Dirty Little Secret

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.

Disclaimer: If reading about my sex life makes you uncomfortable (hi Mom and Dad!) you should probably stop reading now.

I am not a fan of the unexpected guest. Even before children, when my house was generally clean (except for the spare room, but that’s what is was for,right?) I didn’t enjoy people just dropping by unannounced. Now that my house is pretty much always a mess (and we do not have such a thing as a “spare” room) I kind of dread people stopping by.

Sometimes I do a quick declutter of the hallway before the pizza guy comes.

Sometimes I swear to my children’s preschool teacher, who came by to drop off their Christmas stuff, that the pile of boxes is an anomaly (they were) and am relieved when she doesn’t venture as far as the kitchen.

Sometimes I step out onto the front porch, even if it’s 15 degrees out and I’m not wearing shoes.

And sometimes, like today, the unexpected visitor has to come all the way in. Today’s visitor was the not unattractive guy changing the water meter, and (as the woman patiently explained on the phone when I called because I’m all paranoid cautious like that) he was stopping by because he’d finished another appointment early. I vaguely remembered that they are, in fact, changing all the water meters in the entire town. Since our water meter is in the basement, I had to let the dude in.

Now, our house is fairly clean at the moment. And even better, the fabulous Hot Guy just spent yesterday cleaning out the basement. The boys were dressed and not trying to kill each other and my shirt didn’t even have too many stains on it.

There was absolutely no reason to be embarrassed.

Except that this morning I received my brand new vibrator. (other people read before bed, I take care of business. More relaxing.) My children believe that vibrators are actually back massagers (what? You can use them for that too), so I had casually placed it on the stairs. So I could remember to bring it to my bedroom.

Did I mention that you have to walk past the stairs to get to the basement?

Did I mention that my new toy is bright blue?

Did I mention that water meter guy smirked as we stood by the stairs while he gave me the receipt?

Yeah. A whole bunch of people are going to be laughing at this during happy hour tonight, I bet.

Anyone else have any embarrassing sex toy stories? I really want to read them in the comments or on your blogs. Because there are very few things funnier than an embarrassing sex toy story.

I do not have the heart of a champion. When I watch the Olympics and the announcers talk about various athletes being disappointed about getting the bronze or coming in 10th or whatever, I want to call those athletes and say, “Oh my gosh, you’re the 12th best skier in the world today – congratulations! You’re better than billions and billions of people!”

I’m a “good enough” sort of person. Partially because I’d rather be curled up on the couch with a book than, you know, actually working and partially because I think perfectionism can drive you insane. I tried to be perfect once – to excel at grad school and to keep a perfect house and to be a perfect wife and to look perfect – and it triggered my first flare of ulcerative colitis. And my subsequent divorce.

My “good enough” lifestyle has some benefits in parenting. My kids are really good at entertaining themselves, for example, because I’m don’t feel the need to be supermom and entertain them 24/7. They’re also good at doing things for themselves because I don’t feel like I have to do everything for them.

The problem is that I feel terribly guilty about this.

When I was teaching – another job you can pretty much do all the time and never reach perfection with – I didn’t feel bad when I happy-stamped instead of corrected homework or helped the kids earn extra recess so I could have a few more minutes to finish lesson plans.

But with motherhood, it’s different.

My not-quite 4 year old does not know how to write his name. I’ve tried to teach him, but he LOATHES it with a deep passion that I thought he only reserved for shots. The “good enough” person in me says that it’s no big deal and that he’ll learn eventually and to just let it go. The mother in me feels like a failure.

And when they’re all perfectly happy and I’m doing something like writing or cleaning or updating my Facebook status, I feel kind of bad about that too. Like I should be doing something creative with them, or at least talking to them. But in “good enough” world there’s no earthly reason to disturb happy children.

Is there a drug out there to ease the guilt? Or to make me perfect without going crazy?

Dear Stop and Shop,

I don’t have a lot of willpower. I cope with stress through vices and since  I don’t find hangovers and smoker’s cough compatible with motherhood, I’ve turned to chocolate. (Also french fries. But not from your store. Because frozen french fries don’t do it for me. What was I talking about?)

Anyway, recently I’ve been trying to cut back on the chocolate. Because constantly having to buy new (larger) jeans for myself? Also not compatible with motherhood.

