I had lunch with a new friend and the conversation turned to my blog; it turns out she’s a devoted reader. I knew there was something about her I liked. She said, “You are so different than me. The things you say in your blog … and fact you put your name on it, I would never have the nerve to do that.”
It was meant as a compliment and I took it as one. Since she doesn’t know me very well I tried to convince her that, in fact, I am not an obnoxious 3 year-old who acts inappropriately and picks fights, at least not all the time. I’m the person who’ll get crappy service yet still leave a huge tip because I wouldn’t want the nasty waitress to think less of me. When people are mean to me, I give them a piece of my mind … to myself.
I’ve lived most of my life paralyzed with fear that someone might not like me or approve of the things I do and say, or of how my house looks, how my kids act, where my dog poops (which is everywhere), what kind of food I serve, the music I listen to, the of car I drive, etc. Very few people understand the sheer force of will it takes for me to just be myself, whoever that is. Most of the time I’m not myself, I’m who I think people want me to be.
I still agonize over things I said in my 20s. My 20s! And I’m not talking about big things, I’m talking about insignificant things that have likely been forgotten by everyone but me. Like when I was a secretary at the university and I had a personal phone conversation with a friend. It wasn’t anything terribly inappropriate, but it was too public a place and I have a loud voice. Or when I wrote a bitchy memo about not messing with the stuff on my desk. I often go to that dark place where I expend energy being embarrassed about things that happened long ago.
Oh shit, I’m going there right now.
This all might sound like a load of crap given what I write about every day and apparently with no filter. That’s the beauty of this blog for me, I feel safe being unapologetically myself in writing, where it doesn’t matter what my house looks like, or that I swear way too much or bag on idiots I run into. I can take a break from my life with the crippling insecurities and the need to please that never stops. If I can be totally honest, there is a part of me that truly believes that every single person I meet is smarter, funnier, more interesting and more talented than me and I must earn the right to be in their lives.
Unless I’m writing, in which case there are 13 people out there (hi dad!) who think I’m interesting. The best part is when I bow to my internal pressure to be PC in my blog, it gets really boring. Nobody wants to hear about great vacations, the challenges of dealing with too much money and free time, how hard it is to keep the weight on, PC disclaimers, or humblebrags of any kind. It stinks of insincerity. No one gives a damn if I’m having a great day, they want to see the crap under my stairs. That shit’s all real, yo.
But if you come over, you can count on me to almost kill myself trying to clean the entire house and prepare a gourmet meal in the 15 minutes before you arrive. Some things never change.
And I’ll post pictures of stupid shit Zeb does, too. Like this genius attempt to keep the English muffins from drying out. That piece of wadded up foil will totally do the trick. Would it kill you to put it in a plastic bag? They are right there in the drawer, next to the foil. Thanks.
I hate lollipops. I don’t know why I bought these especially when they are everywhere. Sugar is cheap, diabetes and tooth decay is not. TRASH.
Glitter. I am soooo not a glitter person. I’m donating this to Tabby’s friend.
Stain remover for every possible stain. Do you know what else is great for stains?
… all this stuff. Seriously, we don’t fuck around when it comes to laundry. I’m trashing the tiny bottles of stain specific detergent. I’ll bet it’s all the same stuff anyway.
Not that I ever have the time to decorate, but I’ll be doing it with LEDs. DONATE.
Men’s scarf. DONATE.
Fraying towel that leaves lint everywhere and odd socks. TRASH.
Random dominos. TRASH.