Dirty Little Secret

I am trying to remember the last time I was in a truly good mood. I have flashes of happiness, like watching ChunkyMonkey hold his siblings’ hands as they carefully walked him to the car the other night or watching Ironflower and Lovebug giggle in the pool yesterday. But an overall feeling of well-being that lasted more than a few hours?

I have no idea.

I was fine until I read some happy status updates on Facebook. It’s not that I’m filled with  schadenfreude, exactly. I don’t like it when skaters fall or waiters drop trays. And it’s not that I want every status update I read to be a complaint about kids or jobs. Really.

But when someone is perpetually upbeat these days, I kinda want to smack them. I wonder if there’s a German word for annoyance at the extreme happiness of others?

I am grateful for so many things, feel fortunate for so many reasons. But I am also worried and stressed about so many things. So many legitimate and currently unfixable things. And I don’t think everything my kids do is adorable. Or even tolerable.

So I bitch. And I was okay with that until I started having violent thoughts while on Facebook. I mean, how do people get to be happy all of the time? Even drug addicts have to come down sometimes.

That’s what I really want to name my blog. In fact, that’s what I really wanted to use as my internet name. I was exhausted when I chose to leap from a now-defunct writing community to my own place in the bloggy world and all the names I liked were already in use. Except “Lucky Hooker”.

But I chickened out.

I was already feeling brave enough by NOT including “mommy” in my title. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I originally started writing on the internets before I had kids. Too bad I wasn’t knowledgeable enough to start my own blog back then. Instead I wrote for the defunct writing community and before that, Blogit. Anyway, I guess I saw blogging as MY thing, my “me” time and I wanted a name that described me.

But I wasn’t quite brave enough to choose “Lucky Hooker”, possibly because a lot of the first mommy blogs I read were of the “my kids are so adorable and my husband’s perfect and I love scrubbing the floor with this homemade organic soap I made” variety. Since I already knew my blog was going to be different, I was too afraid to just brand myself that way.

Not that I really knew about branding.

Anyway, you may be wondering why I even considered calling myself “Lucky Hooker” at all. Generally, hooker’s not exactly a compliment. And if you’d ever met me – even when I was skinny and going clubbing – you would know that I could never be mistaken for any kind of actual hooker. Too unpolished to be high class, too conservative to be of the street variety. But back when I was a single teacher, I had these friends. Well, I mean, most of them are still my friends but we no longer work together and very rarely get drunk together anymore. Anyway, we called each other “hooker” all the time.

I don’t know why. Maybe we were subversively reclaiming the word for feminism. Probably we just thought it was funny. The “lucky” bit came later, when one of us saw a t-shirt with the words “lucky hooker” on a fishing show. We made our own shirts soon after.

To be a lucky hooker, you had to have a big sense of humor and a small sense of propriety. You had to be able to do a shot and dance on a table. You had to be able to laugh at yourself. You had to like sex and like talking about it almost as much. Oh, and while you could look fabulous, you never quite managed to look perfect.

I am still a lucky hooker at heart. Okay, I’m in no shape to dance on a table, but I danced on enough of them at the time to earn me lifetime status anyway. I miss my lucky hookers every day, even though there are definitely some in the blog world.

Aren’t there?

Er, I kind of missed True Confession Tuesday this week. And then I forgot to blog yesterday. Do you think I can blame old age? I’ll be 39 tomorrow.

Thirty-fucking-nine. I would much rather be forty. Forty is the start of something. Who knows what will happen in my forties? Look at most of the Desperate Housewives stars. But thirty-fucking-nine, that’s an ending. Not only of my thirties,  but of my entire youth.

I read InStyle (yeah, I still read it even though my current version of style is to wear a shirt that doesn’t have a stain) last week and there was not 1 trend that I hadn’t already worn before.

I’m overly excited to go to Ikea today.

Instead of just keeping in touch with a few select people from high school, I am now friends with a ton of them on Facebook. And I enjoy hearing about their lives. Because I have forgotten how much they may have annoyed me 21 years ago.

When I stay up really late, it’s because I’m reading.

