'Please, sir. Can I 'ave some more?'

In this season of open gluttonly, I appreciate how you openly invite me (goad me?) to relay more drivel. My mother would (only somewhat tongue-in-cheek) say that 'Enough's as good as plenty," but that was apparently one lesson lost on her firstborn. And obviously not the philosphy embraced in of this land of privilege, as even at this moment plans are being made as to what to do with the leftovers following the feast.

And therein lies the dilemna for me- what do we do with the leftovers?

This issue has been thrust into my daily existence as of late, as I wrestle with what to abandon or decide to Craig's List from the home I am forfeiting, the most tangible loss from a union that was uncomplimentary at best. His green to her red. Purple to yellow. Blue...orange.

Unlike the neat little Gladware that we can scoop up our remants in to with matching lids, never even dirtying our hands, how best to package and compartmentalize the pieces that no one will be seeking out for seconds? Will the children want the album from the legal union that allows their parents to still share a surname? 'Our First Christmas Together' doesn't hold the keepsake memory promised by Hallmark -which at most visited one month a year, laying dormant the other eleven months... and which now resides there indefinitely.
And what of the children? Legally ours, but truly mine, increasingly so. At an age when vocalizations of wants are increasing, there are no neat little packages to sort out their needs with expiration dates clearly charting their openings or disposals. Their father and I still dance around the arrangements, both of us wanting to lead. So when the details are negotiated, will the childrens' needs sit center table or just be scraped aside and saved for later? Will they become a part of the preparation?
And when that impending deadline approaches, why is it the mother who decides what to discard and what to save as if predicting the future? Because... because I'm the mom. And I said so. And because at the end of the day, I'll be the one left holding the bag...

Virginity Relinquished... willingly

It has been quoted (by some wise, if not weary, writer ) somewhere that you don't truly know a woman until you've had a letter from her. Let that serve as a disclaimer (ahem... warning?) that you may therefore be exposed to more than you ever desired to know if you partake in these random, sporatic observations and recordings on life from this Kansas girl (?).

At the prompting, nudging and coersion of those I've grown quite fond of, I am, alas, venturing into the relatively anonymous abyss of blogging; making my headspace now open fodder for those who've tired of cleaning the lint from the dryer.

I openly admit I'm a quote-aholic, not even willing to concede that obsession, and have embraced the art of sarcasm and facetiousness. As the product of a mother who writes, a step-father who writes- technically (No. Really He is a Tech Writer) and a father who used his physical attributes to get ahead in this world, I'm a true psychiatrist's dream, for I not only can embrace (on occasion) the superficial, but I can journal about how wrong and shallow it is. Quite eloquently, too. (See, there I go, feeding that less substantive aspect of all that is me.)

Hang around awhile though and you'll learn that, in fact, humility reigns and no lesson is too small. For this toe-dipper, I prepare to plunge... time to test the water.