On perfection.

The stink of perfection has permeated our lives thanks to social media outlets.

We now know that if we do not feel “blessed” in our lives, we are less than. We know that if we don’t love being a mother 100 percent of the time that we are the incarnation of Andrea Yates. We know who, from high school, is more successful than us. And trust me, it’s everyone. We know that if we didn’t go out this weekend, we’re losers. We know that we don’t have nearly the number of friends we assumed we had. We know how very un-photogenic we are. We know that we would rather put our own eyes out than spend three seconds with our “friends.”

The caveat of these social media outlets is that we only know what’s presented to us. Our alternate identities define us in a way I never thought possible before …recently. They’re our diaries left open on the kitchen table. They’re love letters purposely dropped in the junior high hallway of our lives. They’re the blogs we always kept quoting lyrics. In other words, they’re complete and utter bullshit.

THIS GIRL wonders if you’re all seriously that delusional. If that picture of your celebrity doppleganger is REALLY who you think you look similar to, you’re kidding yourself. Or you’re seriously drunk. Whichever.

THIS GIRL is tired of hearing about how you love your fucking life. I don’t think your life is so great. I think you just have low standards.

THIS GIRL wonders how you manage to go out every night like you’re fucking 18 while you’re 8 kids are at home. By the way – your makeup makes you look like a strung out hooker who has aged out of the strip club scene.

THIS GIRL is tired of hearing what a “blessing” your family and friends are. Seriously? SHUT THE FUCK UP. If they were that much of a blessing you’d be spending time with them – not telling us about them.

It is not only online that we’re presented with a package of bullshit wrapped up from the meat case and made to look like filet mignon. It happens at work. At the gas station. At the daycare. Anywhere people think that bullshitting their own lives will elevate them to a level above someone else. I am slowly approaching a moment of clarity.

On Being a Woman.

Being a housewife, naturally you can assume I’m married. And I am. But one thing that’s static (be it from one of my many marriages or now) is the need to flirt.

I would never dare to say that my worth is tied to how a man might view me. That’s what my inner feminist says, anyway. But regardless of what many (not all) women will tell you, we need to feel wanted in order to feel at all. And typically not by the person we’re in a relationship with. When we go out running errands sans makeup and looking extra homeless like I did today, we don’t make eye contact with people, let alone men. We don’t want interaction because in some way, we’re ashamed of our thoughtless appearance. We’re ashamed of not being the Maxim girl today. (OK, well, even if our bodies will never look like the Maxim girl, our faces and hair can and we can wear pigtails too.)

And when our nails are done and our hair is perfectly straightened and our boobs are smooshed and lifted in a bra we paid way too much money to trick you in – we hold our heads high. We lick our lips. We play coy. We are the Maxim girl. Even I, who would never admit this in person, feel this way.

Flirting is more than pseudo-sexual and it’s (in my case, at least) more than an attention whoring scheme. It’s merely the innocent way by which we express and interest in someone, whether that interest will be acted upon or not. In this case, not. (Trust me. And if my attitude isn’t a turn off enough, the baby in tow under my arm should be.)

For years I thought I was broken. I thought I was incapable of monogamy. I thought I might be polyamorous for a while (which I later decided was a crock of shit). I was wrong. Rather, it was merely the desire to hear that if my husband ever ran away/got hit by a light rail train/died of typhoid that he (the mysterious “he”) would like to hit it. It was my desire to leave my femi-nazi views aside and be a “woman” … for once.

Things I refuse to do.

1. Be a bridesmaid in anyone’s wedding. Hoopla and fanfare isn’t my scene. We’re too old for this sorority girl crap. I don’t enjoy spending lots of money on an ugly dress to participate in an antiquated ritual. Get married in Vegas. And don’t ask me to be in your wedding – or worse, expect me to anticipate being asked to be in your wedding.

2. Ask me to come to a party in costume. Do you know me at all? Call me a party pooper. Call me unfun. I just don’t do costumes. And I don’t care.

3. Do things like cloth diaper, make organic baby food, homeschool my child, etc. There is this new motivation to be this granola earth-mother robot and I just can’t do it. I don’t have the energy. Or the know how. And frankly – my kid ENJOYS the taste of processed baby food, thanks. And I sometimes feed her cheetos.

