On Social Impropriety

All the books I’ve read on writing say you need to write every day. I set up my other blog for the purposes of doing that. Now word has leaked out and a few too many local folks are reading it (+ my mom). So I’m stymied, scared that what I really want to write will offend people.

So today, I’m depositing my daily writing commitment in this, the Top Secret Blog. I need some privacy to bitch for a minute about another example of the baffling social retardation that constipates this town.

There’s this woman that lives around here. She’s tall and red-headed and walks around gazelle-like as though she’s constantly on a runway. Her husband buys and sells companies for a living, so aside from being super skinny, she’s also fabulously wealthy. I watch women (smart women) flock to her – eager and panting as though her fabulousness might drip off her so they’d better lie at her feet and wait.

Maybe I’m jealous, or maybe it’s because I don’t think she’s particularly nice. I refuse to be blinded by her $8,000 purse (this is the dollar amount some of her groupies secretly valued her purse at). So she  married a wealthy man and spit out some good-looking children, but what kind of person is she? She’s funny, I’ll give her that. And she has a cool vibe going on, but I mean, really? This is why we worship her – because she has an $8,000 purse? 

So last week, I was sitting with my friend when the Fabulous Red Head glided over and air-kissed my friend (who blushed and giggled because she loves the FRH). They were doing their chit-chat catch up when the FRH suggested they get together for  a walk this week. My friend eagerly nodded, “Yes, yes, let’s do that!!!!” Then they proceeded to discuss days and times right in front of me. Like I wasn’t there. 

Okay, I know the FRH. I am nice to her despite my inner resentment. My friend doesn’t even know how much the FRH bugs me. Maybe if she did, I could understand how she could make plans – right there, in front of me, like I’m invisible.

My face burned. I thought we learned in fucking kindergarten that when you make plans that don’t include others, you don’t do it in front of them. I teach my daughters this. Not everyone needs to know they are not included. Isn’t this common knowledge. I mean, what the hell?

I sat there chewing on my lip and squinting in the distance as though I was distracted by something. I wanted to be included, acknowledged. Fucking bitches. That’s all I could think. Fuckingbitchesfuckingbitchesfuckingbitches. 

I chewed and squinted until they finalized their plans – together, without me. Then I looked up at the FRH, smiled sweetly and said, “Oooo, I like your purse.”

See? This is why I hate myself.

On Mommy Blogs

I refuse to be a mommy blogger. 

Every day, I get up and I make beds, make meals, make up things-to-do, make appointments, make arrangements and make peace. My entire day is devoted to being a mom. I want to say adoringly that I just love it.  But I’d be blowing smoke. This blog does not please.

My mommy friends are great. We call each other to disect our mommy issues. Often when I’m having these conversations, I’m pouring cereal, picking up toys or wiping someone else’s ass. I’m usually in my pajamas. My mommy friends keep me sane, but some days we could use something else to talk about.

On the rare occassion when my husband and I go on a “date”, we go out to dinner and talk about the kids. Once I said, “Let’s see if we can spend an evening not talking about the kids.” We sat and ate in awkward silence. I seached for someting to say. I wanted to dazzle my husband with wit and depth, but I went blank. I finally caved and lifted the constraint. I could tell he was relieved.

I read funny mommy blogs and I notice the other mommy blogs that dominate their blogrolls. I scan the list and feel left out of the club I refuse to join. It’s a vitural clique of happy moms congregating on the blogging playground. It tires me.      

I see so may women who become mommies and cease being everything else. I think that’s what happened to me. I even have a stupid mommy haircut. It saves me time.

I can’t quit my mommy job. I love my kids. My youngst daughter has the softest, sugariest skin. I call her “the Donut”. When things get rough, if I just kiss her squishy little self I feel better. But these are brief moments. I refuse to get so lost in them that I forget about the rest of me.

What I can do is sneak away for a private blogging moment and challenge myself to have a conversation about something else. I can dazzle my imaginary listener with wit and depth.

But right now, I’m drawing a blank.

On Being a Little Mentally Ill

I hate the term “mentally ill”. It’s perjorative. Why hasn’t it been updated? 

You can be blind, short, retarded, handicapped or a dwarf and you get a whole new descriptor that is optimistic and action-oriented.  But the mentally ill are stuck with the old moniker that conjures up images of Nurse Ratchett and little kids making the crazy sign. 

