Several years ago, while working at Montgomery Wards buying office, I read the book Who Moved My Cheese. It became apparent that I was more of a sniffer mouse even though I am a control freak. The ability to accept change and continue to find different ways of doing things has helped with life's challenges. Being a single mother, moving, getting married again, job changes, and now, deciding that our family will be a one-income family for the next two years, will put my self diagnosed personality trait to the test.

We have decided that my husband will not look for another job within his previous area of expertise but instead he will pursue an education in the health care field. He has not made a decision on which particular field of study he will pursue; but plans on making that decision this week after speaking with advisers at the various schools in our area. His graduated with a B.S. in Biology so we are hoping many of his credits will transfer and be applicable to a RN degree or Radiology. He hopes to find a part time job at one of the local hospitals and possibly receive a scholarship or signing bonuses.

I do not know all the details but as he hammers out his options I will have a clearer picture. But I do know he is taking this opportunity to make a significant career change and I could not be happier for him. Seriously. I have had this complete feeling of elation that things are going to be so good for us, hard and difficult, but content and happy.

I came home from work today to a spotless house, all the laundry done, and all the beds changed and remade. Wow! The only thing I asked was for me to keep the cooking and the vacuuming. But tonight I was so happy and felt so good coming home to a house that didn't need cleaning up that I relented and told Tony the vacuuming is all his.

The other HUGE thing for us is Anna is leaving daycare and she will be staying home with Tony. Just writing that makes me tear up. Since I divorced while pregnant I have never had the opportunity to stay home with Anna. She has been in daycare since she was four weeks old. We told her last night about all the changes and that Tony would be picking her up from school and staying with her. When she heard that she squealed and did a little jump while hugging Tony. Of course, Anna being Anna, immediately takes it to the next level saying that now Tony could come eat lunch with her and then take her to the little cafe all the SAHMs go to Tuesday after school.

Changes are definitely going to take place in our household and the cheese might stink at times but surely all the reading of frugal blogs I have done will now serve a purpose.

I have much more about dealing with the ex-wife, not pretty, and the Aldi versus Sams, versus Wal-Mart price comparison we did Saturday. But I am going to go over our new budget with my husband and talk about our new awesome future. Two things, thank you so much for the emails and comments, thank you, thank you!! and Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal is $1.29 at Aldi!!!

I was positive I was going to never have my baby. I had missed my due date by almost two weeks and my co-workers were taking bets behind my back on when I would deliver. When I found out one of them had bet on the 28th day, I thought I would literally be the first woman to die from the sheer agony of carrying a baby for 42 weeks. A little melodramatic, I know, but I was desperate, and a tad hormonal.

On the 19th, I had tried to induce myself into labor by drinking 3 ounces of castor oil mixed into a Braums milkshake. I have not had a milkshake since. And let's just say, one week later, still no enema was needed. Which is also not surprising since my acid reflux was so bad I could eat nothing, and yet, I would still spontaneously puke egg yolk. I won't even go into being nine months pregnant in August, in Oklahoma. Total strangers would come up to me and say oh honey, I am so sorry.

Have I been able to convey how miserable I was? I had even tried attaching my electric breast pump to the only thing fabulous about my pregnancy, my large breasts (I would love to have those babies back because they were, SPECTACULAR). Instead of starting contractions as it did for my high school friend's sister, Julie, (who ended up having an emergency c-section that we all secretly thought was due to messing around with the breast pump) I was only able to get a jump start on my colostrum. And the humiliating and awkward crab/squatting tribal woman walk? nothing, but I was so hopeful. I remember crawling around my living room during an entire episode of Oprah.

But when the time to deliver actually did arrive? Whoa mama! I woke up at 1:30am with a pain that went around the front of my stomach and felt like I was tying a knot at my spine. I thought oh wow, this really is it. Five minutes later I was laughing that I had even confused Braxton-Hicks for labor contractions. I woke my mom up who told me to get into the shower. She woke up my dad, and after driving me three times to the hospital just to drive me back a few hours later, went back to sleep. I remember taking my shower and thinking how pathetically huge I had gotten that I couldn't even control my bladder. I started crying and when my mom asked, in a panicked voice, what was wrong, I cried that I could not stop peeing on myself.

