What I Hate About Me

I've seen a few blogs that are doing this challenge called "30 Days of Truth" and it was really interesting to me but the thing is...um...I'm incredibly lazy busy and posting once a day for 30 days just is not going to happen.  Well, it might happen. But probably not. So I was going to call mine "30 Weeks of Truth" but then I thought that I probably wouldn't even do that because I do have other interesting things going on in my life (shut up, I do) that I might want to blog about. So then I thought I could call it "30 Days or Weeks of Truth But Maybe Less Than or More Than That If I'm Not So Lazy Busy" but that seems insanely long and also hard to remember and very confusing so I decided to go with "30 Posts of Truth" which really leaves it open time-wise and also maybe a little suspenseful for you.  The good kind of suspenseful, not the bad kind where there is a murderer in the closet waiting to stab you.  I also thought you might come back more often just to see if today was the day I decided to post something truthful.  Not that I don't always post truthful things.  I do.  They might just be a little exaggerated. Sometimes. Because this is my blog and I can do that. Also, pie.

What the hell is the topic again?  Oh.  Yes.  What I Hate About Me.

What is the character limit on this thing? Anyone?

Bueller?

I am (usually) going to make these short and sweet because I read somewhere that people tend to read things that aren't quite as long. I realize the irony in this as this post is very long already and I haven't even answered the <censored for my mother> question yet.

So here it is.

I could the easy route and say I hate that I'm fat but that is so unoriginal and kind of a cop out. For me. If that's what you wrote about that's not a cop out, for you, obviously. I love you.

I hate that I let my own insecurity and fear prevent me from doing things. Anything. Whether it is going grocery shopping or volunteering at my daughter's school or speaking in front of others.  I guess that is why I like writing. I can hide here. You can't see me. Or judge me. To my face.  You can do it behind my back but that is okay because you are just being polite and I appreciate good manners.

I do sometimes think if I felt better about how I looked I might not be so self-conscious but the truth is that I probably wouldn't.  It's a struggle.  Sometimes I let it conquer me and sometimes I don't.  The truth is that some days I am stronger and some days I'm not.

So.

There it is.

What do you hate about you? (Not me, remember what I said about manners, people.)

You know what's not a good name for golf balls? Anything containing the word "tit."

This morning we took our "smells like moldy ass" bed back to the furniture store. They were kind enough to allow us to return it even though we bought it "as-is". Of course we had it going for us that it didn't say "smells like moldy ass" on the "as-is" sticker.

Anyway.

We get there and they tell us that they can't unload it until we have this magical green slip of paper. I trudge into the store (uphill, both ways, by myself) and get the magical paper and come back. They deem it valid and proceed to unload the stinky bed.

My husband tosses the straps and some other junk that was in the back of the truck into the back seat where our daughter is happily watching her iPod (oblivious to anything that is going on). We had just parked the truck so we could go back into the store to try to find a replacement bed when it happened.

She spoke.

Her: "Did they give you the tit least for returning the bed?"

Us: "The what??"

Her: "The tit leest? Balls."

Me: *hyperventilating*

Him: "WHAT???"

Her: "THE TIT LEAST BALLS?" (As if saying it louder will help us understand her better.)

Him: "What are you talking about???"

Me: *laughing*hyperventilating*tears streaming*can't breathe*

Her: "TIT. BALLS. TITBALLSTITBALLSTITBALLS." (She may not have actually said it that many times but it was all I could hear over my hysterical laughter.)

Me: "Honey...she means...*gulp*....Titliest...the box...from the...*snort*...golf...balls."

Him: "Oh. OH." *hysterical laughter*

Her: "What's so funny? You guys? Whaaaaat???"

Me: "It's TITLE-IST. Also, you said balls."

Her: "Real mature, mother."

I wrote a life list. Because it's trendy. And I'm the epitome of trendy.

All I want to write right now is "snork" but I know that's not the appropriate term. "Snarf"? Maybe? "Smark"? What the hell is it?!?

Oh!

*Snort*

In all seriousness, I was inspired by @exlibris' list.  I may have borrowed a few of hers because they were good (northern lights, ftw!).  You can steal mine if you want. Some of them are quite tasty.

So...drumroll...here they are: 100 things I want to do, before, well, you know.

And before anyone says anything I know that "don't get eaten by a bear" is on there twice but it's a really important one.

Who needs to see? Or read? Not me, apparently.

Let me preface this by saying that I have a Kindle...an old one...but it's broken.  I have books I can't read. Well, I can read them.  On the computer.  BUT THAT IS NOT THE POINT.