4. Tell you you suck for listening to pop music. You know, it’s high time we all admit that pop music is fucking good. It’s called “pop” for a reason. So save me your shit about liking “alternative.” Nickelback is not alternative, idiot. And I’d take Miley Cyrus over Nickelback any day.

more to come.

i’m not the girl next door.

Women my age like to describe themselves as “the girl next door.” I suppose if you’re trying to craft yourself into the perfect little mannequin that men want and women envy, that’s someone good to be. They all seem to want you to know that they’re outgoing, down-to-earth and laid back. I? Am none of those things.

Being the media whore that I am, I’ve kept up with this whole Kanye West/Taylor Swift debacle. And while I agree that Kanye West is a grade-A D-bag, I think Taylor kinda had it coming. I’m getting a little sick and friggin’ tired of the recording “artists” (and I use that term loosely) playing the underdog. Poor me, I wear sneakers and sit on the sidelines while the head cheerleader gets my man. Put forth some fucking effort. Even one of my favorite guys from, like, three of my favorite bands ever is a big fucking whiney baby. Ben Gibbard, you’re banging Zooey Deschanel. What are you complaining about, exactly?

Look, if you’re lazy ass would get up and throw some makeup on those big black circles, you might not be be alone on the 50-yard-line in your glasses. I’m tired of the “I come in second place and I’m OK with it” line of humble crap. I’m tired of hearing Sk8er Boi in reverse on my radio!

Anyone who knows me will tell you I’m not down to earth. My head is so far in the clouds that I’ve made two rotations of coolness around you … in my mind, at least. I’m certainly not outgoing because it’s easier to judge you if I stay quiet. And I’m not laid back at all. I’m rabid about almost anything, even things that don’t matter. I’m certainly not bowing to be AVERAGE.

So Taylor Swift, you had it coming, honey. Grow some balls and do what I would have done – make a “your momma’s so dead” joke and kick Kanye’s ass off the stage. Especially for preaching about that ridiculous fucking Beyonce video with the circa-1983 workout whores. UGH.

And there must be SOMETHING to this “not being the girl next door” thing. Two out of 10 men agree.

THE LIST (People I can no longer be friends with because you disappoint me on the facebook.)

1. People who constantly publicly update their status to include vague mentions of their private life. Those are just poor manners, people. For example “So and So is … having a nervous breakdown. I hate my life and hope it ends soon” or
“So and so … is not going to wait around for you anymore. As soon as the cuts heal, I’m finding a new man” are not appropriate examples of facebook behavior. In fact, it just makes me want to find you and kick your ass while you’re down for being so pathetic that you have to publicly solicit attention for yourself. If you’re so desperate for attention go to a bar, get drunk and hook up with someone you don’t know like everyone else. Seriously – since you’re acting 16, make your way back over to myspace, please. Then kill yourself. Or at least delete yourself from my life.

2. People who ask me to play fucking farmtown. I don’t know what it is but it hardly sounds like something I’d be interested in. Further, I don’t want to play mafia wars. I have an infant. I don’t have time to pretend I’m exchanging guns for cash with you … fucking loser. Get a job. I also don’t want to take an imaginary round of drinks, have an imaginary pillow fight or pretend we’re vampires. Did you forget who you were dealing with altogether?

3. People who always want you to know they “love life.” STFU. seriously.

4. People who exceed the acceptable amount of quizzes per day rule. Seriously, does it matter what color you represent? Or what teletubby is most like you? Tip: I bet it’s the gay one, you closet homo.

dating, sex and the 21st century.

recently a poll question was posted on the facebook by an old friend: is traditional dating dead? while the question clearly asks one question, idiots chose to answer it with another, finding it an attack on marriage, gender, chivalry and any materialistic item(s) most women (especially in this area) feel they’re worth. now, these are the kind of folks who sport the “marriage is between a man and a woman” bumper stickers but even so, i found myself appalled.

