I don’t mind being honest with you when I say I can’t stand uncomfortable silence. I can’t. I’m the type of person who will continue to talk just to fill a void. I’ll tell you about my toe nails, my new bra, my hair cut, my vagina. I’ll tell you about anything just to keep the silence away. I think I’m even a little like that on email. I’m not sure how I bridge the gap, but somehow I manage to spew my guts on email just to prevent some silence that may or may not ensue. I mean, how would I know? It’s email.
At the other end of this issue is my premature conversation ejaculation. I’ll suddenly end a conversation after telling you too much of my intimate details when your face is blank and there is no return. I’m pretty great and seeing when I made a fool of myself. I mean, I’ve had practice. Anyway, when I become completely uncomfortable I’ll just suddenly say, “Well now, thanks! Nice talking to you, bye!” and I’ll be gone before you can utter “yeeaaaa….. whuuuuuu?”
The absolute worst example of this happened to me the other day in Starbucks (where else?). I was standing in line when some obvious non-native cut in line. “He doesn’t know starbucks procedure” says the man behind me. I nod because it’s fairly obvious if you’ve ever been to Starbucks, or say out to eat like ever, that you order in one place and pick up your drink at another. Duh. So we start talking about how this guy must live in outer Mongolia because where in the world could you be that there isn’t a Starbucks? And why wouldn’t he have his drink memorized? And how when I got up to the counter they know me by name (I’m not kidding) and how they know my drink and how I pretty much own half of starbucks. Well, in my head.
Suddenly we’re chatting about schools and work and he asks what I do. I tell him. I ask what he does. He tells me. Only I heard a muffled “shmortleey sholruem. Property Law shmoruwly.” Instead of saying, “What’s that?” I nod. It gets awkward. There is a pause. (I hate pauses.) During this time he’s looking at me expecting me to say something. “Um. One of my good friends is a lawyer. She knows all kinds of stuff I have no clue about.”
Hi! I’m an Idiot Mr. Nice Stranger! Lemme spew more!
And then I’m off saying all kinds of shit I don’t even remember saying. I’m talking about blogging! And the Internet! And online friends! And suddenly I realize I sound like an Internet stalker and I end the conversation quickly because why can’t I live with a thirty second pause?
And thus I’ve once again concluded a conversation just a wee bit too early after spewing too much info. I guess it’s what I do.
Two weeks late. Grumpy but not bitchy. Weepy but not pissy. Tired. Sore boobs. Pukey.
Wow. This. Is. Really. Getting. Old.
Maybe it’s all those women I sleep with. Yathink?*
Oooh, Internet, before you run around spreading rumors, lemme just say that I’ve stayed up late to see my hunk-o-hunk-a-burning-manhood on the Country Music Awards (which I despise) just because someone said he was on. And in the five
sentences he was on, I realize there is no way I could ever leave men. I love them. Especially that one. .. I mean.. my husband. Raaauuurrr.
So, you might see some post on bloglines (or even in recent comments like when Jamie got to a post) because sometimes I post something for about 10 minutes, decide I want to add to it, take it down and then the kid starts playing with the gas from the BBQ or I realize something I should try to help get Mari back online or I remember my Mom had a really hard day and want to IM her to see how she’s doing.
And then it’s midnight and I go to bed. Until I remember I had this post in draft mode ... and I drift off to sleep…
So, no worries. I’m re-posting my Karma is a Bitch post (cause she is) and I’m even going to add screen shots! And pictures! WHEEE!
So, you think you’re having a bad day because you open a new design business and someone hacks you. AGAIN. And then you are late, five days, but not pregnant and your daughter didn’t nap and you gained a pound and you’re all weepy and emotional and sad for no good reason.
And THEN there’s this baby at Starbucks, where you go late at night to fix said hacking, all in your sweats and glasses and all the people working are making a big stink about this baby. This little boy baby, who is cute I’ll grant you, but not YOUR baby. So you jokingly say to the guy who pronounced, “That’s the cutest baby ever!” that it is NOT cuter than YOUR baby.
And then he tells you it is. And that you’re a mother so you are skewed. And that your baby really isn’t all THAT cute.
What? WHAT?! Internet, remember how you thought your baby was just TO DIE FOR when she was first born and then you look back and you realize, “GASP! She’s not.. uh.. all that..”
Am I doing this? Tell me, Internet, please be honest. PLEASE be more honest than mr “I’m too hot for my 8 dollar an hour job” starbucks man. Is my daughter really not glamor gorgeous? Is she?
