Muffy's Fool

J-squared and the kiddos laugh with me for my blonde moments. J-squared always tells me how smart I am and he's serious, can y'all believe that? But, recently I'll go and do something so vapid, my words not his. J-squared will ask if I'm a natural blonde. The oldest girl will tell me, "Muffy's so special!" The youngest girl smiles studying me and giggles; she will take over the World one day. And, the boy-child will say, "That's another Muffy's Fools." I always used to pride myself of my rationality, level headedness, and common sense, but for the past year I've become more ditzy, forgetful, and absent minded.

On Saturday evening I was running around the house plugging in my hair dryer in every socket. The device would not turn on! I had to let my hair air dry, naturally, before going out on a weekend night. Do you really understand how dyer this was!?!?!

This evening I took the hair dryer to my Dad and asked, "Daddy, can you please make my hair dryer work?"

He said, "If you've tried multiple sockets push the ground button while it's plugged in."

I plugged it in. The ground button wouldn't budge. I slid the top button on the machine to turn it on. I looked down and realized that today, as well as on Saturday; I was trying to turn it on with the temperature control button NOT the On/Off switch. Once I slid the correct button there was a whirl of cool air.

There's another Muffy's Fool for this ditz!

Black & Tan

I have an irrational perception of myself.  I think I'm darker skinned than I actually am.  There I've said it; I've come clean.

I have suffered from this delusion for years, actually since high school.  When I was 17 and indoor lifeguarding I tended to spend my time dancing and singing at my station, especially if the pool was empty.  An older, attractive, brown-skinned gentleman would always come in during my shift and tell me, "You've got soul my Sister, soul."  In my mind that transferred to "You aren't so white, you are Black & Mild."  I wasn't just a pasty, white girl.

I wasn't aware of the iridescent pearl quality of my skin tone until a couple of years ago when my friend's father told me he was pretty sure that I could glow in the dark.  Even my boyfriend jokes that at night he doesn't need lights to find the bed, one leg peaking outside of my shorts acts as a navigational beacon of light shining his way home. 

I did not face my paleness as a problem until last week when I had my picture taken with Miss Ruby Wilson.  My boyfriend, J-squared, showed me the photo he had taken of the two of us.  I was in shock!  On Beale Street I exclaimed, "WHO is THAT WHITE GIRL in the picture?"  Naturally, it was me. I had to do something.

Even after many days outside I may have had a skin tone with a reflective quality.  To remedy the situation I spent three glorious days in the pool, sunning myself.

Yesterday and today at work if someone waved at me and said, "Hey Muffy,” I would respond with, "I'm surprised you recognized me with how dark I am.  I look like a whole different person. I'm practically black."  And I am.

When my Mom, The Silver Fox, got home from work this evening we sat down to dinner. While we were eating our ice cream I asked her, "How come you haven't commented on my tan?"

She looked kind of disgusted as she scanned my face and naked arms. I'm still wearing the tank top and sports bra from my run after work. Her eyes closed slowly and opened with equal determination.  She took a breath and exhaled as she said, "You're kinda orange. Why'd you get a spray tan?" 

"Seriously? A spray tan!  This is a real tan!"  I exclaimed across the table.

My Dad sat silently, oblivious to my darkness - I'm always his pretty, pretty princess.

The Silver Fox retorts, "What'd you do to yourself?"

"I was in the pool for three days!"

"Oh, well you are still kind of orange."

I guess when J-squared's youngest daughter tormented me by calling me an Oompa Loompa on Monday evening she wasn't joking.  She giggled as she told me how my skin is orange.  

I'm tan, damn-it!  TAN!!!!  Even if you don't see it, I'm still Black & Mild.

My Uterus is Not a Clown Car

It's not a clown car, but there's enough room for all of us.

To say I'm a little bit emotional is a major understatement. To be perfectly honest, I'm a wreck. This afternoon, when I go to the doctor they will be testing me for Uterine Cancer. I'm terrified.

When I was five years old and played with my Barbie’s I envisioned a future for myself that involved a husband and babies; lots and lots of babies. I've always only wanted to be a wife and a mother. I had my future imagined and planned, when MarineBrother would be walking across the stage for his high school graduation I'd be 7 or 8 months pregnant and cheering for him in the stands-as big as a house. However, at the age of 23 after excruciatingly painful menstruation cycles that included, on a regular basis, in less than 45 minutes time bleeding through a Super-Duper sized tampon, an ultimate incontinence pad for nighttime protection, and at night a towel with a plastic backing to protect the bed sheets. Let me tell you, there is nothing quite like the horror of passing a blood clot the size of a man's fist! Then, I questioned, "Oh my God, was I pregnant? Did I just have a miscarriage?" The Dr. said I had not been pregnant. However, I was diagnosed with Poly-Binomal Cysts on my right ovary.

