Marsha, Marsha, Marsha. Or, how many moms you got?

"Life gives you lots of mothers."

It's true. I'm blessed with an amazing "real" mom. But I've been guided and comforted by many other moms, too.

There was Debby, the woman I worked with in college, who drove me home - completely out of her way - when it was really cold. And Mylene, the coworker at my first job in a big city, who took me under her wing - and then freakin' helped me move out of a very bad situation. And Lynn, who took one look at me and knew I could use a funny and kind friend. All such important mothers.

Growing up, I had Marsha. She was BFF's mom, and her house was always open. She and her husband were the kind of folks who never carpeted their family room, so the kids could hang out there and not have any worries.

Marsha had a huge laugh and was always going off on an adventure. She biked across Iowa and then around the Netherlands three times. She broke her wrist learning how to rollerblade when she was … a lot older than I am now.

Marsha passed away a few weeks ago.

It wasn't unexpected, and it was in many ways a relief. Alzheimer's is the worst, worst, worst.

I was so focused on being present and strong for BFF. We cleaned out her mom's room at the care center. We joked about all the casseroles and all the folks stopping by the house.

Our posse did shots in the bathroom of the funeral home.

We climbed to the top of the rocket slide in the city park late at night, still dressed up from the visitation.

Source

We looked like adults even if we were scared kids.

It was OK.

And then the morning of the funeral, as a dear friend and I were walking towards the church? I saw the hearse. And I turned away and said, "Hold on - I need to stand here and lose my shit."

They were going to take Marsha away. I'd seen her. I knew she was gone. But a hearse? A hearse made it real. So I stood on a sidewalk and made guttural noises into a dainty handkerchief.

We all need a mom, and I have been fortunate to have many good ones.

At the funeral luncheon in the church basement, I sat with BFF's brother. We hadn't seen each other in at least 15 years. He said he was surprised to learn I didn't have kids.

"Well, things didn't turn out the way I planned," I said. And then some spirit took over my body and I continued, "But this way I get to focus on being the best aunt. And we all have many mothers, and I get to be a surrogate mom to the people around me. Like your mom was for me."

Yes. Just like that.

I promise to pay it forward, Marsha. Thank you.

Infertility is like a gopher.

I've got a real problem with necks.

A dear friend recently asked me out of the blue, in public, "I noticed you have all those bumps on your face and neck. What are they? Are they going to go away?"

It was like a maggot-filled squirrel carcass had been dropped in my lap. What? I was shocked and didn't have time for the gracious response. Instead, my mouth opened and I said, "Yeah. That's from when I was trying to get pregnant. I didn't get a baby but I did get a horrible facial deformity. It's permanent. Not that I'm bitter."

I sounded like a hateful old hag.

For those playing along at home, I'm referring to the bumps along my jawline that are basically uterine fibroids on my face. Since they're on my jawline and mercifully not painful, I kind of forget about them. But they're obviously ... obvious.

I've been ruminating on why this exchange bothered me. Is it because we like to believe people see our fantasy selves instead of the uterine-fibroids-and-all truth? When I had a black eye, I was amazed by how many people didn't notice it or pretended not to. Are we just used to people not seeing us? Or do we depend on the dream that our faults aren't discernible to the naked eye?

In the midst of my navel gazing, I went to the grocery store. Under even the best of circumstances, this trip makes me moderately homicidal. This day was no exception.

There was a couple bickering over what type of bread to purchase. They had an infant in their cart and were sporting sweatpants that suggested sleep and laundry were not happening on the regular. They weren't adorable new parents - they were haggard and haggling and not being their Oprah best selves.

The guy also had a series of huge neck tattoos that had clearly not been considered all together. They had been plotted individually, and he'd hoped they'd make a pleasing whole.

They did not.