Reflecting back on my childhood, I realize there are several things I’d do again. In fact, there are several things my Mom did that I plan, and hope, to use in LB’s (and subsequent children’s) lives. Reflecting back, I realize being my mom just might not be the juicy baggage a therapist might enjoy plucking out of me. But, to quote Mr. Flinger, I’m a “New Age Mom.” I believe it means I come with a pile of sarcasm, a dash if wit and some love tossed into the salad bowl to make a career laden woman with too many emotions and mommy-guilt the size of Texas to kick my own ass with.
Ahhh, good times. Good times.
So, back to my thought, my childhood. My mom is a woman who has/had/did it all. She was home for us when we needed her. She got a Bachelor’s, a Masters (both just within months of me) and a career while taking us to the zoo, gymnastics, the beach, to see Santa. We went on field trips, she took us TeePeeing (she did. honest to god, the did) and to the mall. She let me talk on the phone for hours and hours while shoving my little sister and her barbie playing friends out of my room. The woman deserves a farkin’ medal. (Please note: Fark is the new fuck but with snark. It’s safe for the whole family AND it’s fun to say. Fark! Fark! So, use it and abuse it, just remember you heard it here first, folks. Mrs.Flinger: Making a New Vocabulary one post at at time. Alright.. again.. back to my thought…)
I’ve decided to implement some of the things my mom did when I was growing up. Like, for example, we always got to skip a half day of school in the spring time to go to the beach. Yessir. We’d drive down to Galveton (that’s Texas for you Yankee types) and play in the sand before the crowds hit. In addition, we got to take a friend. For real. We’d also miss half a day to visit Santa when we were younger. We got candy on Saturday mornings (only) and we got to make tents with sheets in the living room. She’d listen to “our” radio station in Jr. High and she’d take me school clothes shopping in August.
I’m gonna do these things, too, because I think I turned out pretty damn great.
So what is it that you would do the same, if you can, that your mom did for you? Is it the way she let your friends come to family functions so you wouldn’t drive yourself (or her) nutso with the “can we go home now?” Is it the way she let your high school boyfriend go to the beach with you when you got out of school early (by the way: that same boyfriend is now your husband and is part of the “are we going to raise our kids this way, too” conversation.) Is it how she baked four gazillion Christmas cookies and let the neighborhood come by for a treat? Is it how she’d stand on the front lawn talking to your neighbors whlie you rode your hot-wheels with your friends? What is it? Because I’m sure you’d find something to implement in your own child’s life. Even if you have to look a little closely, I know it’s there.
That’s how long I lasted on the “South Beach Diet”. I am currently blogging a teeny weeny itty bitty bit tipsy since I just downed my two glasses of wine “per week” tonight.
See, they put this “Lose the Belly Fat Fast!” right on the front of the book. I mean, who wouldn’t want that? Ok, not you, but me? I’ll take something, anything, to get rid of the thing I used to call my ab muscles that can only be described now as “water-bed.” ‘Cept they didn’t put on their promotion “no sugar! no chocolate! no bread!”
I probably wouldn’t have signed up.
Uhhu. Slap me now. Slap. Me. Now.
If I haven’t said so already, RUN! Go! Make your supermom card! Then you can be snarky later.
I’ve been meaning to do this for some time now. I think it’s only fitting to run this contest the week of Mother’s Day. Since, you know, we all rock the mom-hood and all, it’ll be some tough competition.** (see contest rules and details below)
Let’s see if you can top THIS shiznit:
I walked in and found my toddler eating my Celexa. Can you see it? Walking in and finding your toddler saying, “MMmmMMMMmm” with about forty pink pills on the floor around her? I felt like SUCH a winner after I fished out a half a pill and some powder. As it turns out, she didn’t actually get too much, but she *was* a little more pleasant that day.
I’d include more of these types of stories except I’m currently ignoring her so I can say what a great mom I am. Look! She fell off *another* chair! Look! She’s now taking off her diaper! Look! She’s pooping on the carpet (again). Obviously, I win hands down, but let’s see what y’all have.
Feel free to write up why you should be the best mommy of the year on your blog. Then, send a trackback*** (a whoback? a whatchamacallit?) to or leave a comment with a link to your post. It’ll be fun! Spread the joy! Wheeee!!!
“Babe, my uterus hurts.”
“When is your period due?”
“I dunno. I’ll have to check my archives.”
I’ve mentioned how hard it is to break up with a girlfriend before. And the thing about this blogging bidniz is that we’re not in college anymore, we’re not staying up late giggling over the boys next door or laughing about the person down the hall, but we’re up late online, from our houses holding sleeping children and husbands (maybe) and giggling over websites. It’s like dorm-life for the grown up. It’s “girls night out” every night. It’s “we’re really 14 on the inside and let’s gossip about what SHE did…”
So we make friends online. People think you are either 1) very ugly or horribly unable to go in to public because why on EARTH would you have to make friends online or 2) just that pathetic and lonely.
Maybe. But who isn’t?
18 guests here now.