Finding Joy (and Leah, and Lizzie, and Maggie...)

I have a strong online presence.  I comment within seconds of any of my friends' FB posts, and I like the crap out of everything.  I am usually indoors with two little people all day, and I'd like to say that is my excuse, but the truth is, I have been like this since the dawn of the internet.  I remember when my ex-boyfriend lived in NYC and I was in Buffalo.  I was not sure how to set up this new-fangled "email" thing that everyone was going on about, so I borrowed my Mom's AOL account and would make appointments to trade emails with my far-away love.  It was instant messaging in the stone age...and I was HOOKED.  It was like checking your answering machine and there was ALWAYS a message.

With this kind of instant gratification comes some side effects.  I am a distracted parent and spouse at best, now that we all have tiny computers in our pockets- and worse, I am constantly comparing my life to others. Now I know we all put our best face on Facebook.  It is rare to see someone say, "I didn't get that promotion, because frankly, I didn't really work all that hard this quarter".  It is far more likely, and annoying to see, "Have you seen how amazing I look in my latest batch of selfies, Damn, I'm happy and good looking. Do you need some money? Because I have ALL of it." or something along those lines (you all know at least one of these). I can even live with those posts because I am aware that we don't advertise the failures in life, we only do the highlight reel. My comparison issues are measured against the extremely high bar of my friends.  Not FB friends...but actual friends who happen to be on FB.

For instance my friend Joy runs a non profit that trains advocates for children in foster care who are in the court system and do not have an adult to stand with them.  She also has a rock star husband and the two of them together happen to be the nicest people you've ever met. They are always doing cool things, in the cool city they live in (New Orleans), and just seem to be killing it pretty much all damn day. I am still operating on the assumption that they are do not require sleep to function. Just good whiskey, and a good time. (http://www.casaneworleans.org/about/history/)

Don't even get me started on Leah, who's blog on healthy cooking is not only entertaining as all get out, but the food is to die for.  She is gorgeous, a total earth Mama, a local celebrity, and married to a bad-ass artist who is a professional dancer and skateboarder despite a congenital hip defect that requires him to use crutches.  They have three of the most ridiculously beautiful children in the world, and they manage all of this without being total dicks about it. No judgement, no superiority, just effortless cool. Every time I go to my refrigerator, I wonder "What would Leah choose to eat?" and then I proceed to do it all wrong.  I am not exaggerating. (http://brazenkitchen.com/)

Lizzie.  The FUNNIEST, DIY writer in the entire world...nay, UNIVERSE.  How do you make crafting funny you wonder?  You are just born that way (I'm looking at YOU Arizona). I can attest to this since I have known this woman since kindergarten.  She is the person who encouraged me to write this blog in the first place, and kind of my hero.  Also, she has one of the best second chance at love, love-stories ever, and his name is Ryan.  Together they are a comedy superpower that just makes me want to make a skin suit out of both of them.  Well, I suppose I could dial it back a little from skin suit love- maybe just taking a creepy nap in their bed while they are at work?  Shhh, don't be scared- I love you. (http://www.thehipsoiree.com/)

Maggie. Goddamn, Maggie.  She was my best NYC friend before cruelly leaving me crying in the streets of the East Village, clutching a Van Halen poster that was left over from her insanely cool thrift shop/den of sin (where I happened to have the best time of my entire life spending night after night doing very naughty things, with very sexy people).  She and her then boyfriend, now husband left NYC for LA where they are essentially famous, and have upped their badassery to levels most mortals will never achieve...and their kid is cooler than all of us put together.  Every time I slide further into the pit of Mom-wear that now inhabits my closet, I think of Maggie shaking her head and thinking, "Pity, she had real potential...". Which, bee-tee-dubs, the real Maggie would NEVER do, because on top of being stupid-hot, stylish, fun, and cool...she is super nice. She will drink your ass under the table, and wake up with her eyeliner smeared, hair touseled, and shirt rumpled like she was just styled for a photo shoot. Then drop her kid off at school, with her equally talented/good looking husband by her side on the way to their shop.  It is totally ridiculous and frankly, makes me feel a little violent. (http://filthmart.net/)

So what's wrong with having awesome friends?  Nothing, except for the crippling burden it places on me daily to be a better person.  I have all of their voices in my head making me wish I was them instead of me, if only for that flash of a second in front of the closet, the keyboard, the refrigerator, or my children and husband.  I guess if I have to have to share head space with a few people- I've chosen excellent company. I log on every morning to see what my wish list of personalities are up to, and I am equal parts proud, and covetous of them.  Do we all do this to one another?  At some point does it get too crowded in there?  I mean- I doubt that my friend Kathrine wonders "What would Katie do?" when she is boarding a flight on her way to some super important meeting for the organization that she RUNS.  Or that Bridget considers her wardrobe through my eyes before heading to her high profile job. Maryanne doesn't need my avatar to tell her where to go to find the next awesome band, or to see something beautiful in almost everything- because she was born with an artist's ear and eye.  Meg didn't need my voice to tell her that she chose well to go back to San Francisco and wrestle a career out of the toughest job market in the country....you get the idea.

