I Am Not The Face Of Facebook

I have been on Facebook for fifteen minutes. It has changed my life. It is a site for"social networking", which is ideal for me except that:

a. I am not social; and
b. I don't network.

I was sucked into the site, lured by a friend who indicated that he had posted pictures of his children on his Facebook page. I trotted on over to the site and found that I could not access said pictures unless I registered for my own page, so I did.

Imagine my delight when the Orwellian program infiltrated my email list and asked if I would like to add contacts from my email list as friends. Never one to be considered entirely friendless, I readily agreed. My profile is half-assed at best, but when I get the chance (and finish pushing my novel up a hill), I intend to pretty it up. Maybe even add a picture and such.

As I was trying to discuss my adventures in Facebook-land, my husband (who, I may add, has been forced to read every single word I have written on my novel thus far) suggested that my next writing project should be the erotic adventures of a woman who lives south of the border and that I should name the book "Sexico".

Did I ever mention that I married him just for his looks?

I'm A Little Off

Yesterday I had the entire day off of work. The day started off well and I had the noblest of intentions for my day. However, approximately 26 inches of snow fell (more like 2, but it may as well have been 26) and I had to dig out my coat and boots, regardless of what my last post said.

What I was going to do with my day:

Give blood.
Take self to nice lunch.
Call former coworker to check in on her.
Thorough cleaning of kitchen.
Two good chapters of novel.

What I did with my day:

Sat on couch and watched Sicko.
Cried a bit about state of health care in U.S.
Cheered self up by watching Santa Claus Conquers the Martians
Washed three dishes to feel productive.
Two okay pages of novel.

At least I still got to bond with my little ones. I lifted Sullivan up over my head and played "flying baby" and he laughed and laughed. Very cool. Then, he drooled all over my face.

Amusing (to me) Jude story of the day: Jude took all of the knights out of his castle and loaded them onto the back of one of his trucks. He informed me that the guys all had to go to the hospital. When I asked why, he replied "Because their water broke".

Spring Has Sprung

I have been known to be a glass-half-empty kind of gal (but only by people who know me, know of me or have heard of me); that is not entirely fair. I am also a glass-is-chipped-and-cranberry-juice-is-leaking-out-onto-my-new-outfit kind of gal. But I am attempting to affect a new attitude for spring, which, I have read, was supposed to have started today, though the geographical region in which I live apparently did not get Mother Nature's memo.

It is cold here, but not to me. I have begun wearing my sandals. I have packed my boots away and refuse to wear them anymore. Same with my winter coat. My one nod to reality is that I wear tights with my sandals, but I refuse to cram my feet into winter boots for one more day. I do still bundle up the boys like we are in the Arctic, but I am dressing for spring. Colorful shirts, happy-colored skirts. (Side note: as I was buckling Jude into his car seat this morning he said to me "Mom, your shirt is really pretty." I think that might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me).

In light of the sweetness of spring, I would like to take a moment to discuss Cake. Not cake, the baked confection which, frankly, I could give or take (I am more of an ice cream lover), but Cake, the band. Today's song of the day is "Comfort Eagle" by Cake.

Get out. Enjoy spring. Wear tights if you must and most of all, grab the cake that you love the most and take a great big bite.

Are You A Good Story or a Bad Story?

I had very noble intentions when I began this blog. It was going to be this huge creative outlet, somewhere I could write and think and express on a consistent basis and most of all, it would be fun. Well, this blog has turned out to be all those things, but I sometimes wonder: is it any good? Should it matter whether it is any good? I have opinions on the matter and since this is my outlet, I will express said opinions here.

First, once one has created something, it is impossible to be objective about that something, whether it is a song or a painting or a blog. Or even a someone. I tend to think that my children (one-half of whom is represented here)



are art, though less art that has been created than art that is. Children are art that is freedom and beauty, creative in a way I never could be. (Photo borrowed from a blog much more picturesque than mine.)

Much of my good story/bad story internal debate stems from the fact that I am writing a novel. Have been writing a novel for many years, though have really gotten serious about it lately. I have analyzed and agonized over the language. I have tried to make something funny and interesting. Whether it is either (or both) I can no longer judge. I lack any kind of perspective over it. I have read and reread, have laughed and cringed over the language. Is it even mediocre, these pages I have written and rewritten so furiously? And mediocrity would be determined by whom?

