Rules of Marriage: The Celebrity Out

Next Saturday will be our 6 Year Anniversary.

Over this next week, I'll be discussing how Fred and Anna (or FnA - read it fast... I'll wait... Yeah, it's F'ing A!) have managed to have such a sunshine, rainbows and glittery unicorns marriage. Such a strong marriage. And everyone knows that the strongest marriages are built with ways to get out.

Rules of Marriage: The Celebrity Out

The rule here is simple. In the event that your chosen celebrity shows up at your doorstep and asks you to run away with them, you get to. No strings attached. You pick your own celebrity and then wait. Patiently. Oh - and when that person isn't cool anymore or a prettier one comes along, you just get to change.

Fred's current celebrity: Scarlett Johannson

Anna's current celebrity: Jason Bourne

Now, I know that Jason Bourne isn't a celebrity and that he's just a character from those kick-ass movies. But I don't want Matt Damon, or Will Hunting, just Jason Bourne. And since we make the rules, we get to bend them to suit our needs.

I imagine it going something like this:

*Ding Dong*
A: Helllllllo?! (OMG IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS?)
JB: Hi, Anna! I'm Jason Bourne and I'd like you to run away with me.
A: OKAY!
JB: You're so nice and lovely and I just want to be with you!
A: Shut up, you're ruining it for me.
JB: Do you need to tell Fred?
A: (Disgusted sigh) I guess. Hey F? Jason Bourne's here.
F: WHAT? I can't hear you since Elliot's yelling in my ear!
A: I SAID Jason Bourne is here, so I'm out!
F: OH! Whatever. Your body, your choice*.
A: He's wearing a Sears sweater, so he's good people.
F: Grandma Judy will be proud!
A: Done. Now, Jason Bourne, let's ride off into the sunset.

**

OR

*Ding Dong*
A: Hello? Oh hi, Scarlett Johannson, what are you doing here?
SJ: I'm here to get Fred and run off with him.
A: Oh, you are are you?
SJ: Um... yeah... he told me it wouldn't be a problem.
A: Yeah, only if HE answers the door.
SJ: ...
A: Guess he forgot who really runs the show around here.
SJ: ...
A: You gonna say something or just stand there looking pretty?
SJ: Well, did YOU want to run away with me?
A: Woman, please, I know Jason Bourne is coming so get off my porch.
F: HEY - Who's at the door?
A: NO ONE!
SJ: Fred! Darling! Schnookums! It's me, Scarlett Johannson!
F: Anna, quit screwing around.
A: (Smirk) Ha. Now leave.
- - -
F:Good joke. Or was that actually Scarlett Johannson?
A: Of course not, dear! Don't be silly. But the next time you talk to her, tell her to give me back my damn shirt.

**

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
*Fred really does say that to me whenever I ask him anything.
**My Microsoft Paint skills are awesome!

Confessional

When I was in 1/2-day Kindergarten I have distinct memories of strapping on an old pair of metal roller skates and trudging up and down the sidewalk in front of our house. A few little guides where my shoe would go and a strap around the ankle to keep them on. Back and forth, up and down the cracked and uneven sidewalk.

Eventually, I got a newer pair - white lace ups - and taught myself to skate backwards and in circles. Even later, I got a pair of in line skates... all the rage in Northeast Ohio in the mid 90's.

To this day I love skating. I dream of the day I can throw some kind of party at a skating rink.

Which is why I question why I get so crazy when the skaters are in town. They come every July for some kind of national championship, all shapes, sizes and genders, wearing sequins and spandex and slicked back hair with glitter. They take up the parking. They smell like hairspray. And they giggle and gaggle as they clog up the crosswalks with their strict adherence to the lights (seriously, read that old post).

But. If I love skating, why do I loathe the skaters?
I had a conversation with myself about it.

Do you like skating?
Yes, always have.
Do you have a general dislike of skaters?
Not the individual, I don't think.
What did you do growing up?
Nothing, we didn't have money.
What did you want to do?
Anything. Gymnastics, piano lessons. We even HAD a piano. And my mom always told me 'maybe next year' but next year never came and when we moved, the piano didn't.
Bitter much?
Yeah, well, remember my little brother that always ruins my birthdays? Well, HE got to play soccer. Like on a league and everything. I had to go to his games and watch.
I'm sorry, your little brother ruins your birthdays?
Yeah, totally. His is the next day and he always got his presents on my birthday and we had to share a party.
And a cake?
No, that would've been pushing it too far.
Aren't we straying off topic?
(Ah-hem) Yes. So. If someone gave you an article of clothing with sequins, would you wear it?
Uh, yeah! I'd rock it!
And do you wear anything with spandex?
I don't think you can buy jeans without it any more.
Thank God for that.
Huh, yeah.
So. You hate the skaters?
Yeah. They're annoying and their costumes blind me. And they dress up their little kids in these ridiculous fake-tuxedo outfits - also bejeweled. Why Nebraska? In freaking hot-and-sweaty-as-butt July?
Don't you suppose its because the National Museum of Roller Skating is located in Lincoln, Nebraska?
WHAT?! HAA! Haa haa haa and HA. Funny.
What, really? (Clacking on computer.)
Huh. I'll be damned. Still. They suck.
Do they really suck?
No.
Are their outfits really that bad?
No.
Aren't they generally nice people?
Yes.
So then what's your problem?
I want to be one! I'm jealous! There! ARE YOU HAPPY? I want to skate all day and twirl and hop and have long hair. I want a velvet and sequin outfit that kind of makes me look like I'm naked! I want to wear nylons that pull down over my pristine white skates! I want it all, baby!
(Laughing.)
Shut up.