By the time we got to the hospital, only a couple of miles away, I was having contractions about every two minutes. I think my mom was a little freaked out and my dad could not understand why I insisted on crawling, on my hands and knees, to the hospital doors. (you know what I just thought? why didn't he drop me off at the door?) Anyway, after stopping every minute to rock back and forth while moaning on my hands and knees, I was now in a labor and delivery room.

My friend, and constant support even during my hormonal rages, LouAnn, had told me to opt out of painkillers before my epidural. She had told me that it would just make me feel out of it. So when the nurse said I needed to take some Demerol because they needed to slow down my contractions, I tried to say no; but no matter how much Lamaze breathing I did, I could not get on top of them. The nurse went ahead and gave me the Demerol and then told me that I would have to wait almost four more hours for my epidural because the doctor didn't come in until 6 am. I didn't really care. I was more focused on the fact that it felt like I had a gigantic wooden corkscrew, like the kind they used to use to raise and lower orchestra pits in a theatre, being turned every few minutes and consequently spreading my hip bones apart.

After the Demerol kicked in I no longer cared about the pain, I still felt it but I had calmed down. I panted and focused while my mom rubbed my back. After a series of particularly hard contractions, I told my mom that this was just like having an orgasm, but not quite being able to get there. She pretended to not hear me, and I will always thank her for that.

Then came the checking and the rechecking. Apparently, my baby was facing the inside of my leg. I had so many different people checking me that I just hoped they all actually worked at the hospital. There was one petite nurse, I really liked her, when she would check me I would have dilated to a seven and then an eight. However, when my big burly man doctor checked me he pushed it back down to a six.

Finally, after nine months of hell, and as my mom so clearly remembers, two remaining months of depression and misery, my beautiful baby girl was born, at exactly 9:30 A.M. on September 26th of 2000. I remember my mom and I both looking at her and then at each other. My mom said it first, oh my goodness, she looks just like Mark (my soon to be ex-husband). But from that moment on all of my worries, all of my hang ups about being a single mom, and most importantly, my anger disappeared. She was absolutely perfect and she was ALL mine. I am still amazed that this was eight years ago, it really does seem like it just happened. Happy Birthday baby girl!

*A side note regarding having a baby in the small town you grew up in:

Go through your yearbook and familiarize yourself with the people and faces. You never know who your nurse will be that will help you to the toilet, kneel down in front of you to look at your stitches in order to tell you how to perform a sitz bath. Because as my recovery nurse was kneeling in front of me and squirting water on my stitched up waa-waa, I was reintroduce to Julie Laramore, from junior high. They should have a sign at the entrance of the maternity ward, "Check all modesty and pride at the door".

Surprise!! My 38th birthday was Saturday and my fabulous husband has been planning a surprise party for me since February. I had absolutely no idea. He got me out of the house to spend the day with my friend Tricia going shopping and having lunch. Tricia is a huge planner so I thought nothing about her asking me what I wanted to do on my birthday, while I was putting away my Christmas ornaments.

She picked me up around noon and we had a great relaxing day. We went to a wine bar and bistro to have lunch and then went shopping at little boutique stores nearby. The markup was killing me. We went into a store where every article of clothing was made out of crushed linen in either cream, dark tan, or navy. I found a baby pink t-shirt for $95. It was so cheap delicate that I could hold it up and Tricia could see the color of my eyeshadow through it. To make this T-shirt even more over-rated spectacular the edges were left unfinished. Oooh! the labor involved.

We ended up at an outdoor mall where I bought white capris. Love them! Want them in red, khaki, and navy too. They were on sale, $10 off, so I got them for $29. And Stella McCartney would be appalled - they had a finished hem. Can you imagine? the audacity!

We ended up at P.F. Changs and sat outside to have a drink. The whole time I kept saying that I needed to get home TD and the kids needed dinner and I was making oven-fried chicken. Tricia never once let on. That's why when we finally made it home at close to six I was shocked and awed. Take a look:


SURPRISE!!! I loved it! All the kids were there, my close friends were there, and my husband had planned it all. My artistic friend Sonja made the birthday crown that on my pin head looked more like an Indian Headress, but I love it! My kids were so excited and were also led astray because they were not informed about the party until that afternoon. TD did fan-tab-u-lous!!

