At the risk of losing the tone of my blog, there's a few records I have to set straight. First, my mom and I generally get along. While I find her utterly confusing at times, she's a 'nice enough gal' (quick Jackie quote). And she's unusually good with little ones, which I happen to have three of. There tends to be some tension between our parenting techniques, mainly that I think she applies emotions to kids that I don't really think are there. Or at least as strong, with such long lasting effects as she does. But, really, that's small potatoes. Ned and I have a pretty slammin' social life, all thanks to Mimi. Ned knows that he can call on his way home from work, say he wants to go out, and if Mimi's home (and unless she's "baking like a potato" in front of the Blessed Sacrament, she usually is, or will be soon. She flexible as all get out), Ned and I head wherever it is that Ned wants to go. Not a bad setup for being together 10 years, not to mention three kids. We still have a lot of fun together, just the 2 of us. Someone once said that their therapist (or some sort of figure like a therapist) told them that their relationship with their husband should come before the kids. At the time, I was matriarchal and stubborn, and disagreed, thinking the kids should come first. I don't think I really even thought about if Ned was happy. My focus was entirely on the kids and I thought Ned could take care of himself. Somewhere along the line, I was (thankfully) set free of that mindset, and Ned and I are now proud frequents of Charlie O'briens.
Which brings me to my next point. My sister said, entirely inoffensively, that my blog could make me come across, if you don't know me, as "alcohol fueled." Ugh. I thought everyone knew my blog is blank pages for me to pleasantly exaggerate my life. My main focus is Ned, and my kids, etc. etc. But who wants to read that I'm working really hard at not yelling at my kids anymore? Or that at the moment Ned is cooking steak and my oldest daughter is making salad? For realz, yo, no offense to my life, but it's really not worth writing my daily adventures. I thought I was doing my readers a favor by veering from the monotony of my actual life and taking you for a trip down Lois Lane. (My sisters used to call me Lois, and I think it's this character that illustrates my blog posts.) It's much more fun to turn 4 drinks to 12, and drinking at 7 pm to drinking at noon. And to make Ned constantly grumbling and Kiwi Herman a bit of a Mad Hatter. And Jackie as mentally ill as they come. I can't believe I have to clarify on my own da*n blog, but for the record I don't wake up to a wall of beer cans next to me. And my mom, to those under 21, is a spectacular figure of grace and virtue.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
The Steubenville Syndrome
Things is lookin' up. For one thing, it's like 50 degrees. And Ned and I went out to dinner last night, to a bring your own wine Thai restaurant, and ate courses for $5.56. Restaurant.com, baby. And I hung out with Megs McCardle, and remembered why having friends is fun. (I got myself involved in a Mean-Girls circle that ain't making too much sense lately. So Megs McCardle was a breath of fresh air.) Jackie is another breath of fresh air. She's slim-hipped and wise. She sleeps in till 10:30, and is always ready to read my blog and make sure it's post-able. I think my blog truly would be disturbing (quote, unquote) if I didn't await Jackie's groggy affirmation every morning.
Okay, I'm annoyed. I feel like I'm the suspect in a witch trial. And another friend, moreso than me, but since I have anonymous readers, I'll lay low on name dropping. A witch trial in the sense that one ring leader is pointing her (presumably Egyptian) finger and getting everyone all riled up and self-righteously angry and paranoid. I've never really been involved in anything like this. My old friend's behavior, while not entirely surprising, is entirely embarassing. Like, actually EMBARASSING. (For her, not me:)) If I remembered doing this in 2nd grade, I would be beyond humiliating. I can't imagine reflecting on this behavior in my 20's or 30's. The wierdest thing of all is that no one will talk about it. Don't they want to know the truth? No one is addressing any problems. It seems like they just want an excuse to be mad. I can't see people acting like this in a secular group, and it's depressing that we're supposed to be Christian. But in the end it's not all that surprising. I call it the Steubenville Syndrome: Where people are super Catholic, identity wise, but they fall for every trick in the book.
The only other possibility is that I'm being Punk'd. I feel like everyone is planning a surprise party for me, and trying to inflate the surprise by acting like they hate me and think I'm a questionable (to say the least) friend, for the month or so preceding the party. If you guys are trying to keep me in the dark, you're doing a damn good job. I ain't got no clue what I did!
But alls well that ends well. Jackie's groggy voice was extra groggy today, when I called, incredulous about the lowest of the low events that took place last night, (sorry for the vagueness, readers, but there are some things that just shouldn't go public) and Jackie, in true form, gave a charitable read, a simple solution, and a calm response. Good ol' Jackie.