People born when I graduated from high school can now drink legally. So, if I had gone in a different direction in high school, I could go out drinking with my kid.

When I diet for a week, I do not lose 5 pounds.

After 20+ years of dyeing my hair for fun, now I actually have to dye it. Because I’m too young to go gray, right?

The only thing I’m too young to do is join AARP.

My first class of first graders has graduated from high school. Actually, so has my second class. Crap.

The President is 10 years older than I am. Ten years! That’s appropriate dating age. Unless you’re 16.

I am now more comfortable wearing a bra than not wearing one.

I remember what life was like before the internet. Hell, I remember life what life was like before cordless phones.

I can’t remember how to use all the features on my cell phone.

I can remember when Charlie Sheen and Tom Cruise were hot, though.

In short, I would prefer it if you didn’t mention to anyone that I’m 39. I would like to be described as “40-1″.

Thanks.

Also, if you would like me to have a happy birthday, you could sign up for my rss feed over there on the right hand side (uh, it’s still there, right?). Or link to me. Or both. Hey, if you can’t shamelessly ask for attention on your birthday, when can you ask?

This is the post I meant to write yesterday, before I was so completely distracted by the chicken pox debacle at my kids’ school (see previous post).

*Title of Sesame Street book we own. And not especially accurate, as Hot Guy was kind enough to drop me off and pick me up from the Amtrak station and he and my parents took care of the kids and . . .well, damn, I couldn’t think of another title.

So I’ve just spent a couple of days in Philadelphia BY MYSELF, bitches.

Well, I mean, all the other people at the social media summit were there. But I had a hotel room to myself. I took the train by myself. I could sit back and listen when I didn’t feel like talking, and no one yelled “Mommy!” until I spoke.

When I taught, I occasionally went to conferences. But since we were but a poor district, I never got to go to a conference out of town. Which makes me sad, because going out of town by yourself is fun. Though it probably wouldn’t have been as exciting when I lived alone and actually traveled alone regularly.

So it’s probably better that Immunize.org asked me now, when I could truly appreciate the pleasures of visiting a new city by myself. My job was to talk about social media, to introduce it to representatives from various non-profit health organizations.

The first night involved a dinner/cocktail reception. I talked to a few people, then pounced on Amy from Amalah and MamaPop, whose name I at least recognized and who I was presenting with first thing the next morning. Later we met up with Mir of Woulda Shoulda and Susan from Marketing Roadmaps. We also completely interrupted Bora from A Blog Around the Clock so that we could chat with him before presenting with him the following day.

So the next day I helped with 3 sessions – Facebook, Twitter and building and community. I don’t think they totally sucked, and I didn’t swear a blue streak, talk in a teacher or mommy voice or sound too much like a Valley Girl reject. But I do think I’m much better at answering questions than just talking off the cuff. Also, I will be a lot more confident if I ever get the chance to do it again.

For some reason, the whole thing made me hungry. I’m pretty sure I’d be even fatter if I worked in an office and went to meetings all day, but I’m not sure why. After the sessions on Tuesday, we went into Philly proper and had some time to explore before meeting for dinner. I am proud to say that I was not in the group that headed straight to a bar. But my group, after we saw Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell (I really think it should be bigger) and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, also hit a bar. But it was totally historical – it was founded in 1773. How could you not drink in a place like that? Especially when you’re with public health workers, who like their liquor (which is TOTALLY AWESOME).

While this was all going on, the Real Guys Immunize campaign was being launched. We got to hear more about it the next morning, and then there were more cool presentations but I had to leave early to get home to ChunkyMonkey, who naturally developed his first illness in 3 months on the day I left.

*Uh, not really.

Yesterday I went to the city BY MYSELF. And as I settled back into my seat on the train, I reflected on prior trips to the city. Because even though I live less than 15 miles from New York, I hardly ever go there anymore. And I realized that I hadn’t been to the city alone since I was in college.

That sort of doubled my excitement. I was already excited because the trip to NYC was for a blogger event by the SV Moms group and it was the first time I’d ever actually gone to a blogger event. So I was practically bouncing in my seat on the way into the city.

