I know I haven't written in awhile. It makes me feel guilty. I am not sure why. I write for me, mostly, so who do I have to answer to really? Right? Anyway, a lot has been going on and it has made me a little reserved (HA!), slightly private (snort), and very protective of my feelings and emotional state (that one is totes for real). I haven't really felt like opening up too much about the impending shit storm that has been brewing and swirling around my life. At least not to the blogging world. However, I do feel like writing, at least a little something. So, I am not going to go into any detail about anything important. I simply don't feel like it. Plus, big things can be dealt with in time. They aren't actually the things that break the camel's back. It is that small, seemingly insignificant event that pushes me over the edge. So, instead of talking about family, medical bills, geographical unhappiness, emotional uncertainty, you know, life, I am going to talk about poison sumac.
When we moved into our town home 8 years ago, we planted clematis. "It's pretty!! It will look so cool climbing up a trellis next to our steps!!" Idiot move number one. Clematis is completely invasive and prolific. It takes over everything in its path and chokes the life out of it. It twists itself around bushes and flowers, grows under the porch, spreads to other parts of the garden. I have seen clematis from our garden growing up the sides of other people's homes in the neighborhood. Plus, something has fed on the leaves of our clematis every year, so it hasn't looked pretty. It has looked diseased and gross. Recently, we had a new neighbor move in right next door. My clematis decided to wrap itself up in his cable wires and around the drain pipe. It was time for the clematis to meet its end. Fucker. So, this year, instead of just going into that corner of the garden and trimming back the invading vines, I decided to dig it up.
When digging up plants in a garden, one must prepare. Make sure to wear gloves, but only ones that are made of cotton and have holes in them. Also, do not wear any protective clothing. Pants are for chumps. Get as close to naked as possible. I prefer spaghetti strap tank tops and Daisy Dukes. Do wear closed toe shoes, not flip flops. At least protect the most important part of your body. While digging, wipe your sweaty face and neck as much as possible with your holey glove. It totally keeps you dry. Do not be shy about pushing your whole body into every plant. If you can not dig the roots up with your shovel, sit right down in the dirt and use your gloved hands. Get dirt all over your legs and arms. The most important thing, DO NOT KNOW THE IDENTIFICATION OF EVERY PLANT!! It is completely unnecessary!! Just go with your gut. Pay no mind to the rashes you have gotten in the past, shortly after working in the garden. No one knows what the fuck they are talking about when they tell you it looks like poison. When you are done, stand around in the sun for a little longer. Let the sweat roll down the rest of your body and really soak into your skin. I promise you, this is the best advice EVAR. You will not be sorry. Fast forward to two days later. "Hmmm...I think I have a couple of mosquito bites on my chin. Huh, that looks a little blistery. Wait, I have seen this shit before." People, it has only taken me 8 years and about four rounds of this shit to finally say, "Maybeeeeeee..." Srsly. The good news is, it gets worse every time I get it. Wait...
Once the rash started this year, I decided to investigate on my magic box known as a cell phone. I looked up poison ivy and poison oak to make sure I *really* knew what they looked like. Nope. Neither of those were in my garden. Then, onto poison sumac. "Wait, what the? What the hell? THAT is poison sumac?!? That think that looks like a fucking tree is poison sumac?!? THAT IS POISON SUMAC?!? I chopped that shit down, dug around the root with my hands, pulled on the root to try to get out from under my porch, sat in the dirt where the branches lay. OMG!!! I have been pulling this shit out for YEARS!!" I actually thought it was something we must have planted. How could I possibly know it was poison? HOW? I mean, it isn't like I could have asked anyone, or looked at pictures, or researched on the internet or something. No reason for doing anything intelligent. At least the clematis is gone, AMIRITE?! Poison Sumac. PoS. Bastard of all bastards. For years I have been mystified by the annual summer rash I get. Sometimes it is on my back, sometimes on my neck. Last year, I had 3 different types of rashes on my torso, one of which everyone said looked like poison. "It isn't poison. I have been nowhere near any type of poison," I claimed. I am a dumbass. True, I had not come in contact with poison ivy or poison oak, I knew what those looked like, and while the Virginia creeper that climbed the side of my house resembles poison ivy, it has five leaves, not three. My husband kept telling me there was poison in the clematis. "You are wrong. I have been back there many times and have seen no poison." I am a fucking moron. This year, I am finally able to acknowledge my ignorance.
So, here I am with poison sumac. I am still breathing, which is good. I look fairly disgusting in places and I feel like a leper. The heat is making the itching even worse, which is sad cuz I love the summah time. It has definitely taken my mind off anything overly important because all I can do is whine about the itching and pain. My 5 year old frowns every time she sees the shit on my neck, kisses me, and says, "I am sad you have a rash, Mommy." All I can do is choke back the tears and say, "Me too, baby girl. Me.Fucking.Too."
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Sunday, May 12, 2013
A Mother's Day Wish
It is Mother's Day. Again. And guess what. I am still a mom. I am not complaining about being a mom. I do not regret having children and I love them very much, but recently, I have found motherhood to be fairly exhausting. I am not sure if it is the ages of my children, the age of me, my mental state, or just a normal phase that every mother goes through, but I am finding being a good mother even harder now than when my children were babies. At the ages of 10, 8, and 5 I kind of feel like there should be a level of independence in each of them that isn't there yet. Maybe I am wrong, or just have extremely high expectations, but the constant needing me to do things for them, like getting a drink of water, is sending me over the edge. Then, when there are real problems to be dealt with, I am irritated and frustrated and act like a bitch. Even while typing this there is a little person complaining, nay, WHITE WHINING about something I am not doing or giving them. I am not blaming my children for this, of course. They are just kids. I have totally created this environment. Somewhere along the way, I have failed them, along with myself. At some point in time, I have made them know it is okay to act this way. I do not know why I lack the tools to help them and be more understanding and nurturing. Even though I know I am the adult in this situation and I can only control myself, I end up acting like a child, just like them, stomping my feet, screaming at the top of my lungs, "I WANT IT BECAUSE I WANT IT!!" It is utterly ridiculous. I know I am only human, but I also know I need to get a fucking grip and suck it the fuck up because they will not be young forever and someday I will be crying about childhood going too fast and why didn't I stop and pay attention for just one goddamn minute and stop complaining about their fighting, or whining, or crying? They won't be doing that forever. In 20 years they will have their own families and their own complaints about their kids. Maybe they will all be blogging about their shortcomings as parents, or the difficulties of being an adult. It is probable they will all discuss what a crazy fucking bitch I was and "wouldn't we have all turned out great if she wouldn't have been so fucked up?" I am positive I am not the worst mother in the world. I KNOW there are children who are neglected, unfed, never hugged or kissed. There are kids out there who have never been given a chance in this world from the time of their birth. Logically, I know this. But maybe me feeling this way keeps me from completely detaching myself from my kids. Maybe always having the fear of failure is at least helping me to not completely fuck up my kids and set them on paths to become murderers and rapists. Maybe their whining and crying is just a sign that they trust that I am not going to freak out and beat them silly for asking for a drink of water or a sandwich. Maybe they aren't so bad after all. So, while my original Mother's Day wish was for them to leave me the hell alone, it has changed. Now, I just hope they grow up to be good adults.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
White Excrement: It's What's For Breakfast
You know, it has been a super long time since I have really gone the fuck off and I am feeling like a good rant is overdue. I don't mean being sad or nostalgic or angry about my past. I mean a good ol' fashioned, PMS induced, anxiety filled, pissed off at the world, I hate everything, you're gonna get cut with a tuna can lid, ApparentlyATotalB style, go fuck yourself, muthafuckin' rant. You agree? Good.
