The Remedy

I don't get sick often, but when I do, I usually go for the gusto and skip right over the garden-variety cold and land right into full-on misery territory.  It should be noted that I make a terrible sick person.  I'm cranky.  I'm whiny.  I hate my big red nose.  All in all, I'm even more sunshine-y than normal.  Good luck, world!

I hate being sick.  Being sick precludes me from achieving my goals.  As evidence, allow me to contrast my goals for last night with what actually happened.

Goals for the evening of February 6th

1.  Eat nutritious dinner and engage in witty repartee with Little M and the husband and prove to them that I can be mother-of-the-year/domestic goddess after working an 11 hour day.
2.  Put in a 100% effort in the P90X2 workout of the day and become better/faster/stronger.
3.  Write a blisteringly funny and charming blog entry.
4.  Restore the lower level of my house to "company's coming" pristineness.

What actually happened on the evening of February 6th

1.  Ate a soup bowl full of guacamole and about 14 servings of chips while Little M was collapsed on the sofa and the husband microwaved his dinner.  (Note about the guacamole:  The husband just might make the best guacamole on earth.  It's insane.  I'm sure he would have been most appreciative if I didn't hoover it in a manner more commonly observed by pigs near troughs.  I may have been a called a glutton more than once. My only response is that gluttony is--by far--my favorite of the seven deadlies.)
2. Changed into workout clothes, walked into the basement, popped workout DVD into the computer, and did about 12 seconds of actual exercise.
3.  Announced that I was going to close my eyes for a few minutes.  Left basement, but not before retrieving and eating a peanut butter cup from the emergency candy stash.
4.  Fell asleep (face down and ass-up) on top of covers at 8:30 PM, still in workout clothes, and didn't move so much as an eyelash before 6 AM.
5.  Slept peacefully while dirty dishes remained piled, and unwashed, in the sink. 

Item #5 is major.  This absolutely has to be some marker of insanity, but I am unable to sleep with dirty dishes in the sink.  I twitch.  I toss and turn.  I am physically unable to relax until the dishes are cleaned, dried, and put away in their rightful place.  I'm serious when I say that I twitch.  It is as if I fear being attacked and mutilated by disgruntled dishes while I sleep.   Mock as you will, but there is no known cure for this mental ailment.  This is a sad, sad thing.

So, sleep might just be the only remedy I have at my disposal against the sinus infection from hell.  I will note that sleep did provide me with a mental vacation that I very much needed.   Sometimes, this "public diary" thing messes with my head a bit.

I can explain.

I think that there are two critical elements to writing a piece that's worth reading-  there's the storytelling piece, and there's the quality of writing piece.  Once I started writing again, I pretty quickly realized that I should probably read other blogs to benchmark my progress against other writers/hacks out there and calibrate my future efforts accordingly.  Leave it to me to use some of the best blogs out there as reference points.

Let's just say that I became more than a little discouraged.

There's one blog in particular that is just, well, outstanding.  The author is a brilliant writer, and an amazing storyteller.  The writing is sharp, and crisp, and she uses words with such efficiency and effectiveness that I'm blown away.  The stories she tells are heartwarming, and funny---and more importantly, about battles and triumphs over some very significant demons.  She inspires people with her openness to expose pain, and anguish, and redemption.

In contrast, the best story I can offer is that this weekend, I logged in a bunch of hours playing a game with Little M called "Ring Around the Nosy."  It involves wearing an elephant mask, complete with phallic-looking rubber trunk.  The goal of the game is to collect as many rings on the trunk (which TOTALLY looks like a penis, by the way) without using your hands. Yes, boys and girls, I played ring around the penis with my 3 year old this weekend.  Are you inspired yet? 

In all seriousness, I'm less concerned about improving my technical elements of my writing.  Technical, I can handle.  I can practice.  I can actually edit my work.  The technical elements will come back to me.  It's the storytelling part that is troublesome to me.  Here's why.  Thus far, I've had a great, and uncomplicated life.  I have my moments, and sometimes I get sad and sometimes I get angry, but generally, I am demon-free.  I'm as even-keeled as they come.  Don't get me wrong-- I wouldn't trade my good fortune for anything (and trust me, I know I am ridiculously fortunate and I am eternally grateful).  I have to believe that the people who have the stories that are most worth telling have suffered. The suffering provides insight.  The suffering provides perspective. The suffering can be channeled to improve the lives of other people at the time that it's most needed.  I can't offer that to anyone. Maybe my stories just aren't worth being told.