I say practically because as soon as I left my house I started hating my outfit (skirt, t-shirt, cardigan, chiffon scarf – it sounds okay on the internet, but they were all from the non-designer section of Target and I am not one of those people who wears clothes so well that everything looks designer) and I felt dorky in my socks and sneakers (cute sandals were in my bag). I think it’s a testimony to my maturity that I wore the socks and sneakers at all, because on my last solo trip to NYC I wouldn’t have been caught dead in Working Girl attire. However, I was planning on doing a lot of walking (because A, I hate the subway and B, who doesn’t want to walk through Greenwich Village, Soho and Tribeca on a sunny Sunday?) and I didn’t want to wind up hobbling on the way back. Or possibly crawling. My feet do not like heels.

Also, I left the house without the 4 blogger business cards I have left. Fortunately 2 kids who looked like they were auditioning for the meth version of Glee spent the whole train ride singing and making odd musical references, so I was quickly able to get over myself and embrace the  journey.

My walk downtown was great, even if some gay couple sniffed “Jersey!” at me as they walked past. I almost turned around and yelled, “You need more Botox!” but then I realized that pretty much anyone on the street might think I was talking to them. And some of those women looked like they did a lot of kickboxing.

The greatest challenge was changing my shoes across the street from the theater. I couldn’t see anywhere to sit (after I got closer I realized that there was a park – with cleanish benches – nearby, but oh well) so I just stood on the corner and did it. A wandering vagrant was fascinated, but I think he only wanted my socks.

So I arrived at the event, clad in cute shoes and a vague sock outline around my ankle. It was at Tribeca Cinema – where they hold the Tribeca film festival – with the moms who write for the New Jersey Moms Blog, the New York City Moms Blog and the Philadelphia Moms Blog. Every last one of them is adorable and friendly and stylish. Oh yeah, and I don’t really know any of them. To be more accurate, none of them know me because I’ve only been writing with them for a month and I haven’t left very many comments on very many  of their blogs because we all know I’ve been a total reading/commenting slacker lately.

To be continued. . . .

I do.

But not in a George Clinton kind of way (that song is him, right? I know he sang it in my all time favorite bad movie, PCU).

I have it in that – oh-my-god-stop-the-rain-and-the-cold-it’s-MayforGod’ssake-and-my-allergies-are-killing-me-and-I’m'-on-the-rag kind of way.

I forgot to post here on Sunday. Although I’m thinking that since Soap Opera Sunday wasn’t originally my idea, I should change it to “True Confession Tuesday” or something. Of course, it’s Wednesday, which means I still dropped the ball this week.

Also, I seem to have a mental block against writing for the NJ Moms blog. I hate every post I’ve written there (notice how I’m not linking to them?) and the other day I actually deleted something I’d worked on for 45 minutes (uh, in case you didn’t notice, I am not the most thoughtful or reflective blogger. I post fast or I don’t post at all.) I can’t seem to find a way to link what I want to write about with New Jersey.

So, I suck. I’ve hardly read any blogs, or written any blogs lately. I owe the wonderful Not Just Another Jen a response to her thoughtful email, which I have started 3 times.

And I am having a hard time figuring out my fancy new cell phone.

Calgon, take me . . . .wait a sec. Fuck bubble baths. Hugh Jackman, take me away. To Hawaii. For the weekend.

I’m pretty sure a woman caught me staring at her boobs today.

This would not be a big deal under normal circumstances. I stare at people all the time. Either because I’m thinking about something else or because I’m a nosy bitch. Or because I think I remember the person, but can’t remember how. (I also eavesdrop compulsively. It’s the writer in me. Or the nosy bitch part. Whatever.) Anyway, normally I smile when caught. Or escape behind a pile of produce.

But boob staring, that’s a little different. I suppose if I were a guy or a lesbian, I’d have learned how to do this more subtly, but being a straight chick hasn’t prepared me for such things.

I was. . . .gobsmacked by the boobs. (I have been reading too many books set in England. But it totally works here, doesn’t it?)

My own have become rather disappointing lately. After nursing 3 kids and celebrating their 22nd year (approximately), their formerly perky fullness has deflated and now seems to be oozing toward my armpits.

