Divine secrets of the single-motherhood

Every marriage is different.  What makes it work, what makes it fail; each marriage has it's own triggers for failure and catalysts for succes.  The thought that I could get into a healthy marriage and destroy it is laughable.  The supposition that I WOULD get into any marriage with the intent to destroy it is ludicrous.

I'm a divorced woman that lived in an unhappy, unhealthy marriage for five long years.  I struggled to discover the paths available to me and clawed my way onto my current path constantly second-guessing myself and wondering if I was doing the right thing.  Every decision I've made has been for the betterment of my son.  Every.  Single.  One.  It was, and still is, incredibly hard because there is no manual.

This is not a life that I would wish on anyone.  Single motherhood is no joke.  It isn't easy.  It isn't for the weak of heart, and it isn't for everyone.

I've been accused many times of wanting my friends to be divorced, too.  Of actively trying to destroy a marriage in the hopes of having a single playmate.  You know, the whole misery loves company theory.  I typically don't give the accusation much thought or care because they're coming from power-hungry husbands that have lost control of their wives.  Although it won't be the last, this last accusation hurt because it meant the possible loss of a friendship that would feel an awful lot like losing family.

Quite possibly, I need to repeat myself.  This is not a life I would wish on anyone.  This is not a singles playground where we run around having boat loads of fun like we're starring in some sort of tampon commercial.  There is no divine secrets of the single-motherhood club where we have time for our misery to commiserate.  This is constant work and worry from the minute you wake up to long after you go to sleep.  More often than not, sleep is fleeting when you factor in a growing business, exercise, sickness, nightmares, leg cramps, allergies, and a geriatric dog.  There is no passing off any chore, at all, when you have too much on your plate or are exhausted or have hit your limit.  You hit your limit often.  You don't believe when people tell you you're doing a good job, and everyone feels they have the right to tell you when you mess up.  And you mess up a lot.

My struggles over the past several years have taught me many things.  I've learned that I'm stronger than I ever considered possible.  I've learned that life rarely turns out the way you expect.  I've learned that I have it way better than most single moms out there.  I've also learned that every person has to find their own way to discovering their perfect path.  There is only one person on earth whom I have the right and the obligation to correct or direct.  That is my son.  The rest of you have the absolute right to screw up, and I have the right to support you and care for you with no judgements, reprimands, or corrections.  It is not my job to tell you you're wrong, and it is not your job to expect me to.

To all of the husbands that think I'm trying to sink their marriage: bite me.  There are only two people that can sink your marriage.  You and your spouse.  If you've built a foundation of love based on mutual trust, respect, consideration, and partnership, then there's nothing or no one that can break your house.  You wanna blame someone?  Look in the mirror.  Leave me out of it.

My body thinks I am trying to kill it

A few months ago, I realized that I have feelings for a man that may or may not have feelings about me.  That's another story that you can read here: Dear Guy That's Not Into Me  The reason I brought this up is that I finally got off my keister (literally) and started exercising.

Yes, I realize that is a bad word in my world (exercise, not keister), but I was tired of hating the way I felt when I put my clothes on in the morning and hating what I saw in photos.  I want to be able to play with my son as he grows without either of us being embarrassed by my performance.  I also want to be seen as date-able.  If I didn't like what I saw in the mirror, then how could I expect someone else to like me?  Both inside and out.

I used to say that if you saw me running you better run, too, because something was chasing me.  I have come to the conclusion that my demons are the what is actually chasing me.  No, not literal demons, but the demons of decisions past that come out to play when I have too much time to think.  I put on a combination of Eminem's and Pitbull's new albums, and I go.

Many, many months ago, I stole my parents' treadmill and put it in my garage.  I started out walking slowly and slowly increased my pace the longer I did it.  I have a couple of friends that had already made the choice to be healthier, and they both lost significant amounts of weight.  The right way.  And it showed.  They inspired me to get up off my ass, stop putting things in my mouth, and get moving.

I used a combination of the My Fitness Pal app to track my calories and my competitive spirit to combine diet and exercise, and it worked.  Almost 30 pounds lighter, I'm now up to running anywhere from 1/2 to 1 1/2 miles with a full 5K workout several times a week.  Planking and burpees have helped my core, my breathing, and my strength.  I've signed up for a 5K race at the end of February, and I'm scared to death.

My breathing still stinks, and I'm afraid that I'll get out there and pass out.  Or throw up in front of a hot guy.  Or have to walk most of it.  Before the panic sets too far in, I remind myself that I'm doing it.  Period.  I'm out there, and I'm trying, and that counts for quite a lot.

I'm also back into my pre-pregnancy clothes that I haven't been able to wear in five years.  I feel great.  I look great.  Maybe I'm ready to be great.

To those of you that are angry with A&E for making the decision they did...

To those of you that are angry with A&E for making the decision they did:

I don't believe that claiming homosexuality is in line with or leads to bestiality is a true testament of Christian faith but is rather a spewing of religion-based rhetoric out of fear for those that are different.  I would like to highlight that I am pointing out the difference between faith and religion.  Whatever verses you choose to preach to me out of  your bible in an effort to propagate hate against anyone different from you, I would like to counter with the golden rule and ask you to consider that ideal first.

