Wild Wordless Wednesday

I have spent my time this week working on the last minute touches for the Supergirl's costume and it seems that I have used up my weekly allotment of creativity. Instead, check out the photos of Supergirl on Halloween over the last few years. I am amazed at how much she has grown in what seems like such a short amount of time.

Halloween 2008 - A Spring Chicken - Age 10 months

Halloween 2009 - Rainbow Brite - Age 1 year

Halloween 2010 - Snow White - Age 2

Halloween 2011 - Dorothy and Little Red Riding Hood - Age 3

Halloween 2012 - Pocahontas - Age 4

I made every costume except for the Spring Chicken and I am kind of proud of that. She is talking about being The Corpse Bride next year - we'll see how that goes.

Learning to Tread Water (Again)

When I asked my doctor for anti-depressants in September, I would have honestly told you that I didn’t feel depressed, just down, just blue, just like I was standing on the edge of the very deep hole. I thought since I had travelled this road before, I would know if I was in the hole, I would know if I had already sunk that low. I truly believed that I was just on the outskirts.

But depression lies.

In the month and half since I have been taking my meds, I have started doing the creative things that I love again, I am baking and making things from scratch instead of taking things from the freezer and putting them in the microwave. I have actually given away hand-me-downs from Supergirl to her little friends instead of allowing them to continue to collect on and under the dining room table. I have made her Halloween costume.

I have my drive back and can actually focus on things around me rather than just focusing on myself.

I recognize that this might not seem like such a huge deal to people on the outside, people that don’t understand that a touch can be so painful that it brings tears to your eyes, people that don’t get that many little noises can gather together in my head to create one loud cacophony of SOUND that makes no sense whatsoever, people that don’t know how much energy it takes just to hold a short conversation – but to me it’s like the weight of the world has been lifted from my shoulders, the burden of everyone else’s happiness is no longer mine to bear anymore, the heaviness of their needs, their wants are not my main priority, not my responsibility, not at all.

And to those people the freedom that these realizations give me is also unexplainable. How do I explain to the ones that have always been free what it means to no longer be a slave to the crashing waves of an unseen disease? How do I describe the torment that my body has gone through daily for longer than even I had realized to someone that only sees the smiles on my face or the chirp in my voice that I use when faced with the public? How do I detail color that seemed lost for so long, when everything was dim and gray and blurred by my own tears?

I don’t know that I own the words necessary to make the shiny, normal ones understand, I am not sure that I ever will.

But I am better. I am content in this new place. And I am starting to find comfort again.

It’s kind of a big deal. 

There Are No Words...

I love words. I talk constantly (we’ve discussed this before), I devour books in single sittings because I just cannot get my fill fast enough (while largely ignoring my child and household duties), and I like to think of myself as a writer (okay, maybe just in the still and dark of night in my bedroom, but still).

But today, I have no words. No words at all.

In the blogging community there are about a bagillion “mom” blogs and an extremely large percentage of them are written by stay-at-home moms. While there is nothing wrong with being a stay-at-home mom, I just couldn't relate to a lot of them, so when I found Bridget’s blog (Stumbling TowardsPerfect) I knew that she and I would be friends in real life if we ever met.

Over the last year and half we have become great friends, I told you back in July that she and I wanted to attend the Blogher ’13 conference in Chicago but there is so much to it than that.

Bridget is one of those people that will always remind you how good you are, how strong you can be. She’s one of those people that just gets how life can be crap even to good people and how hard it is to strap on your boots everyday and keep going up that hill.

When I wrote about losing my job last June, she was the first person to encourage me to follow a new dream, to find a new path for myself.

When my whole world fell apart this winter and I was struggling to put one foot in front of the other on a daily basis, Bridget was the one that told me, “I want you to know how incredibly strong of a spirit you have and I don't want you to ever, ever buy in to the feelings that you are alone and failing --- because YOU. ARE. NOT. I just want to give you a big old hug!” (Who says that to a person that they have never met in person, half a continent away?)

Bridget is the person that you ALWAYS want on your team because you know that everything she does will be done 150% because that is just the kind of person that she is.

Yesterday morning when I opened up my Facebook page and saw a picture of her youngest daughter on it, it was like all time just stopped moving as I read: “Rest Peacefully in God's arms my sweet sweet angel. 10/5/01-10/24/12”.