So I may have been slightly jealous when I saw boobs that looked exactly like mine used to look. On a woman my age, no less.

On a woman, I’m pretty sure, who did not have them a few weeks ago.

Maybe she found the bra Holy Grail. Maybe that’s what happens to her boobs when she gains a few pounds or gets preggo. Maybe she had implants. I don’t know.

And while I do know who she is and she knows who I am (unfortunately), we’re not on the kind of terms where I can say, “Oh my God, you stole the awesome boobs I had at 20! How?”

So I just stared like a 13 year old boy. Well, not really. There was no lust involved. It was envy. But I had all the finesse and class of a 13 year old. So it kinda works.

I know she saw me staring. I hope she thinks I’m just jealous and not that I’m having sexual fantasies about her. Not that there’s anything wrong with having sexual fantasies about acquaintances, if that’s your thing. But if I was having sexual fantasies about my acquaintances, I would never choose her.

(And why would I fantasize about acquaintances when Friday Night Lights will be back on in 2 days? And I can watch Curtis Stone on Celebrity Apprentice? And. . . uh, I think I’m getting off topic. )

I am sure I am blowing this out of proportion. Right?

A couple of years ago (that’s like a decade in web time, right?) I joined this thing called “Soap Opera Sunday”, where every Sunday a bunch of bloggers wrote soap opera like posts on their blogs. It was started by Brillig and Kate.  Many were true stories, but there was some good fiction too. I decided to chronicle how I got from divorced at 27 to being Mrs. Hot Guy.

I don’t know how many of you were reading my blog back then, so if this is a repeat to you, I’m sorry. But it is Sunday and I can’t think of anything else to post.

Soap Opera Sunday, Episode 1

When I moved to Kansas City, I was 27 and newly separated. I moved to KC for three reasons: because I got what I thought was my ideal teaching job there, because my ex-husband wasn’t too far away in case the separation didn’t take and because I was afraid to move back into my parents’ house in New Jersey.

After the first four months, I realized how happy I was without my ex, so I suggested a divorce. Slowly I started to get my self-esteem back. I made some friends and had two suburban sports bars where I felt comfortable and safe. I volunteered and joined the art museum’s young members group. I even started pseudo dating. While his mixed signals gave him the nickname “Freakboy”, he was a friend and a good way to step back into the world of romance.

Not that I was in any rush to become romantically entangled with anyone again. Especially after my  friend T. got dumped and went on a singles scene rampage. Suddenly the suburban bars weren’t good enough for her and she dragged me to Kelly’s in Westport – one of the biggest pick-up spots in the Western hemisphere (at least it was at the time). After buying our trough-like beers, we spotted an empty table. Then T. needed to go to the bathroom andour other friend R. went to find chairs for our table. My job was to guard the beers from Roofie spilling sickos.

Naturally two seconds after the others left a sleazy older (I thought of him as “older” then, he probably wasn’t actually much over forty, which doesn’t seem so old now but the “sleazy” still fits) guy slid over to me and started talking. I panicked when I realized that my usual suburban bar tactics (escape to the bathroom, get an acquaintance to get rid of him) wouldn’t work. I couldn’t carry the three troughs of beer anywhere, and I didn’t want to lose the table. I told him I wasn’t interested, but sleazy guy didn’t notice. He even took a step closer and I couldn’t move away because I had to stand between him and our beers.

Then I looked up and saw a cute guy shuffling through the narrow aisle nearby. He was looking at me and I decided to take a chance. “Honey!” I called as I waved to him frantically. As he came closer, I realized that he was a very young cute guy. A possibly not even old enough to be in the bar cute guy. Would he get what was going on?

Sleazy guy leaned over and said to my chest, “Is that your——” and then all of a sudden I was being kissed.

Cute young guy had swooped in and grabbed me like I was a heroine in a romance novel. I hadn’t been kissed like that in years. By the time we came up for air, sleazy guy was gone. “I think you owe me a favor,” said cute young guy.

That’s the end of the first episode, which makes this post long enough. What I want to know is if you all would like me to resurrect Soap Opera Sunday and tell the rest of the story, or, um, not.