And speaking of compatibility, do you really have to put your bakery-made chocolate chip cookies on a special table right in front of the milk? Seriously? Let me tell you, those chocolate cookies you guys make are GOOD. Not quite as good as my mom’s, but very, very yummy. They have an addictive quality, I think. I mean, I’d avoided the bakery area on the other side of the damn store so I wouldn’t be tempted. But there they were. . . . . .right in front of the one place I can never avoid.

Are you evil, Stop and Shop?

I mean, I know you want to move as much product as possible. . .but you seriously cannot get to the milk  without being in cookie grabbing distance. That’s not product placement, that’s torture.

In conclusion, let me just stay this:

Move the damn  cookies or I’m sending you my clothing bills.

Thank you for your time,

Jerseygirl89

PS

Please do not send me a form letter about eating more vegetables or the benefits of meditation. If you would really like to prevent me from going on a cookie rampage, add a martini bar (and a daycare) to your facility.

When I grow up, I’m going to stop caring what people think about me.

It would be one thing, I suppose, if I worked really hard to fit in and make people like me. But I did that in high school and I’m kind of over it now. It would be one thing if I didn’t already have friends. It would be one thing if I was running for office.

But I’m not running for office. Hell, I couldn’t even handle being a class mom. And let’s face it, if I was trying to make people like me my blog probably wouldn’t be a constant bitchfest about stupid people and/or why my children are more awesome and more challenging than average. I would probably repost those status updates on Facebook that describe how awesome my mother and my husband are.

If I wanted more people around here to like me, I would probably spend a lot more money on clothes. I would also probably remember more people’s names. Oh, and I might stop talking so much (look, I don’t get out a lot. I get a little excited.) Maybe I’d even be more patient when the woman ahead of me at the grocery store has to run back through the aisles FOUR times to get stuff she forgot and then pays with PENNIES (although you’d think refraining from punching her would make me likable enough).

But I’m not in high school anymore (Even though I have theory that life is really just a big version of high school, the lack of blue eyeshadow and the presence of wrinkles should be enough to remind me that actual high school, is, in fact, over). I would rather spend money on my family. And clearly I’m not going to grow out of this bitch phase. The patience for others is not going to magically appear.

So why does it bother me so much when people don’t like me? Especially if, as is generally the case, I don’t like them either. Is it just because my WASP background makes me believe that dislike should be buried so far under politeness that you can never even be sure if it’s really there? Like these people are disrespecting me by being so obvious about it?

Or is it because at heart I”m still a 13 year old girl (and the fact that I actually get more zits now is just a little young-at-heart bonus)?

I am sorry to post this blog on your day, Dr. King. I know that it is the opposite of tolerance and love for fellow man, but I feel like you would understand.

This may be a foreshadowing of the grumpy old lady I’m becoming, in which case I look forward to smacking these people with my cane someday. . .

1. Pat Robertson. For being everything that’s wrong with today’s Evangelical movement as well as a bigoted ignoramus. Jesus would be helping in Haiti, asshole.

2. The Jersey Shore cast. Not because they’re ignorant trash who are making more money than I am, but because ONLY ONE OF THEM IS ACTUALLY FROM NEW JERSEY.  Spending a summer on the Jersey shore does not make you from New Jersey, capiche?

3. John Gosselin. It’s not like he spends time with his kids any more anyway, and maybe all of his young girlfriends would follow him. Although this whole story is a great case in point about the dangers of marrying young and treating your husband like one of the kids.

4. Glenn Beck. Pandering to the ignorant is so mercenary.

5.The creator of Yo Gabba Gabba. That show is just freaking WEIRD, yet even the baby stares at it if it’s on. And the songs stick in my head for days.

6. My local nemesis. He’s an overbearing stay-at-home dad I see around town all the time who has published a novel based on bashing the people in his playgroup. We’ve met countless times  and have kids the same age and he refuses to remember who I am or speak to me. And his kids are RUDE.

7. The head of NBC programming. First, there’s the fact that Friday Night Lights, one of the best shows on television, is treated like a second-class citizen (WHEN are you putting it on the network? WHEN?). Then there’s was the blatant idiocy of giving Leno 10 o’clock, screwing over Conan and Jimmy somewhat, not to mention all the quality shows that could have gone on then (ie Friday Night Lights, Criminal Intent). And now there’s the end of the 10 o’clock show and all this stupid fighting. But I might let him/her eventually back for approving Community. I like that show.