A&E is a beast whose sole mission on this earth is to make money.  They made the decision they felt would make them the most money.  Being angry at that is like being angry at the world for spinning; it is simply what it is meant to do.  It may or may not have something to do with liberal media taking over, or it may have something to do with a company following popular culture and ideologies of the masses.

I don't think it was any attack whatsoever on the Christian religion but rather a censorship of a hurtful and seemingly thoughtless "free speech" opinion by a man who tries to lead a faith-led life... and sins on occasion.  There are many homosexual people near and dear to me, and I do take offense at anyone implying they are anything less simply because of who they love.

Everyone is free to speak their mind (hence this post), yet all speeches have consequences.  If you feel the consequence of my speech is that you need to de-friend me, then I wish you a safe journey that is blessed by a God of love.  I am FAR from perfect.  Because of that, I accept many people in my life with different opinions and different methods of expressing their opinion.  This post is in response of a lot of anti-gay, hurtful opinions expressed to me and about people I love, not really about A&E.

The Great Penguin Debacle

Weeks ago, my dad who is temporarily living in the Dominican Republic asked my son whether he would prefer to have a turtle or a dolphin.  My son promptly responded that he wanted a pink flamingo.  Specific, I know, but my kid happens to know what he likes.  My dad did not hear "cute little pink flamingo that I can play with".  Oh no!  He heard "4-foot tall fiberglass flamingo that pays rent".

Meet Miguel Rosado, or - as my brother calls him - the mastermind of The Great Penguin Debacle.

My brother, a few friends, and I went to the Dominican Republic for Thanksgiving this year since my son was with his dad (and I deserve a vacation, dangit).  While down there, my dad asked a local friend (Miguel, as in the Miguel from Miguel Rosado) to get the penguin, I mean flamingo, so we could take him back with us.

Of course, my dad was depicting a much smaller bird when we convinced the airline people to let me check Senor Rosado as one of my bags.  It took the airline guys a minute to decide to allow it, so we jumped on the approval and promptly had him wrapped and ready to ship.

We made it almost all of the way through airport security when our favorite airline guy approached me to tell me that I would have to do a second check on our big, pink friend.  Still on vacation mode, I assumed he meant that I would have to bag check the bird at the plane door, so I took my time finishing security and doing my duty-free, souvenir shopping for the kiddo.

Bah ha ha, Silly Lisa.

As the rest of the folk in my party were ordering their first round of beers, I suddenly remembered that Miguel Rosado still needed my attention.  Mr. Airline Employee explained that airport security saw solid black when they x-rayed him and wanted to do a further check.  As he led me clear across the airport, down the stairs, and into a dark, dingy corridor, he further explained that they would probably want to drill a hole in him to make sure I wasn't trying to smuggle drugs.

Given the depth to which my squareness reaches inside of me, I found the idea of me smuggling drugs laughable.  As I am also pragmatic and realize a large fiberglass flamingo is the perfect way to smuggle drugs, I acquiesced with the stipulation that they be respectful in where they drill the hole.

Many minutes later, after they checked several other bags for contraband, they got around to checking Miguel Rosado for the suspected drug cache.  This is the part where I expect them to bust out their drill and make quick work of the job.  Nope.  No such luck.  There were no drills to be had.

Instead, Mr. Muscles took out his car keys, put one in his palm with the point sticking out between his pointer and middle fingers, and began punching the bottom of the bird.  I tried to explain that there was no way something so blunt would gain enough force to break a fiberglass shell (think car exterior, people), but his machisma wouldn't allow some woman to tell him he was wrong.  I sat back and let his knuckles do it for me.

Next up was a three-inch Swiss Army Knife.  I again tried to explain that it wouldn't work and again quickly realized wasting my breath was futile.  The tip breaking off and almost taking out his eye explained more than I ever could have done.  His compatriot finished the job for him after that and managed to punch a nickel-sized hole in the bottom (and I'm being generous).  After much congratulations around the security team, they tried to put their eye up to the hole to see what was inside, effectively blocking their only light source to actually see inside.  Instead of admitting defeat and just letting us get on the plane and on our way, they next decided to hold him upright and shake him to (I imagine) jostle the drugs loose and have them fall out.  The nickel-sized hole.  With jagged edges.

I'm a pretty easy-going person that tends to give the benefit of the doubt and consider the opposite point of view, but I eventually got antsy to get on the plane making my patience run short.  I finally explained that they could either let us both on the plane, or they could give me my 2500 pesos back and keep the bird.  Either way was fine with me, but I was NOT missing that plane.  Five minutes and much posturing later, the paperwork was signed and we were on our way.