I’ve never actually seen myself as lazy, you know. I’ve always just avoided things I don’t like. Like running. And algebra homework. And vacuuming. . .well, you see what I mean. Only weird people like doing stuff like that, right? Doesn’t mean I have a problem. Oh, and I like to maximize my efforts – like, my kids know it’s much better to ask me for something when I’m already up than when I’ve just sat down to my morning bagel. Because I love my whole wheat bagels, okay? And because getting up and down 20 times really ruins a meal. Ask the French. They’ll tell you.  Anyway, it doesn’t mean I’m lazy. It just means I like to manage my time wisely. Like when I taught my students to grade their own papers so that I wouldn’t have to spend my Sundays doing it.

But recently, my television remote control has caused me to re-evaluate my character.

I like to watch TV before going on to my other relaxation techniques. After I’ve gotten my fill of HGTV, Bravo, Comedy Central and E! (just for Chelsea Lately, I swear), I turn off the TV. Naturally, the relaxation benefits would be harmed if, say, I had to get up to turn off said TV. Which is what happened last night. And the night before.

I am pretty sure that since the batteries are new, the remote control itself is dying.

So all I have to do is call the cable company, right? I mean, we pay them almost as much as a car payment every month so I’m sure the least they can do is get me a new remote. Preferably a super-power remote that will never, ever wear out.

Because I DESPISE calling the cable company. In fact, I despise it so much that I didn’t even do it today. Sure, putting things off could be considered laziness. But it’s not like I sat around doing nothing today. Why, I took my kids for a walk! (as far as the 4 year old’s legs would go) I mopped! (okay, the water was already on the floor) I did laundry! (well no, I haven’t put it away yet) And I ruminated on the remote control problem. What I’m thinking about doing is seeing if I can get the downstairs remote control to work on the upstairs TV. So that I’ll be able to turn off the TV without getting up and without calling the cable company.

It’s the perfect solution. For a lazy person. Which it appears that I am. Damn.

When I was a teenager,  just about every time I went to the mall, boys came up and talked to me. They were always different than the preppy boys I was used to and each time I was a approached a shiver of fear and of excitement would run through me.

Without fail, the boys would then proceed to ask me about my “friend with the red hair”. I would stammer, “She has a boyfriend,” as I looked down at my penny loafers. The excitement would turn to pure fear as the boy would look at me menacingly, trying to decide if I was lying.

Once a group of them actually chased us through the mall. After which, our interest in visiting that particular mall sharply waned.

I am reminded of this because now there is another male of the species trying to intimidate me, even though he has no interest in me. But this time I am not 15.

Recently I received a Facebook message intimating that my husband was cheating on me. My first inclination was to laugh, because not only would Hot Guy never do that, he doesn’t have the time. Or the energy. Or a working  cell phone.

Then I remembered that Hot Guy had told me about a high school friend of his whose high school boyfriend had started stalking her through Facebook. Even though she’s married to someone else and they haven’t seen each other in 15 years, the ex has become obsessed with her again. To the point where he’s been accusing all of her male Facebook friends from high school of sleeping with her.

Which is where Hot Guy comes into it. Apparently the ex thinks Hot Guy and high school friend are having an affair (did I mention that she lives 1200 miles away?) and since trying to intimidate her and Hot Guy wasn’t working, he decided to message me and make the accusation.

What’s really scary is that after I blocked him he set up a new account and messaged me again. He’s freakishly determined to contact me so that he can mess with Hot Guy and thus prove to high school friend how serious he is.

She has threatened legal action and is documenting everything, of course. But that’s all so far. I am scared for her, to be perfectly honest. Chasing down the wives of high school friends seems extreme to me.

I replied to the second message with a request to please leave me alone and the threat of legal ramifications if he didn’t. But I don’t know if that will just piss him off or what. I don’t know what he knows about where we live or even if he knows about this blog.

I don’t think he would really care, though. It’s high school friend he’s after. Right? I don’t know a lot about stalkers.

You know, I really didn’t want to learn to appreciate being just “the friend” this way.