I have a gift. It’s the gift of understanding and acceptance; when I decide I like someone, I accept them for all that they are, good and bad. It’s almost as if I put blinders on and cease to see the bad things. One thing I never hear from a guy is that I didn’t accept them for the way they are.

But the gift is also a curse. I think most guys are so happy to find someone that accepts them the way that they are, that they don’t stop to think about the woman they’re committing to. So many times I’ve heard the words, “I love that you accept me for the way that I am.”

But they don’t realize there’s a lot more to love than that. If that’s the only reason you love me, then that’s a problem.

Granted, my ability to accept things is a big part of my personality, but it’s not the only part. The struggle I’ve found with dating is that I don’t feel like people are truly seeing the rest of me; my needs, my wants, my dreams, my desires…. and then it all falls apart when those things surface.

When you love someone just because they have the ability to love you…. well, that’s just not enough. I want more than that.

Shortly after we arrived in New Orleans, Alex found a present from my mother. It was a brand-new, bubble-gum-pink Barbie fishing pole. Immediately, the request began.

“Mommy, we go fishin’ now? I want to go fishin’. I want to go fishin’. I go fishin’ with my daddy, can we go fishin’ now? Mommy, you take me fishin’?”

Part of me wondered what the hell Chip did to get her this excited about fishing… did he dip the fishing pole in crack? Because the only other thing I’ve ever seen this kid get this excited about is a bag full of candy and a Dora video. But unfortunately, it was only Thursday and we weren’t going to be in any position to go fishing until Sunday. So all weekend, all I heard was:

“Mommy, we go fishin’?”

“Mommy, I want to go fishin’ now.”

“Mommy, when we goin’ fishin’?”

“I WANT TO GO FISHIN’!!!!”

Finally, Sunday arrived and we headed over to a family friend’s home who had a pond stocked with well-fed catfish, perch and bass. Alex immediately suckered my cousin and father to take her down to the water. After some debate, the bait of choice was a Ball Park hot dog.

Skeptical? So was I… but apparently catfish aren’t picky eaters. Either that, or they have the taste buds of a three-year-old. My cousin swore that it would work, and lo and behold, not even a full minute after he helped Alex cast out her line, the small pink bobber disappeared beneath the dark water. Alex reeled in the line excitedly but the fish got away, sliding off the hook before she could catch it.

My cousin placed another chunk of hot dog on the hook, and together they cast out the line again. Again, almost immediately the small pink bobber disappeared, but this time the fish apparently bit off a little more because as he struck the bait and began to swim away, he yanked the pole completely out of Alex’s little hands. We all looked on in amusement until Alex started to cry… my cousin reacted quickly and reached under the water, grabbing the pole before the fish dragged it into the murky depths. My cousin tried to console my upset daughter, who was now distraught that water was pouring out of the pink housing of the reel. He put another piece of hot dog on the hook and helped her cast once again, this time holding his hands over her tiny ones while assuring her that they would “catch that doggone fish” that stole her pole.

Hell hath no fury like a three-year-old pissed off at a mean fishy.

The bobber disappeared again, sinking deep under the water, and they began to reel in the line. Now, keep in mind that this is a child’s fishing pole and these fish are fed heartily. The rod started to bow as they fought to pull this fish in; my cousin held tight, teaching Alex how to release the line and allow the fish to wear itself out. On the bank, a small group had formed, everyone cheering Alex on as she fought the fish for almost five minutes. She giggled excitedly as we continued to encourage her. Eventually, the fish began to wear out. As they pulled in closer to the bank, it put up a last valiant effort, rolling above the water and thrashing uncontrollably for his survival.

About that time, Alex realized exactly what she’d been fighting. The catfish must have been at least five pounds…. and approximately half the length of my daughter. Alex shrieked, jumped back in fear, and dropped the pole.

“I DON’T WANNA GO FISHIN’ NO MORE!”

And that was the end of that. She would have nothing more to do with fishing for the rest of the day, giving the pond and its’ freakishly large prehistoric inhabitants a wide berth.

When we loaded up the car to go home, Alex sat contented next to me. I planted a kiss on her cheek and asked her if she had a good time. She nodded solemnly, then tilted her head slightly.

“Mommy, we go fishin’ again tomorrow?”