Being twenty-three and facing the possibility of having Ovarian Cancer was daunting, I could lose my ovary but I didn't understand the severity of the situation until the nurses were wheeling me into surgery. My Dad wouldn't let go of my hand and he was crying. Nothing can make me breakdown quicker than seeing my Dad cry.

When I was awoken from surgery there was reason to celebrate. The cyst was not cancerous and my ovary was saved. The cyst wasn't even attached to my ovary. It was twisted from and around my fallopian tube; all were saved.

At a family dinner in the fall of 2008 my brother and his wife announced that they are pregnant with their first child. I was ecstatic for them! I couldn't wait to have a niece or nephew. After dinner his wife took me aside. She said she had always hoped that her and I would have and could have been pregnant together the first time around. Then she suggested that perhaps the next time. She is sincere and kind and I know she has nothing but the best intentions. I'm positive I made a rude response or a silly face and walked away. I was crying. The only thing I ever wanted to be in life was an impossibility. Sometimes, I think about that conversation and it hurts so badly in my chest.

The hurt I felt that day with my brother's wife reminds me of a professor I had at the University of Memphis. She asked me one day during a class break, "What do you want to do with your life?" I answered her honestly, "I'd like to be a stay-at-home mom who homeschools." Unguarded, this woman who has a Doctorate in English Literature responded, "That's the biggest waste of a life, Muffy! Why don't you quit school now and go do that?" I turned red in the face and tears began to burn behind my eyes. Who was she to tell me my dreams and aspirations are a worthless?

Fast forward to October of 2010, I went to the doctor because I had not had a cycle since July. He gave me a prescription for pills to jump-start my period. I question him if my cysts were back. He poo-poo'd my questions and sent me away. I became as regular as I had even been. I just assumed my body was made to be in pain and bleed heavily for prolonged amounts of time, until this past May 2011.

For Memorial Day weekend most of the ladies of my book club spent a long weekend in New Orleans. Even with the food poisoning, from the restaurant Oceania- please don't go there, that resulted in hospitalization for dehydration upon my return to Memphis the trip was stellar! Upon being admitted into the hospital doctors being doctors ordered a myriad of tests, including a CT scan. The immediate diagnosis was Intestinal Cancer. Whew! Was I relieved that after further review and three extremely boring days in the hospital I was again diagnosed with cysts on my ovary.

Armed with a new OBGYN we went after the cysts with a vengeance. This time the cysts were actually on both ovaries. I was shocked, the surgery 10 years ago was supposed to eliminate this problem. I had my fears and worry but I was confident that the results were going to be the same. With this surgery I knew exactly what to expect. I was determined that it was not going to take me six weeks to heal like it did when I was 23.

Less than two months after the diagnosis, on July 25, I went under the knife. As the nurses and doctor were wheeling me in to Operating Room 2, true to me, I was giving them instructions, "You do not have permission to remove my ovaries or my uterus. Leave them where they are! When you put the tubes down my throat don't jam them in there. That shit hurts! Oh, and I don't care if you listen to Country music while you are operating." Sleep came as a relief.

When I was brought back around to the conscious state I had a coughing fit like I was fighting for air. Then I felt the pain just inside my hip bones- the pain was reminiscent of the night prior to my bellybutton piercing.  At the age of 18 it made sense to prepare for a belly-button ring by doing over 200 sit-ups. When I awoke from my surgery I was holding my stomach only to realize that I hurt so badly inside my hip bones because those were incisions.

The nurse stopped my coughing and I immediately began questioning, "Was it Cancer? Do I still have ovaries? When can I go pee? I'm ready to go home."

You see, they won't let you go home until you go pee. It has something to do with making sure they reconnect your bladder correctly. I was given permission to go to the bathroom. This go-round I anticipated that when I stood up blood would gush from my insides down my legs because of the D&C that was performed. This was something I did not know or expect ten years ago, especially as my Dad is walking me to the bathroom and all I can manage to mutter is, "I can't stop the blood!" This time I knew.

The nurse gave me an all clear, "It's not cancer and you have your ovaries."

I felt relief. All I have to do is heal.

Two days after surgery I walked a mile. The next day I went running.  After all I was training for my first 5k.