Weighty issues, these, that press upon my mind and invade my sleep. Such thoughts are not helped by my love of Mystery Science Theater 3000. But while I laugh hysterically at the cruel comments heaped upon the bad, bad movies (and I honestly haven't seen one yet that wouldn't qualify as "bad" in my own humble opinion), I can't help but wonder if any of these films were made with sincere effort. Were there writers and directors who gathered together, agonized over a script as I have done with my own pages and who tried to put together the best movie they could? Do the MST3K movies represent someone's best attempts? And now that sincere effort is mocked mercilessly as the basis of a television show. Are there writers hunched over computers writing in blogs such as these defending their own works, determined to let the world see that their works are not so bad?

I cannot control how anyone else feels about my book. I can't even, it seems, control how I feel about it. I need to relinquish this paralyzing fear of being judged and just let the writing -- good or bad -- speak for iteself.

You Are Not a Beautiful or Unique Snowflake

First, I cribbed the title from Fight Club, but I really don't want to talk about it.

Something else I don't want to talk about (but, of course, will): I am not as special or unique as I thought. I happened to glance at a local newspaper and was immediately drawn in by two things. First, the local theater is playing 6 different movies and I have no interest in seeing any of them. But the second article upset me even more. It was a wedding announcement for someone in my current town and she has the same name as me. This disturbed me, though I cannot pinpoint the precise reason.

I have two children whom I mention only about as often as I digest food and breathe air. They are boys and when it came to naming them, I wanted to choose names that straddled the line of uniqueness, but didn't delve into weirdness. Thus, Jude and Sullivan. Even after weeks and weeks, months and months of saying these names, I still love them. Of course, giving one's child a particular name doesn't guarantee certain personality traits.

I've given much thought to personality lately, as, while babies do have individual personalities, they are not nearly as developed as that of a three-year-old. I have logged many hours at Jude's day care, observing him as he interacts with the other children and I see a very happy, energetic kid, but I also see a kid who desperately wants to fit in and be liked by the other kids. I wonder how easily he will be able to make friends. I wonder how easily he should want to make friends.

By now it should be very evident that I am an introvert and have never had a huge circle of friends; nor, though, have I been completely friendless. I have, instead, always had a couple of close friends and that sufficed for me, though I admit that there were times when I closed my eyes and wished for the popularity fairy to pay me a visit.

I have always been concerned with just "being myself" and I want my sons to be individuals, proud of who they are. I don't want them to feel pressured to be part of a crowd, but I also don't want them to be without friends as I do feel that friendships are an important part of growing. I even believe that adults should maintain friendships, though distance and time make this sometimes difficult.

How much of yourself is it acceptable to sacrifice in order to make friendships? Where is the line between compromise and giving up parts of yourself? I submit that ultimately it is possible to "be yourself" and still have friends, to be an individual, but still assimilate enough to be a respectable adult. So, boys, the lesson for today is to like who you are, do what you like and somewhere, someone will like you as well. You are unique. You are beautiful. And unlike a snowflake, you won't melt away, though I know that someday you will drift away from me on a breeze, just as it should be.

Something I Have To Have

Something bizarre just happens to one's brain in the middle of the night. Perhaps it is the darkness. Perhaps it is the silence of a still house. I am not sure exactly what element it is, but the chemistry is unmistakable. Some of the most brilliant breakthroughs come in the middle of the night. Of course, some of the worst decisions are all made then so it is up to dawn's light to decide between brilliance and stupidity (there is a fine line between stupid and clever, after all).

Let's take, for example, me. I am an average gal of average intelligence. Perhaps it was the perfection of the moment that I did not want to disturb -- a sleeping (almost) five-month-old cradled in my arms -- but I did not want to put a DVD into the player so I found myself watching infomercials. I was mesmerized. Those are products that I must have. I don't know how I have lived to this age without having them. I stared in awe, my eyes widened at the amazing products and I knew that I was observing the work of geniuses.

The product with which I have become most familiar is the Nuwave Oven. As I watched, I knew I had to have one for my kitchen. Never mind that I am hardly proficient in the kitchen (I make a few dishes very well and am not terribly experimental). Never mind that I rarely even cook at all. That duty has fallen to Jeff, who is a good cook and master griller. I knew that life would change if only I could possess the Nuwave oven. Only the tiny infant resting in my arms prevented me from reaching the phone to order this miraculous product. I say this without a hint of sarcasm (rare for me, but true). I truly needed to possess this item.