Snow, GO FUCK YOURSELF!! I have been really good (I think) about not complaining about the weather. I have held my tongue when the low lying sun has made me want to shoot myself, then crawl in the bathtub with my toaster, then tie an anvil to my foot and jump off a cliff into a raging sea. When I was on FB, I stopped myself when I wanted to post statuses about the shitty, gray, November sky and how the mild, but still not warm enough winter made me think that nothing good could ever happen again, ever. For two years now I have restrained myself, dealt with it, tried to look on the positive side, but now? FUCK YOU!! All I wanted was a little get away at a fairly shitty time of year. I just wanted my kids to have a little fun and not have to worry about the cold weather. I just wanted my mind to be able to shut off for TWO FUCKING DAYS. But, no. You couldn't possibly let that happen because you, sir, are a douchebag. Instead, I drove for 3 hours to a resort, spent one night stressing about your piece of shit ass, only to drive home the next evening. The kicker, though, is that you couldn't even live up to your big WHORE MOUTH!! I don't see the almost two feet I was promised! Slacker! You suck. I hate you.
Now, for anyone who may think I seem like a self absorbed, entitled, narcissistic bitch, you are correct. I am. I should not have my plans fucked up because of something as stupid as weather, ever. My kids should not suffer from disappointment unless it is caused by me intentionally. And really, snow is stupid. It just needs to go away instead of messing up my winter plans of fun and warmth. Why is this happening to MEEEEEEE?!? Okay fine, I know my little temper tantrum is not really about snow. I know that shit happens. I know that I have personal shit that is causing stress and frustration. One of my little girls is having surgery this Friday and the past couple of weeks has been less than fun trying to make sure she stays well before going under anesthesia, stressing that she might get sick on the trip we scheduled months ago, freaking out that we may not be able to get home from our vacation before her scheduled surgery. It has been nerve-wracking to say the least. It isn't about me, I am aware, but trying to suck it up isn't working, so I choose to take it out on the weather. Is that so wrong?
Things are so much easier to deal with in the warmer months. When it is nice outside, the bad things don't seem as unbearable. Probably because we are constantly moving and going places. If I were more of a winter sport person, maybe my family and I wouldn't suffer so much, but I am soooo not that person. Cold makes me hatey and stabby and hurty. Bundling up is a pain in the fucking ass and washing snow clothes is just wrong and unnatural. Hearing my kids complain about cold just pisses me off even more. I should not be living in a place that ever gets cold. For realz. Of course, living somewhere too sunny and warm would cause a whole new fear of skin cancer as blond hair, blue eyes and fair skin are not ideal in those places. Well, fuck. I guess I just can't catch a break.
All I have to do now is get through this week without freaking the fuck out. Well, this week and then my daughter's recovery. And the rest of the winter. I just have to get through the week, recovery, and winter. Jeebus, I can almost taste spring on my lips. Beautiful, sunny, earthy, hyacinthy, wonderful, sexy spring. Glorious spring that allows me to wear less clothes, less socks and less structured shoes. And then... SUMMERTIME! Hot, sultry, sweaty, lay on the beach with a beer, practically naked, no shoes, sun on my face, my one true love summertime. Oh please let me make it. It's.Almost.Here.
Snow, GO FUCK YOURSELF!! I have been really good (I think) about not complaining about the weather. I have held my tongue when the low lying sun has made me want to shoot myself, then crawl in the bathtub with my toaster, then tie an anvil to my foot and jump off a cliff into a raging sea. When I was on FB, I stopped myself when I wanted to post statuses about the shitty, gray, November sky and how the mild, but still not warm enough winter made me think that nothing good could ever happen again, ever. For two years now I have restrained myself, dealt with it, tried to look on the positive side, but now? FUCK YOU!! All I wanted was a little get away at a fairly shitty time of year. I just wanted my kids to have a little fun and not have to worry about the cold weather. I just wanted my mind to be able to shut off for TWO FUCKING DAYS. But, no. You couldn't possibly let that happen because you, sir, are a douchebag. Instead, I drove for 3 hours to a resort, spent one night stressing about your piece of shit ass, only to drive home the next evening. The kicker, though, is that you couldn't even live up to your big WHORE MOUTH!! I don't see the almost two feet I was promised! Slacker! You suck. I hate you.
Now, for anyone who may think I seem like a self absorbed, entitled, narcissistic bitch, you are correct. I am. I should not have my plans fucked up because of something as stupid as weather, ever. My kids should not suffer from disappointment unless it is caused by me intentionally. And really, snow is stupid. It just needs to go away instead of messing up my winter plans of fun and warmth. Why is this happening to MEEEEEEE?!? Okay fine, I know my little temper tantrum is not really about snow. I know that shit happens. I know that I have personal shit that is causing stress and frustration. One of my little girls is having surgery this Friday and the past couple of weeks has been less than fun trying to make sure she stays well before going under anesthesia, stressing that she might get sick on the trip we scheduled months ago, freaking out that we may not be able to get home from our vacation before her scheduled surgery. It has been nerve-wracking to say the least. It isn't about me, I am aware, but trying to suck it up isn't working, so I choose to take it out on the weather. Is that so wrong?
Things are so much easier to deal with in the warmer months. When it is nice outside, the bad things don't seem as unbearable. Probably because we are constantly moving and going places. If I were more of a winter sport person, maybe my family and I wouldn't suffer so much, but I am soooo not that person. Cold makes me hatey and stabby and hurty. Bundling up is a pain in the fucking ass and washing snow clothes is just wrong and unnatural. Hearing my kids complain about cold just pisses me off even more. I should not be living in a place that ever gets cold. For realz. Of course, living somewhere too sunny and warm would cause a whole new fear of skin cancer as blond hair, blue eyes and fair skin are not ideal in those places. Well, fuck. I guess I just can't catch a break.