The tattoo closest to my critical harpy eye was some sort of green monster. It was not a known character. Maybe it was his own art. Maybe it didn't turn out the way it was supposed to. Or maybe it's exactly what he hoped for and a representation of how all his dreams were coming true. But I looked at that tattoo with disdain and thought, "Oh, fer Christ's sake. You clearly make horrible life decisions and yet even you are entrusted with a baby. Fuuuuuck riiiiight offfffff."

It was not one of my kindest, most loving moments.

I am a selfish, horrible person, which is not a surprise. But I was surprised by my vitriol towards this man. The thing about infertility is that after a while, it's fine. Fine-ish. Fine-adjacent, anyway. And then it pops up like the gopher in "Caddyshack," all "Hey! Remember me!" And you're all, "Sonofa bee sting! What the hell?"

I hope I didn't give neck tattoo guy obvious stink-eye. If I did, it wasn't about him - it was about me, which I guess is a good lesson. I'm trying to find a larger, feel-good life lesson for all of this. So far, what' I've got is "Don't look at people's necks."

I don't think that offers a lot of value. Like, it's not going to get me on Oprah's "Super Soul Sunday," unless it's a very special episode wherein everyone wears turtlenecks.

Or maybe it would be an episode that's all, "I have a black, black heart, but I'm trying. What about you?"

In which my husband's feet give me a mental breakdown in the HyVee parking lot.

There was something in the air - the planets were aligned, or maybe there's just something about a 70-year-old's birthday party that makes people think, "Hey! I'm gonna ask that 40-something lady why she doesn't have kids!" But it happened.

I was at a birthday party. I knew three people there. Two of those people were men who asked me - separately, but within about 20 minutes of each other - why I didn't have kids, or what I was waiting for, or when My Guy and I were going to get on that already.

When an acquaintance asked me, I surprised myself. Deep within the darkest recesses of my black, black heart, a gracious lady arose. Like a glamorous phoenix! She knew just what to say. I opened my mouth and "Well, we wanted kids, but it didn't work out. But we decided to be happy anyway" came flowing out. Even as I was speaking the words, I thought, "Oh, wow. This is some klassy shit."

When a friend asked me the same question mere minutes later, I had used a good portion of my grace and dignity for the day. Plus, we were pals who gave each other a hard time. And I was getting tired. My response to him? "Shit down there is broken."

And ... that was an effective way to change the subject pretty quickly.

I felt good. I felt like I had successfully maneuvered two conversations that a few years ago would have left me reeling. Instead, I thought about how people usually have only the best intentions. I was mature and strong and had it going on.

On the way home, I ran by the grocery store. I cruised up and down the aisles, thinking about my grand infertile lady triumph, about how not having children in the Midwest in 2017 still makes you kind of a weirdo, but it was OK. I was so calm and mature and Oprah-like.

And then I left the store. As I was walking out, I saw a dad put his cart away and move to lift his 3-year-old son from the seat. The little boy had a rather unfortunate haircut but clearly thought this grocery outing was a grand man expedition with his dad.

Before picking up his boy, the man planted his feet - one foot slightly in front of the other, about hip-distance apart.

Now, I'm not sure how this happened, but I married a jock. My Guy loves any activity that involves a ball, bat, club, disc, or racquet. He has coached. He once held an informal clinic to teach my entire family how to throw a football because, God love us, we are quite indoorsy. He's that guy.

A lifetime of athletic endeavors means that there are some things My Guy does without thinking. Any arm movement - even if he's just tossing a dog toy - comes with a nice follow through. And I don't think he's capable of picking up even a can of dog food without first planting his feet - one foot slightly in front of the other, about hip-distance apart.

So when I saw that man getting ready to pick up his son outside the HyVee, my gut reaction was, "Oh! That's how My Guy would pick up his son."

Except he doesn't have a son. Except, except, except.

Not having kids is fine except when it isn't. And it's not a rational kind of crazy - it's a weird grief that pops its head up whenever it feels like it, even if it's been away for a while.

