremble at its swelling.

There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High.

God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved; God will help her when morning dawns.

The nations rage, the kingdoms totter;
he utters his voice, the earth melts.

The Lord of hosts is with us; 
the God of Jacob is our fortress.

Come, behold the works of the Lord, how he has brought desolations on the earth.

He makes wars cease to the end of the earth; he breaks the bow and shatters the spear;
he burns the chariots with fire.

“Be still, and know that I am God. 
I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth!”

The Lord of hosts is with us;
the God of Jacob is our fortress.

Best Life Now

I really, really don’t care for Joel Osteen — his teeth and his platitudes irk me.

Prosperity gospel? Pfffffttt.

“It’s God’s will for you to live in prosperity instead of poverty. It’s God’s will for you to pay your bills and not be in debt. It’s God’s will for you to live in health and not in sickness all the days of your life.”

How Mr. Osteen reconciles that with the bible verse about the rich man, the camel, and the eye of the needle is beyond my comprehension, but maybe I’m just not enlightened enough. *insert eye roll here*

Anyway. Never in the history of ever has God given any indication whatsoever that He wants us to be rich, temporally happy, or even healthy. What does He want? He wants us to delight in Him and Him alone. He wants us to delight in Him so badly that He sent His only Son Jesus Christ to Hell and back so that we may know Him.

You didn’t think Christ’s suffering ended on the cross, didja? He paid the price for our transgressions, and that cost is Hell. Christ literally went to Hell and back for you. That’s all kinds of amazing, and something I can’t fully wrap my mind around, because every time I try, my brain figuratively explodes from trying to comprehend such a love.

I can’t even stand it when my kids bonk their heads or scrape their knees … the idea of sacrificing them like lambs so some ungrateful lot of vagabonds might have an opportunity to knock on my door and grace me with their presence? Inconceivable.

What God has done for us is so beyond dollars and cents, love lost and love won, life on Earth at all — that He must view us as squabbling children fighting over the favorite toy of the moment most of the time.

So when people like Joel Osteen say things like, “It’s God’s will for you to live in prosperity …” I scoff or roll my eyes or blow raspberries. Because I’m totally mature like that. But I’m pretty sure the creator of the universe invented the #facepalm, so I go with it.

God’s will is for us to love Him with our whole hearts and souls and all our strength and minds, and to love our neighbors as ourselves. Nothing more and nothing less.

So then what about the rest?

As much as I don’t like Joel Osteen or his cockamamie prosperity gospel, I do believe in living the best life you possibly can — now and forever.

Sometimes life hands you lemons — so go find some sugar and a pitcher and make some friggin’ lemonade. Add vodka if you have it, and invite some friends over. Or maybe even a friend will bring vodka! Those are the bestest friends.

Anyway, God calls us to suffer, but I think I missed the part where He said we’re supposed to wallow in it.

Yes, my marriage fell apart. For better or worse, no matter whose ‘fault’ it was, and not through any lack of trying to fix it — it fell apart. That’s one heck of a lemon, my friends.

And I’m handling it the best that I can. I’m putting on my big girl pants and trying to live my best life now as I put my broken heart in Jesus’ hands to heal. I’ll squee over sales at Target and find other ordinary things to appreciate. I’ll jump out of planes and I’ll spend what would’ve been my 11th anniversary weekend while my kids are at their first full week at their dad’s with my best friend in Texas.

It’s not flippancy; it’s recovery. It is joy and peace and light and trust in the God of hope. Every day I want to live my best possible life. Some days that’s just getting through without bitch-slapping anyone, and others it’s taking the kids to the beach to delight in His creation. Whatever it is, it is completely and totally relying on God to get me through.

My burden was heavy, but I took His yoke and am finding rest for my soul. And it is sooooooo good — lemonade for the soul level of good.

It’s my best life now, and though it may not look like it, it is my way honoring God, of thanking Him for the abundant mercies he has blessed me with. Thank Him even for the suffering. Because suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.

You may see a sandwich, or a glass of wine, or bowling with a friend, or veging out on the couch catching up on Nashville, or any other number of little things that make me happy … what I see is a Godsend.