Okay, I'm annoyed. I feel like I'm the suspect in a witch trial. And another friend, moreso than me, but since I have anonymous readers, I'll lay low on name dropping. A witch trial in the sense that one ring leader is pointing her (presumably Egyptian) finger and getting everyone all riled up and self-righteously angry and paranoid. I've never really been involved in anything like this. My old friend's behavior, while not entirely surprising, is entirely embarassing. Like, actually EMBARASSING. (For her, not me:)) If I remembered doing this in 2nd grade, I would be beyond humiliating. I can't imagine reflecting on this behavior in my 20's or 30's. The wierdest thing of all is that no one will talk about it. Don't they want to know the truth? No one is addressing any problems. It seems like they just want an excuse to be mad. I can't see people acting like this in a secular group, and it's depressing that we're supposed to be Christian. But in the end it's not all that surprising. I call it the Steubenville Syndrome: Where people are super Catholic, identity wise, but they fall for every trick in the book.
The only other possibility is that I'm being Punk'd. I feel like everyone is planning a surprise party for me, and trying to inflate the surprise by acting like they hate me and think I'm a questionable (to say the least) friend, for the month or so preceding the party. If you guys are trying to keep me in the dark, you're doing a damn good job. I ain't got no clue what I did!
But alls well that ends well. Jackie's groggy voice was extra groggy today, when I called, incredulous about the lowest of the low events that took place last night, (sorry for the vagueness, readers, but there are some things that just shouldn't go public) and Jackie, in true form, gave a charitable read, a simple solution, and a calm response. Good ol' Jackie.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Tag, Maggie. You're it.
A few months ago my brother (Dan) suggested that I become friends with one of his friend's wives. I'm not sure if it's my a result of the "outrageous" behavior I've been indulging in (Ned flinches when he passes me in the hallway), or a reckless freedom that got ahold of me, or the fact that her name is synonomous with too many shots of Jameson and live Irish dancers (Jackie, who is terrible with names, called her Megs McCardle. Same idea.) but I left behind all sound reason and invited her over. Kiwi Herman, Megs McCardle, and I drank mimosas till the wee hours of the...afternoon. I thought we got along swimmingly. So did Kiwi Herman. A few nights later Ned went out with her husband on a pub crawl. Her husband randomly broke out into breakdancing. Sweeeeet. And they only live two streets away. Even sweeter. I thought a fab friendship had blossomed. Except I never heard from her again. For a month or so, I was tempted to re-invite her over, like the mimosas never happened. This time, I planned on being perched at an L shaped desk when she arrived, snap shut a notebook, and briskly usher her in to my sterile, alcohol free home. Rather than whistling to get her attention (yes, I really did whistle to get her attention her first/last time over), I imagine myself asking all the right questions (not "were you pregnant when you got married?" I thought it was normal till retrospect. Retrospect sucks.), serve a homemade frittata, and at the end calmly and efficiently walk her to her car.
But that really ain't my style. And I ain't givin' up on Megs McCardle yet. I refuse to admit to Dan that it didn't pan out. You can't pull off Outrageous and Rejected all in one person. That's mental hospital material. Although, according to MY MOTHER, that's my next stop.
 |
| Not what Megs McCardle expected? I think this is how she remembers me seeing her out the door. |
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Goin' to San Diego?
I think I'm being manipulated into moving to San Diego. I'm certainly being coaxed into somewhere, and if it ain't San Diego, I don't know where the hell it is. I may have family there- if I knew exactly where S.D. was, I might know (my unexercised mind prevails.)
Kiwi Herman sang a song to me this afternoon, when I mentioned the suspected offer to America's Finest City, that went something like this:
"I left my heart and soul behind
with the clubbers in San Diego..."
Although I always fancied myself more of a street urchin, I'm pretty sure, had I stepped foot down a more glamorous road, I would have ended up a clubber in San Diego. But one year while on vacation at the Jersey Shore, Jackie and I spent the entire trip home staring dismally (and ungratefully) out the windows of the van, pondering the fact that no matter where you are, it always ends up just the same old you in the same old small town. While our mother soaked in the history of every single small town we went through, Jackie and I sat slumped in the back seat, thoroughly depressed by the fact that all we are were two small town girls living in a small town world. By the time we made the 7 hour trip home, we didn't even see the point in unpacking our suitcases.
I think it was that realization that stopped me from taking the inevitable 18-years-old-and-just-graduated-from-highschool trip to California. I knew, since that trip to the shore, that it would just be me (and probably Jackie) out in the beautiful west.