I didn't tackle the man and start crying. After all, he had his feet properly planted and would have therefore been able to swat me away like a fly. No, instead, I walked past with a somewhat contorted face. I got into my car and had a rational inner conversation about the merits of losing my shit in the parking lot of the grocery I frequent several times a week.

Pro: It might feel good.

Cons: Someone might see me and I come here all the time. I am so close to home, surely I could just have my mental breakdown at home like a lady. Crying makes my face puffy and who needs that?

I drove home. I didn't cry at all, even after I was safely ensconced in my fortress of solitude. I was just ... sad.

And the next day was Sunday, and it was a Sunday when My Guy and I didn't have to go sit at a soccer field for six hours because we don't have kids. Life was good. But sometimes? Sometimes, being childless means lots of little flesh wounds.

In which I break the baby.

My Guy and I are learning to embrace the DINK lifestyle. It's going pretty well, except we often ask each other, "If we don't have kids, why don't we have nicer stuff?"

Yeah, I got your '03 Honda right here.

But while we're enjoying our not-new-but-not-sticky stuff, we're also dealing with The Baby Give and Take.

The Baby Give and Take is a well-intentioned but very awkward dance wherein people insist we hold their babies or babies of other folk. The thought seems to be a combination of "This is the best baby ever!" and "You must bond with the baby!" Sometimes, there's a touch of "If you hold a baby, you'll finally decide to adopt!" thrown in.

Now, I like babies just fine. Their heads generally smell amazing. And holding babies is cool. They're warm and cuddly and what's not to like? But The Baby Give and Take means a baby is forced upon me or my darling husband. And then, to fulfill the "and Take" part of it, someone swoops in and whisks the baby away the second the infant makes a sound or gives even the slightest indication of not being 110 percent happy. There's generally no "Oh, she's fussy - do you want me to take her?" It's more like, "Jesus, people! Don't break the baby, you savages!"

I thought it was just me. But My Guy has commented on it - it happens to him, too. The administrators of The Baby Give and Take - who are both baby owners and baby friends and family - seem to be kind people who want to include us. But the whole thing makes us feel like idiots who have no social skills and failed the child care unit in home ec.

Not being parents means that we are bystanders to many of our peers' experiences right now. It means that maintaining those relationships takes extra care and work. And that's OK. But no one is helping the cause through The Baby Give and Take. What if the mere sight of an infant still made me explode into an infertile lady shame spiral? What if holding a baby made my kind and sensitive husband look for a drifter to kill?

The Give is bad enough. But The Take? The Take just says, "Well, bless your heart. I see you made an effort, but here, let me take that baby off your hands since you're clearly incapable of keeping it alive for more than 30 seconds."

Quit making me hold the baby. Or let me hold the baby when I ask and then let me hand her off in my own time. Or let me hide in the bathroom. Just ... let me be.

Also? My dachshund is mega-cute and won't require orthodontia or college. So, there's that.

Pretend they're happy tears.

I'm a terrible, horrible person. You probably are, too. But we're talking about me. Get your own blog.

Sigh.

See, a friend has received a great blessing. She's so happy, and excited.

On the surface, I am gracious and happy for my friend. But inside? Inside, I look like every monster from every 1950s B-movie horror show. I have fangs and scales and bulging eyes and bad, bad breath. I'm ugly.

I look like this. But worse. Definitely with more nose hair.

My friend is pregnant.

Now, in the land of Childless and Going With It, you aren't supposed to feel feelings when someone else has a baby. If you didn't spend a gajillion dollars on IVF until it took, or you didn't pursue every avenue of adoption until your house was filled with 27 kids, well, you just didn't want parenthood bad enough. You didn't earn the right to grieve.

But I'm still here. And I'm still grieving. And I feel horrible for feeling so ugly about my friend's good news.

She will be an amazing mother. I truly wish her and her lucky little baby every joy and blessing. I can't wait to smell that baby's head, because baby heads are the best.

But it also makes me sad.

Why wasn't it me?

