Diet Coke is addictive. Also, apparently, it punctures little holes in your brain. And my dad is pretty adamant that aspartame will make you stupid and blind. Confession time? I’ve been drinking it by the gallon for years.

And that’s not the worst of it: I’m a dirty rotten smoker as well.

So I was talking to Trasy at work today while she was exposing the evils of diet soda, the medical model, and the flesh tearing consumption of meat and I decided . . . At least I’m almost certain I have? Yes, I’ve decided to take it to heart.

But I brought six cans with me to work to refresh myself throughout the day so I said I would give it up tomorrow when all this delicious fizzy wonderment had met it’s digestive fate.  I mentioned this to Trasy, yet she remained unmoved. And the question came up, Why would you want to continue doing something that you know is bad for you? Even for a little while?

This has a much broader scope, probably. And it seems all the more pertinent that this conversation took place at the DV shelter. These women here could recite pages of well founded accusations against they’re abusers by the time they arrive. They know what’s wrong; That’s why they come here. And yet, two months later, the guy wasn’t really so bad, or he’s sorry, or there’s a new someone who seems too good to be true and probably is who just wants to take care of them by treating them like his own personal property or punching bag.  Why do people  keep doing what they know is bad for them? Even for a little while?

It’s like that long term crazy spell I went through with Mark. It was obvious to everyone-it was obvious to me!-and yet I bent to his apologies, I made him up in my mind to be much more that he was, and I decided to believe that he was what he said and not what he did. Did I think it wouldn’t catch up to me? Did I think if I designed a pretty picture behind my squeezed eyelids, that it would remain when they opened?

Maybe so. Or maybe it’s just easier to go along, even if you don’t like what you get.

I want to make the brave choice, not the easy one. I want to make the brave choice, not the flashy one. I want to make the brave choice in all things, and maybe these are all pieces of the same puzzle of dissatisfaction.

I think of Erik, who is so disciplined, who stretches to exceed expectations all day after getting barely any sleep. Who works hard and gives of himself in such kind and generous ways, without exception. Who is made up entirely of lean muscle and sleeps easily and is selfless with his time and energy. And I think, That’s beautiful. I think, There but by the disappointment of God go I.

So I need to suck it up.

Happy birthday, Natalie. I can’t tell you how much I wish I could be with you today. And though I can’t be, know that I carry you with me in every moment, baby.

My darling, my beloved, my sweet, sweet gift, a year ago today you came into the world wrinkled and pink and stretched out your tiny arms and legs for the first time. I almost can’t believe it, thinking of it now, how little and lovely and perfect you were. Your faint voice whined when they weighed you. The doctor put you in my arms and you nuzzled your fists against your chubby cheeks. The nurse had to wrestle you away from me to clean you up, and every night in the hospital I tried to keep you with me. The night nurse chastised me to let her take you to the nursery and by three in the morning, her threats got serious. And so I surrendered you for a couple of hours to sleep, then buzzed to have you brought back in to me by seven.

I hope that you will someday understand why I thought you would be better off with someone else. There was nothing wrong with you; there was something wrong with me. I wanted to protect you, and take care of you, and give you the best hope for a good and happy life. I’m only sorry that the situation I was in would not afford those things to you if you were to remain with me. I love you so much and I miss you excruciatingly. I am blessed to be your mother, and blessed to have had you even for only four days. I pray for you, and think of you always.

I love you, Precious. Happy Birthday.

Love,

Marianne

Me, circa 1960(according to my sister)

I’ve been without cable TV since Thursay, and I don’t miss it at all. And that statement, while true, is probably one of the most misleading that I could come up with. The real truth is that my handy-dandy, fancy-shmancy computer has become my new distraction of choice. Also, I’m watching TV on it.

I know, I know. What can I say? I’m a bad lady. But YOU try turning down a japanese version of YouTube with the entire second season of Mad Men ready and rearing to go and then we’ll talk (preferably about how h-o-t-t Betty is as a character). Nevermind how I came across it! Incidentally, have I told you lately that I love you, Google?

Anyhow, I still managed to eek out a little school work in this den of period piece drama. Not enough, mind you, but some. All in all, I have to say I’m proud of myself, but mostly that’s because I’m a little weenie who will be a big cry baby if I say what I really think of me. By the way, if anyone else is afflicted with this same Mad Men addiction, you can get your next fix here.

Enjoy!

Happy St. George’s Day to anyone who cares about it! I have to admit that I didn’t because I didn’t even know it existed. But I learned, friend, I learned.

So apparently, this guy is the patron saint of England. Also, he’s big on slaying dragons. The story goes the he came to Libya and there learned that a ferocious dragon was terrorizing the country and the only way to pacify the beast was to fulfill his unending appetite for beautiful maidens. Which apparently are much more delicious than ugly maidens or hot married chicks. Regardless, the dragon had been at this particular buffet for quite a while and the people were running out of sacrificial victims like you wouldn’t believe. The only other person that qualified for becoming dragon bait was the king’s daughter. As she was being walked to her doom, St. George came in out of nowhere and sent her home, promising that he would do battle with the dragon and slay it. Luckily, when St. George got to the dragon arena, there was a magical orange tree that protected anyone under it  from venomous poison, otherwise, St. Patrick might have had to have done some double duty. Anyway, St. George fought gallantly and was triumphant, and was rewarded with all the hot ladies that were left. In the end, he probably wished he’d gotten there sooner. (more…)

Okay, so obviously this isn’t me playing Happy Birthday on the violin. But this is totally how I would play it.

Happy Birthday, Stefan! Hope it’s full of good craic!

And to those for whom this holiday is not the drunken, kiss-me-I’m-fake-Irish, liver and mouth disease extravaganza that it is for most? Don’t worry, Ubermarianne’s got something for you too.

That’s right. Forget green beer and the goggles that go with it. Forget blazen symbols stretched tightly across the chest of leprechauns, rainbows, and pots of gold. Forget the lazy drooling that your speech will no doubt be forced into at, say, two a.m. No, loves, it’s time to be wise. Time to sit down, sign on, and man up. Warhammah styyyyle! :)

When I was a nanny in Sacramento, I used to watch Veggie Tales almost constantly, and this clip just came into my head today in honor of the holiday. Funnily enough, I seem to remember that St. Patrick as the guy who drove all the snakes out of Ireland. Go figure.

Okat, so I’m about two hours late in getting this on your actual birthday, Sarah. But I hope that you have a beautiful year!

Love,

Marianne

ENJOY!

(more…)

Alright then. Now SAY something (a la HighExecutive, if you please).