The joke was on me, though, because they informed me as I walked toward the door that I had three minutes until the plane doors closed.  I immediately took off running with the techno hit from Run Lola Run playing in my head intent on making my plane.  Flip flops, a long flowing skirt, a cowl neck shirt, and the wrong bra do not make for good running gear.  Add my carry-on and the absolute furthest point from my flight gate, and I almost died getting there.  Get there, I did, though!  And I gave the security detail congregating in the middle of the corridor the peep show of their lives (cowl neck shirt and wrong bra, people.  It wasn't intentional).

Now, Miguel Rosado stands guard in my son's room dutifully eating any monsters, witches, or clowns that try to enter!  Totally worth it.

The true meaning of the Elf on the Shelf

I just read a Facebook post from a new parent asking whether or not they should do the Elf on the Shelf thing this year.  As many of you know from last year, my house has jumped on the bandwagon with both feet.  Reading some of the comments on the Facebook post admittedly got me a bit heated.

Most people were in favor of the elf, but there were a few that get creeped out (which I totally understand) and there were several holy rollers that were pontificating about the elf not bringing the true meaning of Christmas into your home.  I don't understand these.

The Christmas season hasn't (societally) been about Jesus's birth for a long time now.  It's a commercial holiday aimed at maximizing retail profits during the last month of the last fiscal quarter.  And, seriously, who doesn't love presents?... so we go along with it.  It is up to us to bring whatever meaning of Christmas we want into our homes, and it is up to us when we do it.

I keep the spirit of Christmas in my home throughout the year.  I don't bust out the "be kind to others" once a year; I teach this to my son all twelve months.  I don't bring God into my home just one month; he's there all year.  Christmas isn't just about presents; it's about family.

My dad was away working, providing for our family, much of the year.  Christmas was the only time we knew that he would be home.  If we were away with him, Christmas was the time we knew we would go home and see the rest of our family.  Presents are just icing on the cake.

So, yes, we do the Elf on the Shelf thing (even though the company made me mad over some copyrighting thing last year), but we choose how he comes into our home and what he means.  Get over it (unless he creeps you out, then stay away), and have some serious fun with it.

To slow cook or not? That is the question.

I had a slow cooker many moons ago and hated it because... well, I'm not sure why.  I wasn't inspired, and the thing was  HUGE.  I couldn't wait to get rid of the thing.  Now with the advent of Pinterest and the resurgence of crock pot recipes, I've made the decision to jump (back) on the bandwagon.

Since it is just the two of us, I got a small, 4.5 quart Crock Pot.  It's about the cutest thing with its blue background and polka dots.  I will say, though, that I saw one on Pinterest today that has a black and white Damask print that caught my eye (don't tell my slow cooker, but I think the other one is cuter).

Mid morning, I paused from filling new orders and responding to conversations to realize that I hadn't thought about dinner yet.  I went to the grocery yesterday and bought some meat without a real plan on how to use it, so I have the supplies but not the ideas.  Enter Pinterest.  As an aside, I think I will re-iterate to you just how much I love Pinterest.  Like any relationship based on true love, I have to be careful or the strong feelings can overwhelm me and cause spending quality time with my beloved to turn into a complete time warp.

Back to the point... I opened pinterest and simply typed in "crock pot" to see what would pop up.  (This is where the photo of the prettier crock pot made me think impure thoughts about my slow cooker).  One of the first recipes is for Crock Pot Chicken Cacciatore by Skinnytaste (you can find the pin here and the link here).  Of course, based on my individual tastes and pantry ingredients, I have made it my own.  And so Chicken Cacciatore ala Lisa was born.

It is super hard to cook for 1.5 people especially since Little Man is a bit picky and I don't particularly like leftovers.  True to form, I made way too much.  I also don't like chicken too much (I'm not picky at all), so I get the chicken breast cutlets that are sliced thin.  There are usually four to a package, and I've realized that one cutlet is enough for the two of us.  Aha, that means that one package of four cutlets will feed us four nights!  Cha-ching!!

Back to the Cacciatore.  I took one of the chicken pieces and seasoned with what my family simply calls mix (2 parts granulated garlic, one part salt and one part pepper; it makes ALL the difference) then placed it in the bottom of the crock pot.  I then dumped a 28 oz can (it's the only size I have at the moment) of diced tomatoes on top and sprinkled more mix.  Then I chopped half a medium onion and threw it in then grated three medium carrots on top with my microplaner.  I usually add sugar to my sauce, but carrots are sweet and they add another veggie to the recipe.  I call those veggie ninjas because Little Man doesn't know they are there and can't object!  I also grated a few cloves of garlic on top.  Finally, I sprinkled dried Basil and Oregano on top and added a dried Bay leaf.  I cooked on high for probably about 5 hours (I lost track of what time I started) and was tortured the whole day with a heavenly smell.  Once we were leaning toward hungry, I boiled some tri-colored rotini topped the whole thing with some finely grated parmesan.

I would definitely put half the tomatoes and add some sugar to satisfy my sweet tooth, but it was still a big hit with both Little Man and I.

More Mad Hatter (Is there ever really enough?)

Here are some pictures from the Hatter Baby Shower that my cousin hosted.  Enjoy!  I thought the ladies did an AMAZING job!