I’m trying to think of a new one: neurotransmittery-deficient? Emotionally surface-challenged? (I like this one because deep down aren’t we all a little crazy? It’s the surface stuff we mentally ill have so much trouble with.) I hate “mood disorder” by the way, it just sounds grumpy and unsportsman-like.

Anyway, it seems I’m a little mentally ill. I’ve had issues with depression before — not the super-crazy, non-showering, bed-ridden type, but the outwardly functional, invisible-to-the-naked eye where you are choking on your loneliness and negativity type.  

I’ve gotten myself out of the “black hole” twice before.  Once with medication/therapy and once with therapy/exercise. Both worked with different benefits/side-effects. I don’t know what to do this time.

The thing is, I’ve outdone myself in the black hole this time by adding another emotionally surface-challenged “issue” called OCD.

It’s a surprising diagnosis.  I’m not washing my hands repetitively or touching the mailbox six times. I might be a little on the germ-concerned side, but I’d eat a brownie off the floor if it was the last one. 

But I’ve had these obsessive thoughts for a couple of exhausting months that I have a really bad disease. It started with some legitimate symptoms and a bad doctor who floated some debilitating diseases by me before she checked her watch and concluded it was “probably” nothing. I got a subsequent second (okay, and a third) opinion that I’m okay, but I can’t seem to believe it.

I thought I was being smart and self-sufficient by googling my symptoms. It’s the doing it five to six times a day (or maybe 10-12?) looking for relief while becoming even more obsessed that’s become troubling. Hence the compulsion part.

When my shrink told me that I’m exhibiting OCD behavior, I felt a huge sense of relief.  Recognizing it as an actual disorder sort of disables the validity of the obsessive thinking. It seems to help just knowing it.

So the good news is, I’m not terminally ill. I’m just mentally ill — which makes me laugh in a sort of self-deprecating, able-to-see-the-humor kind of way, not a crazy, cackling, inappropriately weird way.

I still hate the term.

On What I did Today

My husband has stopped asking me “What did you do today?” He knows it really pisses me off.

I’m a stay-at-home mom that secretly hates being a stay-at-home mom. I am so bored and incredibly lonely. 

Today, after the kids went to school I had to pace myself for my one big outing. I had to go to Kohl’s and return the over-priced gym shoes I bought for my five-year-old. She needed ones with velcro straps because I guess teachers/kids are lazy. I had to go to three different stores to find ones with velcro straps. That was a busy day… hooray.

Anyway, the shoes were too expensive since my staying at home means we are broke. So I’m at Kohl’s, which could not be any more depressing – did I mention it was raining? – when I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the store mirrors.

Oh My God. I looked so FAT.  It was disgusting. I looked disgusting. I was wearing an old a t-shirt that made me look lumpy and cargo pants that were stained and too short. My face was all blotchy, my glasses were crooked and my hair was all fuzzy from the rain.

I couldn’t shake the image. I was so depressed that I returned the shoes quickly and then raced home to change.  

I pulled my hair back.  Put on some lipstick, a crisp black shirt, jeans and black ballet flats. I modeled in front of the mirror.  I felt a little better.  I looked a little better.

But then I was all dressed up and had no where to go — which was even more depressing. I had wasted my bad outift on my one big outing. 

So I went to Target and bought some rubber bands and a Starbucks.

That’s what I did today.

First of All….

I am a pleaser who is exhausted by my constant need to please. Whatever someone wants to hear, I am likely to tell them. 

I’m really good at it, too.  People like me. I make them feel good. I’m so skilled I can do it without seeming fake.  It’s tough work, but I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting my skills.

But it’s killing me.  I have this other blog that is nice and cute and not offensive. I started it because I wanted to practice writing.  But I’d given too many people the URL and now every time I go to post something, I’m paralyzed by how others might react.

Sol Stein in his book on writing said that a writer needs to be brave. A good writer says what other people think but are afraid to say. I love to write, but I am a complete chicken-shit. 

I thought writing a blog would be cathartic but it’s ignited my need to please in a disgustingly new obsessive way. I am sucking up to other bloggers. I am checking my stats every minute.  I am sad when I comment on someone else’s blog and they don’t check out mine. I am pissed at people for not adding me to their blogroll.  

So I’ve started this new, top-secret blog to have one sacred place to go where I can actually say what I want. Damn the consequences.  If you don’t like it, don’t read it. If you are a pleaser too — feel free to comment and say whatever you want.

Just know this: I will be swearing, motherfucker, and I will be complaining. I will be whining.  I will not always find deep meaning in things. But I will be fiercely honest.

At least I hope so.