All I have to do now is get through this week without freaking the fuck out. Well, this week and then my daughter's recovery. And the rest of the winter. I just have to get through the week, recovery, and winter. Jeebus, I can almost taste spring on my lips. Beautiful, sunny, earthy, hyacinthy, wonderful, sexy spring. Glorious spring that allows me to wear less clothes, less socks and less structured shoes. And then... SUMMERTIME! Hot, sultry, sweaty, lay on the beach with a beer, practically naked, no shoes, sun on my face, my one true love summertime. Oh please let me make it. It's.Almost.Here.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
That Was Quick!
OMGOMGOMGOMG!!! It is done!!! It has been two weeks and my Facebook account has been permanently DELETED!!!!! **CONFETTI** **NOISE MAKERS** **TROMBONE SLIDE** I should throw a party or get drunk or something! BODY SHOTS FOR EVERYONE!! Oh, wait. Shit. At least I think it has been deleted. I am afraid to check because if it hasn't, it will let me sign right back in and my two week waiting period will start all over again. BLEAH.
Surprisingly, the past two weeks have gone by relatively quickly. I guess that happens when you aren't checking FB every 5 minutes to see what's going on. I have written on my blog, what, 5 times so far? I have answered important phone calls, made appointments I had neglected, scheduled actual face time with real people. Huh. You mean I could have been doing this all along? What the fuck was wrong with me? I mean, I know there are plenty of things wrong with me, just wondering what specific thing made me feel the need to waste my goddamn time on the Anti-social Network. Now that I have been gone, it's weird. It is like because I do not exist there anymore, it kind of doesn't exist to me. I guess it really doesn't because it absolutely does not affect my daily life. It is so strange and it is something I am sure I will be thinking about for a long time.
Something that I have noticed since I have been gone is the lack of bitterness I have. I have been very, very bitter the past couple of years. Bitter and angry. And resentful. And hateful. And, at times, jealous. The jealousy has been a big one for me because it is not something I normally feel. What was I jealous of? Oh, stupid shit like how someone else's life appeared to be, relationships between other people, how one person might talk to another, but not to me. I also noticed it in others and it pissed me off. I can not take that shit. I can be a hatey, bitter, resentful bitch, but jealousy? Nuh uh, that has got to go. I don't like it from others and I loathe it in myself. LOATHE. There really is no reason for jealousy, right? My personal relationships with people are my own, just as the personal relationships of others are their own. I guess not having everyone's business all up in my face has taken that away. I also found that many people could be pretty nasty towards others (myself included), maybe in a way that they would not be in real life. Since you don't have to face someone you can do and say whatever you like? That's what it felt like to me. Like behind the profiles there wasn't an actual person, which is COMPLETELY understandable and, in some ways, refreshing. Sometimes it is hard to say what you want to say to someone's face. You have time to form thoughts when you write them, you can complete your thought before being interrupted, you may articulate better through writing than spoken word. But, a lot of times things get out of control and that power is abused. People may write things in a way they wouldn't in real life because you are talking to a computer, not a human being. Or, and I know this happens a lot with me, the recipient takes things the wrong way because they have to imagine the tone, especially if they don't know the person well, or at all. Needless to say, I am enjoying not being exposed to those things, I am enjoying a little anonymity, but mostly I am enjoying not knowing what everyone is or isn't doing 95% of the time. Catching up is way more fun when the people you are catching up with don't know most of your shit from Facebook.
Even though I have made some changes and feel like a weight has been lifted, I am totally aware that FB is not the problem. It just became my coping mechanism for a much larger issue. I feel good right now, but I just made a huge change, so that feeling I am having is to be expected. The key is to keep making changes and sticking with them. It's not like the anxiety has just magically disappeared. I still get paranoid and have bouts of self doubt and worry, but at least I am not currently adding to that by trying to control it and make it stop with something that CLEARLY fosters my insecurities. I gotta keep myself in check and make sure I don't pick up some other behavior to take the place of Facebook. Everyone knows that compulsive behavior will do nothing but make everything else spin out of control. Everyone but me for the past few years, apparently. I still have a lot of work and some serious soul searching must be done. There is much to repair in myself and I would like to gain some self confidence back that was lost. Not sure when and how that happened, but damn. It most certainly did happen! I also need to try to concentrate on my little kids. They really need me right now and even though I am always here, I am not always here, you know? I just hope when they write their books about their mentally ill mother, they paint an accurate description.
Surprisingly, the past two weeks have gone by relatively quickly. I guess that happens when you aren't checking FB every 5 minutes to see what's going on. I have written on my blog, what, 5 times so far? I have answered important phone calls, made appointments I had neglected, scheduled actual face time with real people. Huh. You mean I could have been doing this all along? What the fuck was wrong with me? I mean, I know there are plenty of things wrong with me, just wondering what specific thing made me feel the need to waste my goddamn time on the Anti-social Network. Now that I have been gone, it's weird. It is like because I do not exist there anymore, it kind of doesn't exist to me. I guess it really doesn't because it absolutely does not affect my daily life. It is so strange and it is something I am sure I will be thinking about for a long time.
Something that I have noticed since I have been gone is the lack of bitterness I have. I have been very, very bitter the past couple of years. Bitter and angry. And resentful. And hateful. And, at times, jealous. The jealousy has been a big one for me because it is not something I normally feel. What was I jealous of? Oh, stupid shit like how someone else's life appeared to be, relationships between other people, how one person might talk to another, but not to me. I also noticed it in others and it pissed me off. I can not take that shit. I can be a hatey, bitter, resentful bitch, but jealousy? Nuh uh, that has got to go. I don't like it from others and I loathe it in myself. LOATHE. There really is no reason for jealousy, right? My personal relationships with people are my own, just as the personal relationships of others are their own. I guess not having everyone's business all up in my face has taken that away. I also found that many people could be pretty nasty towards others (myself included), maybe in a way that they would not be in real life. Since you don't have to face someone you can do and say whatever you like? That's what it felt like to me. Like behind the profiles there wasn't an actual person, which is COMPLETELY understandable and, in some ways, refreshing. Sometimes it is hard to say what you want to say to someone's face. You have time to form thoughts when you write them, you can complete your thought before being interrupted, you may articulate better through writing than spoken word. But, a lot of times things get out of control and that power is abused. People may write things in a way they wouldn't in real life because you are talking to a computer, not a human being. Or, and I know this happens a lot with me, the recipient takes things the wrong way because they have to imagine the tone, especially if they don't know the person well, or at all. Needless to say, I am enjoying not being exposed to those things, I am enjoying a little anonymity, but mostly I am enjoying not knowing what everyone is or isn't doing 95% of the time. Catching up is way more fun when the people you are catching up with don't know most of your shit from Facebook.