“Grampa, whatcha doin’?”

(silence)

“Grampa, you goin’ potty?”

(silence)

“Grampa, you go pee pee? You pee pee, Grampa?”

(silence)

“Grampa, you go poopy? Grampa, YOU POOPIN’ IN DERE?”

(silence)

“MOMMY! Grampa goin’ to the POTTY!”

“Okay, honey…”

(flush)

(giggle)

This past weekend would have marked my sixth wedding anniversary, had I stayed married. Instead, it marked a year & a half since my ex called it quits and ran off with another woman. I started thinking about it, and it reminded me of our honeymoon, which was rather unconventional.

My father had a friend from Mexico, a brain surgeon in Louisiana who kept a home in Mazatlan. The house is over 13,000 square feet, carved into a cliff overlooking the ocean. In an act of pure kindness, he donated his palatial estate for my honeymoon.

This was the second marriage for both my ex & I, so we opted for a very informal wedding at the family ranch. I was perfectly okay with that; I’d had my childhood dream wedding, and it was an incredible waste of money. But I was somewhat uncomfortable when my ex started inviting all his friends on my honeymoon. People looked at with disbelief when he would extend the invite; are you serious??? On your honeymoon???

What can I say? Romance was not on his radar.

Looking back, in hindsight, I should have said something. I should have told him I didn’t want anyone on our honeymoon. Most people understood my hesitation and politely bowed out. But one couple took him up on the deal, and I spent my honeymoon on a seven-day double-date. The second night we were there, as I sat on the deck overlooking the infinity pool that seemed to extend into the ocean, watching the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen… I sat alone on the lounge chair as the ex and his friends carried on raucously inside the house, complaining that there wasn’t enough beer to get them through the evening.

It was that moment I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. I’d never have the romance in my life that I so desperately needed. So there, in the most beautiful surroundings I’ve ever been in, I broke down and cried. It was another black mark, another stunning failure, another compromise of something I should have never given up… I laid out on the chair long into the night, until he stumbled outside looking for me, drunk, the smell of cheep beer on his breath… something I would eventually grow accustomed to.

Since he left, I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what the other woman had that I didn’t. I beat myself up, tore apart my self-esteem, and searched for answers that seemed to never come. It was this weekend that I finally came to a realization; it’s quite obvious what she has.

Lower expectations.

So on this, my anniversary, I make a solemn vow to never compromise those little things that mean so much to me. I vow to open my mouth and speak when I disagree. And I vow never, NEVER to settle for less ever again. I have so much give… but I also have needs of my own.

Before I left last week, while the weather was warming up, I noticed my little creepy-crawly friends had started to find their way back into my house again. While sitting in this very spot on my sofa, I had a flashback of last year as a two-inch roach buzzed past my head and landed on the wall, moments away from sucking out my brain and calling all his little creepy friends to feast on my rotting carcass…

So Alex and I were sitting on the floor this afternoon, relaxing after the long car-ride home from Louisiana when my doorbell rang. Of course, Bear bounced off the door, sounding particularly vicious, and the young man on the other side looked a little frightened. After a moment of pushing the dog back, he began his sales pitch for pest control.

“Perfect,” I thought. Now I don’t have to find an exterminator. I thought about battling it out with a can of roach spray again this year, but it would be so nice to not have to worry about that stuff. Without truly thinking, I listened to the pitch and got sucked in.

I’m so much smarter than this. Really.

But the thing I got to thinking about is the fact that this kid wanted a place to sit down and sign the paperwork. Reluctantly, I let him in. He looked around my house, mentioning what a nice place it was. He also started asking me personal questions, such as, “it’s just you and your daughter here?”

Yes. And my 9mm. Under my pillow.

After he left, I was filled with a unshakable sense of uneasiness. I know better than to be this stupid. To many unscrupulous people out there, I am a easy target. Many people have tried to warn me, but suddenly, as I look at my daughter sleeping, I realize the full force of what they are saying.

I don’t want to live in fear simply because I am a single woman. But I do need to start practicing a little more caution.

One of my favorite New Orleans traditions is the snowball. I’m sure they have them everywhere else, but in the hot, humid summer months of the deep South, when the sweat rolls off of you and the air is so heavy you can barely breathe, there is nothing greater than the cold, sweet relief of a cup of flavored ice. I really wanted to share this experience with my daughter, so one of my requests this trip was to find a snowball stand.