It can’t be true, it can’t be because Dotter was a good, good girl, because Bridget is an awesome friend, because these things can’t happen to people.

Only they can. And they do. Even though it’s not fair, and it’s not right, it happens.

Bridget's 11 year-old-daughter died in a tragic car accident on Wednesday night. Her posts on Facebook and Twitter have been heart-wrenching, honest, and raw. All I want to do is get to her and give her a big old hug.

Those of us in the blogging community that love and care about Bridget and her family are joining together to raise money to help with their expenses. The website is With Love for Dotter. 

We know that no amount of money will ever replace the sweet, sincere, and lovable girl that she held in her arms. We know that nothing that we write or say will make the pain less or reverse time, but at a time like this, the LAST thing that a parent should have to worry about is money. 

Please consider going to the page and donating any amount, even if all you can do is leave a message of hope and support. We need each other in this world, especially at times like these. 

4 Outgrosses 3

Long ago, when Supergirl was merely a 3-year-old, I lamented that the Days of Poop were upon us. We spent large quantities of our waking hours discussing poop and where it should go. It directly affected the blog several times as well as my Facebook profile and Twitter feed.

I should have realized that, while I was praying for the Days of Poop to end, that there would be days that I would long for those innocent days of yore.

Ah, the innocent days of 3.

We have moved on to other, grosser activities in the last year, and, quite comically, the boogers and snot are the things that we are discussing more and more often. You would think that poop far outgrosses the snot and boogers, but that is where you are wrong. So very, very wrong.

I have proof:

"Supergirl, is there gold up there?"
"Huh?"
"Whatcha diggin' in your nose for?"
Shrugs, continues to dig. I grab her and say, "Come here let me suck it out". 
She squeals and replies, "No momma, it tastes too good to waste it on you."

And…

           

“What are you doing?”

            “I needed to blow my nose.”

            “On the blanket you use for nap at school?”

She nods, rolls the whole blanket back up and stuffs it back in her backpack. Since we were in the car driving to school when this happened, guess who got the crusty blanket for nap today.

And…

On a visit to my part-time job, my co-worker announces that he enjoys the crunchy ones as Supergirl digs happily in her nose. She gives him a disgusted glare and continues her dig. Then he says,

            “Do you like the crunchy ones or the juicy ones”

Her face of disgust is going full force as her mouth tells the truth. “Both,” she squeaks, defeated.

And, finally…

            “Supergirl, whatcha doin’?”

            “Getting a snack.”

            “Out of your nose?”

            “MMMM…hmmm”

“Maybe that should be your pose for picture day, just so everyone can see how you live your life.”

            “Whatever, mom, everybody does it. “

Time to go disinfect everything, again. 

Oh, Go Eat A Duck

You know how kids are when they are little and everything is big and surprising? Supergirl seems to have lost that. Last night, when she asked for her dinner, I tried to get her surprised or, at least, a disgusted response, instead, I got this.

“What are we having for dinner?” This question. Every night with this question. Why is this my job? Is there not other people involved that might be able to figure this out? Maybe?

“How about duck?”, I inquired, as though it was quite normal to have duck for dinner on a Monday. I bet I could think of a few people that would eat duck for dinner on a Monday, but as someone who has never had duck, who wouldn’t even know where to find or buy a duck, it all seems very rich and somewhat obnoxious to me.

“Yes, I love duck”, she responded casually like it was no big deal, like she is really just Suri Cruise walking around in a Supergirl costume. The child puts on airs, ya know?

“Really? So you have eaten duck?” I am baffled. I try to think of where my child could have eaten duck ever, ever in her lifetime.

“Actually, baby ducks.” She is not even reacting here, as though it is not a big deal at all. I imagine her in some sort of exotic and endangered animals dinner club where they eat Bengal tigers and Florida panthers just because they are rich enough to pay people that will prepare it.

“Baby ducks, huh? Where did you eat the baby ducks?” I am starting to think this is all part of some story that she has just made up. A fictional tale about a little evil girl that eats baby ducks. Surely, my daughter would not just pick up freshly hatched furry little chicks and pop them in her mouth like a small bon-bon.

“At Iiya’s with Scare Bear and Blade.” (What? What is she even talking about? I am about to have to call the Scare Bear to muddle through this at this rate.)

“Oh yeah? What did you have with the baby ducks?”

“Chicken. They called it chicken and ducklings.”

Oh. I said, breaking into a smile and trying not to laugh. “How do ducklings taste?”