Busy being lazy

I could tell you all about how busy my week was but we all know that I would be lying.  And I'm all about blogging with integrity so here's the truth...

My week has been really lazy.

It was so lazy that all the dishes from Sunday night are STILL in the sink.  The laundry my husband I put in the dryer on Sunday afternoon is still in the dryer.  And the pillow my dog peed on Monday morning is sitting on the laundry room floor.  I'll probably just throw that one out. Tomorrow.

I managed to do a few things while I was busy being lazy.

I fed my kid.  I got her to do her homework.  I made sure her hair did not make her the laughingstock of the school on picture day.  I went to work.  I worked when I was there.  I checked the mail.  I threw away paid the bills.  I brought in the trash cans (two days late but I'm counting it).  I picked up dog poo that my Cowboy Jack Sparrow brought in to nosh on.  I also set up my tumblr, posterous, flicker, and made some changes to my blog header. You know. The IMPORTANT stuff.

I worked on a major project I've been meaning to do for two years (I like to procrastinate, eh) but I did that last Sunday so technically it doesn't count towards the past week that I practiced being lazy.  I took lots of pictures of the before, during and after...but I need to edit them still so don't hold your breath or anything.  I know you won't be able to think of anything else until you see it but do try to stay strong for mommy.  It promises to be lots of laughs.  Maybe a few tears. Probably lots of pity.  One of you may call that Hoarders show on me.  I'm looking at you, Mom.

All this doing nothing has made me really tired so I'm going to bed now.  Of course I might be tired because I've been up for 24 hours in a row with about 3 hours of sleep because the other damn dog, Princess, (whom I love and adore) woke me up with her hacking so I had to get her water and then we went to sleep and then she hacked more and then I got her more water and then we rinsed and repeated a few more times than the manufacturer suggested on the back of the bottle.

All of that tends to make a person sleepy. And delirious.  And pissy.

Mostly delirious.

No.

Pissy.

Definitely pissy.

I'm only thinking about her future.

It recently got all "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret" in this house except we weren't praying for rain, if ya know what I mean.  A more proper title would have been "Are You There God? You know who it is. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW THAT YOU HAVE TAKEN AWAY MY INNOCENCE??? JERK FACE."

Yes, the "monthly gift" blessed my little girl.  She knew what was happening when it happened but it didn't make it any less scary for her.  I've been talking to her, plainly, about what happens to women, since she was little.  Mostly because when I would get my "monthly gift" I would, inevitably, be in the bathroom where there were no "supplies" and being that the reason I had a child was to be my personal assistant (according to said child), I would ask very, very nicely order her to "do Mommy a solid" and run upstairs for some "supplies".  Of course, it may have had more to do with the fact that, as all moms know, the bathroom is no longer a sacred place once you have children. And I was just too damned tired to lie about the blood.

That night she wanted to take a bath and I told her that she couldn't.  The tears that followed...you would have thought I killed her puppy.  She Sobbed.  Oh, the SOBBING.

Me: "Why are you crying???  It's okay.  It happens to all girls. I'm here for you."

Kid: "I KNOW. I am crying over the loss of my childhood, mother! My CHILDHOOD."

Picture her saying this with tears streaming down her face as she lays dramatically on the floor. She may have also had her hand draped across her forehead.

In all honesty, it made it a lot easier for me to handle because she was overly distraught and I admit -- it was kind of comical. When I say she was being dramatic, take whatever you are thinking and multiply it by 10. And then do it once more, for good measure. I guess I could have told you to just multiply it by 100. I suck at math.

Anyway. IT. WAS. SO. DRAMATIC.

She cheered up after a Motrin and a heating pad and a cuddle and my talk that essentially was "this is going to be fun because we can cycle together and lay in bed and have dad bring us food and lots and lots of chocolate."

I have always answered any question she has asked me as truthfully as I could for whatever age she happened to be.  The older she gets, the more truthful I get. Want to know what HIV is?  A condom? Come, sit by me. Let me tell you.  And let me tell you how you about how babies are made.  And all the other disgusting diseases you can get.  It's gross and awkward and uncomfortable.  But she needs to know and I have to be the one to tell her.

Now that we've started down this path I'm fearful that what it really means is that this could be the beginning of her pushing me away.  I don't want that.  I know she doesn't really want that, either.

So last night I told her to pick a place to go out to dinner. Just the two of us.  No iPods.  Cell phones off. We talked about silly stuff, plans for the week, friends at school, my job.  She told me she can't wait until she's in college and we are still going to dinner once a week.

My heart?