Or maybe I've just always been depressed?
Kiwi Herman sang a song to me this afternoon, when I mentioned the suspected offer to America's Finest City, that went something like this:
"I left my heart and soul behind
 |
| Is it calling or cunning? |
Although I always fancied myself more of a street urchin, I'm pretty sure, had I stepped foot down a more glamorous road, I would have ended up a clubber in San Diego. But one year while on vacation at the Jersey Shore, Jackie and I spent the entire trip home staring dismally (and ungratefully) out the windows of the van, pondering the fact that no matter where you are, it always ends up just the same old you in the same old small town. While our mother soaked in the history of every single small town we went through, Jackie and I sat slumped in the back seat, thoroughly depressed by the fact that all we are were two small town girls living in a small town world. By the time we made the 7 hour trip home, we didn't even see the point in unpacking our suitcases.
I think it was that realization that stopped me from taking the inevitable 18-years-old-and-just-graduated-from-highschool trip to California. I knew, since that trip to the shore, that it would just be me (and probably Jackie) out in the beautiful west.
Or maybe I've just always been depressed?
Monday, January 31, 2011
The Weather Becomes Her
I was listening to blasting "Last Dance with Mary Jane" tonight (my outrageous behavior continues) and had the ghastly realization that if I want to smoke pot, I could. I could chart it in with what Dan calls my "outrageous" behavior that began in early November, and add pot to the list of familiarities people associate me with. Add it to the list of prayer intentions that my mom mentally (and verbally, actually) composes for me when we are together.
The problem is, I don't really feel like smoking pot. It just seems like it would make life a little more interesting to have my kitchen smell like it, when it should smell like, oh, I don't know, chocolate chip cookies? I imagine Dan the D-bag walking in and asking with a semi-startled, bordering on concerned if he wasn't too cool for concern, laugh if I'm stoned. And when I confidently say Yes, daring Dan to challenge me, he narrows his eyes briefly, says "Hmm." and heads to the computer. He won't address it till he leaves, when he'll look at the baby and say "Well, have fun getting stoned...?" Ah, funny scenario, but not really worth the paranoia that ensues when you are not an actual pot head.
The urge to do drugs in my kitchen is interesting, though. Am I craving excitement? I'm not the kind of mom who doesn't get out, Ned makes sure of that, so I don't think I have cabin fever. And my kids are normally behaved, whiny and tempermental, but they are sweet and cheery little girls. So I have no crazy stress there. Ned and I are fine. (Really.) He would probably ask if there was any weed left if he smelled it in the kitchen, but we're Fine.
I think I need a change. I'm always wary of giving in to needing a change, because it seems like a slippery slope, like I'll end up needing a new house every 6 weeks by the time I'm 40. But I think I need a change. I think I'm bored F-ing stiff by humanity and life. I think the Buffalo freeze has entered my brain and I am not longer allowed to be stimulated. (It was 5 degrees this morning.) I might need a new friend. I might need a new car. I might need a new couch. Somehow a new friend seems like the easiest accomplishment. A huge, angry, authentic African American woman seems like a great match for me right now. I don't take her s*hit and she don't take mine. Everything on the table and no holds barred. No Neds for her, she would show me the silly little white girl that I truly is. I really think that would thaw the anti-humanity freeze that has attached itself to my mind. Maybe I'll tell Ned he can smoke pot freely in the kitchen if he finds me a nice, sensible, angry as hell, big as hell, black as hell Woman to be my new best friend.
The problem is, I don't really feel like smoking pot. It just seems like it would make life a little more interesting to have my kitchen smell like it, when it should smell like, oh, I don't know, chocolate chip cookies? I imagine Dan the D-bag walking in and asking with a semi-startled, bordering on concerned if he wasn't too cool for concern, laugh if I'm stoned. And when I confidently say Yes, daring Dan to challenge me, he narrows his eyes briefly, says "Hmm." and heads to the computer. He won't address it till he leaves, when he'll look at the baby and say "Well, have fun getting stoned...?" Ah, funny scenario, but not really worth the paranoia that ensues when you are not an actual pot head.
The urge to do drugs in my kitchen is interesting, though. Am I craving excitement? I'm not the kind of mom who doesn't get out, Ned makes sure of that, so I don't think I have cabin fever. And my kids are normally behaved, whiny and tempermental, but they are sweet and cheery little girls. So I have no crazy stress there. Ned and I are fine. (Really.) He would probably ask if there was any weed left if he smelled it in the kitchen, but we're Fine.