Why am I one of three childless women I know in, like, the whole world? Why does this still hurt? Why do I feel like a defective typewriter?

I was never one of those women whose lives would be meaningless without kids. Longtime readers know that there was a time when I was pretty actively in the "Oh, hell no" camp when it came to children. But people change, and situations change, and I fell in love and I wanted to have a family with this amazing man. It just didn't turn out quite the way we planned.

Our line in the infertility sand was no treatments that would increase my breast cancer risk. With my family history, this precaution wasn't just lip service - it was necessary. So, our treatment options were limited.

As for adoption? My parents offered to help financially. It felt very "How much for zee little gurl?" But it didn't feel right. My husband and I tabled adoption talk until we could right our emotional ships. And then it just never felt like the right time to pursue adoption. And then we realized it wasn't right for us at all. We will contribute to the world in other ways.

And so, here we are.

We make grandiose proclamations like, "Since we don't have to put anyone through college, we should go on fabulous vacations!" And yet, we can't agree on where to go. We set up college funds for our nieces and nephews, and go back to the same beachfront hotel year after year. And year after year, I am troubled by seeing the same poolside waiter, and I wonder if he has any retirement savings at all. I am redirecting my maternal instincts.

This is life. This is our life.

We've made peace with a world where we don't have kids. When a teacher pal mentioned a high school student who was pregnant and half-joked that she'd get the girl to give us her baby, I wasn't filled with hope. I was filled with panic, and with dread at the thought of having to say, "That's not our baby. No."

Because we don't have a baby. We won't. I had to shut that door because I couldn't move forward while still contemplating the "maybe." I had to say "no" for my own emotional survival, and to grow.

I get tired of friends and random people who can't talk about anything but kids, or who assume that everyone has kids, or who give me the sad head tilt of infertility empathy. If you really want to be empathetic, talk about something besides your kid. Also, buy me a drink. Because no 4-year-old is going to wake me up at 5 a.m. and I can sleep it off.

But if you really want to be kind? Please don't judge me too harshly. When I cry at a friend's good news and may or may not be successful in playing it off as happy tears? Let it go. Play along. Later, act like you can't tell I just sobbed in the ladies' room.

I'm happy for my friend. I can't wait to smell that downy baby noggin. But it's all just a bit much.

And who doesn't love an ugly cry?

Yesterday, my cousin posted the good news on Facebook: his wife gave birth to their son, a fat, pink baby who is perfect in every way.

They named that sweet boy after our grandpa.

It took my breath away. Oh, Grandpa. I miss you terribly. I can hear your laugh - the laugh I heard through the house when we got the call that my brother was born, the laugh that I imagine you'd give hearing that one of your grandkids named their child in your honor. A wonderful, wonderful name.

I have a thing for family names. I think names should mean something, and always thought I might name my kids after my grandparents.

So when I caught my breath at my cousin's big news?

It was so confusing. I was happy about the healthy baby, and touched that he was named after someone I love so much.

And I was hurt. Oh, sweet Oprah. It hurt me.

When it comes to not being able to have kids, I am Officially Fine. My brother and his wife are expecting their first child any second, and everybody has been Very Concerned about how I feel about them having a baby ... like I might just snap and be super angry at them for being so fertile. Like I'd paint my face in camo and swing in on a vine like Tarzan and steal the baby at machete-point.

No. Just no. First of all, I am not that outdoorsy.

It's not like they stole my baby. They are giving me a niece, and I am a mostly sane, mostly well-adjusted sane-like lady.

But my cousin naming his baby after our grandpa?

Well, I cried. I ugly cried. And all I could think about was the scene from "Julie and Julia" where Julia gets a letter from her sister. The sister has written that she is pregnant - something that's eluded Julia.

Julia tells her husband, "Oh, isn't that just wonderful news? Isn't it just wonderful?" And she sobs.

And then hottie Stanley Tucci just holds her and kisses the top of her head and gets it.