Even though I have made some changes and feel like a weight has been lifted, I am totally aware that FB is not the problem. It just became my coping mechanism for a much larger issue. I feel good right now, but I just made a huge change, so that feeling I am having is to be expected. The key is to keep making changes and sticking with them. It's not like the anxiety has just magically disappeared. I still get paranoid and have bouts of self doubt and worry, but at least I am not currently adding to that by trying to control it and make it stop with something that CLEARLY fosters my insecurities. I gotta keep myself in check and make sure I don't pick up some other behavior to take the place of Facebook. Everyone knows that compulsive behavior will do nothing but make everything else spin out of control. Everyone but me for the past few years, apparently. I still have a lot of work and some serious soul searching must be done. There is much to repair in myself and I would like to gain some self confidence back that was lost. Not sure when and how that happened, but damn. It most certainly did happen! I also need to try to concentrate on my little kids. They really need me right now and even though I am always here, I am not always here, you know? I just hope when they write their books about their mentally ill mother, they paint an accurate description.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
The Incident
The first person I ever french kissed was a girl. And, haha, yes, I liked it. I remember it like it just happened and not close to thirty years ago. I was 12, I think she was 11, and she had invited me over for the weekend to swim and hang out. Her mother was a very cool lady, large in body and personality. She kinda just left us alone most of the time to swim in the pool, lounge in the hot tub and, apparently, make out. My friend was quite brash, and I liked that about her. Now I can't help but think she seemed a little more experienced than your average 11 year old. She always came up with the plans and I willingly followed. I had messed around with my little girl friends before, her included, rolling around on the floor, not knowing exactly what to do with our bodies, or even what was happening or how they worked. I had never kissed any of them, not even a peck, but this girl, she made it seem like a good idea. Actually, she didn't even *say* anything, she just did it. It felt really nice and stirred up some things in me that had never occurred. When it was over, I remember feeling extreme guilt, like I had just murdered someone. No one had ever told me that was normal and okay. In fact, I had been taught that having any kind of contact like that with a member of the same sex, was one of the worst sins you could commit. She seemed to be unaffected and I felt like drowning myself in her pool. I was 12, people. I was 12 and wanted to die because I had kissed a girl. Her mother took us to a restaurant for dinner that night. I remember feeling extra small in my oddly high-backed chair, unable to look her mother in the eye. I thought everyone knew and that, any moment, my punishment was coming. Of course it never came.
I went away from that first kiss holding it close and keeping it a secret from everyone. There was no one I could tell. What would people think? I never even confessed to my bishop, or any bishop, in the Mormon church, which is what I was *supposed* to do (did I mention I was brought up Mormon? Maybe somewhere else.). What did it say about me that I could be attracted enough to a girl to let her kiss me? Was I a lesbian? I struggled with it, even into adulthood. Even well into my twenties, I felt shame for being turned on by two women kissing or touching or *gasp* having sex. In fact, it took me until this past year to tell anyone about my first kiss. That's disgusting and sad. What a waste of a good portion of my life, being so afraid that I was a bad person to experience pleasure over something like sex. I think about that day sometimes and wonder how things might have been if I had been taught to love and explore my body, and know that sex is normal and natural. Maybe I would have experimented more with women and had better experiences. I even wonder about my friend, where she is, how she feels about that moment in time. The last time I saw her was at a high school football game and it was awkward for me. I wonder if it was awkward for her as well. Maybe not.
I never question my sexuality now, I know I prefer men, but as an adult who has learned that sexuality can not be defined in black and white terms, I am disappointed that I was never given the opportunity to experience the full range of normal, instead of feeling guilt and shame if anything was ever done outside of marriage with a member of the opposite sex. I am angry. I am hurt. I feel stunted and damaged. I feel for others who have had similar experiences and I hurt for children who don't know any better yet and are being taught to hate themselves. Fuck. I look at my children and I hope I never make them feel ashamed of their normal feelings. I know I don't always do things right, and sometimes when they ask me questions about things, I am dying inside because they are so little and I was never taught how to discuss these things with my kids. All I can do is try to be as open and honest with them as possible, giving them the information they need at the times they need them, never passing judgment, and teaching them to always love and respect themselves as human beings. I am sure I will fuck them up in some way, but this is one area where I can not fail.
I went away from that first kiss holding it close and keeping it a secret from everyone. There was no one I could tell. What would people think? I never even confessed to my bishop, or any bishop, in the Mormon church, which is what I was *supposed* to do (did I mention I was brought up Mormon? Maybe somewhere else.). What did it say about me that I could be attracted enough to a girl to let her kiss me? Was I a lesbian? I struggled with it, even into adulthood. Even well into my twenties, I felt shame for being turned on by two women kissing or touching or *gasp* having sex. In fact, it took me until this past year to tell anyone about my first kiss. That's disgusting and sad. What a waste of a good portion of my life, being so afraid that I was a bad person to experience pleasure over something like sex. I think about that day sometimes and wonder how things might have been if I had been taught to love and explore my body, and know that sex is normal and natural. Maybe I would have experimented more with women and had better experiences. I even wonder about my friend, where she is, how she feels about that moment in time. The last time I saw her was at a high school football game and it was awkward for me. I wonder if it was awkward for her as well. Maybe not.
I never question my sexuality now, I know I prefer men, but as an adult who has learned that sexuality can not be defined in black and white terms, I am disappointed that I was never given the opportunity to experience the full range of normal, instead of feeling guilt and shame if anything was ever done outside of marriage with a member of the opposite sex. I am angry. I am hurt. I feel stunted and damaged. I feel for others who have had similar experiences and I hurt for children who don't know any better yet and are being taught to hate themselves. Fuck. I look at my children and I hope I never make them feel ashamed of their normal feelings. I know I don't always do things right, and sometimes when they ask me questions about things, I am dying inside because they are so little and I was never taught how to discuss these things with my kids. All I can do is try to be as open and honest with them as possible, giving them the information they need at the times they need them, never passing judgment, and teaching them to always love and respect themselves as human beings. I am sure I will fuck them up in some way, but this is one area where I can not fail.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Dancing With Myself Is Way Cooler
Sometimes, when I am really tired and trying to go to sleep, I do this thing where I have conversations in my head with people i know in real life. These are not conversations that I intend on having with them, rather conversations that are existing right in that moment. No, I do not believe I am actually conversing with the person, but I have always felt that I was doing this to either work something out with that person in my own mind, or I choose to confide in specific people in my mind because I trust them. I was doing this last night as I was drifting off to sleep and it suddenly dawned on me, I am just talking to myself. I mean, obviously I am talking to myself, but it seems that whoever (whomever? I never know.) I am speaking with in my mind actually just represents me, or a part of me. Whatever I am speaking to them about is not something I would necessarily say in real life. Usually it is stuff that I need to face on a real level with me and only me. Something that may be torturing me, but I am not willing accept or am in denial over on a surface level.