My mother & I stopped by one on Robert Road, a stand that had been there as long as I can remember. As we got closer to the window, the sweet smell of sugar mix brought me back to the time that I used to work a snowball stand in high school. A smile escaped my lips as I reminicsed about those times; I happen to be a snowball expert. That summer, I tasted every single flavor we made.

There were so many selections that any first-timer would be overwhelmed… but I know what kids like. RAINBOW. At first, Alex recoiled at the foreign substance (Snow? What is THAT?) For a moment, I was completely disappointed. How could she NOT like this? But after I finally coaxed a bite into her, she eagerly grabbed the cup and ate the whole thing.

When we woke the next day, she asked her Grandpa, “We get ball today?”

“Ball?”

“SNOWBALL!”

I laughed. I created a monster. We got through all the visiting that’s required when you come home, and on the way back from my Grandmother’s house, we stopped by the snowball stand again. The line was long, but it wasn’t a horribly hot Louisiana night, so we waited patiently. After about thirty minutes in line, we all sat down on the curb, eating our snowballs, listening to the traffic roll by on Robert Rd. and watching the kids play in the parking lot. Alex’s lips were bright blue, her tongue a lovely shade of purple. As I watched her with a smile, my father nudged me.

“You know what the man says…. it don’t get better than this….”

Indeed. It does not.

Alex recently started a ballet class at her daycare. While she was spinning around the living room of my parents’ house, I realized I’d forgotten to tell my mother (whom Alex refers to as Gee). She looked at Alex, rather excited, and asked her:

“Wow, Alex! Can you plié?”

“Gee, I AM playin’!”

I decided to drive straight through Wednesday night from Houston to New Orleans at the advice of my best friend.

“You know if you go tonight, you’ll be in a hurry to get there, but if you leave in the morning, then it will be an all-day event.”  I looked at my beloved three-year-old and realized she was completely right.  So around 7pm, we headed out.  I rolled into my old hometown of Slidell around 1:30am with the realization that I didn’t remember much past Lafayette, but that didn’t matter because there was a soft puffy bed waiting for my arrival.  I slept as soundly as one can with a toddler’s elbow and knee simultaneously rammed into my ribs, and when I woke the next morning I was very happy that I’d gotten the drive out of the way.

My mother had guests coming, so I packed up Alex to head to Mandeville in search of some old friends.  Along the way, I stopped at the conveniece store my cousin has managed for over 10 years, forgetting that she’s moved to a different store.  I mentioned to the woman behind the counter that I was her cousin, and the other cashier chimed in,

“I knew you looked familiar.  How you been, girl?” I didn’t recognize the lady who obviously recognized me, but that didn’t seem to matter.  She gestured to me and Alex then told the cashier, “That’s Uncle Billy’s daughter.”

“Oh, girl!  You Billy’s daughter?  Well, this must be the grandbaby.  Ain’t she precious! We heard ALL about her.  She’s even cuter than her pictures. And you, you’re so pretty… your daddy talks about you all the time.”

This is beauty of growing up in a small town.  It’s so good to be home.

Network Geek was reading through my blog and found a bunch of spam on the older comments, so he suggested I upgrade my blog software.  I checked with my host, and they didn’t have the latest version either, so I had decided to try to upgrade this thing, all by myself, from the OUTSIDE.

I don’t know if anyone dropped by to find a string of error messages and broken code, but that would be me screwing up my blog by trying to upgrade it all by myself.  My heart stopped for a minute, because the past three years of my life are on this monster, and I really, really did not want to lose those memories.  So when I opened my browser and saw that line of code where my beautiful little patch of Internet grass used to be, it was like watching my house burn down with all my pictures in it.

I went back to the software site, and actually tried reading the directions this time… and POOF!  I’m back!

Backups are for wussies!

*Special thanks to Network Geek: hopefully my Blackberry will stop filling up with spam now!

“Oh my God… you look like crap.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean, like, you LOOK like crap…. um.. you look… um…. SICK.”

“I’m actually feeling much better.”

“Man, I’d hate to see what you looked like when you felt worse!”