This past October I began to feel sluggish. I was always tired. I chalked it up to a lack of sleep from spending late nights and most of my free-time in the darkroom for photography. That didn't explain why my cycle was extremely heavy and lasting two plus weeks.  But, it did explain the fatigue. The OBGYN changed my prescription for birth control again and said to give it 3 months. It takes that long to make a difference.

On January 6 of this year I had my 3 month exam. The prolonged periods lasting two or more weeks were persistent. I was bleeding more than half of my life.

I was dressed in a paper gown when the doctor walked in to my exam room; at least they had a sweet mobile hanging from the ceiling.  Little drink umbrellas are lazily dancing in the office air conditioning. Believe me, I was imagining a tropical vacation with fruity drinks rather than anticipating cold stirrups and the famous words, "Scoot your rear all the way to the end of the table."

Instead of going directly into the exam the doctor sat down.  He thumbed through my charts and made a clicking noise with his tongue against his teeth, "Well, I suggest we cauterize your uterus or give you a hysterectomy."

Instantly I began fighting back tears. My lips were quivering and all I wanted to do was calm the eff down, not show weakness, and don't cry.

He kept talking, "Still give you an exam...You may have polyps...More tests."

All I could manage to say was, "Cauterization or hysterectomy is not an option. I don't even have kids."

He said, "With all of your problems you should realize you may not be able to have children."

I had the exam and then waited, stunned, for two hours so I could have a sonogram. The sonogram shows I have polyps in my uterus.

This leads to today. In a few minutes I am going to have a sonohystogram to test for Coochie Cancer.

I know I have dropped a lot on you. I'm sorry. I'm going to sit here trying to be calm. For the next few minutes, until they call my name, I'll revel that at least for the next few minutes I don't have cancer and I can have children. Right now, my dreams are still alive.

Glamorous Lifestyle

This morning I crawl out of bed and I'm standing in front of the full length mirror in my bedroom.  As I look at myself I think, "I am more than a mess." My hair is out of control and carelessly styled in the manner of a Scout Finch arriving home from an outdoors adventure.  It is tainted with the aroma of cigarette smoke, spiraled with laughter, and reminiscent of memories from the bar last night. The remnants of black eyeliner are smeared across my face like a raccoon's mask.  I cannot help but to smile.  My cheekbones are beginning to flirt with an impending arrival and the dimple in my left cheek has returned.
I'm wearing my University of Memphis Snuggie backwards as an open robe.  I scan my nearly naked body.  I'm wearing a leopard printed push-up bra and I'm impressed, women pay for what I have naturally.  I'm pleased that my waist is beginning to slim in the center, but I have a long way to go.  I laugh out loud as I am immensely distracted by my giant, purple, thong panties that are at least two sizes too big and are loosely hanging between my legs. My thighs can always use more squats, my legs are begging to be shaved, and my toenails are desperate for a new color.  I can't help but to not take myself seriously.

Recently, I've been facing and questioning the opinions others and I have of myself.  Mostly I've been facing my fears and recouping.  My married friends have been constantly telling me how envious they are of me, of my freedom. Others have told me that I am a party-girl and that I have a wild personality.  Someone has even built me into something of his own creation, to the point he admittedly gets nervous to speak to me.  Although wild personality is definitely a possibility, party-girl is far from the truth.  And I assure you, there is nothing to be nervous about. I should know, after all, I'm my own greatest critic.

Three and a half months ago I was confused, sad, angry, and disappointed.  I was trying to facilitate the best possible way to remove myself from a disaster of a relationship and a broken life of sadness in a house of sour lemons without letting myself be harmed any further and trying to avoid hurting him.  Regardless of his infidelity, abusive tirades, pathological lies, controlling behavior, and neglectful hygiene I once thought I loved Rhine, I know now he was actually a bad habit. I know, I'm hopeless, actually ridiculous to stay for so long against the advice of close friends and second guessing myself.  I thought I could forgive him for his cyber relationships and continued memberships to paid sex websites, but I never could win against his constant reminders of my inadequacies. I was helpless to his "Strength Training," exercises of mental and emotional abuse.  However, I always followed my belief that I know I'm not perfect and I should accept his flaws.  In return, he, who is far from perfect, will accept mine.  I could not have been any more incorrect.  After four and a half years I had no other option but to leave.