Happy and sad and confused. It was like that.

My Guy held my hand. He got it, too. He also suggested gently, "I think you might be a really tired lady."

Well, yes. That was true. But also? Grief is a fickle bitch. She pops up when you least expect her - and would really rather she just fucked off.

The care and feeding of squirrels.

Last night, I visited with some girlfriends under the stunning red moon. The restaurant patio was pleasant and the wine flowed.

We talked kids.

I love my friends. I want to hear about their lives. I am empathetic to the challenges of motherhood.

However.

We talked about kids and parenthood and marriage as parents for 2 hours. As a childfree person, this was kind of like talking about squirrels for 2 hours.

Yes, I am very familiar with squirrels. There are lots of squirrels around. I have provided short-term sustenance and care for squirrels. I happen to like squirrels.

But I don't have squirrels of my own, and am unfamiliar with the day-to-day challenges of squirrel care. I know squirrelhood can be difficult and the keepers of squirrels need to vent and compare notes.

I have no squirrels. Instead, last night, I had a wandering mind. I'm ashamed to admit that I committed that greatest of all social faux pas: I checked my phone.

I try to channel my childfree, perennially single, and quite fabulous friend Liza during these times. What would Liza do?

I have no idea. Maybe she'd go to the ladies' room and call a friend with benefits. Except I'm married and I'm pretty sure my friend with benefits would be at our shared home anyway.

So I smiled and tried to be engaged. I do not want to diminish anyone's experience. Except ... by doing so, am I denying my own experience as someone gets sick of talking about other people's kids all the damned time?

I think it's just a pitfall of being a woman in your 30s. Raising kids is what all of my peers are doing right now, while I'm painting baseboards and trying to find myself.

This summer, I ran into an acquaintance who, upon figuring out where I live, rattled off a list of neighbors that surely I knew. I knew none of them. Finally, exasperated, the acquaintance said, "Do you go to Grant?"

Grant is the elementary school in my hood.

I graciously replied that I don't have children, but I'm sure the mothers on my street are lovely people.

But really, I wanted to say, "Actually, I graduated from elementary school several years ago. Clearly, you've lost yourself and are identifying yourself in terms of your children. Dude, that's messed up. So don't be all looking down at me. I know who I am."

So, that last part is maybe a stretch. I'm figuring out who I am. And I'm someone who gets tired of talking about squirrels.

I got ringworm for Mother's Day.

I guess that's what happens when your kids don't have thumbs, are generally unaware of most Hallmark holidays, and, oh, are dogs.

If you've never had ringworm, you are missing out. And if you've never had ringworm in your freakin' armpit? Well, you simply have not lived. The combination of itching and no deodorant means I am one hot mama. Bow-chica-bow-wow!

Fungus or not, I woke up on Mother's Day snuggling with my little 9-pound dachshund. And the first thought that popped into my head was, "This is a creature of God, and he is entrusted into my care." It was lovely.

And then he jumped off the bed and peed on the floor.

It was a nice precursor to the ringworm.

Leading up to Mother's Day, there was a lot of noise about folks who are disenfranchised by the holiday. Anne Lamott revisited her Why I Hate Mother's Day article. And this lovely post begged churches to include all women / caregivers / maybe-officially-moms-maybe-not in their acknowledgements.

This was my first Mother's Day knowing that I am unable to have kids. I watched myself carefully, like I had been exposed to some horrible Mother's-Day-is-gonna-make-you-sad virus, and was looking for signs of illness.

Mostly? Mostly, I was just fine.

Mostly, I was annoyed at the comments to the kindhearted post about including all mama-types. Some of the comments veered dangerously into "How dare you marginalize vegan non-gendered parents of foster guinea pigs" territory. Because we need to include everybody in everything all the damned time.

Mostly, I felt like channeling my mom, specifically after she's spent time with her Minnesota sister and has a bit of a hearty-northerner accent: "Oh, may-eh gayyyyyy-ud. Get a grip."