I think what I covet most is loving my own "skin suit", and living without regard to how others may judge me. I think when you are free of this, that is when and why you shine.  I know this is nothing novel or new- people always compare themselves to others, I guess I am just saying that I do it to the point where I may lose any authentic thoughts in the cacophony. It is indeed loud in here, but hey- it's my party, and the guest list is SICK.

***If my myriad friends and family that are not listed in this post are offended, I apologize- I don't have enough time or words to document the awesomeness of my sisters.  Highlighted friends have websites or blogs I wanted to promote because, as stated- I adore these people and think that everyone should be reading and consuming what they put out into the world.  Additionally, I considered the wishes of some of my more private friends to be honored.***

Y'all will get Youse to it

Being broke is kind of liberating if you think about it, but also really shitty if you think about it for a second more.

After what can only be described as a transcendent trip to Louisiana this summer to see my in-laws, Seth and I decided we would leave Philly, where we are having a hard time making ends meet, to move to New Orleans this May where he would finish writing his dissertation over the course of the next couple of years.  Since Seth's family is it's own population spike (he is one of 11 siblings), we were really hoping to take advantage of that whole "it takes a village" thing.  If we played our cards right, we'd only have to interact with our children every few days whilst we danced and drank our cares away on Frenchman Street.  I had even planned to jump back into the movie biz to boost our income from pitiful, to slightly less pitiful.

As it turns out, our logic was about as sound as this:
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We had the high-flying, carefree part of the move all settled...the cost?  Not so much.  So when we went to Buffalo, NY (my hometown) for the holidays we were sharing our good news with everyone who would listen- but all the while I had this creeping feeling in the back of my mind.  It was somewhat reminiscent of the time in 6th grade when I decided mid-day, that I wanted to have a sleepover at my house and told everyone to be there around 7.  I had not shared this fabulous idea with my Mom, who was LIVING in the midst of a slumber party every damn day with 4 girls (born in a row within 5 years).  I had to make a series of embarrassing phone calls to everyone explaining that there would be no party.  WELL...you see where this is going.  There will be no New Orleans.  We simply cannot afford it no matter how creative we get with our sum total of 800 dollars...that will all go to bills shortly.  We leave behind us a trail of shattered Aunties, Uncles, cousins, Grandparents, and friends...never mind our own broken hearts.  But we got the cart before the horse, and I guess we needed a reality check.

So wherever shall we go, whatever shall we do???  Well, my parent's have the retirement life they dreamed of.  They shuffle from their home where my Mom grew up (and where I grew up as well) in Clarence, NY, to their summer home on Lake Erie, and then spend the winter months in Florida.  That means they always have a house that is not in use in the WNY area (enter their adult-lescent child, Katie and her never ending pit of need).  They are renting us their empty home(s) while we knock out this dissertation in what I hope will be record time.  No dancing on Frenchman Street, and it's usually too cold for daiquiris- but I did grow up I good old B-lo and have lots of friends and family there- just not the kind that are pining to watch our kids all the time because they have kids of their own.  Movie job?  Well, it'll likely be a desk job or retail for me as the movie business is not as booming as it is in New Orleans.  This move just got a hell of a lot less sexy, but it also got a whole lot cheaper, and easier.  Don't get me wrong, I love my hometown, and I am happy to be going- it's just not under the circumstances that I would have liked.  We are literally beggars that cannot be choosers.

Poor us though, huh?  I mean we have TWO houses to live in, and lots of friends and family around, and a great city to rediscover, and a cool accent to hand down to my kids (if you are not familiar with the dulcet tones of the Buffalo accent, simply listen to a flock of geese- it might not be for everybody- but I love it).  So, while our dreams are in the Crescent City, our home will be in the Nickel City for the next two years.  Being broke sort of forces your hand to make decisions in the realm of reality, and sometimes reality is in Buffalo.  Hope to see youse guys there.

Broken Glass

I went for my annual ob/gyn appointment a couple of months ago.  While nobody ENJOYS these necessary trips, I am really not all that squeamish about them.  Don't get me wrong, I'd rather be doing mostly anything, but I'm not freaked out by them is all.  