“Like ducks.”

“And what do ducks taste like?”

“Feathers.”

Step On A Crack...

When I was a little girl, I believed to the very core of my little being that stepping on a crack would indeed break my mother's back. And there were days when I would be so angry with her (for what I am not sure) that I would find cracks and jump up and down on them with great anticipation of finding my incapacitated mother lying on the floor, riddled with guilt and pain for the injustice that she had inflicted upon her oldest (and best) child.

When it didn't work, I realized that she could not possibly be my real mother. My "real" mother was obviously some poor stranger that I had just handicapped out of frustration with my imposter mother. I would think longingly about my "real" mother and try to come up with magical ways to fix the broken back that she had undeservedly gotten because of my foolishness.

Now that I am the mother, I am convinced that my child must be purposefully stomping on every crack in her path today. As the lightning bolts of pain spasm up from the small of my back, I am reminded of all of the torture that my "real" mother must have gone through while innocently going about her childless life.

I am trying to come up with some theory that would explain why my child would be so angry with me. Is it because I "made" her sleep in my bed last night rather than "allowing" her to sleep in her own? Were the Cocoa Puffs that she pleaded for this morning somehow not to her liking? Does she need me to work more hours to keep up with her chocolate milk and chicken noodle soup habit? Is it because she is now beginning to suspect that her Pink Grandma is not really my mother?

Someone, please, please explain it to me so that I may get some relief from this aching, broken back and not lose my sanity completely.

Where Reality Hits the Blog

The real reason that I don't have another child? The Supergirl told me that she would "punch that baby in the FACE!" (Thank you Scare Bear for teaching my child that awesome, awesome phrase.)

The real reason that I didn't wear a skirt or dress today? The almost-5-year-old weather "caster" in my living room this morning told me there was a 6 cent chance of giant bunnies, an 8 cent chance of big bears, and an oncoming tornado, ensuring that I be prepared to be "bounced and tornated" today.

The real reason that I no longer try to nibble on a little girl's toes in the morning? She has recently noticed that her feet are just like her daddy's and now informs me to get off of her "big, smelly, stinky daddy feet" while laughing hysterically.

The real reason that my entire body aches today? I chose to take the shortest distance to sleep last night after a very long workday by taking the world's worst sleeper to bed with us last night instead of staying up and playing the bedtime game for hours. I am pretty sure that she may have impaled my kidney with her sharp ass knee.

The real reason that I don't respond when my child says excitedly, "Guess what I did!" is because I know, I know that she has just farted. I know because after several trips to the grocery store and anywhere else in public that she has done it she would exclaim "I FARTED" to everyone within a 50-foot parameter, I told her we should let it be a game and just let us guess what she did. Now, she insists that we guess immediately, even if we have just heard it or smelled it. She will not calm down until we acknowledge it. Additionally, her pleas for us to "just smell it" (while she giggles in anticipation) are becoming quite bothersome (and rather nauseating). We may have to keep her at home more often.

Finally, the real reason that I do not wear makeup in public? My stylist is still learning some fine motor skills and coordination, she lacks understanding of fall and winter shades, and goes for a "more is better" approach when it comes to applying makeup. Until she practices a bit more, I am going to remain pretty much clean faced in public. Although, some of the makeovers I have woken up to lately, are pretty monumental and quite the adrenaline booster.

Diary of a Submissive - A Book Review

I saw the older couple across from me shift uncomfortably after I sat down on the cozy couch and opened my book. I pretended not to notice the amused expression on the husband as his wife’s face turned crimson and she giggled. I pretended disinterest when I saw them looking in my direction and then whispering excitedly.

I brought the wrong book to the doctor’s office waiting room.

 In the next hour and half, I also came to appreciate my apparently wise choice in bra as mine provided ample padding to cover whatever excitement I was getting from this book. I was so flustered by the time that my name was called, that I am pretty sure I dropped everything twice in my rush to flee the scene.

I am not into being submissive. I have been hit with a belt before (actually a lot) and a paddle. I don’t need to have these instruments added to my bedtime routine and I am pretty sure that they would only serve to reawaken some long since squashed post-traumatic stress disorder if I attempted to.

I have a hard time equating any type of pain with pleasure, I am not one of those girls that can orgasm a baby out of my lady bits – I will be the first to admit that that stuff hurt (a lot). If that’s your thing, then by all means go for it, but being punished, bruised, beaten to get your rocks off? Not really my thing.