Of course, this led me to fear. Do other people do this? Is it a sign of some sort of crazy? I am talking to myself through conversations with people I really know, but in my mind. It doesn't even seem like a fantasy because it isn't actually something I desire. At what point should I seek professional help? I can't possibly be insane if I recognize that the conversations aren't real, right? I am just hoping that other people do this and just don't talk about it, like the way people don't really talk about taking a dump or how messy and disgusting you feel after giving birth. I am also hoping that the other people that do it aren't just the crazies out there. Eeeek!
All of this spiraled into an analysis of my relationships with people. Of course it did, because when you are trying to go to sleep at night, the best thing to do is analyze past and existing relationships. It really is the best sleep aid. I wondered how and why I become friends with the people I do and why some people that would seem to be a perfect friend for me on paper, fall short and maybe even turn me off. I don't know how many times someone has said, "Oh, you remind me so much of so and so," then I meet them and I am like, "For realz? No." What I have come up with is this, some people in my life are familiar, like I have been drawn to them because they remind me of someone from childhood and fill that space for me as an adult. Usually I can pinpoint who these people are and who they remind me of. They are comfortable to be around because I already know them on some level. These people are not always the best people for me. Sometimes they are a part of a cycle, which is not always positive, but seems to be becoming more apparent to me as I get older and more aware of who I am and want to be. This brought me to the other types of people in my life. I have often thought that I am attracted to certain people because they represent something that I want to strive to be, that they have a quality I do not possess and want to learn from them how to achieve greatness. This may be part of it, but last night, in my bedtime state, I realized that isn't really the case. All the people I admire for their different qualities and individual personalities all have something I already have and they bring it out and that *thing* is complimented by them. Maybe it shines a little brighter in them and I am trying to bask in the glow of their light, hoping mine will follow suit. Maybe one day all of these things will come together for me and the light will burn so bright that it explodes from my body as I reach my full potential. It would be fucking amazing.
Of course, these aren't the only reasons I am friends with people. Obviously, they have to be cool and fun and not a dickhead or asshole. My friends have to be willing to act ridiculous sometimes too, because I refuse to live in a world of constant seriousness. There is nothing better than a bunch of great friends coming together and acting like they're 12. They also kinda have to like me, at least a little. That wouldn't really work if they didn't.
As I finally started to feel my eyes droop and I was reaching stage 1, I was appreciating my friends and really feeling a full heart and a peaceful mind. I wanted to tell each one of them, "You are special to me. I love you. My life is more interesting with you in it." A little anxiety hit when I thought I might die in my sleep and never get to tell them how I feel about them, but I was able to squash that fairly quickly by telling myself to shut the fuck and go to sleep.
On a side note, while it may seem as though I smoked pot before bed, I swear this is not the case. Peace.
Of course, this led me to fear. Do other people do this? Is it a sign of some sort of crazy? I am talking to myself through conversations with people I really know, but in my mind. It doesn't even seem like a fantasy because it isn't actually something I desire. At what point should I seek professional help? I can't possibly be insane if I recognize that the conversations aren't real, right? I am just hoping that other people do this and just don't talk about it, like the way people don't really talk about taking a dump or how messy and disgusting you feel after giving birth. I am also hoping that the other people that do it aren't just the crazies out there. Eeeek!
All of this spiraled into an analysis of my relationships with people. Of course it did, because when you are trying to go to sleep at night, the best thing to do is analyze past and existing relationships. It really is the best sleep aid. I wondered how and why I become friends with the people I do and why some people that would seem to be a perfect friend for me on paper, fall short and maybe even turn me off. I don't know how many times someone has said, "Oh, you remind me so much of so and so," then I meet them and I am like, "For realz? No." What I have come up with is this, some people in my life are familiar, like I have been drawn to them because they remind me of someone from childhood and fill that space for me as an adult. Usually I can pinpoint who these people are and who they remind me of. They are comfortable to be around because I already know them on some level. These people are not always the best people for me. Sometimes they are a part of a cycle, which is not always positive, but seems to be becoming more apparent to me as I get older and more aware of who I am and want to be. This brought me to the other types of people in my life. I have often thought that I am attracted to certain people because they represent something that I want to strive to be, that they have a quality I do not possess and want to learn from them how to achieve greatness. This may be part of it, but last night, in my bedtime state, I realized that isn't really the case. All the people I admire for their different qualities and individual personalities all have something I already have and they bring it out and that *thing* is complimented by them. Maybe it shines a little brighter in them and I am trying to bask in the glow of their light, hoping mine will follow suit. Maybe one day all of these things will come together for me and the light will burn so bright that it explodes from my body as I reach my full potential. It would be fucking amazing.
Of course, these aren't the only reasons I am friends with people. Obviously, they have to be cool and fun and not a dickhead or asshole. My friends have to be willing to act ridiculous sometimes too, because I refuse to live in a world of constant seriousness. There is nothing better than a bunch of great friends coming together and acting like they're 12. They also kinda have to like me, at least a little. That wouldn't really work if they didn't.
As I finally started to feel my eyes droop and I was reaching stage 1, I was appreciating my friends and really feeling a full heart and a peaceful mind. I wanted to tell each one of them, "You are special to me. I love you. My life is more interesting with you in it." A little anxiety hit when I thought I might die in my sleep and never get to tell them how I feel about them, but I was able to squash that fairly quickly by telling myself to shut the fuck and go to sleep.
On a side note, while it may seem as though I smoked pot before bed, I swear this is not the case. Peace.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
WARNING: Vomit And Poop Ahead
My kids have been sick this week. With vomit. GUH. It is seriously my most dreaded illness, especially because not all of them are able to use the toilet yet, so it becomes this violent pukefest all over the house. This time was not so bad though. Only two kids puked and it went really fast. Plus, we have escaped many, many illnesses this year, so I can't complain.
When I had my first, I was WAY worried about the puke. I had never dealt with cleaning up another human's vomit in my life. I felt totally unprepared, so, of course, I tried to arm myself. I asked my mom friends, "What do you do if they puke in the car? What do you do if they puke in the house? What do you do if they puke on the wall? What do you do if they puke on you?" By the time my first child threw up, I was armed and ready. Towels were on hand, bath was ready to go, bleach and hand sanitizer were close at hand. I found myself surprisingly calm and capable. I was mostly concerned for my poor, little baby who had no fucking clue what was happening to him and was wondering why I couldn't just make it go away. I felt so bad for the little guy. Cleaning up his mess seemed so easy.