Mostly, I was speechless when a pal told me she felt "so, sooooo baaaaaad" for me and my lack o' fertility. Evidently, I have a sad, sorry little life. Evidently, I am pathetic.

But mostly? Oh may-eh gayyyyyy-ud. Get a grip. Moms got flowers and kids waking them up. I got extra sleep and ringworm. It's all fine.

Five things not to say to the barren lady.

So, last time I ran my mouth about not being able to have kids, sweet cookingwithgas asked about the folks on the sidelines of the battle to get knocked up:

Where do you feel the role is with other family members who love you greatly and hurt when you do?

The truth of the matter is that I just don't know.

Be aware of the differences between folks who are actively participating in the Infertility Olympics versus folks like me who just know they can't have kids. The landscape is different for the folks who are praying that this might be the month that nature takes her course, or the IVF sticks, or whatever. These dear people are always holding their breaths.

Me? I'm mourning and trying to figure out what's next.

Either way, my best advice would be to acknowledge what is going on, and that you are supportive and willing to talk. Something like, "I know this is really challenging. I'm with you, and will support you however I can." However, you only get to say this once. You don't want to be the person who's all, "Confide in meeeeeeee!" every other second. Ick.

Mostly, I think you have to be responsive instead of proactive. 

Because I always find the process of elimination helpful, here are comments that you really, really shouldn't say to the barren lady:

1. "Just relax and it will happen." - Oh. You mean I'm not supposed to clench everything all the time?
2. "I have a friend who (fill in the blank)." - Well, good for her. Dunno if you realize this, but your friend and I do not happen to share a uterus.
3. "It's God's will." - Fuck you.
4. "So, when are you going to adopt?" - Because adoption is no big deal and super-easy. You just walk into Babies R Us and ask, "How much for zee little gurl?" I understand they also have layaway.
5. "There's just nothing like having your own biological child." - There's also nothing like punching you in the face, because I have no other response to your lack of sensitivity. Hag.

And yes, some well-intentioned friend has said ALL OF THESE THINGS TO ME at 1 point or another.

My sweet mama has mentioned that it upsets her when I use the term "barren," because it sounds like I, personally, have exactly zero to offer the world - a lifeless desert of a human. I respect her saying that, and must admit that there have been dark moments when I have felt like a giant loser and a freak for not having the ability to bear children.

But really? There's not another word for it. It's "barren" or "infertile," and of the 2, I guess I prefer "barren." I certainly don't speak for everyone here. My personal preference is based solely on the fact that whenever I write "barren," I mentally draw it out to be "baaaaaaaaaarren" and picture myself wrist-to-forehead, collapsing on a chaise lounge.

It's a highly personalized journey ... to wherever it is we're going.

I try to give everybody the benefit of the doubt, because 99% of folks are coming from a place of kindness and love. But sometimes? Sometimes, I want to stomp my feet and carry on about how it isn't fair, and oh, people are dumb.

How do you respond when someone says Not The Right Thing? How do you get over the fear of being that person?

Infertile and surrounded by Other People's Babies.

You down with OPB? Yeah, you know me!

I'm mostly over the whole "Everyone in the world is having babies but you" thing. No, really, I am. Mostly.

My sweet brother Poochie and his wife are expecting. I am truly so excited for them. However, it's clear that the family was concerned about how I might take the news. Poochie called me and was all, "I don't know what to say so I'm just gonna tell you: we're having a baby." And I squealed and was so excited, and then I thought about crying. But crying because I was conflicted.

I told my mom that I was totally on board with Operation: Baby Poochie. However, I reserve the right not to attend any fucking baby showers. It kind of sounded like my family was just excited that I wasn't planning on firebombing the nursery.

I guess I'm finding out that it's possible to simultaneously be happy for someone else and kind of jealous but not really. I don't have an overwhelming desire to kidnap my husband's nieces and nephews because, well, they aren't my babies. Because my babies don't exist. And even I realize that you can't turn a person into someone else.