Before I left the house on November 18, Rhine threatened me. He said, "You've got another thing coming if you think you are going to leave this house with any of your furniture." After work the next evening I returned to the house. Rhine and his father, our landlord, changed the locks on the house. I had previously removed a very limited amount of belongings and one laundry basket of dirty clothes. My moved wardrobe consisted of 2 pairs of sweatpants, 4 sweatshirts, four camisoles, some panties, a few pairs of socks, one t-shirt, one bra, and one dress. 
Rhine has spent months sending me multiple emails demanding money in return for the personal belongings of mine that he is willing to return to my possession. He has converted my property to his ownership, thus stealing all of my clothing, furniture, and possessions.  He is a thief and has spent months spreading lies about me.  In the middle of November he left me without clothing or even a winter coat.  I'm completely dumbfounded as to why he would want to continue to control me nearly four months after our breakup.
For three and a half months I have been constantly reliving the end of our relationship.  I have been  confused, sad, angry, and disappointed. I was confused because he was still controlling me with mixed messages and promises of fixing our relationship.  I was sad because I believed his lies and yet knew I had to leave.  I was angry at myself for being so weak, for not following up on inconsistencies, and angry that he was not who he promised he was. I was disappointed because I was responsible for wasting my time with a lack-of-potential loser in a dead-end relationship. Dealing with these emotions is a daily issue, an internal battle against myself.

As for the party-girl stereotype, my life is far from glamorous.  I constantly make bad decisions and huge mistakes.  I regret something I say at least once daily.  I do the absolutely wrong things and yet I want so badly to be perfect and appear put-together.  I am struggling with this obsession with perfection.  I am not anyone to be nervous around, I'm probably more nervous than you.  That's why I find it so hard to find the right words; I don't want to say the wrong thing to scare anyone away.  I rarely go on dates. In fact, I just let myself be kissed for the first time since Rhine.  Let me tell you, nice guys aren't supposed to kiss like that.  Most of the time I get stood-up, dates are cancelled, plans are changed, and men lose interest in me.  Last week a potential date got too high and decided he'd rather sit at home watching Jeopardy.  Yes, it happened.  Yes, he admitted it. I don't blame them for losing interest; right now I'm an emotional mess.  Many days I find it difficult to even pull myself out of bed.  I cry without even knowing I'm doing it.  Most days I convince myself that ordinary reasons of everyday life are occasions to celebrate just so I can make it through the day. 
I'm the only one that lives my life every day.  I shower. I go to work. I do my laundry. I pay my bills. As much as I hate to do it, I pump my own gas. I go to the grocery store. I eat by myself at restaurants. I go to the movies by myself.  I visit my family on a regular basis, I love them. Without knowing he's done so, my six year old nephew has made me feel worthy of love.  I spend a lot of time alone.  I'm the only person that knows I'm happiest when I am exercising; it's the only thing I find complete comfort in.  I'm the only one that knows when I sit down to eat cereal I end up with tears in my milk.  I'm the only one that knows that I go to the nail salon because I miss human interaction and the sensation of being touched.  I crave hugs like I'm gasping for air.  I have anxiety attacks. I have nightmares. I rarely sleep. I'm the only one that knows that socializing with friends and going out keeps my mind occupied from myself, my insecurities, and my greatest fears. 

Because of my vantage point I wonder why and what my married friends are so envious of. But, if going out with girlfriends, cracking jokes at my expense, laughing too loudly, saying inappropriate things, dancing, and occasionally having a couple of drinks classifies me as a party-girl, I will gladly accept that label.  After all, I'm the only one that lives me.  Only I know what I'm going through every day.  This is me.  This is the glamorous lifestyle of a single 30-something.

Confessions of a Long-Term Serial Dater

I'm sitting here staring at the blank screen, completely dumbfounded at what to write.  There is so much I want to say.  There is so much I need to tell you.

I'm doing the only thing I know to do. I'm writing this from the chair of a beauty salon.

The cardinal rule a girl must follow upon the break up of a relationship remains to be, "do not touch your hair." I'm throwing caution into the wind and I'm breaking my own rule. I am in desperate need of a change and in the next few weeks change is all I will have to embrace me.

Last week Rhine and I separated. "To save our relationship." Insert eye-rolling. I moved out of our bedroom into my own.  Rhine determined that in order to "save our relationship," we should take time apart. I have been through all of this before; the end is not new to me. It is not like we have been much of a couple anyway.  We fight every time we try have a conversation. Rhine is and has been sleeping downstairs on the sofa for the past month, since we came back from Hot Springs.

On one hand, I want to be with Rhine because we've been together for four and a half years. Out of habit, I have loved him. On the other hand, our relationship is good only in fleeting, sporadic moments.

This is contrary to what we let the outside world see.  To everyone else we carried on like the ideal couple, devoting ourselves completely to one another, appearing to be happy.  We tried to be one of those "it" couples that would make it together against all odds. Sadly, it was all an act.

I suppose I better start from the beginning.  This time the truth will be told.