Fast forward to two kids later. I am still prepared for every situation, weighing the odds of them all puking at the same time and trying to accept that that scenario *could* happen. Now, though, I am way less emotional. I go into robot mode. Bath, bleach, wipe. Bath, bleach, wipe. My only goal, at this point, is to get everything cleaned up so I can go to bed because it ALWAYS happens at some REFUCKINGDONKULOUS time of night when I am RIPPED from a dead sleep and TRYING to dream of a place where I am young and beautiful and no one is counting on me to make breakfast, wipe asses, or get them a GODDAMN DRINK OF WATER. Of course, once I have woken up enough to clean everything up and assure them that they will feel better soon, I can't go back to sleep! I lay there for hours, TRYING, then finally, sweet, sweet sleee...BLAAAAARRRRGH! More vomit. It is no use trying to get rest. It becomes a vicious cycle of bleaching, insomnia, stage 1 sleep, VOMIT
The worst time I remember was after my third was born, but was still a baby and sleeping in my bed. I was nursing her most of the night, so I was already exhausted. Suddenly, the Black Plague ripped through our house. It felt like it lasted forever. First one got sick with vomit. Then diarrhea. By then, the second was puking, so I was dealing with one puker and one shitter. Puke, shit, puke, shit. Then, the third started puking, but neither of the other two were over the shits. Puke, shit, shit, puke. Puke, shit, shit, puke. It was a fucking nightmare. I was exhausted. I actually wished for death, many, many times. The puking and shitting was something out of horror movies. I had been cleaning up puke and shit FOREVER. Then, one night, when I was near my end, I went to help my young daughter in the bathroom, shit everywhere. I was calm while I cleaned her up. I offered encouraging words, kissed her on her head, and got her ready to go back to bed. I pushed the hair out of my face and went to the sink to wash my hands. As I looked in the mirror, I was stunned. I had poop in my hair. Actual poop. POOP!! And right in that moment, I didn't freak out, I didn't cry, I didn't jump as quickly as I could into the shower (shortly after though). Right at that moment, it hit me. This is me. A mom. This is my job. It won't last forever, but right now, there is no time for vanity, there is no time for anger, and there is no time for FREAKING THE FUCK OUT BECAUSE THERE IS POOP IN MY HAIR. What it is time for is rolling with the punches and being able to laugh that shit off.
So, in closing, I had poop in my muthafucking hair. That is all.
When I had my first, I was WAY worried about the puke. I had never dealt with cleaning up another human's vomit in my life. I felt totally unprepared, so, of course, I tried to arm myself. I asked my mom friends, "What do you do if they puke in the car? What do you do if they puke in the house? What do you do if they puke on the wall? What do you do if they puke on you?" By the time my first child threw up, I was armed and ready. Towels were on hand, bath was ready to go, bleach and hand sanitizer were close at hand. I found myself surprisingly calm and capable. I was mostly concerned for my poor, little baby who had no fucking clue what was happening to him and was wondering why I couldn't just make it go away. I felt so bad for the little guy. Cleaning up his mess seemed so easy.
Fast forward to two kids later. I am still prepared for every situation, weighing the odds of them all puking at the same time and trying to accept that that scenario *could* happen. Now, though, I am way less emotional. I go into robot mode. Bath, bleach, wipe. Bath, bleach, wipe. My only goal, at this point, is to get everything cleaned up so I can go to bed because it ALWAYS happens at some REFUCKINGDONKULOUS time of night when I am RIPPED from a dead sleep and TRYING to dream of a place where I am young and beautiful and no one is counting on me to make breakfast, wipe asses, or get them a GODDAMN DRINK OF WATER. Of course, once I have woken up enough to clean everything up and assure them that they will feel better soon, I can't go back to sleep! I lay there for hours, TRYING, then finally, sweet, sweet sleee...BLAAAAARRRRGH! More vomit. It is no use trying to get rest. It becomes a vicious cycle of bleaching, insomnia, stage 1 sleep, VOMIT
The worst time I remember was after my third was born, but was still a baby and sleeping in my bed. I was nursing her most of the night, so I was already exhausted. Suddenly, the Black Plague ripped through our house. It felt like it lasted forever. First one got sick with vomit. Then diarrhea. By then, the second was puking, so I was dealing with one puker and one shitter. Puke, shit, puke, shit. Then, the third started puking, but neither of the other two were over the shits. Puke, shit, shit, puke. Puke, shit, shit, puke. It was a fucking nightmare. I was exhausted. I actually wished for death, many, many times. The puking and shitting was something out of horror movies. I had been cleaning up puke and shit FOREVER. Then, one night, when I was near my end, I went to help my young daughter in the bathroom, shit everywhere. I was calm while I cleaned her up. I offered encouraging words, kissed her on her head, and got her ready to go back to bed. I pushed the hair out of my face and went to the sink to wash my hands. As I looked in the mirror, I was stunned. I had poop in my hair. Actual poop. POOP!! And right in that moment, I didn't freak out, I didn't cry, I didn't jump as quickly as I could into the shower (shortly after though). Right at that moment, it hit me. This is me. A mom. This is my job. It won't last forever, but right now, there is no time for vanity, there is no time for anger, and there is no time for FREAKING THE FUCK OUT BECAUSE THERE IS POOP IN MY HAIR. What it is time for is rolling with the punches and being able to laugh that shit off.
So, in closing, I had poop in my muthafucking hair. That is all.
Friday, February 15, 2013
Breaking Up Is Hard To Do
So, two things happened this week. The first thing is, I LEFT FACEBOOK!!! You heard me right. I broke the hell up with Facebook! Like done, finished, finito. It was a shock to me as much as everyone else cuz I never thought I would be able to break that chain!! Now for the second thing. Okay, I totally lied. There is no second thing. I mean, I have done plenty of other things this week, but nothing nearly as huge as my break up with the big FB. It may actually be the biggest thing I have done in the last ten years. Well, besides giving birth to three children, losing forty pounds and running two marathons. So, yeah. It's like the fourth biggest thing I have done in the last ten years.
Why did I leave, you ask? Well, I will tell you. First, a friend sent me this: http://www.cnn.com/2013/02/05/tech/social-media/facebook-breaks-pew/index.html?c=us.
I have been known to take breaks from FB and every time I have gone back, I die a little. The information coming at me seems to do a number on my brain that I just can't deal with. My friends list was out of control, I knew too much about people I would rather not know, and I felt like I was on display all the time. I was in a perpetual state of anxiety, worrying all of the time about what people thought about my posts or comments, wondering who I had offended that day or why I hadn't heard from such and such. I couldn't stay off though. I was ALWAYS on. Even if I wasn't, I was. FB was the first thing I thought about when I woke up, and the last thing I thought about before going to sleep. I even dreamed about FB. What kind of sick bitch dreams about FB?! When I read the article above, I felt like there was only one answer, but I hadn't quite gotten to that point. Then, the very next day, I was moving stuff around, rearranging my lists, hiding my stuff, stressing over who could see what, movingstuffaround, rearrangingmylists, hidingmystuff, stressingaboutwhocouldseewhat, movingstuffaroundrearrangingmylistshidingmystuffstressingaboutwhocouldseewhat... and then, I thought, "What the fuck am I doing? No, really! WHAT THE EVER LOVING FUCK AM I DOING?!" I would never involve myself in something that caused me this much stress. Ever. Not even for my kids.