C'mon.  I'm not going to say I'd rather be anguished and write a beautiful blog that inspires.  That's just silly talk.  I just hope that I'm not just filling dead air with meaningless words because my soul isn't evolved enough to do better.

Oh well, at least I can be known as the girl who actually wrote the words "ring around the penis" in a blog.  That HAS to be worth something.

The remedy is the experience,

Brothers and Sisters

The thing about Facebook is that it can artificially inflate your self-confidence.   This surely is a totally stunning confession to you all, but I'm more than a bit snarky by nature.  I'm also raising a promising mini-snark, and the 2x snarky multiple in my house has provided me with ample raw material for Facebook fodder over the years.  I have a keen eye for the utterly ridiculous, which also has served me well.  A sharp eye plus a wicked pen--I'll admit that some days, that allows me to come up with some pretty witty and even some highly amusing crap.

What remains shocking to me is that some very kind-hearted people actually publicly admitted to liking my charming anecdotes, which typically involve a semi-profane musings from a 75% profane 3 year old.   Damn you, Facebook.  You made me believe that I was funny and witty and had some sort of uniquely entertaining worldview.

Here's the thing.  ANYBODY can be funny in 4 sentence clips posted at thrice-weekly intervals-- especially when you're surrounded by a highly entertaining supporting cast.   I know this now.  I'm not special.  Damn you, Facebook, for allowing me to be so self-indulgent as to believe that I was special.

I am so much cooler on Facebook than I am in real life.  Please all, let's take a moment and reflect on just how very pathetic that is.

How do I know this, you ask?  I know this because (DRUMROLL........) I mistakenly thought in a beer-and-Beyonce filled haze, that if I was funny on Facebook, I'd be even funnier in a blog.  Riiiiiiiiight.  It took less than 3 weeks for me to realize that I don't have all that much that is interesting to say, especially when I write in paragraphs as opposed to in phrases.  Maybe Twitter is my medium---I'd surely seem like a comedic genius when limited to 140 characters or less.

I've been radio silent for the better part of the last week because, frankly, I've had nothing particularly interesting to share.  Let's summarize my accomplishments of the last week:

1.  I went to work.  And then I went to work again.  And again.  And again.  I'm pretty sure I spent most of my time there acquiring new work and little time actually completing the work that I already had; thus, finishing the week behind where I started.  Again. 

2.  I made chocolate chip cookie dough (and subsequently burnt some cookies) with Little M.   We sang the "Mixing Song" while making the dough.  For those who are interested, the "Mixing Song" involves singing the word "mix" over and over again to the tune of "Jingle Bells."  I'm a thrill a minute, I tell you.

3.  I got really excited about my purchase of KABOOM! and how shiny it made all of the chrome in my sinks and tubs.  I'm still kind of excited about that, actually.  I heard about KABOOM! on either an informercial or a regular commercial late at night, and I will say, it performs as advertised.  I'm obsessive (shocker) about shiny chrome, and KABOOM! truly delivers.  KABOOM!

4. I got to spent time with my best friend, where I (a) turned myself into a wine bag, (b) got a hangover that was totally unsuitable for someone who answers to the name of "Mom" and (c) took a class called "Core Fusion" (while nursing my wine hangover) where I humiliated myself in a room full of highly fit people.  Allow me to elaborate- I'm in pretty decent shape for a middle-aged woman (thank you P90x and Insanity), but (as one of my trainers once told me), I'm about as flexible as your average senior citizen and (as my dad routinely informs me) as graceful as your average ruptured duck.  Core Fusion involves a ballet barre.  Imagine an interpretative dance performed by the spawn of the Loch Ness Monster and a river otter and you have the general idea.  

5.  Oh yeah, and I went grocery shopping.  With child.  On the weekend using one of those carts that have a car attached to the front of it.  Repeat after me- never.frigging.again.

So, now you know why you haven't heard from me.  Feel free to thank me now.

On the upside, I did get to spend time this weekend with both my brother....and my sister.  Good stuff.  The two of them remind me how fortunate I am to have a family that takes me in when I don't always deserve it, that puts up with my crap, and that loves me, without condition, when I am spectacularly imperfect.  Sometimes, biology makes a family. Sometimes, choice makes a family.  Always, love makes a family.  I'm a lucky girl.