It’s my best life now, because God did not leave me in the wilderness. He came and got me … somewhat brutally got me to stop placing my faith in myself and put it back in Him and relearn to trust in Him and Him alone.

And that is the joy that surpasses all joy, even in the midst of suffering.

The Jump

When you’re in the process of getting divorced, questioning religion, and generally trying to figure out who you are as a person after three decades under your belt on the planet, you have your bad moments.

I had such a moment last weekend.

“Eff it. I’m done with the sad. I’m going skydiving!” I half yelled at a friend.

“You should totally do that,” was the response.

I got off the phone and looked up some companies in San Diego that might be willing to toss me out of an airplane. Left the tabs open and went to sleep because it was like 1am.

The next morning, I reread the reviews, confirmed to myself that I actually liked the one I’d picked out the night before (note to my mama — see! I totally made a rational decision about skydiving NOT at 1am.) (I’m going to guess that doesn’t mean much to my mama, whose only comfort right now is that I’m still alive.) (I love you Mom!), and I booked it.

**Everything written up to this point was pre-free fall. The following is my thoughts and reactions to being PUSHED OFF AN AIRPLANE.**

Ok, I volunteered to be pushed. And it’s a good thing I was pushed, because I probably would have sat in that open airplane door all freaking day if my tandem jumper Igor (how cool is that name? He’s Russian, apparently. But he lived in Australia. His Russian-Australian accent was dreamy.) hadn’t fallen out of the plane on top of me 10,000 feet in the atmosphere.

Anyway. I showed up to Pacific Coast Skydiving this afternoon, and it looked so much like a movie set I was half expecting to see Matthew McConaughey walking around the corner. It was open and funky and breezey and it was kinda like a hip hanger barn with airplanes and parachutes and old couches and a ping-pong table.

The people there were warm and friendly, and totally made me feel at ease. I signed and initialed a bunch of stuff, including something that said I had made provisions for my children in the case of my death. I laughed that off and didn’t think too much about it, because no one likes to think about dying.

All of a sudden a thought crossed my brain that I swear had not even entered it since I made the reservation — what if the chute doesn’t open?? Seriously. I hadn’t even entertained that idea. As soon as I thunk it, I unthunk it. No point in worrying about being their first causality. Besides, that’s why you go tandem with a professional — you die, they die.

So they got me all harnessed up and on the plane with this other chick and her skydiver, and then we took off. It took maybe 15 to 20 minutes to reach altitude, and of course the view was amazing. Igor got me all hooked up to him, and told me that when the door opened, I needed to swing my legs out (I was going first) and sorta hook them under the plane. Then look up, hold onto my shoulder straps, and arch my back.

The plane door opened and I think I cussed. This part happened so fast that I’m not sure if I wanted to change my mind, but by the time my legs were out, I know I had changed my mind, and before I could very politely and calmly explain to Igor that I would not be falling out of the sky today, we were tumbling. I cussed some more I think, but mostly just screamed.

Someone asked me if it was like being at the top of a rollercoaster but more so, but it was nothing like a rollercoaster. The only way I know how to explain the sheer terror and adrenaline of it is to say it’s like that feeling you have when you think you’ve gone down all the stairs, but there’s one more step you missed, and you have a mini panic attack as your foot doesn’t find solid ground where it expected it. Times a zillion.

One thing I’d heard was that it’s over before you even know it, but I had a different experience. I think I lived a lifetime in about 30 seconds. I think I still might be up there somehow.

It was amazing and empowering, and the perfect way to celebrate some of the very difficult life changes I’ve made recently that completely knock out the status quo. For a very long time leading up to the split, I used ‘jumping’ as an analogy for going through with it. I was scared — so scared — that my ‘life chute’ wouldn’t open, and I would crash to the earth a broken and bloody mess.

It came to the point that not jumping became a scarier thought than letting go, so I got myself as prepared as possible. I did my safety checks. I talked to people that had done it before, and what their experiences had been. I examined the potential (and the certain) negative outcomes that would occur if I did this.

Ultimately, even though the actual skydiving was something I had wanted to, and planned to do — when it came to that split-second moment of truth, I didn’t want to go through with it. But a little push out the door led to feeling more alive than I ever have before, and I have no regrets.

