with more confusion...
I have been getting some feedback that people think I was talking about something sexual in my earlier blahg Matrioshka fashion statements. I swear I wasn't. I just want all the priveleges of being a lesbian without having to go near anyone's vagina. I'm tired of being whatever it is I think I have to be that I would not be if I did not care what men or really really good girls think. I am sure it has something to do with being 40 and is nothing that a little leather, a little less makeup or concern that I don't wear enough makeup, a day or two without a bra..just to the grocery store...late at night..when no one is there...wearing a big coat, and maybe a tattoo won't satisfy. Sorry to disappoint you guys. I really really really was just talking about the clothes and the shocking statements and maybe a little freedom they seem to enjoy.
I have not logblahged in a while. For those of you who just tuned in, tired of hearing me whining, my friend offered me $1,500 to get in shape by Christmas and I thought that was a good idea because that is what it would cost to get to my parents' house. Problem is that was a couple of months ago and an ambitous goal for a not so ambitious gal. I am still working on getting in shape. I have lost about half of what I wanted to lose, I have lots of ideas of why that might be but the biggest is that it was silly to link this "reward" with my desire to go home and see my parents for Christmas. The stakes were too high and too many people (my kids, my parents) were depending on me for this. The pressure was excruciating. I also sort of dove into it without much plan or room for trial and error. I don't want to do this for an event I want to do this forever. So, I am going to try to extend this working on my extension thing a bit...with or without the wager. Hopefully it will still be there by my birthday; it's a fun incentive and will be even more fun if I get to spend the money on me. Stay tuned.
I have had lots of wonderful people whom I love, arguing with me about my negative spin on myself and my daily non events. I treasure those comments. Don't worry though, this is sort of a game I play with myself to make my life (and the lack thereof) more interesting. I know "everybody" feels this way from time to time. I know that nothing I am doing or not doing is THAT important. I know I am normal. But I want to be special and so the way I accomplish this is by being the most unspecial and making the very normal seem abnormally awful. So I am awfully special. Also, I am sort of laughing at the parts that bug me or worry me so they won't have any power. I'm telling you the truth, but in the way a caracature tells the truth. My nose is not THAT big. Maybe I should not have to spell this out but I just don't want anyone to worry about me.
I have not blogged much lately because I have been busy singing to herald the birth of Santa while wishing Jesus would save me from the pressure. I did find a way to go to my Mommy's house for Christmas that did not involve chopping off a limb or donating an organ (both considered when I realized I had not kept the pace I had started through this sing-a-rama busy season of grab on the go to fill the hole eating). Unfortunately because I am from Venus and my husband is from the credit union we miscommunicated and I wound up without he and my son on board to go too!! The cost during the dates they can make it is so high that the star with a tail as big as a kite can't even cover it. So, he is not going. It turns out I have starved myself and robbed Peter to pay Paul so that I could go be with my familiy for Christmas without my family! I don't suspect this is the last word. I still have my hair I could cut and sell and he can sell his pocket watch (oh do tell me you know that story), but it is infuriating that although I believe Jesus saves, we do not and so every year His birthday is a big source of financial conflict for us. My daughter is unconcerned about any of this cause her money is on Santa anyway and he always comes through for her. Let's see if Santa has a little something for Mommy besides a kiss under the mistletoe cause I am starting to lose faith.
Finally, if you are reading this thank you!! Let me know! Send it to your friends. Make me rich and famous for being poor and anonymous so I will have nothing to write about anymore.
I get to spout off once a month on whatever I want to spout off about to a cherished group of homeschooling parents. Anything that happens once a month has the potential to be a pain or at best is patiently endured. My monthly musings are in that category for some I suspect but I feel lucky to get to do it. I want to share my latest blot and a song I just made up. I hope you enjoy it. And remember, no real family members or pets were or are in danger of being injured as long as I have an outlet for my frustration. So read and share my blogs...you'll be helping a whole family.
I don't have much time to write this month. I am behind on all my Christmas stressing. I know there is some controversy with the word "Christmas" and so I will find a different word to describe my insanity this time of year. It does, after all, have very little to do with the birth of any kind of deity and everything to do with being the perfect mother/neighbor/daughter while being driven perfectly mad. I think I will use the word "Thismess" to describe the state I work myself into this time of year.