the answers received ran the gamut. one thing was for sure, though – i was the lone wolf on my side of the spectrum. i was the only one who claimed that traditional dating was dead, meaning that men don’t see someone, ask them to dinner, make lame, uninteresting conversation while “getting to know one another,” walk you to your door, give you a goodnight kiss and call in three days if they’re interested. rather, you meet someone, get to know them as a friend or torrid enemy, pursue or avoid them relentlessly, (casually, of course, running into them and having subtle, insightful conversations that either make you drawn to them or appalled by them) decide to hook up and go from there. (my own true hollywood story is even worse than that.)

but what i found most appalling was the fact that (unmarried) women think that a happy marriage is built by being the perfect wife. cooking, having babies, allowing the man to be in control, taking care of the house, etc. it sounded like a lot of self-sacrifice to me until i heard what they expect before marriage – gifts, flowers, dinners, vacations …

those of you who’ve known me the longest know that i’m far from perfect at anything (especially relationships) but i never made any bones about it. i don’t cook, for example. i hate to cook. it doesn’t make good sense for me to learn to cook because it’s SUPPOSED to make my husband happy … nevermind he’d much rather go out to dinner and i’d much rather not do something i both suck at and abhor. so why would i do it? does it make me a bad wife because i don’t?

these women suggested that the traditional male and female roles should be upheld to maintain a happy marriage and that to be treated well (“like a lady,” they put it) you have to act like the lady and allow the man to act like the man. like communism, it sounds great in theory. but just because you marry you don’t stop doing things you’ve always done – continue your education, pay your own bills, go food shopping at night simply because you now have a man who is to “protect” you from having to do these things.

these women said that as women, we “deserve” things. we deserve to be treated like princesses. we deserve ultra-southern chivalry. we deserve. and if we feel we don’t “deserve,” our self-esteem is the problem. the word here that bothered me is “deserve.” nobody deserves anything from me until i feel like they’ve earned it. no one gets preferential treatment because they’ve got a vagina.

not only did this make me want to throw up in my mouth a little bit but it also made me ashamed as a woman and for them and for the men who actually buy into this bullshit because a few stuck-up cunts hold pussy hostage for coach bags and fogo de chao dinners. that’s extortion, i think. (i had an office space moment, like when they’re trying to figure out what money laundering is.)

further, they suggested that a “gentleman” would open your door for you, buy you dinner, send you flowers, etc. this sounds, to me, like a bad 50s movie. fact: before my current relationship i only received flowers from one man – a guy i met one night while drunk at a bar and mildly hooked up with. does this make him a gentleman? fact: my husband has never and will never open the car door for me unless it involves a clicker. does this make him a peasant? fact: for several years i made more money than my husband. did this emasculate him? fact: i have never let a man i wasn’t at least living with buy me dinner or gifts. it it because i’m a raging feminist? no. it’s because prostitution is only legal where it can be taxed. it’s because when materialistic goods are involved, we are capitalists. we exchange goods for services. what man would buy a woman extravagant things without expecting something in return? and really? if you look hard enough, you don’t have to pay for it. fact: i’ve always felt like the man. i don’t mean this in a “need-to-have-a-sex-change” type way. i mean, i always feel like i’m in control in a relationship. does that make me butch? fact: my most fun relationships (uhh, read: the guys i still speak to) were the biggest pricks you could imagine relationship-wise and caused the biggest torrential downpours or chaos. i find them most interesting. does that make me fucked up? (answering yes to any of these questions is ill-advised.)

i don’t feel like i “deserve” anything from anyone but it certainly isn’t low self-esteem. (ask anyone. i have the highest esteem for myself one could possibly have.) it’s just that i think you’re a big, fucking joke. the only thing you “deserve” is to have your idealistic relationship knock you flat on your ass … which it will. the first 15 or so always do.

i would hate to even imagine the conversation i could have with these women about sexual deviance, the nature vs. nurture argument in homosexuality or the fact that i don’t have any painted little signs with cute farm animal characters mentioning that “friends are the chocolate chips in cookie” or some other complete bullshit that gives people the warm and fuzzy feeling i refer to as “pathetic.”