I not only got some closure today for my broken marriage, but I got some weird closure for my broken relationship with My Pastor. If things hadn’t happened the way they did — if telling Leif I was leaving him had been left to me entirely — I honestly have no idea if I could’ve gone through with it.

I thought I could. I planned on it. I prepared for it. But could I have ‘jumped’ out of my marriage of my own volition? I don’t know anymore.

But I’m glad I did. Yes, there’s some terrifying freefalling at first when you feel like you’re inside a gyroscope and you’re spinning and the earth is spinning in the opposite direction around you … but then you’re flying.

Er, um … falling with style.

No regrets.

Blueberry Farming

blueberry group shotRemember I had that list of things to do before I turned 30? Well late is better than never, right?

Besides, if ever there was an excuse for putting something off temporarily, the total implosion of a marriage might be it. That or death. Or just plain laziness. But it was definitely the marriage thing in this case.

So here I am, a day late, but not a dollar short (metaphorically at least — this chica is on a budget), and I’m back to trying to do some of the things on my list because gosh darn it — life is for living.

C running through blueberriesVisit a ‘You Pick’ orchard and pick too much fruit

Last week, one of my BFF’s Nancy and I packed up all six of our kids and visited a blueberry farm. That’s two car seats, two boosters, half a bottle of sunblock, 12 shoes that are bugging at least seven feet, and that’s only because the other five have been kicked off at some point. Oh, and two mamas with cameras. And cameras I mean iPhones. Because it’s 2013.

So we got the place and sauntered shambled in to find out how the process worked. Each kid was given a small bucket. Each bucket had a capacity of two pints. Each pint cost $5. Six kids, six buckets, sixty dollars.

YOU MAY ONLY FILL YOUR BUCKETS LESS THAN HALFWAY!

We screamed that at them as they tore off down the rows of blueberry bushes.

We needn’t have worried.

blueberry spoilsI’m going to go ahead and guess that blueberries are friggin expensive because they’re so dang hard to collect. After 10 minutes or so, the kids all had at least three blueberries each.

Eventually we ended up with four pints of blueberries altogether, which may or may not have been too many, but when you think about it … who can have too many blueberries?

And if you do, you put them in the freezer and make pie out of them in December.

P.S. The kids pretended they were ninja power ranger super spy blueberry farmers. They had a blast.

P.P.S. The majority of them declared afterward that they hate blueberries and how dare we suggest they eat them.

This Is Not a Post About Church — It’s About Target.

So hi.

I had this big long post all typed up for y’all about the church drama aftermath, but I forgot to save it.

Just kidding. Jesus saves my soul, and I save all my writing just about every other sentence. The truth is that it’s long and messy and super sad and I’m trying really hard to have a positive attitude and not get trapped in the quagmire of crap surrounding this particular situation.

There’s more to life than that. Which is why I use words like quagmire — because that’s seriously a great word.

So I’ll tell you that Leif, to his credit, has decided to take the girls to church elsewhere on his Sundays.

And that’s all I have to say about that, because a dead horse is not worth beating.

Now onto more interesting things — like shopping at Target.

You may or may not have heard, but I’m a single mom now. And single moms aren’t exactly rolling in dough. Also, I’m the one that moved out, and I took very little with me. So now I have this mostly empty house that needs some stuff.

The girls took care of the lack of a dining table by turning the dining room into a campground. Done. And they have beds, I bought a couple cheap couches, and there are stools at the kitchen counter. We’re making do, and honestly, I’m enjoying the minimalist lifestyle for a bit. Cleaning is much easier this way.

But I really wanted some backyard furniture. The girly girls have been loving having a yard after years of condo-living, plus I’m one of those I-love-nature girls, so I’ve been wanting a place to park my rear that wasn’t the retaining wall or the plastic child-sized picnic table my parents let us nick from their house.

Enter Target. I took the girls to get some sunscreen, a kiddie pool, and a box-o-wine, and looked up to see this:

Target girls on chairs

 

And then I saw this:

Target chair price tag

Which led to this:

Target cart

But then on the way to the register, I saw these!