In Diary of a Submissive, author Sophie Morgan (not her real name) writes about her true experiences of being a submissive in BDSM relationships. Being rather vanilla myself, I did have to google BDSM (bondage, discipline, sadism, and masochism) to figure out what it all really meant.

While the book itself is more realistic and much better written than the Shades of Grey trilogy (and honestly, how could it not be better written than that?), I struggled quite a bit with the imagery that she lays forth for the reader. I found myself angrily willing her to put her damn clothes back on and get out of the apartment over and over.

And she never would.

This book did teach me a few things as well (although, admittedly, not the things that my husband would have wished for) and prompted several conversations between us as well as a very interesting discussion about the dissolution of sex after marriage with the Scare Bear.

Men. Please read this and understand that I am not critiquing you, or calling you out. I am trying to help you understand your woman better. We are filled with uncertainty, body-image issues (especially if we have birthed and/or nursed a baby), jealousy, and a calendar that is constantly demanding us to do more, better. There is a reason that 50 Shades became so popular, so fast, that there are country songs demanding that you “throw me up against the wall” while kissing. We want you to take control, to show us that you want us, to know that your body still lusts after ours even after babies and life and marriage have taken their tolls out on us.

This book provided an avenue for us to talk about sex again, like we haven’t since before we got married. It encouraged us to talk about our needs (some of which have changed since we were younger, some of which that haven’t) and while I can’t imagine living life as a submissive, I am glad that a submissive taught me a few new tricks about marriage and life.

I was compensated for this BlogHer Book Club review but all opinions expressed are my own. 

That Damn Clock

It might be the anti-depressants talking, it may be that I am now officially on the downward slope to 40 (even though I look like I am still in my 20s according to nearly every person I encounter lately), but I want a baby. 

This girl, this almost-5-going-on-15-year-old that lives in my house?

Not a baby.

My head knows that we have far too much going on right now to possibly deal with a baby. In fact, we have been reluctant to replace the dog that died almost 3 years ago because we are just not around often enough to deal with the responsibility. My head knows all of the reasons why I shouldn't have a baby. 

But. 

For the first time since I gave birth to the Supergirl, I find myself craving a baby so completely that it is hard to think of most anything else. Sure, I would have taken another baby anywhere along the way, but I have not really yearned for it. I have talked about someday, but someday felt a million miles away, not tangible, not even really reality.

And then there is the hard part. It is not enough for me to just want a baby, I actually have to work at getting pregnant while anyone else can cast a knowing look across the living room and BAM! nine months later they are carrying around a sweet little bundle of awesome while I am over here trying REALLY hard not to burst that post-pregnancy bubble with my tears of loss, frustration, and defeat. 

It's hard. 

But maybe this, this wanting is exactly where God wants me right now, eager and happy to receive rather than doubtful, anxious, and worried.

And, today? That's what I am gonna go with.

Please, Just Slow Down

Everything is just travelling too fast these days. Valentine's Day cards are on display on midnight Christmas night - if not before. I have barely had my birthday and yet Halloween parties are scheduled for this weekend - a costume for which has been designed and fabric bought, but not a single cut of a pattern has yet to happen.

Today, I was looking around the internets (my goodness Al Gore, whatever did we do to fill up the workday before you invented the internet? I can barely remember those days of smoke filled offices, phones ringing off the hook, and mail that required typing on typewriters with carbon paper for duplication and stamps so that it could be delivered) when I discovered this on the K-Mart website*.

Retailers, I know that times are hard out there. I see it first hand while peddling auto parts out at Tiny Town Auto Parts, but believe me, no one is even thinking about March 31, 2013 in October of 2012. I don't know, maybe they are waiting to find out if the world will end in December as the Mayans predicted, maybe they are trying to see what is going to happen after Halloween is over, maybe they are just trying to make it to 2013 before investing in shoes and dresses for children that grow out of clothes faster than the Yankees can blow a series bid (seriously, guys, could you pull it together for once? Your making me kind of nervous over here).

* Since the one and only K-Mart in Tiny Town closed back in June, I have been hard pressed to actually find any reason to shop their on-line wares, but seeing as how they were one of the few companies to send me a gift card in honor of my birthday, I thought I would give them a shot.