To be non-religious I won't tell you that "Thismess" for me, a semi-religious person, carries the added weight of completely missing the "reason for the season" and other pithy guilt producing bumper stickers. Even without God being mad at me for missing His son's birthday, I feel like crap this time of year for not measuring up to the hype of the season. For instance, I don't have any money this year so I could not save the money I don't have buying things my kids don't need the day after Thanksgiving. I am supposedly throwing a Christmas party this weekend, but I didn't get around to inviting people till the very last minute and so far all I have done to get ready for it is wash the cushion of my brand new couch that my cat peed on. Oh and I spent two days in bed worrying that now it won't be the best party ever and feeling sorry for myself that I have so much on my "to do" list, starting with "get out of bed". I can't find a cheap flight to go over the river and through the woods to Grandmother's house and it will pretty much kill her when I tell her so unless some last minute Christmas miracle takes the place of "Thismess" reality.
I have been a crab all week and threatened to leave my husband when he squeaked out that he was tired of hearing me whine about the couch and it was never his idea we have a party in the first place. I bet this would work to the tune of the "12 Days of Christmas?"
12 Days of Thismess (best sung really fast to the tune of the real version)
By Jill Brehm Enders
On the first day of Thismess my true love yelled to me, "The couch cushion's full of cat pee!"
On the second day of Thismess my true love yelled at me, "Don't yell at me for the couch cushion full of cat pee!"
On the third day of Thismess my true love said to me, "I'm sick of your whining, don't yell at me for the couch cushion full of cat pee!"
On the fourth day of Thismess my true love begged of me, "Call off the party, sick of your whining, don't yell at me for the couch cushion full of cat pee!"
On the fifth day of Thismess my true love informed me, "You need counseling!
Party's been called off, you're whining, don't yell at me, for the couch cushion full of cat pee!"
On the sixth day of Thismess my true love sighed at me, "In bed all day you're laying, you need counseling! Party's been called off, you're whining, don't yell at me, for the couch cushion full of cat pee!"
On the seventh day of Thismess my true love blasphemied, "Why did God make women? All day in bed you're laying. You need counseling! Party's been called off, you're whining don't yell at me for a couch cushion full of cat pee!"
On the eighth day of Thismess my true love scolded me "Get off your butt you're sulking. Why did God make women? All day in bed you're laying. You need counseling! party's been called off you're whining don't yell at me for a couch cushion full of cat pee!"
On the ninth day of Thismess my true love chided me, "The baby should have pants on, get off your butt you're sulking, why did God make women? All day in bed you're laying. You need counseling! Party's been called off you're whining don't yell at me for a couch cushion full of cat pee".
On the 10th day of Thismess my true love questioned me, "Why are the cats bleeding? The baby should have pants on, get off your butt you're sulking, why did God make women? All day in bed you're laying. You need counseling! Party's been called off you're whining don't yell at me for a couch cushion full of cat pee!"
On the 11th day of Thismess my true love questioned me, "Why are you smiling? Why are the cats bleeding? The baby should have pants on, get off your butt you're sulking, why did God make women? All day in bed you're laying. You need counseling! Party's been called off you're whining don't yell at me for a couch cushion full of cat pee!"
On the 12th day of Thismess my true love gasped at me, "Did I just eat poison? Why are you smiling? Why are the cats bleeding? The baby should have pants on. Get off your butt you're sulking! Why did God make women? All day in bed you're laying. You need counseling! Party's been called off you're whining don't yell at me for a couch cushion full of cat pee!"
I probably need some sort of intervention or a weekend away which ever comes first. I hope you are all doing much better than I am and if you sent me your Christmas card already you are probably NOT my real friend. You KNOW what that does to me! So, in this pentultimate time of year let me be the very first EVER to wish you a MERRY THISMESS!
I love being a mom. I just hate the stuff you have to do. Not all the stuff. I don't mind the listening, cuddling, advising, playing, part. I hate the dishes, dinner, driving, diapering, dressing, disciplining part.
All D's. How appropriate. If this were a report card I am pretty certain I would get all D's. (A “D” is a slap in the face. At least an "F" says, "I didn't care enough to show up". A "D" says, "I showed up and made an attempt and still this is the best I can do").
