CJane’s post today and the subsequent commentary got me thinkin’ . . .
On more than one occasion I’ve found myself lamenting: Oh, that blog author such a good writer! I should be that good after all the money my parents poured into my composition-focused education. Oh, that blog author says such funny things! I should be that entertaining! Oh, what a cute house that blog author has put together! I should find the time and financial resources to make my house that amazing. But that's not me. I’m an okay writer. I can be funny sometimes. And my house reflects my life—cluttered in secret spots, tidy in public areas, and only halfway done with the decorating eight months after moving here.
What I am not envious of is the standard blog “About Mes” and life commentary that’s present on 60% of the blogs I check regularly. Stuff such as “I start to really ache for my perfect husband fifteen minutes after he leaves for work. It’s the picture messages of himself that he sends me hourly that help me get through the day until he arrives home in his brand new car (see photo below) with a bouquet of pink tulips, which, of course, he knew were my favorite.” Or “It was so cute when Sally waltzed into the restroom today, pulled down her panties and decided this was the day she would potty train herself, and she’s only 8 months old! (See photo of first in-toilet excrement below).” Or “Out of sheer boredom today—once I finished mopping all the tile for the second time, sweeping our 3-mile driveway, and baking and freezing eight batches of bran muffins, that is—I made sock puppets for my kids and all their neighborhood friends and then directed them in a Sound of Music-esque puppet production that we filmed and is now one of the top 10 most-watched videos on YouTube. (Click below to view video)”
So you’re convinced your husband is perfect. Must be why you married him in the first place; your intelligence is in question if you married a guy you’re confident is a loser. So you think your kids rock Mother Earth. You and every single other mother ever. I really never expected you to say that you think your kids are cool, but your best friend Jill’s kids are way better.
Reading all that drivel makes me ill (so why am I still visiting those blogs? Well, I can’t seem to stop, and blogging keeps me from online shopping, a nasty, nasty addicting habit), so I am committing to go the other way.
I’m going to be honest, starting here:
My husband is not perfect. But he’s mine, so I love him and fight with him, and make him angry, and won’t let him sleep when I can’t, and am really annoyed with him that after five years of marriage he expects me to stop being bothered when he’s flatulent. Know this, Romo, I can hear it even when you’re far away in Kansas, and I’m just being nice not commenting on it. Crap, I just did. Sorry. (And sorry about that bathroom pun.)
I am not marvelous. (I mean, of course I am—Mom, you did a great job instilling healthy self esteem in your oldest and runtiest child.) I eat a whole lot of candy. There are days that I substitute candy for real food. I sometimes skip yoga class because the drive to the studio seems too far and I’d rather eat caramel popcorn and watch Hairspray again. I let garbage pile up around my desk until it induces guilt, and I give in and take it out, the mass filling three 13-gallon garbage bags.
I’m not a cute mom who moons over her completely perfect children—I don’t have kids, that’s been a choice, and I realize that being married five years and still being childless makes me a wicked Mormon anomaly. If I have kids, I want to be the only person alive who is willing to admit it if their child is ugly (though I know that’s a biological impossibility).
I think that crafts are completely lame. I think making stuff is for weirdos, and I’d rather spend twice the money buying something than half the time making it.
I sometimes become so obsessed with my new haircuts that I cannot stop looking in the mirror wondering why multitudes of people aren’t pulling me over in traffic to ask who does my hair (it’s my sister, Caitlyn, by the way).
At least once a week, I go to bed without washing off my makeup. Any Saturday that I am home by myself, I don’t get out of my pajamas or do my hair and make up.
I’m not a socialite who gets asked out to lunch by their 47 friends, booking themselves 4 months out. Actually, I get really lonely here in Reno. I’ve even cried about it.
I have no intention whatsoever of using my blog to make myself look smarter, prettier, more put-together, or more intelligent than I actually am. In fact, I read papers I wrote in college, and I’m not kidding, I can’t understand them. Either I was really smart then or my professors felt bad for me and gave me As for effort.
That wasn’t a confessional—confessions seem to me to be something for taking care of rare events. That up above, that’s how I live my life. I’m messy. I don’t really care to rectify it. I eat badly and stress about it into wee hours of the night. I don’t exercise like I should. I could not run a mile if you paid me to.
All this: not a confessional. It’s more like honesty.
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4 comments:
You just took the words out of my typing fingers. Oh how I dislike most other people's BORING blogs. The potty training one is what gets me every time. That and the husband swooning. Damn it people, WE GET IT! You are OBSESSED with your husband and your children. WE GET IT!
You know, I am not really supposed to be reading your blog because your good punctuation makes me feel bad. But anyway, I thought the line about you reading papers that you wrote in college that you can't understand now is something that I know all too well.
And also, I am guilty of the husband swooning on my blog. I know it. But you have no idea what it helps me get away with at home. Try it! You can start online shopping again!
Anyway, you sisters are a breath of fresh air.
P.S. I like crafts as long as they are not called crafts.
I appreciate your honesty. It is refreshing. If I ever cross over to THAT side, you must tell me immediately, it is your sisterly duty. I also just hate these blogging wives that showcase their big, huge house (that is secretly in forclosure), and their adorable kids (that are being watched by a nanny 24/7) that can do no wrong. Sick.
uh maizing.
i'm a real piece of work too. in fact cade wants me to write about it. and maybe i should...
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