the saddest part of the whole thing is that the (unmarried) woman who was giving me dating advice and trying to school me on what i “deserve” and how to be a “lady,” wants exactly what i have. she is so desperate that she’ll try anything to have the life i live without having to do things i dislike. she wants to be married, have a baby, have a job that occasionally masquerades as a career (but has decent hours) and raise a family. (seriously? i’m shocked that these are the only goals so many women have.)

people never want to admit they’re not perfect. people never want to fess up to the fact that they didn’t always follow the instruction manual. that’s what pisses me off most about my acquaintances.

my question to you is: do you truly believe that traditional dating still exists? if so, why? how do people date in the 21st century? what are the current expectations? do you buy into it?

Lots of things are thicker than water.

I am envious of cultures, groups and individual units of people who are tight. While I don’t always agree, I sleep well at night thinking that somewhere someone is having sunday dinner or reminding themselves that blood is thicker than water. When I was younger, I always wanted to be in one of those close families and when I got older, wanted to create one. I know now that this day will never come.

For one, I don’t cook. Sunday dinners would be out. I’m not what I’d define as “close” with family on either side and I abhor the obligation that this attitude brings.

Yes, I am envious of close families that declare that each other come before all else but I am far too independent to ever be a part of one. I enjoy doing things alone – shopping, going to the movies, going to the gym, etc. (Disclaimer: When I say “going to the gym,” it isn’t because i have or do. Rather, it’s because I’m supposed to be. A close friend keeps thinking that buddy workouts are the way to go and keeps trying to get me to work my schedule so that we can go together but if I have to discuss health over an hour treadmill walk, I might just throw myself under the wheels of an advanced spinning class.) In the end, I guess I’m somewhat of a loner.

The above mentioned statement didn’t just come out of the realization that I am comfortable on my own. It’s that I am independent to a fault. I can’t help but feel that if I earn less, I am worth less. I can’t help but make big decisions about life without consulting anyone else. I know what I want and I never feel the need to discuss it – not with the family I grew up in, not with friends and not with my husband. And it’s most difficult for me to remind myself that I don’t make all of the decisions about my life alone anymore. In fact, sometimes it makes me sick to my stomach. I need a ginger ale.

I see that this could be a fault. What I don’t see is why everyone else (read: married people) fall at the opposite side of the spectrum. Even if you aren’t married, I know some people who can’t take a shit without consulting their best friend. Whatever happened to gut instinct? What ever happened to personal responsibility? Or what ever happened to just wanting to buy your toilet paper and bread crumbs in peace and quiet?

on being a breeder.

there is a fine line between love and hate but a large motherfuckin’ gap between those who choose to breed and those who avoid it like the swine flu. i say “choose” to breed because it was a choice we made. yes, here on the internet i will admit to you all that our child was planned – well, as much as you can plan a kid agreeing to not pull out anymore and getting pregnant on the first try. but that’s neither here nor there. we got pregnant (if you do the math), we were married a week later and as we approach our one year anniversary (this weekend) we have a four and a half month old kid. we’ve known each other and been together in some capacity since (what feels like) the dawn of time but breeding (and trying to raise a kid) introduces you to each other in a whole new way.

more than four months ago, i gave birth to a child. in all of the papers the hospital gave me, i was unaware than upon my arrival back home, i was instantly supposed to turn into some fruitcake who used words like “potty” and no longer found joy in any other aspect of life. (as a sidenote: the car seat paperwork didn’t tell me that either.) but because of this miscommunication, i’ve felt like a poser in the mother world. i have felt like i was holding on to someone else’s baby and just hanging out. i’ve felt like i don’t belong with other mothers.

it is my own fault and the result of my own inadequacies that i have felt – well, inadequate – as a mother. however, in grand tradition, i plan to blame other mothers for this feeling. i don’t have the typical “mommy blog” where i detail every minute of my kid’s day or where i mention how much i “love being a mommy!” (in fact, anytime anyone calls me a “mommy,” i vomit in my mouth just a little.) i don’t take my kid to mommy and me yoga classes or mommy and me swimming classes. i never did prenatal yoga and i never intend on doing any sort of yoga – certainly not with my baby who would much rather enjoy shitting her own pants and smiling about it than meditating or contorting.