"Mom, can I have my birthday at Chuck E. Cheese?"
"You know what? Yes. When you have a job and make your own money and can drive yourself, you are more than welcome to have your birthday at Chuck E. Cheese."
My anxiety level had reached an all time high and right then and there, I knew. Well, I knew right after I consulted a few of my peeps. I knew I had had enough. ENOUGH!! And suddenly, just like that, my heart slowed down and I felt at peace. A peace I had not felt in a really long time. Nothing bad was going to happen if I left PhazeBook. Nothing at all. I might lose contact with a few people, but not if they are important, right?
I decided not to just quit abruptly. There were actually people I needed to get contact info. from and I wanted to let people know that I was unfriending everyone, not just them. What better way to get the word out than post it on FB, amirite? So, I did. I gave everyone a few days to get used to the idea and send me their info. It also made it real for me so I wouldn't back out. I have quit stuff before and know that telling people you are quitting an addiction is the best way to make yourself follow through. Not sure if my Facebooking qualifies as an addiction, but if it doesn't then I don't know what does. Not everyone was as pleased as I to find out I was leaving. The sure sign I was doing right by me was the fact that I just didn't care anymore. If I stayed, it would be for others, not myself. It was not in my best interest AT ALL. I was so happy!! HAPPY!!
I waited until the last day to save all of my pictures I had posted over the last 5 years. That is when I broke down. For every picture I saved and deleted off my account, I cried. I cried harder than I have cried in a long time. I cried over my pictures, I cried about not being involved, I cried about the people I might lose touch with. Mostly, I cried about not being able to feel normal in the FB world, having no self control, and shutting myself off from real life for so long. It got even worse when I went to delete my account. Pictures from 5 of my friends popped up. "Lisa B. will miss you." FUCK!! Lisa B. WILL miss me!! Goddamn Facebook, you ruthless bitch!! I even started to bargain with myself. Maybe I didn't have to delete my whole account. I could just take a really, really long break. Like 6 months or something. Maybe I could start another page under a false name. Maybe I could just delete the majority of my friends list. And there it was. ANXIETY. So, no. I could do nothing less than get rid of that thing. The thing that had been consuming me for years. I have now been gone for 5 days and I already feel like a new person. I actually care very little about what might be going on over in Facebook land. Of course, I know that this may be the honeymoon period for me. By week 3 I could be a total fucking basket case, wishing I had never left. I am giving myself at least 2 months to feel perfectly normal without it. If it's less, than that is just an extra bonus!
Now, I don't think Facebook is all bad. I have made some very good friends through FB that I would not have known otherwise. I have also been able to reconnect with people that I never thought I would hear from again. But, for me, FB just doesn't work, at least not the way I was using it or the way I wanted it to. I need facial expressions, eye contact, human touch. I need constant movement and activity. What I don't need is to be sitting on my ass, most of the day, trying to communicate with people that do not affect my daily life. I do not need to dance and be "on" all the time. And mostly, what I don't want, is the person who does my eulogy to say, "We are here today to celebrate the life of my best friend, Apparentlyatotal B. I don't know her in real life, but MAN, She is funny as shit on Facebook!" So, peace out, Facebook. I am done being your bitch.
Why did I leave, you ask? Well, I will tell you. First, a friend sent me this: http://www.cnn.com/2013/02/05/tech/social-media/facebook-breaks-pew/index.html?c=us.
I have been known to take breaks from FB and every time I have gone back, I die a little. The information coming at me seems to do a number on my brain that I just can't deal with. My friends list was out of control, I knew too much about people I would rather not know, and I felt like I was on display all the time. I was in a perpetual state of anxiety, worrying all of the time about what people thought about my posts or comments, wondering who I had offended that day or why I hadn't heard from such and such. I couldn't stay off though. I was ALWAYS on. Even if I wasn't, I was. FB was the first thing I thought about when I woke up, and the last thing I thought about before going to sleep. I even dreamed about FB. What kind of sick bitch dreams about FB?! When I read the article above, I felt like there was only one answer, but I hadn't quite gotten to that point. Then, the very next day, I was moving stuff around, rearranging my lists, hiding my stuff, stressing over who could see what, movingstuffaround, rearrangingmylists, hidingmystuff, stressingaboutwhocouldseewhat, movingstuffaroundrearrangingmylistshidingmystuffstressingaboutwhocouldseewhat... and then, I thought, "What the fuck am I doing? No, really! WHAT THE EVER LOVING FUCK AM I DOING?!" I would never involve myself in something that caused me this much stress. Ever. Not even for my kids.
"Mom, can I have my birthday at Chuck E. Cheese?"
"You know what? Yes. When you have a job and make your own money and can drive yourself, you are more than welcome to have your birthday at Chuck E. Cheese."
My anxiety level had reached an all time high and right then and there, I knew. Well, I knew right after I consulted a few of my peeps. I knew I had had enough. ENOUGH!! And suddenly, just like that, my heart slowed down and I felt at peace. A peace I had not felt in a really long time. Nothing bad was going to happen if I left PhazeBook. Nothing at all. I might lose contact with a few people, but not if they are important, right?
I decided not to just quit abruptly. There were actually people I needed to get contact info. from and I wanted to let people know that I was unfriending everyone, not just them. What better way to get the word out than post it on FB, amirite? So, I did. I gave everyone a few days to get used to the idea and send me their info. It also made it real for me so I wouldn't back out. I have quit stuff before and know that telling people you are quitting an addiction is the best way to make yourself follow through. Not sure if my Facebooking qualifies as an addiction, but if it doesn't then I don't know what does. Not everyone was as pleased as I to find out I was leaving. The sure sign I was doing right by me was the fact that I just didn't care anymore. If I stayed, it would be for others, not myself. It was not in my best interest AT ALL. I was so happy!! HAPPY!!