It was great! But it was really such a blur. And no it was not because of the Mai-Tai at P.F. Changs. It was because no one had ever done this for me before. I just kept thinking of all the effort everyone went through. It almost made me cry. I am tearing up now!

What a wonderful weekend, the best! I just love everyone right now. I could even go give a hug to the neighbor lady down the street who tried to refuse to let my friends park in front of her house, on a public street. Yes, I could even hug the crazy right out of her. But I am going to hug my hubby instead, he so deserves it.

When I was younger I always wanted to know just how much my parents loved me. The best re-assurance of my father's love for me was his statement that he would die for me. I would then push him further with different scenarios. Growing up in a Christian home meant denying Christ as your Savior was a straight path to hell. So this was the area I would test my father to find out just how much he actually loved me.

The best time to interrogate ask my father how much he loved me was while we were driving on the Riverside freeway coming from or going to church. Depending on what year it was we were either in a blue Nova or in his pick up truck. If in the pick up truck I would be sitting beside him with the gear shift at my knees or on the floorboard under the glove box if my sister happened to win the 'I sit by Daddy' competition we had every Sunday. Regardless of where I was sitting or which vehicle we were in the quest for knowledge that my dad loved me started the same.

"Daddy how much do you love me?"

"So much."

"But how much?"

"I would give up my life for you just like Christ gave his life for all of us."

"If we were all in a prison in China (the Red Army was terrifying for a little girl in the 70's) and they said I was going to be killed what would you do?"

"I would say kill me instead."

"What if they said we had to say we didn't believe in God what would you do Daddy?"

"I would not be able to say that because I believe in God and His Son Jesus Christ."

(The picture in my mind is still the same as it was when I was younger. All five of us are standing in a cellar type room with wet dripping walls wearing Little House on the Prairie dresses and men in navy blue pajamas are standing around us wearing the hats they use to gather rice in.)

And here came the loaded question:
"What if they said they would kill me if you didn't say you don't believe in God?"

"Then I would pray to God that I never would have to make that choice. Did you know they can’t have Bibles in China? They barely have enough rice to eat. We need to pray for the people of China that they will be able to hear the Gospel."

My mom would join in the conversation telling us stories of missionaries and their hardships. My dad would be off the hook.

Jump ahead thirty years to my life now. I feel the same way about my own daughter. I would take a bullet, a train, a car, a sword, a fire, you name it and I would try and save her from it even if I would lose me life in the process. I would have my head whacked off if it would save her life. (the present day equivalent to the Chinese Red Army)

My daughter does not grill me about how much I love her, not like I did my family. I have told her from day one how much I love her and would protect and care for her forever and ever. In fact, I am the one who quizzes her about how much she loves me. Those times when I want her re-assurance of her love for me she puts her arms out as far as they go and says, "this much Mommy" or blows me off with a 'you are bugging me' look. When we hear this song by Mercy Me she laughs that I tear up listening to the lyrics I Would Die for You.

But she has no idea how much I have struggled with accepting love from my father and from God.

My dad once told me that he could have loved me so much more but I wouldn't let him.

It took me years to understand God's grace over the over preached Wrath of God. I still struggle with the concept of loving the person but hating the crap. It has taken having a child that I would lay down my life for to get it through my head and heart the capacity of love God has for me and my parents had for me.

Last night when I was putting my little girl to bed I remembered the times I questioned my dad about how much he loved me. I finally get it, it only took 38 years.

October 4, 2007 or 5,000 miles ago. Either one is when I was suppose to get my oil changed. I even got a phone call to remind me to get the oil changed. In October. Now that it is April I am too embarrassed to take it in and get the oil changed. I don't want to hear the tsk-tsk of the German auto mechanic followed by a lecture on how important it is to change the oil in older vehicles.