The other product that danced around before my eyes was Bare Minerals. I watched the miraculous transformation of average-looking women to beautiful and I knew that I must have this product. I am an ideal candidate for such a product and without it I will never be beautiful. Such were the thoughts racing through my head as I watched the television set, transfixed. Granted these products are expensive, but isn't that how I know that they are good?

Then, in the light of day, cooler heads prevailed. The fog was lifted. By cooler heads, I don't mean mine, of course. I mean Jeff's. He went to great lengths to explain to me why we don't need these products, but I was not convinced. Maybe in the daytime everything is clearer, sharper, more in focus. But the remarkable nature of these products cannot change with dawn's first light. These are still products I need. I need to be a better cook. I need more even skin. I need to just borrow your credit card for a quick moment. I will pay you back -- I promise. And just think of the home-cooked meals and flawless skin you'll be a part of. That is priceless.

More Useless Stuff

Seriously trying to do some spring cleaning up here and guess what I discovered: a multitude of middle names and birthdays. Now, surely this information would seem handy, but really, what good does knowing so many middle names do me? It is information that, once learned, I am incapable of forgetting. Same with birthdays. I should just write the information down, but my brain won't let go. What good is knowing the middle names and birthdays of people I haven't seen since high school? I am asking you, brain. Why are you holding on to this info? And why can't I remember why I even got on the computer in the first place?

Information I always hope to keep in my brain: today, Sully grabbed a handful of my hair and laughed. A full-out laugh. It was beautiful. I wondered if I would be able to love both of my babies the same and the answer is no. I don't love them the same. But, then, why would I? They are different people with different needs, different personalities. I love them both very much, but very differently.

And, corny though it may be, my brain is completely full, but so is my heart.

I Promise: A Poetry-Free Blog

Okay, here's the situation:


This morning, I woke up with my left eye matted shut. Oh yes, fun stuff. I am an adult (a barefoot adult even) with pink eye. But, this is not what vexes me most. More and more, I wake up with my brain matted shut, a "pink brain" for lack of a better term. It's full up there. No occupancy. This is a problem, as I still have several decades to learn new information. I have a new job that requires that I learn several new things every day. Therefore, I need to do some serious spring cleaning. A lot of the knowledge stored up there is USELESS.


Take, for example, the first sentence of this-here blog. I can't even think the phrase "Okay, here's the situation" without my brain filling in "My parents went away on a week's vacation". That's right: I have, stored in my brain, the words to a DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince song that Will Smith himself likely doesn't remember in its entirety, but which haunts me at the most inopportune times (like when I am seriously trying to write this blog).


I am haunted by pop culture; the ghosts of movies and songs past float around in my brain, crowding out the names of my own children. (Thankfully, most of the time I can still recall their names, however.) So, I find myself in a strange situation. For example, Jeff let it slip that he had never seen Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Now, many men my age have never seen this movie (which was really huge when I was in high school), but many men aren't married to me, but Jeff is. I have threatened to show said film to him, but I have held back because I am a bit afraid. Afraid, yes, that a movie I haven't seen since I was 16 years old isn't nearly as funny as I thought it was back then. Afraid also though that once I start watching it, I will recall verbatim every line in the movie. Back in high school, I literally had the entire script committed to memory. I think this is why my choice of colleges was limited. While good students studied and applied to schools, I fantasized about Keanu Reeves and recited lines from the movie every chance I got.


So, does that make me a victim? I cannot claim this to be so, as I willing imbibed, cramming my head with movie after movie, rewatching favorites, quoting dialogue. I willing listened to the radio as a youngster, filled my head with songs, memorized those songs. Now, I cannot blame anyone but myself. But, do you know who is impacted by the songs and movies of my past? The children. They are the harmless victims in this pop-culture whirlwind.


For example, I give Sully a bath every night. Now, I cannot give said bath to my son without singing a song. The lyrics I made up, but the tune I inadvertantly cribbed from The Cranberries. So, this is the song I sing each night to Sully to the tune of "Zombie": "Wash your hair. Wash your hair. Sully. Sully. Sull-ly-ly-ly. Wash your hair. Wash your hair. Sully. Sully. Sul-ly-ly." It does make him smile, even if I don't have the best singing voice.

I'd love to write more, but the precious space I had set aside for blogging is now being overrun by a multitude of Monty Python quotes endlessly repeating themselves. Should you need to find me, I have taken refuge in a cheese shop and I shan't be leaving any time soon.