Truth is, I feel like much of mothering and wife-ing involves making widgets. I never wanted to make widgets. I hate them. I suck at them. I don't really notice them when people make good ones or buy new ones. And yet... I have to make widgets from morning to night and sometimes in the middle of the night, every single day and night. If I don't make good ones my kids die.
And just because there is not enough guilt in that charge, I like to believe that my widgets are judged by the Almighty. Widgets for Jesus. Great.
Because I hate them I take my time about getting to them, and every day the widgets back up like the chocolate on the “I Love Lucy” show conveyor belt. I am making and sorting and organizing widgets as fast as I can, but they come so fast I can't keep up with them. The pile of widgets always lands by the front door and is the first thing "they" see (whomever “they” is) when “they” come over inauspiciously to be friendly or neighborly (but we all know “they” really come to judge my widgets).
It’s no better outside the house. The wobbly widgets made in haste or forgotten are always the widgets that visit the in-laws.
Widgets make me sick. When I get sick they just back up even more and wait for me in a huge pile to address as soon as I get better. Or they gang up on me and kick me when I am down. They yell at me that I am not really sick, just lazy. They keep coming and coming and coming and get between me and my pillow, even when I am in my bed.
And if I don't keep up with them and do them well my children will get sick and die.
When the widget making doesn't go well I want to yell at the kids. But I am really yelling at the widgets. Widgets multiply and speed up in response to yelling. So I try not to yell, but sometimes widgets are flying like tennis balls from every direction and pelting me in the face. I am supposed to keep this face smiling. I am supposed to keep my voice tender while I manage widgets. I am supposed to keep my mood level while I make widgets. EVERYONE knows that! Who is EVERYONE? “EVERYONE” is the plural of “THEY”.
EVERYONE goes on T.V. and writes books and magazines about how to make beautiful pot-pouris widgets and love it. All my friends who have read the books and surfed the Internet tell me about the widgets they are working on. My parents who made widgets when I was little, my relatives who never made widgets but would have made great ones for their kids if they had them, point out what is wrong with my widgets. EVERYONE in the Bible and every other religious book tell me how to make widgets and what happens if I don't do it well -- Jesus and Buddha and Moses and Grandma Moses...EVERYONE!!
EVERYONE knows: Good moms make good widgets. Bad moms make bad widgets. Kids with good widgets get into Harvard. Kids with bad widgets get into trouble. Even if the bad widgets are made with a good attitude, kids with bad widgets struggle to succeed. However, kids with good widgets made with a bad attitude become serial killers. How can this be? Even widgets have widgets? It is not enough that I make good widgets. I am supposed to be spontaneous and funny and friendly and open and flexible and consistent and firm and patient and creative and structured and careful and trusting while I make widgets, or that is a bad widget even If it is a good widget.
It’s enough to make me want to give up all this widgetry. But as I explained, if I don't do widgets well, my children go to therapy. Or they die. (But even if I were great at widgets and every widget was perfect all the time and I made them with the perfect attitude and sunny disposition, my kids could still go to therapy and die. But that’s not the point. Widgets have nothing to do with the point).
Kids have a much greater chance of needing therapy from a poorly made consistently sharp widget, or dying from a dangerously defective or rancid widget that is carelessly made long past the expiration date and served on lead based widgets less than 20 minutes before swimming in a non-widgeted pool, It is solely the job of the mother to keep all this stuff straight and present it in a way that keeps the family from wanting to suffocate her with the dry cleaner bag (which is clearly widgeted that it is not a toy).
Maybe I take myself too seriously. I might be giving myself too much credit. I could probably make every widget wrong and still end up with good kids or not even make any widgets and still have kids that turn out OK. But why risk it?
So I think I will just keep showing up and making weird widgets until I improve my widgetry. A day will come when there will be no more kids to make widgets for and then I will long for the days when I was making widgets. On that day, I will judge my daughter in-law for not making widgets as well as I do after 20 years of practice.
That is probably the only reward consistent widget making has to offer. I hope that day comes and that the kids will be alive and not in therapy. I will know that I have finally succeeded in this widget pursuit when the kids grow up successful and never visit me because I will be so self-righteously widgid in my widgiosity that no one can stand me or my re-widgin’.