And so I make the most colorful baby quilts, and am always up for a raucous game of Uno, and always ask how school is going. I'm not a mom, but I will be Your Favorite Fucking Aunt of All Fucking Time.

Gift from the sea.

Today at the pool, I was completely taken with a particular kid. He was 8 or 9 and horsing around and playing catch with his older brother / cousin.

I nudged My Guy. "Babe, I've totally found your spirit animal," I said. "Look at that little boy! You guys are obviously bonded on a spiritual plane!"

Spirit Animal was a solid, energetic kid with dark brown hair. He was a bit squirrelly, and his joy at playing catch in the pool was just intoxicating.

He wasn't loud or obnoxious. He was just ebullient.

He reminded me so much of my sweet husband, who loves nothing more than playing ball, who can be so squirrelly-yet-sweet that I refer to this common state as "monkey on a trampoline."

Our kid might have looked like this boy. Except we aren't going to have a kid.

This made me momentarily sad. Oh, woe is me! Lounging around a pool at a posh, beach-side resort! My poor barren self is so tiiiiiired after reading a book a day and having bloody marys delivered to my chaise louuuuuuunge! Bloody marys I can down with abandon because I'm baaaaaaarren!

Sigh.

I love the beach. There's something about the ocean that's so soothing and centering. And all the walks on the sand and pool time has helped my brain - and My Guy's - clear a bit.

Yesterday, he turned to me out of the blue and said, "This summer has really sucked."

Boy howdy. You speak the truth.

But we've also had many conversations about how blessed we are to be here, and how wonderful our life together is. As 2 people who had each, individually decided that we were destined to be alone forever, the blessing of a best friend spousal unit is especially sweet.

We don't know what's next. But we know it's all OK.

How we're paying for our new HVAC system.

Last week, between heat-induced crazy dreams, I had an epiphany.

Actually, "epiphany" is too strong a word. How about "acknowledgement of something super obvious?"

I had this, erm, acknowledgement at about 2:15 in the morning as I laid drenched in sweat in our sweltering, broken-HVAC-having house. The acknowledgement was that I damned well better get - and accept - the job for which I was interviewing in a few hours.

I did and I did. And so, I will go back to the corporate grind on October 1.

I have mixed feelings about this.

Superficially, it makes that giant check we just wrote to the HVAC folks hurt a little less. It's a lot easier to do stuff like, oh, replace your entire HVAC system when you aren't going to be living off of 1 income soon.

Big picture?

Well ...

I liked the manager, and he offered me the job on the spot - breaking the rules of the contractor (me) / contracting company (my new pimp) / end manager (this new boss guy) etiquette. The work sounds interesting. And it's a 6-month contract, so if it's really horrid, I can bail. And really? It could be working with a pack of rabid hyenas and still be better than my last contract.

It does, however, somewhat inhibit my dream of being a housewife, stay-at-home lady who lunches, or whatever you want to call it.

We have new neighbors, and during our initial meet-and-greet in the the driveway, the woman of the couple sheepishly admitted that she currently stays home ... and they have no kids.

I was all, "Me too! And I love it!" Because there's something embarrassing about not really wanting to work, to be rather jazzed about getting yourself and your household in order. A generation ago, it would be normal. Now? Not so much. You better have an excuse for your lazy-bum ways.

I feel like I'm still detoxing from my burnout at Corporate Behemoth, and my emotionally scarring stint at Mega Corporate Behemoth. But I was surprised that I felt energized after my interview - it was refreshing to use that part of my brain again. And that gives me hope.

I haven't quite figured out the part of my brain that's itching to start something creative and bold.

For now, My Guy and I are on vacation, at the beach. It's been a full day of sitting by the pool and walking along the water. We just returned from lounging in a hammock and debating the finer (and not-so-fine) points about Rebecca Black's "Friday" video. Obviously, the days are just packed.