I am in the process of applying for school. Yes. Me. School.

I haven’t been in a formal class for about eight years. During high school, my drug use and depression and general desire to no longer be alive caused me to miss so many classes that I couldn’t graduate from my regular school. I tried going to an “alternative” school that would accept the credits I earned while in rehab, but I was the only person there who was not on drugs so it ended up not being the best environment for someone so new in recovery. In the end I got my GED (got married!) and started working as a respite care provider for the state of Washington, caring for children with disabilities. I loved that work. I loved the boys I took care of and it was the most emotionally rewarding job in the entire world. But it was also the most emotionally draining. It took so much of me, and I would leave work just completely spent. When I got pregnant with Babs I had to quit my job because it was just too much. And now, as a single mom of two little’uns, it would also be much more than I could handle. So I am applying to a great cosmetology school in the area, and hopefully by this time next year I will be making money as a kick-ass hair stylist!

I’m so excited. I love the idea of being around grown-ups all day long, talking about grown-up stuff, and making people pretty. There’s one particular business that I have my eye set on called Rudy’s Barbershop. It’s an insanely fun, laid back, trendy place that offers benefits for working 30 hours a week! That would mean I could potentially work 6 hour shifts during school hours, and still be there for my kids every morning and afternoon. How perfect is that? Perfectly perfect.

But I’m also terrified. School? Learning things? Taking tests? Can I really do it? I’m extremely motivated at the moment, but when the first week of classes start and I have to get two kids and myself out of the house every day by 6:30 in the morning, I’m not sure how pleased I’m going to be with this decision. It’s going to be so difficult being a full-time student again after so many years, while at the same time transitioning Babs into Kindergarten and Zibbit into daycare and dealing with the emotional fallout all by myself at the end of the day. I anticipate a lot of blog entries come September are going to look like this:

Am stupid idiot. Can’t do it. Shall sell organs on black market instead. Anyone looking for a spleen?

I’m going to a couple of informational seminars this week to look into financing and the program itself, so once I have all the logistics squared away I’m hoping I’ll feel much more confident. It’s going to be hard. Really really hard. But it feels like a wonderful new beginning and I can’t wait to get started!

Drip. Splash. Squelch.

The bathroom door is locked. The three year old is nowhere to be found.

Knock-knock. “Zibbit? Are you in there?”

“IT’S OKAY!” You hear from behind the door. Splish-splosh. Ahem.

“Please come open the door Zibbit.” A very guilty face appears.

“It’s okay, Mommy!” She chirps unconvincingly.

“Where did all this water come from, honey?”

“It’s not water!” Uh-oh.

“Is it pee-pee? Did you have an accident?”

“No, it just comed out of the potty.” Oh shit.

Upon entering the bathroom, you find yourself faced with the entire Columbia river flowing across the beautiful hardwood floors. The brand new roll of toilet paper is now completely empty. The toilet is groaning and sputtering in the corner, begging for mercy. The three year old is absolutely soaked, and charmingly sheepish.

“I flushed it,” she says. “A lot of times I flushed it.”

You survey the situation, hands on your hips and a furrow in your brow. And then you do the only thing a reasonable woman can do. You turn off the light. Close the bathroom door. And pretend it never happened.

Would I sound like a horribly shallow person if I told you that swimsuit shopping is just as depressing as separating from my husband? Yes? Ok, we’ll just say that swimsuit shopping is not necessarily but may possibly be just as depressing as separating from my husband.

I greatly sympathized with Miss Kerflop’s entry about the sad state of the post-baby body and the desperate search for finding a suit that fits and looks good. I’ve been shopping around for a few months now because my current swimsuit is a hand-me-down from my aunt, and I’ve had it for about five years. That’s sad. But after trying suits on at store after store after store, I’ve come to the realization that the idea of finding a suit that fits and looks good is a ridiculous pipe dream. It will never happen. The suit does not exist. And after seeing my parts jiggle and squish and slide out of flimsy suits under the harsh lights of various dressing rooms, I’m about ready to sign up for some hardcore plastic surgery.

While I was attempting to coax my nonexistent breasts into filling up a cute little halter top in the Target dressing room the other day, I overheard some teenagers on the other side of the wall lamenting about their own swimsuit issues. Although their complaints made me want to go over there and beat some sense into the little twits.

Girl 1: I just can’t find a top that fits! All these suits are just totally too small!

Girl 2: But that one looks cute on you!

Girl 1: Yeah, the bottom fits. It’s a small. But look, the top is an extra large and my boobs are still spilling out!

Girl 2: Yeah, like why can’t they make swimsuits for girls who have real bodies? My boobs would never fit into these tiny things.

Girl 1: I know, I’m a size 2 but that doesn’t mean I don’t have tits!