It melted.

On the way home she told me that had a really good time.  That it was great because we had a chance to "learn a lot about each other".  I took the bait.  I asked her what she thought she learned about me.

Do you know what she said?

"Your life is pretty boring."

Blank.

Stare.

"Well, your job sounds pretty boring.  You should do something more exciting."

I told her that I enjoy writing and that is why I have my blog.  That I love writing about our life and the crazy things that happen to us and the not-so-crazy things that happen to us.  Like how I had this whole post in my head about how she freaked out this morning because her hair was too curly and she would be the laughingstock of school if I didn't fix it.

She laughed and then she feigned being mortified.  Did I mention she is a little dramatic?  No?  SHE IS DRAMATIC. And I have NO IDEA who she got that from!

I made her a promise that I would tell her if I was writing about her and she could choose if she wanted me to post it or not but to remember that my life is pretty boring and she wouldn't want to take away my only joy, would she?

Mom Guilt FTW!

I don't know if I'm doing this parenting thing right.  But I'm doing it the best that I can.  I try to be honest and humorous and not take things too seriously except when it's time to take them seriously and all I can hope is that I don't Ruin Her Life Forever.

And if I do end up Ruining Her Life Forever hopefully I do just enough that if her plans to be the first woman President/veterinarian/actor/singer fall through she will always have enough fodder for when she writes on her blog called: How My Mother Ruined My Life. FOREVER.

Getting my hairs did.

I love going to the beauty shoppe.

Please note the extra p and e.

The place I go is really called a beauty shoppe. Honest to God (or whatever deity you believe (or not)).

You know what that means, right?

I'm surrounded by women who are here for their weekly set.

And you know what that means, right?

Gossip.

Also, canes.

But mostly gossip.

I hear juicy things...like that no good son-in-law who goes out drinking and the hussy that works with him that calls all the time.

And catty things...like the party the daughter-in-law threw didn't even have a real cake. It was store bought! Can you imagine the horror???

And bitchy things...like the husband who is supposed to be mowing the lawn but is at home drinking beer on the couch.

And the sad things...like the babies who die and the cancer and the surgery and the liver spots and the gallstones and the gout.

I nod and smile and sometimes cry but mostly I pray that I am TOTALLY like these ladies someday.

Except maybe without the gout.

I could live without that.

(SPOILER ALERT)

Hi Internet!

I've missed you.

I've been here even if you didn't see me. I was on facebook (that doesn't count) and I tweeted (occasionally) and I read your blogs (daily) and commented (rarely) and I searched (we don't need to talk about that).  We had some stuff going on. Angsty stuff. But we made some changes and it's all better now.

Mostly.

One of our dogs got sick. Really sick. She had to go to the hospital and have ultrasounds and blood work and six different medications.  She's still recovering but she's A LOT better so I'm back to yelling at her for peeing in the house. I'm beginning to think she faked it just to get away with the peeing. Because in our house if you are dying you get to pee wherever you want. And she knows it. Bitch.

Then my daughter got sick again. It's her abdominal migraine thingy. I think it's from the stress of fifth grade. Because. OMG. The work these kids do these days makes me sad for them. There is an hour of homework each night and projects and tests every other day. I don't remember fifth grade being like that. I remember my teacher reading Charlotte's Web and (SPOILER ALERT) crying as she read us the passage where Charlotte died. I remember kickball. And art class. And music. And fun. And getting yelled at by the crazy man in the woods when some of the boys ran off with his stash of Playboys that he stored in a trash bag.

Um, maybe not that last part.

And now I'm thinking that our whole "Marley and Me" plan of not trying to not get pregnant might be working faster than we thought or it could just be the stress of our dog almost dying. I should know the results soon and you'll be the very last first to know if it worked.  The not trying to not get pregnant part not the (SPOILER ALERT) dog dying part.  The dog is just fine.  I have a $3,000 vet bill to prove it.

I love writing and I love my blog and I kind of like all of you. Most of you, anyway. But I also work full time and have a life outside of the computer (shut up, I do too) but I promise to never, ever neglect you for so long again.

Probably.

I'm baaaaaaaack. Kinda.

This past weekend I participated in the most awesome conference EVAR while sitting on my couch naked in my pajamas while eating pizza granola and drinking whiskey green tea.  #HomeHer10.  If you don't know what it is then you must leave this place now and go read about it.  But, come back, ok?

I kind of lost my steam in April and stopped blogging.  There were many reasons all too boring to get into but after HomeHer10 I have been inspired to get back to it.

So, I'm back. Kinda.

You've been warned.