Maybe if we could all just slow down a bit, our children wouldn't be in such a rush to move out (not that I am not counting down to high school graduation myself, but I would like to hang out with her just a little while longer - she's kind of cool sometimes).

Here's some video proof:

I Am Writing A Post

On Sunday, I turned 36. I think I am holding up pretty well, in fact, a coworker this morning said that she would believe 26 if I had told her that. Score one for me, I reckon.

You may have wondered where I have been the last few days. Or not. I'll share anyway.

On Friday, I had a performance planning meeting with my boss. As is customary, I threw something together very last minute expecting it to be a sign of just how horrible I am at my job that I cannot even concisely put together my own position description or performance goals.

Then I spent several days working myself into a nervous tizzy that I was going to be fired on the spot for being incompetent and a waste of space and air in favor of someone far more capable than myself.

By Friday afternoon, I was wiped out. I was ready for it. I knew that I was about to be let go. I had not really slept the night before and I was ready to be handed my walking papers.

And so we began.

"You did a really great job on your position description. You are the only one of my direct reports that I didn't have to correct and rewrite," Mr. Awesome Boss said.

I began to sob waiting for the "but".

"Additionally, your performance goals are commendable and show that you put a lot of heart and thought into how you could improve your job and the way that our unit processes paperwork."

Wait. Is this going well? Why can't I stop crying? What in the Hell is wrong with me?

"Overall, I am very happy with you and the job that you have been doing for the last year. I am impressed that you were able to learn so much with little to no training, that you have been able to catch on quickly on how to triage things that may become issues, and that you seem to have taken over a lot of responsibility quickly and almost seamlessly."

Are you still freaking crying? What the Hell? Why can't you stop crying?

"Have I upset you in someway? This is all very good. You are doing a great job."

"No. No.", I respond meekly. "I have no idea why I am acting like a lunatic right now. I really like this position. I enjoy having you as a boss. I really don't want to lose my job."

He smiled at me and then said, "If you keeping doing the great work that you have been doing, someone else is going to scoop you up and offer you more money that our unit has. We all know how great you are. I can't offer you more money, what would you like to do that would make your job better, easier, or more enjoyable?"

I blinked in disbelief, perhaps this really is just a dream, I thought.

It wasn't until 20 minutes later that I realized that it was not a dream, I am a lunatic, and I need to get some help for my poor self esteem issues.

36 - I hope you are better than 35.

Matched - A Book Review

In Matched, the first novel of Ally Condie's dystopian fiction trilogy, we meet Cassia, a run of the mill 17 year old girl on the night of her Matching. In Condie's view of the future, we are faced with the demolished remnants of our society that have been pieced together by a group only known as the Society. 

All girls and boys that choose to be married are matched with their most suitable prospect on the 15th of the month and while most are matched with strangers in other districts, Cassia is awestruck when she finds out that she has been matched with her lifelong best friend Xander. It's not until the next day that she realizes that even the Society can make mistakes and begins to question that she has always accepted as good could somehow be fallable.

As we follow Cassia, we begin to see the loss of our civilization even more clearly. There are only 100 songs, movies, books, poems, and paintings left, her father works at destroying old libraries and incinerating all evidence of our existence, each person is only allowed one artifact from the past - Cassia's is a compact from her great grandmother. All of the important choices of life are left up to the Society, where and what department you will work in, who you will love, how many children you will have and at age you will have them, all meals are delivered to your home at specified mealtimes and are more nutritionally based than allowing for flavor or extravagance. 

Each member of the community holds 3 pills to use in case of emergency situations and while everyone knows that the blue pill will keep you satiated with just a small amount of water and that the green pill will calm you down, no one is quite certain what the red pill will do to you and all have been directed to take it only when a Society official commands you to. 

I can imagine that life could be a lot easier without all of the distractions of the internet and television, where your leisure time, meals, and entertainment choices are limited to the bare minimum, where your day-to-day life is predictable and has been predicted by the Society, but at what loss? That our children never know the joy of hiking through the forest or learning a bit of poetry?

The Utopian/Dystopian future of the Society could never be as happy as it seems. I can't wait to read the rest of this trilogy to learn more about the path that Cassia will follow.

I was compensated for this BlogHer Book Club review but all opinions expressed are my own.



Buy the book through this link! I earn a commission, you get a great book, it's a win, win!