8. The casting director of the Twilight series. Yeah, I got into the books. Though I’m still not sure why. But I haven’t seen any of the movies and I never will. Robert Pattinson is not hot enough to be Edward and he never will be.

*I know that most, if not all, of these people are American citizens and can’t technically be deported. But it sounds nicer than “shot”.

The only New Year’s resolution I’ve really kept – for years and years – is the one I’ve never told anyone about. When I thought of it, I was a semi-shallow 17 year old. Now, (slightly) more than 20 years later, I still keep my nails neatly painted (clear counts, okay? My resolution, my rules.)

Now that I’ve mentioned it, I will probably have a horrible nail accident that prevents me from painting them for the next six months.

Anyway, I don’t talk about my resolutions anymore, for the most part. Partly because I tend to keep them so easy and manageable (“I will not let gray show in my hair for at least another 5 years,” “I will reorganize the hall closet”, “I will stop drinking wine because it gives me a headache”) that they don’t seem a proper response when someone tells me that her resolution is to run a marathon that year. And partly because I’m superstitious that if I tell everyone then my resolution will fail.

Not that I haven’t had plenty resolutions fail anyway. Such as last year’s “lose weight” and “stop yelling”. So this year one of my resolutions is, “Stop being superstitious about New Year’s resolutions”.

Another resolution I’m going to share with the 4 of you that still read this blog:

Chill the Fuck Out.

Yep, my resolution is so rebellious that it contains the F word.

Every year, I resolve to be a better mother, a better wife, a better daughter, a better friend. I plan to lose weight (except for 2008, when I planned to at least not gain weight and got pregnant a month later), eat healthier, exercise more, clean the house more, be more organized, take my writing more seriously, manage our limited financial resources better, create interesting projects for my children each day, learn to cook, make more money, learn Spanish, develop a supplemental home curriculum to boost my children’s learning, to volunteer at the preschool more and to never yell at my children.

Sure, I”ve made improvements in some of those areas. But mostly, I’ve just felt like a failure. And failures are not happy people, just in case you didn’t know. I know that there are people out there who do all of the above and more. Goddess bless them, it’s time to face the fact that I will not be joining their ranks.

Oh, I’m going to keep trying to be better. Much as I might be tempted to give up and turn into Peggy Bundy, I’d be bored in two days weeks. But when I don’t succeed, I’m going to chill the fuck out. And when I’m driving myself crazy to match up with the image I have of good mothers/writers/housewives, I’m going to chill the fuck out.

I’ve started small this week, because I’ve also finally accepted the fact that I’m better with small steps and not grand gestures. So this week, I’ve chilled out about the morning. For some reason, no matter how early we get up, I’ve always felt the need to hurry my kids in the morning. I’ve been wanting them to dress faster, move faster and eat faster for months (consequently I think that they’ve started to do things more and more slowly, but that’s another post) so that we could get to school on time.

So what if we were grumpy and harassed when I dropped them off? At least I’d fulfilled the good mother checklist of getting them there on time.

On the chill the fuck out approach, I’ve stoppped hurrying them. I’ve even stopped setting my alarm, because Lovebug will always wake early and thus so will I. And hearing him play is much nicer than the buzz of my alarm clock. I tell them what to do (and I’ve hedged my bets by laying out their clothes the night before) and then I just let them do it. I don’t rush them. We have conversations and hugs. I don’t offer dire warnings of starving until snack time while they talk instead of eating at breakfast.

Here’s the strange part: We actually made it to school on time every day this week.

I think I might really like this resolution.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve gotten less trendy and more sure of my personal preferences. So sure, that I gaily said to another mom today at preschool pick-up,
“I love your purse! It’s so fun!”

The “purse” in question was hot pink. From a few feet away, it looked leather. I swear. I thought it was fun and offbeat.

Apparently it was actually a cosmetic gift-with-purchase bag that the woman’s daughter uses as a play purse. I don’t even think it was pleather.

Needless to say, it was like a flashback to seventh grade when I thought my crush came up to talk to me because he might like me back, but in fact he had a mirror on his shoe and I was wearing a skirt.

Because, really, what do you say when you realize that you’ve been supremely, embarrassingly naive?

