Friday, October 24, 2014

Theory 53: This only child loves attention. And appreciates her readers.

I wore a bra for the first time today. Whoa, let me rephrase that. I wore a bra for the first time in 1984 at the ripe old age of 9. I wore a bra for the first time today since my surgery, October 1. Today is October 24. I’m not going to lie. I’m actually going to be cliché and say the same two sentences that EVERY woman I have EVER met who has had breast reduction has uttered with total certainty:

1. “It is the best decision I have ever made.”
2. “I should have done it ten years ago.”

In last week’s post, I stressfully summarized my state of mind/blog ability for the day by writing, “See Theory 52.” I literally (no pun intended) had time to type two words and one number. As I explained in Theory 52, I have BIG things happening now and in the near future. Let me recap and update you readers who are probably already sick of hearing me write about me (thanks, by the way, because your attention and comments and emails truly help me):

ISSUE 1:                Breast reduction surgery.
STATUS:               Completed! Whooooooooooooop!
That/they is/are out of the way. Yay! I honestly believe that getting Atlantic and Pacific reduced and out of my way has changed the speed at which I operate. Burdens were lifted. I can mop faster, reach higher, high five without bumping boobs with the other high-fiver, lie on my back and read. Heck, I can even cross my arms! My buddy Digits is working up the nerve. She took one look at me and emailed my surgeon. Go girl! Get rid of those girls!

My surgeon

ISSUE 2:               MASTER’S DEGREE
STATUS:               Lucky me!
I have earned the privilege of sitting in one spot for four straight hours tomorrow (Saturday) to take a comprehensive exam. I must articulate my teaching philosophy. That’ll be fun. Oh, and did you all know that tomorrow is game day, Tennessee vs. Alabama? Buck Fama. Sorry. Had to. #VolForLife#GBO

Pimp that ride


STATUS:                Yee. Freakin. Haw.
Delicious, Red Hot Backspace, and I edited, formatted, proofed, and labored through the impossible: inserting footers to finish the manuscript. I uploaded the big         fancy final project to my publisher/distributor yesterday and ordered a hard copy proof. Even the cover looks good!  Next, I get students to collect orders from family and friends. We are planning a book launch with the Scone-Ad’s Teen Living and Family & Consumer Science classes. I can’t wait to launch this book with my students. I am unbelievably proud of my students. I can’t wait!!!

STATUS:                 I feel some major adoptive mother guilt here. 
While I barely have time to come up for air (though I am breathing more easily thanks to ISSUE 1), I still desire to do anything and everything Tinkerbelle (Gnome’s birthmother) desires. She is more than reasonable and very sweet and respectful. Even my subconscious is stressed about this issue. Two nights ago, I dreamed that she was pregnant again. We were at a party together and all my cousins were there to meet Tinkerbelle. (No one in my family has met Tinkerbelle). Anyway, she and I had on long, layered, neon dresses. The dresses were designed to burn one layer at a time, from the bottom up. HUH? Once our dresses were mini-skirts, we got tattoos together. Say what?!? Ideas? Suggested prescriptions for me?



I'll just say this. Look, insurance is the name of the game. The moment Tall Child and I left the safe harbor of my banking career and all its benefits, Sharky tripped and broke his two front teeth in half. Then, I had a female “issue”---nothing shameful, just aggravating. Then, we adopted Gnome. All under the fake-pathetic-rip-off whatever coverage of a BCBS (BS) self-employment policy. Needless to say, we paid premiums AND all medical expenses. As Tall Child put it, “The only way that insurance policy was going to pay off was if one of us got cancer.” Well, I guess that’s why they call it catastrophic coverage. It’s catastrophic alright. Let me think of all the C words that apply:

Credit goes to crap
Corrupt industry
Can’t go to the doctor when you are sick unless you won the TN State Lottery
Continuous anxiety and expense
Certainty that your “self-employed” rear will leave that comfy house-wife sofa to land on a teacher stool

Okay, I’m off the insurance soap box. Anyway, my job and health insurance status are safe, but I’ve gone and applied to a fantastic former employer. I am waiting to hear if they have an offer, and for how much. And then I’ll do the math. The mental math. 