Target stools

And this:

Target stool tag

And so with one hand pushing the loaded cart, the other carrying one stool, Thing 1 diligently carrying the other, and Thing 2 dancing along backward behind us, we made our way to the register.

The lady took one look at us and asked, “Would you like some help out today?”

Yes. Yes I would, thank you.

Then this happened:

Target trunk

And that, my friends, is Target done like a boss.

It’s Just an Appliance … I Think.

I was in therapy recently when I thought to mention a particular incident that had happened in my life the day before. What does it mean? What is wrong with me? Why is this an issue?

All of those questions and more went through my head as I casually mentioned to my ‘feelings doctor’ (that’s what Thing 2 calls her therapist, because duh the girls are in therapy because your parents splitting up is a big freaking deal) that I had experienced total paralysis over a Keurig.

Background — I’d wanted a Keurig forever, or least forever since I first heard of them. Leif didn’t want one, for whatever reason. Something about quantity and quality. Anyway, I wanted one for a very long time, but couldn’t convince my husband to spend the money on one. A year and a half ago, my mom got me one for Christmas!! I was uber excited, especially because I love love love a morning cup of tea, am usually too groggy to make one the traditional way, and Earl Gray k-cups are the bomb.

Fast-forward 18 months or so, and Leif has ended up using the Keurig far more often than myself. No, I don’t know why he changed his mind about it. If I knew why and how he changed his mind about things … well … things might be different. But I don’t and they’re not.

When I left, I told him he could keep the Keurig because he’d ended up using it more than me.

However.

I have missed my magic pixies that make me tea in my mystical morning machine. A lot.

Which brings us to the morning last week when I was standing in my old kitchen, staring at my Keurig on the counter and wanting it but never daring to take it.

It’s mine!

But I promised him he could have it.

But he didn’t want it to begin with.

But I told him he could have it.

What if I changed my mind.

Well you can’t go back on your word.

Gah.

Anyway, I spent a good long time standing in my old kitchen wrestling with myself over whether or not to take my coffee machine that I had told my husband he could keep.

So I mentioned this whole thing to my therapist, and he asked why I didn’t just take it.

“I don’t want to make him mad!”

“Mad? How would he get mad?” (yes, therapists actually ask these kinds of things. The good ones know when to ask them.)

“He’d be upset.”

“If you took the coffee maker?”

“Yes.”

“What else have you done recently that might upset him?”

“… I … uh … left him.”

“… So in the grand scheme of things, how does leaving your husband and taking the coffee machine compare? Because I’d sure as heck rather my wife take the coffee machine than leave me.”

Well when you put it that way … (There was actually a lot more back and forth over this issue — I’m paraphrasing so as not to bore you.)

So a few days later, I gathered my gumption, got over my fear of being viewed as the biatch that not only left him but took the Keurig too, and I asked him if I could have custody of it. And my All-Clad pots and pans. I wanted those too, and if I was asking for stuff, I might as well.

He said of course I could. Anything.

It was another few days before I got around to his house, and the pots and pans had been set out on the dining table. Next to them was the Keurig, all boxed up and ready to go.

Huh. I didn’t even remember that we’d kept the box. Weird.

I went to the kitchen to refill my water, and the Keurig was sitting on the counter. Eyes back to the box in the dining room. Back again to the appliance on the counter. What the … ? Crap. I was going to have to call him.

“Did you buy me a new Keurig?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. That was very nice.”

“You can have the old one for sentimentality if you want, but it’s up to you.”

“I’ll take the new one. That was kind. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

So the dude bought me a new Keurig, which then of course brought up all of these new questions like — what the hell? I could’ve just bought a new Keurig. We don’t have the money for a new Keurig. Why couldn’t he just sacrifice the Keurig for me? Why does he always insist on his own way?

Then I remembered that ‘we’ don’t have money anymore. We’re legally separated, which means that he has his money, and I have my money. Well, he pays support, so technically it was his money, but you know what I mean. And the dude bought me a Keurig, when he could have given me mine and kept the new one for himself.

I mean, it’s not like we’re getting back together or anything, but I think it shows that he cares. And that could be a rekindling of a friendship.

How did a countertop appliance all of a sudden take on such significance?

I swear I’m living in Bizarro World.