There Is NOT a Skeleton in My Closet

Now that we are fully entrenched in preschool, I have found myself on more than one occasion having to explain things that my child has said (or drawn) to her teachers. I am afraid that I will arrive one day to find that CPS is waiting to take her away and I want to have evidence to the contrary.

Yesterday, when I picked up the child, the teacher said, "She comes up with the weirdest things to say to me. I just don't know where she comes up with it."

I cock my head to the side, inquisitively, "Like what?" while simultaneously looking wearingly at my daughter who is trying to pull the Hubs and myself out of the door.

"Well, she was explaining to me that her Grandpa was ashes that had been burnt up, but that you keep his head in a box and his ribs in the closet?"

Sigh. This. Again.

Let me go back a bit. My father died when the Supergirl was 2 months old. 10 days later I was ordered  to go on bed rest, underwent major surgery, was hospitalized for almost a full two weeks, and ordered not to do any heavy lifting for at least 3 months. They identified heavy lifting as greater than 5 pounds. The Supergirl was born weighing 9.3 pounds. It was not a good match.

Just when I was finally ready to think that life was under control again, I got two calls in the same week. One from my father's landlord ordering me to have the property cleaned out and the other from the crematorium letting me know that my father's cremains were ready for pickup.

The ashes were in a canvas totebag. It sat in the laundry room for over a year until I moved it into my closet on a high shelf out of the reach of children and pets.

Flash forward to an ordinary Sunday at our house. I am doing laundry, planning out my week, when the Supergirl says, "Momma, where's Paw-Paw?"

A good parent, a better parent would say, "Paw-Paw is in Heaven (or with God, with the dog, or even the angels)."

I said, "In the closet."

Her eyes lit up. "Can I see?"

"Sure," was my reply. I still cannot figure out why this would seem like an appropriate conversation with a 4 year old kid. I cannot figure out why I did not stop myself, why I let myself continue. I know that I broke her and no amount of therapy money is going to get back this moment.

As we walked to the closet, she rubbed her hands together eagerly. "I have never seen Death before. I am SO excited!" Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod, what are you doing to this child. STOP. STOP. STOP. You can make this all stop if you just... the voice in my head just keeps on yammering, while my body keeps moving forward, closer and closer to the box.

I grab the box from it's place on the shelf and I turn to face the girl. The glee on her face turns to terror. "IS THAT HIS HEAD!?!?"

And if that wasn't enough, I say, "Nope, just his ashes" and open the box.

We got rid of the ashes a few weeks ago, a few days after his 65th birthday. Finally. But the child still believes that we have his ashes, his head, and his ribs in my closet.

And now she has taken it on as her job to inform the public.

You have now been warned.

Where Does Middle School End?

It's the week before my 36th birthday and I have been looking around me and wondering where exactly middle school ends. The full-time job is actually VERY grown-up (with the exclusion of the particularly catty steno-pool on the verge of retirement), but the part-time job? Well. There seems to be no end to middle school humor in the auto parts industry.

Have I mentioned that I sell auto parts in the evenings and on weekends? I try to, anyway. A lot of my phone calls go like this:

Me: "Blankety-Blank Auto Parts, this is Heather. May I help you?"

Drunken Country Boy On Other End: "Yeah, Patty (?)*. Is there a man available that I could speak with, darling?"

Me: (choking on the words that I should say) "One moment please."

Sigh.

The men that I work with are all in their late-20s-early-to-mid-30s. They love to talk about farting, sex, and poop. They get endless hours of entertainment out of a fart joke told at just the right moment and they don't care who knows it. I think, in their minds, I am on their turf, a girl in an auto-parts store so there is no need for decorum, for pretending to be adults, for attempting to cover their childishness. They have to do that everywhere else, the last protected place they have is the auto-parts store.

There is seriously a guy that pinches my arm whenever I pass by him, or I am on the phone. Does this mean he likes me?

And it's not just them. Ordinary men will come in off the street and instantly join in the conversation as if they were just talking about masturbating to whale songs before they came in the door (I seriously did not even know that this was a THING until I started working there.)

I feel like I have been an adult forever, I barely remember middle school. Do guys seriously live like this? Trapped in a world that expects them to be adults when really they are just highly functioning (some of them) eighth graders? Is this what I tell my daughter to expect from a man in the future (although she says that she is not getting married until she is 52, so there may be hope yet.)?

When do men realize that eighth grade is over and begin to grow up? Do they ever?

* They always call me Patty. Every single time without fail. Why do they call me Patty?