Cruising with Grandpa Frank

Elliot finally mustered the courage to jump on Grandpa's Harley and go for a ride. He really liked it. Now he can't wait to go again in a couple of weeks when we go to visit them.

The Science of Babies: 3 Year Old Version

It’s the season for babies in the Seckman world: friends Stacey and Justin are expecting their second, friends Mary Kate and Josh are expecting their second and Fred’s sister Steph is expecting her first.

Elliot asked questions. Why she have a baby? Where is the baby?

Fred: Do you know where babies come from?
Anna: Jesus Christ, Fred, he’s 3! (Sorry, Auntie D)

Fred rolled his eyes.

Elliot: Where the baby comed from?
Fred: Mommies grow the baby in their tummy.

Eye roll deserved, and accepted.

Elliot: No. You just trickin’!
Fred and Anna: No, really, babies grow in the mommy’s tummy.

He takes some time to think about this, glancing at each of us to make sure we’re not smiling. Up until this moment he was pretty sure that only food went in your tummy, followed closely by the Hungry Patter (read: The Hungry Caterpillar) who eats up the food and makes poop. What? Like your kid never came up with ridiculous ideas that are too amusing to correct?

Fred: Remember Kael’s mommy? She has a baby in her tummy.
Anna: And Aunt Steph has a baby in her tummy.
Elliot: I got a baby in MY tummy!
Anna: What?
Elliot: I got a baby in MY tummy. Iss JuniorAmanda!

Later we’re hanging out at the kitchen table and Elliot climbs up on his knees on a chair and starts pounding his body up against the table. After a few minutes I ask him what he’s doing. His response?

Getting’ the baby out.

I think we’ll be having another “talk” about this someday.

Bon Jovi Says: You Give [Cyclists] A Bad Name

I was running an errand for Fred last week which put me in the center of downtown at 5:10pm with all of the other people trying to go home for the day. In front of me is a cyclist pedaling his little heart out a few car lengths in front of me. I slow behind him and eventually click over to the left lane.

We all stop for a red light. Well, everyone but him. He is now weaseling his way between cars up to the stop light. A new line of cars are behind him, agitated. The biker swerves to the right, crossing into the crosswalk and immediately swerves back left into the traffic lane. A screech of brakes later, he’s riding again. A few cars pass him and the same thing happens at the next light only he doesn’t stop this time – just slowly starts into the intersection and then pedals full speed ahead when it turns green. This time, he veers right into a bus lane only to quickly veer back left, causing a truck to immediately merge left and me to slam on my brakes.

A few expletives came out of my mouth but then I laughed. I laughed hard as I passed him by and eventually got into the right lane ahead of him.

Little biker boy is wearing a dweeby little Astana Cycling Team hat. No doubt, the thrill of the 2010 Tour de France is alive in this one; he thinks he is Alberto Contador.

Well, I have news for you biker boy. Wearing your dress pants, shiny black dress shoes, undershirt and crappy Astana cap doesn’t make you Alberto Contador. Instead, it makes you a jerk on the road that gives every other biker out there a bad name. You're going to cause a wreck and someone will get hurt and you - no doubt - will think that the big mean gas-eating, lane hogging metal machines are to blame when really it's you at the center with your cocky smirk.

I'd like to wipe that smirk off your face.

Oh, and you just look stupid with your dress shoes on.

Big E, little e ...

Embarrassed. Enraged. Exasperated.

A friend has a friend in Africa (whom she has all but legally adopted to be her son). She's been over twice and he is trying to get his family here for a visit to learn about our culture in regards to farming, cattle-raising and whatever else.

For months, this has been in the works. Meetings set up. Plane tickets almost bought. Letters of support on his behalf for the American embassy to allow him and his family Visas to come visit. After spending $400USD just to meet with someone about potentially getting Visitation Visas, he had his meeting.

He sat in a room by himself, with all of his documentation on his lap.
She comes in and asks him his name. He answers.
She asks what his monthly salary is. He answers.
She doesn't ask for papers or letters of support.
She knows absolutely nothing about him or his interest to come.
She looks at him and says he is not allowed in our country.

He doesn't make enough money and she doesn't think that he can afford to get back to his home country and likely won't even try. And I get angry. I get the whole alien problem but he played by the rules and was denied in the blink of an eye. Because he doesn't make enough money.