Here are the variables in this equation:
Time off
Stress level
Opportunities to be creative
Opportunities to make even more money
Opportunities to help my family and help others
Further education/training

Here are the constants:
Tall Child
TIME I NEED to party in Townsend, which brings us to ISSUE 6

ISSUE 6:                RIVERDANCE
I told you that Delicious (a retired school teacher who knows exactly how much it costs in gas to get from Sevierville to Knoxville and back) and I, a fledgling school teacher/possibly banker/unsure really, are trying to buy a second home in Townsend, TN. Look. We dream big!!! We do not factor money into our dreams. Why would we? Sometimes we have it. Sometimes we don’t. We are still here. When we dream, we work. And, despite what we lack in the beginning, we usually see our dreams come to fruition.

When Pooh passed away, Delicious made about $25,000 a year and I was a freshman in                 college. I took my pitiful self to IHOP and worked. Hard. I helped her pay bills. I high school, I busted (burst) my behind to secure scholarships. I worked. Hard. I graduated early with no debt.

When I met Tall Child, I knew I wanted to marry him. I was a perfect girlfriend. No ultimatums. No pressure. I never did one stick of his laundry. We didn’t live together. Heck, I bought my own house when I was 25. I worked. Hard. Many years later, he fell               prey to my predatory ways. Happily ever after…sort of…you know the drill. Poor guy.

After Sharky, we wanted another baby. For the next eight years, Tall Child and I struggled through the misery of infertility and its treatments, then the   mental/financial/emotion test from Heaven and helk: the adoption process. I worked. Hard. When we applied for adoption, I had $100. Two years later, we brought home our Gnome. I worked hard and was blessed beyond measure to meet Tinkerbelle.

I dreamed of becoming a published author. I dreamed of writing something that would minister to the adoption community. Tall Child said I was crazy and didn’t have time. I woke up at 5 a.m. for a solid year. I worked. Hard. I published The Eye of Adoption in March 2013. Since then, I’ve published a small collection of essays, a short story, and I’ve written countless articles and blog posts.

So Delicious and I want a second home, a dumpy little cabin that’s more like a box-shaped tent, close to the Little River. Why? Because that was Delicious and Pooh’s dream. Just looking for a place has given her new life! We act in faith, ya’ll. So should you. I bought diapers and baby blankets in the eight years I waited for Gnome. Delicious and I scavenge through Goodwill and thrift shops for river house furniture. We aren’t greedy. We aren’t even materialistic. Once, I did a spreadsheet and showed Tall Child my figures. I spend around $1500 on myself per year. (That amount even included two Dollywood Gold Passes and two Knoxville zoo passes)! I’m frugal from day to day. I’m conservative.

In The Eye of Adoption, I quote an acquaintance who said, “If what you are doing is right with God, the money will show up.”

Delicious and I are dreamers. And, we share the spoils of our dreams with those we love. We don’t buy stuff. We buy experiences and memories!

Do I come across as self-involved lately? If so I apologize. And, at least I admit it. Hey, I’m a stereotypical only child. I like attention, I may communicate in an odd fashion from time to time, I need my mama, and I see the world through a focused view (from me outward). Not sure about all that grammar right there. I’ll get mama to proof. Anyway, thanks for listening/tolerating. Once I get all these big things wrapped up and finalized and over with, I’ll get back to being funny. I promise! I warned you, readers, waaaaaay back in Theory 1: People write diaries hoping someone else will read them.

Readers, what are your dreams? Do people laugh at them, only to respect you later for having the intestinal fortitude to bring those dreams into reality?

Hey, thanks for hanging with me and being this lonely only’s online friends. I value your insight and love you more than you’ll ever know. I wish I could hug you. Though I’m not sure the hug would be as enjoyable as it would have been a month ago.

If you need me, I'll be here (eventually):

Don't let people laugh at your dreams. If they do, don't invite them to the second home you can't afford.


See you next post. Until then, DREAM BIG and think outside the barn, no matter how big it is!

Just thinking outside the barn...

Just thinking outside the barn...