I think I need a change. I'm always wary of giving in to needing a change, because it seems like a slippery slope, like I'll end up needing a new house every 6 weeks by the time I'm 40. But I think I need a change. I think I'm bored F-ing stiff by humanity and life. I think the Buffalo freeze has entered my brain and I am not longer allowed to be stimulated. (It was 5 degrees this morning.) I might need a new friend. I might need a new car. I might need a new couch. Somehow a new friend seems like the easiest accomplishment. A huge, angry, authentic African American woman seems like a great match for me right now. I don't take her s*hit and she don't take mine. Everything on the table and no holds barred. No Neds for her, she would show me the silly little white girl that I truly is. I really think that would thaw the anti-humanity freeze that has attached itself to my mind. Maybe I'll tell Ned he can smoke pot freely in the kitchen if he finds me a nice, sensible, angry as hell, big as hell, black as hell Woman to be my new best friend.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Misery loves company. Wanna come over?
I'm pretty sure that my identity crisis has become a full fledged, albeit incredibly functioning, depression. It might be because I stopped washing my hair every day. It might be seasonal. It might be just me. But all I want to do is drink beer, eat chicken wings, and watch movies. I joined Netflix, and am cramming as many movies as I can into my free trial. I ate chicken wings and didn't count them. Or regret it. Or make sure Ned had his fill before I dived in (almost literally.) I never thought chicken wings would make me happy, or movies, (I would say beer, but...) but these days it's a whole new ballgame here on Roanoke. Or at Charlie O'briens. Or in (as Jackie, who ain't the happiest camper herself, and I dream about on the phone together, yelling over screaming children in the background) "a dark room with movie after movie, calorie free food, and addiction-proof cigarettes." Yes, this is what Jackie and I collectively yearn for. No wonder our sister Ro calls us the Simpson sisters.)
It's so bad that this morning I asked Ned to drop my latest Netflix flick in the post office box before dropping the girls off at school, so it would go out at 8, and hopefully my next movie will come tomorrow. I told this to Kiwi Herman today, and she gasped and called me "alarming". Well, fudge. What the hell am I supposed to do? Although a practicing Catholic, I'm an "atheist at heart" (some call it practical. Who knows.), and a lukewarm soul at that. My mind is not being exercised, and my big decisions are in truth trite moments pulling me through the day. There are too many addicts in my life, and just when I think I've got it all figured out, my MOTHER (damn her) tells me she thinks I'm having a break down. I don't like Ned anymore, and my nieces and Bff's kids are being enrolled in a 4 hour a week kindergarten called "Holy Cherubs". Hello, semi-homeschooled kids around 24-7. So long, shopping excursions and lunches. I don't even like shopping anymore, anyway. I do like lunch though. Which reminds me that I don't like Ned anymore, because today when I told him I was gonna buy a Groupon (in which I would pay $10 for $25, mind you) to an Irish Pub by our house, he snappily said "why don't you invest in some spoons instead. I can never find any spoons. You get all these good deals, why don't you get a good deal on silverware." Holy freakin cow. Charlie Sheen may know a thing or two about how to live. Goodbye, wholesome. Hello, bender.
It's so bad that this morning I asked Ned to drop my latest Netflix flick in the post office box before dropping the girls off at school, so it would go out at 8, and hopefully my next movie will come tomorrow. I told this to Kiwi Herman today, and she gasped and called me "alarming". Well, fudge. What the hell am I supposed to do? Although a practicing Catholic, I'm an "atheist at heart" (some call it practical. Who knows.), and a lukewarm soul at that. My mind is not being exercised, and my big decisions are in truth trite moments pulling me through the day. There are too many addicts in my life, and just when I think I've got it all figured out, my MOTHER (damn her) tells me she thinks I'm having a break down. I don't like Ned anymore, and my nieces and Bff's kids are being enrolled in a 4 hour a week kindergarten called "Holy Cherubs". Hello, semi-homeschooled kids around 24-7. So long, shopping excursions and lunches. I don't even like shopping anymore, anyway. I do like lunch though. Which reminds me that I don't like Ned anymore, because today when I told him I was gonna buy a Groupon (in which I would pay $10 for $25, mind you) to an Irish Pub by our house, he snappily said "why don't you invest in some spoons instead. I can never find any spoons. You get all these good deals, why don't you get a good deal on silverware." Holy freakin cow. Charlie Sheen may know a thing or two about how to live. Goodbye, wholesome. Hello, bender.
Monday, January 24, 2011
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