He makes $350USD a month and that affords him a home, cattle and the ability to provide for his wife and daughter. It is arrogant of us to think that everyone that visits wants to schlep french fries at McDonald's and not return home because of the rich, lavish lifestyle he will obviously enjoy while bringing home $950USD each month. It's laughable. Is it so hard to believe that he wants to return home? Does it wound our ego to think that he - what? - doesn't want to live here forever, in the land of freedom, opportunity, and all things bejeweled?

Our system failed him.
And for that, I am disappointed.

Sizing Up Myself

First, let me explain this picture... We were at Grandma Judy's house and she was giving suggestions on what she could whip up to eat. She suggested taco salad. My face suggested NO.

This picture was taken right at 2 years ago. Two years ago after I had worked very hard for nearly a year to lose 45 pounds through Weight Watchers. Yes, 45. I was happy and proud but still feeling like I had more work to do.

Which is funny, because right now - I'd love to look like that again.

The next month was awful. After a series of ER's, Urgent Cares, Doctor Visits and Consultations spanning 4 days time, I ended up with an emergency surgery to get my failed gall bladder out of my body. (Don't remember? Look here, here, and here.) What ensued was - and still is - chaos.

So here we are, 23 months after that awful surgery and I am a wreck.

I've gained back the 45 and then some. And, yay, it's almost all settled in my stomach and I constantly look quite pregnant if I'm not sucking in. Which I do. Because I'm not pregnant.

It's quite common for Reese's Peanut butter products make me toot without abandon; I truly wish those weren't my absolutely favorite things in the world.

You see, the gall bladder actually plays a pretty big role in the world that is your body's system of organs. It's what eats up the fat and it's also what produces the bile that helps create the good kind of fat. Now I just toot out Reese's and gain ugly fat on my stomach.

But I'd be lying if I told you it were all the gall bladder's fault.

It's mine too. I revolted. How dare you, body, fail on me like this after all of the work I put into you! I ate well and I lost a ton of weight. I felt great. And then this. And, for nothing to actually be "wrong" but to have had you seize up on me and not stop - I felt like a total failure. My body let me down.

So what to do? Well, body, payback is a bitch.

Only problem is that I am my body.
So I've just issued 2 years of payback on myself.
Smart move, Seckman.

Problem is that I tried WW again. And after 4 months, gained 4 pounds. Truly, my body is digesting everything considerably different than the first time around. So what's a girl to do? A girl that pukes up vegetables and can't stand being sweaty?

I dunno. Pass me that brownie.

How to Wreck a Wednesday

Plastic Wrap: Check.
Peanut Butter: Check.
Grape Jelly: Check.
Bread: Check.
Knife: Check.

Lay out plastic wrap. Get out two pieces of bread.

Notice small air pocket in bread. *Sigh*

Start with jelly and accidentally poke your hand through the hole with your knife. Leave behind a glob of jelly. *Damn*

Spread jelly. Get more of it stuck in the hole and dig it out with the knife. Jelly is now on two fingers. *Ugh*

Spread peanut butter on other piece of bread. Starting in the middle, shove peanut butter through the hole and onto hand where jelly still is. *Grrr*

Knife in sink, smash the two pieces of bread together and have jelly and peanut butter squish out the hole on each side. Peanut butter and jelly all over both hands. *For the LOVE OF %@#^&!*

Wash hands, wrap up sandwich and toss in purse.

Drive to work.

Retrieve crumpled up sandwich, noting the squished out pb & j all over.

Look forward to a repeat of this morning's performance at lunch. *Hooray*

No Meat

We took off for Missouri on Friday and made a pit-stop at a Wendy's along the way. Within seconds of entering the restaurant, we were taken hostage by a lovely woman who only had one thing to say.

We ain't got no big meat.
No big meat.
We only got Junior meat. No big meat.
I can't make you a Single or a Double or a Triple.
We ain't got no big meat.
I can make you a Junior, though.
We ain't got no big meat until my Supervisah get here at 8:30.

Um, okay, we'll have chicken.

Wendy's, the fast-food chain that boasts old-fashioned hamburgers on their sign, is out of big meat. They're not out of hamburger or hamburger patties. They're out of big meat and will not have any until the Superviser arrives.

What?!

From Hurt to Healing ... and, Eventually Healed

It's been a week of work for me. A week that I sincerely hope creates personal growth, similar to what Jen is talking about today. (I suppose I should thank Dave for that insight.)

The parts and parcels making up my week were difficult and trying but somehow I waded through it with my head barely above water. The talking. The ignoring. The scolding. The mistrust. The uncertainty. The disappointment. The contemplating. The rejection. The hurt. The confusion.

And, the understanding: I fit perfectly into the shoe but the shoe's box is tattered, worn and in need of repair. Repair that I, alone, cannot provide.

This week requires reflection on my part and what better place than at the new Morrissey Compound in Missouri - surrounded by family and away from others - where no one expects anything from me but to relax, get a sun burn, eat entirely too much food and maybe crane my neck up to see a firework or two.

I will thank my perfect husband for being who he is. For listening, for answering, for consoling and loving me unconditionally. And I will thank my precious son for being who he is. For the random fly-by hugs, the "special" kisses and saying "I love you Mommy" without prompt.

I will slip off my shoes.
I will relax.
And, I will grow.