Not that I had a crush on this woman, but I didn’t exactly want her to think of me as “that bitch who thinks I’d carry a hot pink plastic bag” or “that poor woman who doesn’t know what leather is supposed to look like“.

Unlike seventh grade, I did not turn tail and run into the girls’ room. I babbled something about liking pink too much. I did not convey my mortification, I’m pretty sure.

Yet I’m putting it out here for public consumption because I’m not even sure I should be so embarrassed. Most of the people I know fall into 3 categories; those who could care less what people thought, those who wouldn’t think of giving another person a compliment and those who would have known that the bag couldn’t be this woman’s purse.

I will never make it into category 1. Despite tabletop performances of “Baby Got Back” during karaoke nights at more than 1 bar in Kansas City (in my defense, I was really drunk. . .each time), I don’t like it when people think I’m an idiot. Make that “people I know”.

Category 2 is not really me either. I like compliments.

In my youth, I’m pretty sure I would have been in category 3. But now I have 3 kids and I’m a freelance writer. . .I probably would use a gift-with-purchase bag as a purse, if it was cute enough and big enough.

I think I’ll just have to embrace my naivete. Because I’m 38 years old and I’m just going to have to accept myself. Though I don’t accept boys with mirrors on their shoes and women who carry their daughter’s purses the same way they’d carry their own. That’s still wrong.

I like to call myself a realist. Some might say “cynical bitch”, but those people also might say “I think The Bachelor helps people find true love”, so really, who cares what they think? Anyway, I really soured on romance thanks to my ex-husband, who was a great one for romantic gestures and also for being a total selfish asshole, but even as a child I wondered how an abused maid like Cinderella would get along with a prince’s family.

I’m always looking for the dark backstory, and generally there is one. Let’s take Chastity Bono – er, I mean Chas Bono – shall we? When I was a little girl in the ’70’s, I watched Sonny and Cher with my mom. My favorite part was whenever little Chastity came out in a sparkling dress that matched her mother’s. I secretly longed for a mom with straight hair who wore glittery dresses on TV, one who would put me on TV too. I got over it quickly, especially after I heard that Sonny and Cher got divorced. I got even more over it when Sonny became a Republican politician. And, er, now that little Chastity is a man (not that there’s anything wrong with that) . . .well, let’s just say it’s probably good I never wore a sparkly dress on TV.

Sure, sometimes I think it would be nice to think that Katie and Tom do really love each other and that it’s not just a business arrangement, or that EVERYONE on Rock of Love was acting, but that’s not who I am. But as I listen to the news and read magazines, I start to wish that everyone was more like me.

We’re going to run out of oil. Health care costs are going to be out of reach for the average American. We’re not going to just “win” the Middle East like we did World War II. People who can’t afford it, are too young or too insane for it are going to keep breeding. Not everyone can own a flat screen TV.

And we need to accept that.

Our current situation is the dark backstory to the Reagan and Clinton years. Every politician proclaims that he or she can fix things, if this or that bill is passed it will fix things. Bullshit.

Can’t we just stop being optimistic Americans for one minute and realize that fighting on Fox News isn’t going to fix jack shit – and neither is either political party? We need to accept our dark back story and learn how to manage it.

Look at Chas Bono. Her mother is a gay icon, the ultimate feminine fantasy-woman. Does Chas try to emulate her? Try to become her eager assistant? Try to become an earth mother archetype in rebellion? No. He goes in a completely different direction. Not dwelling on the past or hostiley rejecting it.

Although, the cynical part of me wonders how much of it had to do with those sparkly dresses.

Levi Johnston.

Deflowerer of a former governor’s daughter. Teenage father. Hunter.

That’s about all I know about Levi, despite having read several lengthy interviews with him. Oh, and he’s going to be appearing in Playgirl soon (did you know that magazine was still being published online? I didn’t). I really want to see that Playgirl. Because I think he’s hot.

Sure, he pretty much stands for everything I hate – fame for nothing, ignorance, Palin Republicans – and sure, he seems pretty dumb (I’ve  read the interviews, remember). And yes, I think he’s somewhere around half my age (which I find icky, even if most men don’t). But it doesn’t matter. I still want to see the Playgirl.

He’s not on my list because, well, it’s embarrassing. Plus, the list is not just about hot. It’s about like. And I do NOT like Levi Johnston. I just want to see him in his underwear.

Is that really weird? Do you have anyone you’re ashamed to find attractive?