I waited until the last day to save all of my pictures I had posted over the last 5 years. That is when I broke down. For every picture I saved and deleted off my account, I cried. I cried harder than I have cried in a long time. I cried over my pictures, I cried about not being involved, I cried about the people I might lose touch with. Mostly, I cried about not being able to feel normal in the FB world, having no self control, and shutting myself off from real life for so long. It got even worse when I went to delete my account. Pictures from 5 of my friends popped up. "Lisa B. will miss you." FUCK!! Lisa B. WILL miss me!! Goddamn Facebook, you ruthless bitch!! I even started to bargain with myself. Maybe I didn't have to delete my whole account. I could just take a really, really long break. Like 6 months or something. Maybe I could start another page under a false name. Maybe I could just delete the majority of my friends list. And there it was. ANXIETY. So, no. I could do nothing less than get rid of that thing. The thing that had been consuming me for years. I have now been gone for 5 days and I already feel like a new person. I actually care very little about what might be going on over in Facebook land. Of course, I know that this may be the honeymoon period for me. By week 3 I could be a total fucking basket case, wishing I had never left. I am giving myself at least 2 months to feel perfectly normal without it. If it's less, than that is just an extra bonus!
Now, I don't think Facebook is all bad. I have made some very good friends through FB that I would not have known otherwise. I have also been able to reconnect with people that I never thought I would hear from again. But, for me, FB just doesn't work, at least not the way I was using it or the way I wanted it to. I need facial expressions, eye contact, human touch. I need constant movement and activity. What I don't need is to be sitting on my ass, most of the day, trying to communicate with people that do not affect my daily life. I do not need to dance and be "on" all the time. And mostly, what I don't want, is the person who does my eulogy to say, "We are here today to celebrate the life of my best friend, Apparentlyatotal B. I don't know her in real life, but MAN, She is funny as shit on Facebook!" So, peace out, Facebook. I am done being your bitch.
Friday, January 18, 2013
Can't, Or Shouldn't?
Well, the new year is well underway and everyone has made all the normal resolutions of quitting smoking, losing weight, eating better, staying away from strip clubs, not committing arson, etc.. Normally, I do not make resolutions, but this year I switched things up and resolved to shut the fuck up. Not stop talking, but just stop talking about my issues. I could elaborate on that, but then I would be breaking my resolution and seeing it is only the middle of January, that would kind of suck and remind me of why I don't ever make resolutions. ANYWAY, in my thoughts about my resolution, I started thinking about the phrase, "I can't complain," and I have decided that this might be the most fucking ridiculous statement in the history of ridiculously stupid statements EVAR.
Just think about it.
Fred: Hey, Lara!!! I haven't seen you in awhile! How's it going?
Lara: Eh, can't complain.
WHAT?!? Can't complain?! You can't complain about the windshield you had to replace TWICE this past year? You can't complain about your Staph infection that won't go away? You can't complain about not being able to afford the new iPhone 5million billion gazillion? You can't complain about that guy that keeps following you around the grocery store on Thursdays? Um, yeah you *can* complain!!! It doesn't mean you should, but you most certainly *can.* Unless, of course, you have some physical thing keeping you from doing so. If that is the case, then I am truly sorry. Also, definitely complain about the grocery store guy. To the police.
When I hear people say, "Can't complain," what I actually hear is, "I have a lot to complain about that is really not any more than what other people have to complain about and I want you to fish for more information so I can complain." Um, nope. Not gonna do it. Because, in all honesty, I usually don't care. I know how the people I care about are doing and don't really need to know about the rest of the muthafuckas walking around. When I have said it, it has mostly been because I don't feel like getting into it with that particular person because I don't really give a rat's ass about them. I also don't usually know what to say. But "can't complain" is just about the most uncreative small talk outside of the weather or sports. I think we can do better.
I understand why someone wouldn't want to go into great detail though. No one really wants to hear about vaginal dryness or the pubic lice you just can't seem to get rid of. I can't even tell you how many times someone has started running down their list and I wish I hadn't asked or that I would suddenly be hit by a semi, just so I would not have to hear their boring/disgusting/inappropriate/far fetched bullshit. Listening to that shit is treacherous and uncomfortable and telling it is just embarrassing. Still though!! People should just be honest or shut the fuck up. "A lot has been going on with me, but I don't really like you and wouldn't share my personal life with you if you were the only other person on earth. Now step up off me, mofo." Or, "I could go on and on, but I really don't think you give a flying fuck, so I will just keep my mouth shut. Have a nice day!" Of course, I could always make some shit up that would keep them from asking me what's going on forever. I am pretty sure long winded descriptions of anal leakage and bed sores would keep them away.
So, in closing, please don't say, "can't complain." Say you shouldn't complain, won't complain, will not bother anyone with stuff that isn't relevant in their lives at the moment. Say anything. Just don't say that, or it is a nutpunch for you.
Just think about it.
Fred: Hey, Lara!!! I haven't seen you in awhile! How's it going?
Lara: Eh, can't complain.
WHAT?!? Can't complain?! You can't complain about the windshield you had to replace TWICE this past year? You can't complain about your Staph infection that won't go away? You can't complain about not being able to afford the new iPhone 5million billion gazillion? You can't complain about that guy that keeps following you around the grocery store on Thursdays? Um, yeah you *can* complain!!! It doesn't mean you should, but you most certainly *can.* Unless, of course, you have some physical thing keeping you from doing so. If that is the case, then I am truly sorry. Also, definitely complain about the grocery store guy. To the police.
When I hear people say, "Can't complain," what I actually hear is, "I have a lot to complain about that is really not any more than what other people have to complain about and I want you to fish for more information so I can complain." Um, nope. Not gonna do it. Because, in all honesty, I usually don't care. I know how the people I care about are doing and don't really need to know about the rest of the muthafuckas walking around. When I have said it, it has mostly been because I don't feel like getting into it with that particular person because I don't really give a rat's ass about them. I also don't usually know what to say. But "can't complain" is just about the most uncreative small talk outside of the weather or sports. I think we can do better.
I understand why someone wouldn't want to go into great detail though. No one really wants to hear about vaginal dryness or the pubic lice you just can't seem to get rid of. I can't even tell you how many times someone has started running down their list and I wish I hadn't asked or that I would suddenly be hit by a semi, just so I would not have to hear their boring/disgusting/inappropriate/far fetched bullshit. Listening to that shit is treacherous and uncomfortable and telling it is just embarrassing. Still though!! People should just be honest or shut the fuck up. "A lot has been going on with me, but I don't really like you and wouldn't share my personal life with you if you were the only other person on earth. Now step up off me, mofo." Or, "I could go on and on, but I really don't think you give a flying fuck, so I will just keep my mouth shut. Have a nice day!" Of course, I could always make some shit up that would keep them from asking me what's going on forever. I am pretty sure long winded descriptions of anal leakage and bed sores would keep them away.
So, in closing, please don't say, "can't complain." Say you shouldn't complain, won't complain, will not bother anyone with stuff that isn't relevant in their lives at the moment. Say anything. Just don't say that, or it is a nutpunch for you.
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