My brother and I have the same mom and dad.  Depending on who you ask, my brother and I either look so much alike we could be twins or we look virtually nothing alike.  Depending on who you ask, my brother and I are so much alike, it's eerie or we are polar opposites.  In point of fact, my brother and I are flip sides of a coin---a little different, but totally complementary. Interdependent.  We are for each other.    We've both gone through life saying that we were 5 years apart in age --but we're actually less than 4 and a half years apart (we're not completely stupid- we were 5 years apart in school and were born in calendar years that are 5 years apart).   My brother was the "cute" one and I was the "smart" one, but somewhere along the way, we realized that my brother is crazy smart and I can be kind of cute in good lighting.  

My brother and I can fight (and have fought) like cats and dogs---but if anyone screws with my baby brother, I would knock their lights out first and ask questions later.  If not for growing up in the same house, my brother and I probably would not have been friends, partially due to the age difference and partially due to the fact that we're enough alike that we'd get on each other's nerves.  I'm so thankful for the shared DNA--there are a good number of times that my brother is the only one able to talk me off the ledge.  My brother's life has been far from easy--far more difficult than mine--but he's lived it anyway, and he's lived it with a grace and a tenacity I'm not sure I could muster.  I may be older, but I love looking up to my little brother.  There's no one on this planet who can press my buttons like my brother can, and no one who I'd rather share DNA with.  Go figure.  Baby Brother C- I don't tell you nearly enough, but I am so lucky and so proud to be your sister.

My sister and I have different parents and live in different states.  We share few physical features, unless you count us being the exact same height (midway between dwarf and average) and freakishly small fingers (how many adults can possibly have a size 4 ring finger?)  I'd say we were alike in all the ways that count, but that would be unfair to her and grossly inflating me.  We are, however, for each other.  

My sister is the most beautiful person I've ever met in real life...inside and out.  She's brave and outspoken and open-minded and listens with open ears and an open heart.  She does not judge (unless it's truly bad fashion, and it's always justified).  Like my biological brother, her life hasn't been easy, but she lived it anyway, and with grace and tenacity that I doubt I could muster (sound familiar?)  I was (obviously) alive when I met her, but my sister is the one who taught me to live...taught me to get a life.  She is my single greatest influence.   Little M has not been baptized in a church, but there was only one person that I'd want to be her (fairy) godmother.  My sister.  Sister J- I don't tell you nearly enough, but I am so lucky and proud to be your sister.  

Here's to my siblings- to the family I was lucky enough to be born into, and to the family that I was smart enough to choose.  Oneword. Love.

I'm a lucky girl,

Little Miss Sunshine

Me and my (little) M

Dear Little M,

It's time that old mom let you in on a little, tiny, itty-bitty secret.  Every word on these pages--every last one--is about you.  Every word on these pages- every last one- is for you.

You'll see in life, if you haven't already, that some people are remarkably articulate.  That some people are remarkably insightful.  That some people are remarkably funny.  That some people will stop traffic and that some people will light up an entire room with their smile and their charm.

Lucky you, little girl.  You are all of these things.

Unlucky you, little girl.  Your mom is none of these things.  If Bridget Jones were a real person, she'd look and sound eerily like old mom with an American accent---right down to the public humiliation on the local news.

(Side note:  if, in 20 years, you are ever convinced by your friend to attend an event called "Dateless and Desperate" at an Irish pub on Valentine's Day, scan the room for camera crews before being a drunk participant in the drunk version of "The Dating Game."  Trust me on this one.  You'd be stunned how many people watch the 11:00 news on Valentine's Day.  I'm just saying.)

The fact of the matter, little girl, is that your mom is probably best served on paper.  It's on paper that I'll come up with semi-profound thoughts, zippy comebacks and some well-timed one-liners.  In real life....well, in real life, I come up with zippy comebacks about 10 seconds too late and usually share my semi-profound thoughts with complete strangers and dogs.   Don't ask.  I will, however, have you know that if real life came with pause and rewind buttons, your mom could kick some serious ass.

I do know that you deserve the best of me, and if the best of me is on paper, so be it.  It's better than nothing.  Maybe someday, you will stumble across this blog, and realize that your mom was periodically struck with articulate thought.

Little M---If every child in the world was assembled in one line, and I was allowed to select the children I wanted,  I'd pick you...every single time.  I wish I could pass along my wisdom to you, but (a) I'm not sure I have any to share and (b) you have the right to find your own wisdom, at your own pace.  I know you'll be wise, little girl.  You're mine, after all.

Cheers to my three-and-a-half foot hero,

Little Miss Sunshine