Grrrrrrrr. Real bodies? Real bodies? Let me give you fillies a little reality check on what a real body looks like. A real body has about six or seven wiggly places that should never, under any circumstances, be seen in the light of day. However, unless one is in the market for a wet suit, one cannot possibly find a swimsuit that will cover those places and flatter a real woman’s body. You, my sweet naive little children, do not have a real body. You have a teenager’s body. And I promise you, unless you die tomorrow that body of yours is only temporary. Come back to me in ten or fifteen years and we can discuss the perils of swimsuit shopping for a real body. Until then, please enjoy this knuckle sandwich.

After many many failed attempts, I did end up finding something today that hides the most heinous parts and pretends to flatter the chestal area. I had to mix and match two sets to make it work, but I think it’ll be ok. I went with this top, although I obviously don’t fill it out quite as well as she does:

And this bottom, and let’s please all imagine my thighs looking that lovely:

I’m ready to hit the beach! If only it would quit raining here and let some summer in.

Back when I was fifteen and my parents knew I was doing the drugs, they used to take me in for a urinalysis every few weeks to try and get me to stay clean. Didn’t work of course, but like any user worth their salt I still didn’t want whoever was looking at the results to actually know I was using. One guy I knew brought a ziplock bag of his friend’s pee to the rehab clinic. He kept it tucked into his armpit in order to warm it up to body temperature. I thought he was a genius. The problem was all my friends were users too, and their pee was probably was worse off than mine. But one day an acquaintance mentioned a failsafe method for cleansing your urine: drinking a glass of vinegar. She said it would flush my system so thoroughly that my pee would come out cleaner than holy water. I was fifteen and stupid, so I tried it.

Please. Please promise me you will never, ever do this.

It was one of the single most disgusting experiences of my life. I took a bottle of distilled white vinegar up to my bedroom, poured myself a nice tall glass of the stuff, and chugged. I got through about half the glass before the vomiting started. I tried, really I did, but I couldn’t hold it down. So I raced down the stairs to the bathroom and very loudly puked my guts into the toilet. My mom came rushing in to see what was wrong, and since I honestly thought I was in the process of a very painful death, I confessed what I had done. She called poison control who assured her that I would be fine, as long as I didn’t take any antacids for my stomach pain. Wouldn’t want a vinegar and baking soda effect! I spent the rest of the day feeling like death on toast and haven’t touched vinegar since. Until today.

Two days ago I spent a warm, sunny afternoon hanging out in my neighbor’s backyard, and I came home with one of the worst sunburns I’ve had in a long time. I was doing fine until this morning, when I woke up with the most painful stinging itch all over my skin. I thought I was going to lose my mind. It hurt so freaking bad, but I couldn’t scratch it because that made it all worse. I tried aloe gel which didn’t help at all. I tried some after sun cooling lotion, which made things much worse. Then in desperation I googled something along the lines of help me stingy sunburn owie whining I want my mommy. Maybe I was a bit more specific than that. Anyway, I came across this article. This lady claims that spraying vinegar on your sunburn will take away any pain, burning, stinging, or itching. I was willing to do anything, so I poured some vinegar on a washcloth and gently dabbed my sore skin. And people. It worked. I am sitting here almost completely sting-free and I feel like making out with that woman, wherever she may be, for telling the world about this miracle cure. I may smell like a science experiment, but I’ll take that any day over the crazy making itchiness of this morning.

And vinegar, I’d just like to say how sorry I am for shunning you all these years. You really are amazing. You clean dishwashers, spice up salads, freshen laundry, and cure sunburns. I had you pegged all wrong, buddy. Thanks for taking me back. I promise I’ll never quit you again.

I’m learning to call people all the time and ask for help, which is about the hardest thing I can think of doing. I’m always suggesting that other people do it, but it really is awful at first.

- Anne Lamott, Operating Instructions

Asking for help really is just about the hardest thing for me to do. When people call and ask if there’s anything they can do, anything at all, I rack my brain trying to think of something small I can ask them to do to humor them, make them feel useful, and get them off my back. “Oh, you know what?” I’ll say. “I’ve really been wanting the recipe for that pie you made a few months ago! I’ve just been craving that pie! If you could email me the recipe, that would just be so wonderful!” They tell me no problem, they email the recipe, and I don’t have to deal with them again for a few days.

I’m starting to lose faith in my ability to deal with other humans. I’ve always known that I’m sort of an odd duck, a bit left of normal, but when I sit down at the computer and actually start up a list of fake excuses to give people when they ask what they can do for me… I don’t know, isn’t that a little worrisome?

The problem is, right now I truly do need help. Real help. Down in the dirt mud up to your elbows help. And I seem to be completely incapable of asking people to help with things I honestly need. Instead I ask them for something stupid and irrelevant. And then I go around berating myself for losing my chance with that person. I can’t ask them for anything else now! I already used them up by asking for their apple pie recipe!

Like I would ever actually make a pie. Jeez oh lou.