I guess the procrastination and excuses became too much for my husband. He went and bought all the supplies he would need to change it himself. He had mentioned this Friday night when we were out with friends, but I thought he was kidding. I was telling our friends about the night I went out to the garage and saw TD changing out my spark plugs. The scene did something for/to me and some sparks definitely flew in our house later that night. Now my husband was looking for another opportunity to work on my car. Changing the oil was going to be his Rico Suave move.

On Sunday he got his supplies ready. He jacked my car up crawled underneath and I sat down in the garage to watch him.


I really am not sure of all the steps that were taken while he was beneath my 13 year old BMW convertible but the next thing I know he is holding up an oily hand and saying this is not the oil pan. What? then what is that stuff on your hand? Oh! transmission fluid, then just plug the hole back up and redo I say while I hold up my wedding ring and admire the way the sun makes it sparkle and pop my gum.

Apparently, it is not that easy and he referenced the manual to figure out why my BMW oil pan and transmission pan look the same and is not in the same place like a Honda and how to fill the transmission back up.

The filler cap, or whatever, on the transmission pan is stuck, completely stuck, wrench, hammer, and swearing stuck. He is going to have to take the pan off and refill it then put it back in place while full of hydraulic fluid. This will require more than two hands.

The pan is fastened to the car by SIXTEEN, bolts/screws whatever. SIXTEEN parts that have to be unscrewed while lying on your back with your face 3 inches from a motor that can fall and squish you, dead.

After cursing the sadistic and masochistic tendencies of the Bavarians my darling wonderful fabulous husband had all SIXTEEN bolts/screws off and the pan free. He filled the pan up to the rim with the transmission fluid while I commented on how gross this was and should we wash the pan while it was out. That would be a negative. We both crawled under the car and reattached this wobbly red oily heavy pan back to the belly of the beast.

TD held it in place while I reattached the bolts/screws thingy's. With a ratchet. A ratchet that was so slippery and held in a hand that was dripping with oily nastiness. If the pan moved just a little transmission fluid would spill out and all over us. But I prevailed against adversity and I fastened that pan back onto my car. I did it!! I actually did manual labor on my back and it didn't involve having a baby.

Now the roles were reversed. Apparently the sight of me underneath a car in a wife beater covered in transmission fluid is equivalent to Pamela Anderson running across the beach carrying a life preserver. Next time I might just change the oil before the suggested mileage is up.

In the early 90's I watched a horrible movie called The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, & Her Lover. It was a bizarre movie with a pretty sick plot. Lou had rented it, probably from Pop-in-go, because it was suppose to be avant-garde and we wanted to be "in the know" with the pop culture scene. However, the only redeeming quality-and that is so not the word for it-of having watched such a pitiful movie is being able to say that yes, I have seen that particular movie. This only comes up when the conversation has turned into "Why I was still cool after college" and people are discussing what random books, bands, and movies they were into. It was during one of those conversations that I found out my husband had also watched this gem of a film.

Last night I met my friend Sonja for dinner at The Brook. It was a great night and we spent part of the time reminiscing. Or maybe it would be lamenting. Poor Sonja. She sat through so many of my tedious stories of who I was emailing on Match.com and who emailed but I never heard from again or who had seemed normal but ended up being a total freak. She listened to my ups and downs there in her dark office lit with lamps and a string of Christmas lights in a glass urn she took from the sample room.

At The Brook we talked about how lucky we both were that we have our husbands. How both of us never thought we would be with so nice of men since our dating history did not lend itself to the type of men we both ended up marrying. She stopped being a fixer and I accepted someone that didn't need to be changed or rescued.

I grew up in the last five years. In that time my heart was broken, my parents divorced, I bought my own house, I took my daughter to kindergarten, and I found someone that I will spend my life with. I have many close friends and co workers that encouraged me along the way. After listening to another episode where I sabotage my own life, those friends had to either walk away or hang up the phone and think, when will she take my advice? Eventually I did and things are pretty great.

I did many things in my life just because they were cool at the time or seemed fun and fabulous. Everyone has. Sometimes I want to completely forget about some of those things. But other times when the conversation turns into a trip down memory lane and what a fool, freak, or how cool I was it is pretty funny to have someone that shared those times with you. Now don't go rush out to rent The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover that is one movie we don't need to have in common.