when i drop her off at daycare in the morning, i feel like there might be something wrong with me. all of the other mothers there have an infant as well and they still manage to show up dressed up, hair and makeup done and without baby spit up on their clothing. (fuck, high school kids manage to do it!) of course, that’s when i actually see them. i’m usually late and they’ve all dropped their kids off and made their way to work by then as i scramble and haul ass in a way that’s wholly unattractive.

and when i do see them, i feel judged – for who i am and who i have been in the past. my hometown’s a small place. everyone knows who i used to be. (or rather, in my mind i was a local celebrity so i imagine they know who i used to be.) it’s hard to kill a past impression. i never felt the need to before. rather, i embraced my failures and any debauchery i participated in but it’s a lot more difficult to look someone in the eye with a baby on your hip thinking that for sure – they know you’re not cut out for this kind of life.

when people at work or people i run into say “don’t you just want seven more just like her?” i lose my breath a little. i smile politely and fail to mention that it’ll be a cold day in hell before i get pregnant again anytime in the foreseeable future. i don’t scream “are you fucking crazy?!?!” like i want to.

i don’t compliment my husband on being “the best daddy in the world,” though truthfully, he’s a better father than i ever imagined and adjusted much better to parenting than i did. there is no baby talk between us. in truth, we’re normally criticizing each other for atrocious gas or some other disgusting thing we’ve done that the other finds appalling.

and at the same time while i don’t fit in with the “mommy group,” i don’t fit in with the kids (that is, anyone over the age of 18 who doesn’t have a child). i can’t do happy hour anymore. i can’t drink and then drive us home 45 minutes. instead, i just do “hour” with my friends while i feed the baby. i don’t get to go out like everyone anymore. i can’t plan a vacation without thinking about some serious logistics.

and somehow, all of this just isn’t “normal.” well, small town normal. normal enough to feel accepted. the gap suddenly seemed larger between the breeders and the kids. i suddenly felt i had less in common with the rest of the world, my former life. yes, it is my own fault and the result of my own inadequacies that i’ve felt inadequate. but these stepford-wife type mothers don’t make it any fucking easier on the regular, average, barely making it breeders out there. i fail to feel accepted by either group, teetering between the two and trying to find my own identity again.

several weekends ago (when we had a babysitter for the weekend) i drank like i did pre-baby. i did stupid things. i was bereft of responsibility. i took shots. i ate and drank in excess and i did what i wanted. while that’s not exactly getting all cranked up and going on a bender, it’s been such a long time since i felt so free from obligation. it was fun while it lasted but around 3 a.m., i found myself cleaning up my living room instead of passing out drunk. you know you’ve reached some level of pathetic when you’re the one gathering bottles, pouring out the excess and gathering the cigarette butts from the front porch so as not to get a nasty letter from the HOA. in the morning i felt sick only i wasn’t hangover-sick. i felt all wrong. i missed the baby. i missed getting up at 3:45 a.m. and seeing her smile at me when i changed a pee-filled diaper. i missed her fighting me and trying to look at television instead of eat.

it was on this weekend that i realized something. it occurred to me that fitting in was never my strong suite. and it occurred to me that feeling judged (even if i am) is something that i choose to allow people to make me feel. moreover, it’s probably mostly in my head.

a week later, i met an old friend at an old, familiar place in my hometown for what i’ve affectionately been calling “hour. no happy.” while there, the baby had a blowout, shit her pants, all over her clothes and her car seat. and she seemed damn happy about it. i checked the diaper bag and it had been inadvertently unpacked by someone at daycare, leaving me no other clothes to change her into (what kind of mother doesn’t check for these things??) while my friend was freaking out and prophesizing the apocalypse, i found it rather amusing. it made me think of the fresco in shit my parents recall me painting on the wall as a baby. and i suddenly felt like i fit in as a mother – whether those bitches want me or not.

Want a baby?

Yeah, This is exactly how I felt before I had a baby.

I do what I want.

Explanation.

Which came first – The fucked up teenager or the situation that allows the teenager to become fucked up?

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