When I went in for IUI (intrauterine insemination) to "up" my chances of pregnancy, my doc asked if it was okay for an intern to sit in because she had never seen one done.  Fine.  So my doc, the intern, and a nurse were crowded around my lady parts like it was the family room television.  During the very quick and painless procedure, the radio was playing "Girls, Girls, Girls" by Motley Crue, and I told my doctor that if I had three girls I was blaming her (turns out I wasn't far off).  When the procedure or nature worked it's magic, and I became pregnant, I  was probed (literally) every two weeks, and at some points every week by a team of specialists, plus my regular ob.  You get pretty mechanical about it all.  All of this was due to a multiple pregnancy, but also because of my "advanced maternal age" (boy, I never got tired of hearing that one). 

Anyhooo, this year's appointment was the same level of casual.  I made it through the whole thing before I off handedly mentioned that I was feeling extra...um...stabby during my PMS days, which by the by were starting to eclipse my regular days almost entirely. I think I have a four day window of non-crazy to look forward to every month. I'd just Hulk out over the dumbest stuff that during my luxurious 4 day window, roll right off my back.  Over the summer I even had a panic attack in a consignment shop while on what normally would have been a lovely outing with my sister.  Well, my doctor told me, and I quote, "Welcome to your forties.  PMS is going to be like that now."  Which pretty much reminded me of this: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WzEhoyXpqzQ 

Um, WHAT???  I have NEVER heard of this raging-40's-PMS thing.  I feel very (unsurprisingly) angry about this. He said my options are exercising for 45 minutes a day....pfft, yeah right, next. Taking an antidepressant every day, or lastly having a script on hand for a "break glass in case of rage blackout" kind of thing.  I went with the last option- and have only broken the glass twice.  I think just having it on hand calms me down.  Also actually taking it makes me so sleepy that nothing is really going to bother me much, which is not exactly conducive to child rearing but it's better than me throwing the baby potty across the room because my kid peed on the floor while looking me dead in the eyes like a tiny psycho.  I have always condoned OTHER people taking these kinds of meds, but when it comes to myself I have a Depression Era (how ironic) olde tyme man that pops into my head and tells me to chin up, and take it like a man.  He may also be dancing the Charleston, but not in a charming way- seriously, it's so condescending you guys.  I still feel like I've let my olde tyme man down a little, but he is also kind of a dick, and not a little bit judgey..also he doesn't have twins to deal with as far as I know so I'm thinking I'm gonna defriend him (or hide him from my feed at minimum).

I still cry really randomly, and at dumb stuff.  I definitely enjoy my alone time with my juice box (ie boxed wine) when things get really rough, or because it's Tuesday. But I have to look in the mirror on the exterior of the medicine cabinet before I open it to access the bottle of pills, and thus far- I'm okay with who I'm seeing.  Sure I'm a little gray, a little more sallow and tired looking, but  I'm keeping it together without white knuckling it these days.  I'm okay with who I see.

Are you looking?

I am old.  41 years not young at last count. I also have two year old twin girls (Mary, and Louise). They are awesome, and hilarious, and the only two people I really spend any kind of time with, as my husband, Seth, is a PhD student at a fancy-pants Ivy League school/prison-chain-gang, that completely owns him.  

Seth is like a snow leopard, we rarely see him. Oh, and we moved away from our huge network of family in Louisiana FIVE weeks after I gave birth to the girls so he could chase this dream of becoming a professor (in my vast amount of alone time I now presume this will be for masses of young chippies who love his beard and elbow patches, and his array of catchy eyewear).  So here we are, in Philadelphia, me, my sweet girls, and my snow leopard.  We don't know anybody here, and so I am virtually on my own most of the time to mold these humans into good people.  I get bored with molding sometimes, so I have become somewhat of a Facebook nerd who reaches out to the world through my posts.  Through said posts, I have been cajoled into doing a blog, which is extremely flattering, and if life has taught me anything, it's that I will do anything for compliments...seriously, I am a middle child. Test me. 

For someone who loves praise, I accept it very poorly until I am in private, where I replay it in my head over and over again, like the songs I used to tape off of the top forty radio stations when I was a kid to make super sweet make out tapes- so I could make out with exactly NOBODY.
"Wherever you go...I'll be with yooouuuu, whatever you want, I'll geeeve it to yooou....I will will be the FLAME-ah!"  (song credit, The Flame, by Cheap Trick, taped by Meg Cinti most likely because she was the most skilled of my friends at doing this). I digress, gentle reader and self consciously offer you my word songs for your adoration.

Speaking of super needy people, around 8 PM every night, my kids start to get slap-happy.  They used to climb onto the couch and just flop onto each other, or the cushions....sometimes the floor.  Now that they are big shot two year olds, they needed a bigger stage and moved production to a window seat in their bedroom where they perform loud songs for us. If we are not paying close enough attention to the show they scream, "MAMA...WOOKAHMEEEEE!!!"(translation: Mama, look at me).  While I generally most savor the compliments I do get without dancing for them- I do hope this offering will yield a few.  So like a thousand bloggers who went before me have begged, look at me...for the love of god, WOOK. AH. ME!  Seriously.  I need this.