Dirty Little Secret

So yesterday I had an epiphany. Not the kind that will solve the healthcare crisis or even make the Jersey shore cast return to their natural selves (no steroids! no tanners! no saline!), but hey, it made me feel better.

For the longest time, I’ve been really slacking in the blog arena. Not keeping up with my favorite bloggers, not posting as much, not posting as well. I blamed it on writing for Demand Media and on not having as much time in general.

And that, dear readers, is bullshit.

I have been depressed and I haven’t wanted to post about it. I’ve had a lot of excellent reasons to be depressed, but I haven’t wanted to post about them either. In fact, I’ve been afraid to post about a lot of things, for fear of insulting or over-sharing with the people I know in real life who read this blog.

And it occurred to me yesterday that the more I worry about not living up to other people’s expectations of me, the less I feel like myself. You’re probably thinking, “Duh, it’s so sad that you didn’t figure that out when you were 20.”

I did. But motherhood – and all the inherent expectations of “good” motherhood – made me forget. Then we moved back here to Stuck-Up (where not everyone is Stuck-Up, but you all know what I’m talking about) and I completely lost it.

I started imagining other people’s expectations of me. It was like in my head I went back to the last time I lived here. In high school.  Do you have any idea what it’s like to have a high school mentality and adult problems?

My head has been like a really bizarre episode of 16 and Pregnant.

And I am SO over it. If one of my posts offends you, I’m sorry. Feel free to write a nasty comment or ignore me at the grocery store. If you don’t like me and you take it out on my kids (my greatest fear), I will kick your ass.

And if I’ve been ignoring your blog, I’m sorry. I’m back now.

I have just received Ironflower’s 8 PAGE packet for her dance recital. Now, I might welcome the packet if it told me exactly what make-up to put on her or what to do with her beautifully unruly hair. I might welcome the packet if it laid out her 2 routines so that we could practice at home. I might welcome her packet if she wasn’t in preschool. But instead I look at the packet and think, are you FREAKING SERIOUS?

I still don’t know how to do her hair or her make-up. . .or even what her costume looks like (which doesn’t really bother me because the recital is not until late May, but why not just include this info in the packet?). But I do know that we can’t make our own DVD of the recital AND that it will cost us $40 to buy one. I also now know that I can purchase extremely over-priced bouquets and photos. Oh, and there’s a complicated lottery system for ticket purchases. I have also read about the procedures for picking up my child after the performance and extensive details about the dress rehearsal.

I am also to provide non-staining snacks and toys for her use backstage.

Snacks????? Toys??????

You know what I did backstage during the myriad recitals and performances I was in?

I talked to my friends and I watched the other dancers. When I got older, I put on more make-up. And I didn’t get to eat anything. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I also walked 2 miles up hill to school (actually, I would have done that, if my mom hadn’t driven me to school most of the time) and survived just fine.

I am usually the person who stands up for the booster seats until they can drive (or whatever the rule is now),  helmets and bouncy playground surfaces. I’m reluctant to leave my children with a baby-sitter or for them to have playdates without me. I overanalyze everything (which you have probably noticed if you’ve ever read this blog before). In short, I am a modern parent.

But I think we’ve gone off the deep end where dance recitals are concerned. First come, first served seating is no longer good enough for today’s families.  DVDs have to be professionally produced. Bouquets have be  big and expensive. Photos must be taken by an overcharging professional. Children must be entertained backstage. Packets must be sent home 3 months beforehand. All the spontaneity of live performance must be crushed.

I am so NOT cut out for helicopter parenting.

I live in a place where people range from comfortable to wow-is-that-a-Murano-glass-chandelier-in-your-toddler’s-bedroom?-rich. And because of all the perks of living in such a place – the safety, the amazing public schools, the proximity to cultural events, the fact that no one wears house slippers to the grocery store – I try to ignore all the things that bother me about living in such abundance (I didn’t say I always succeeded. I just said I’d try.)

But I can’t ignore this one.

There are a few places that I tend to visit nearly every day. Because my life is exciting like that. Anyway, two of my local places have put out jars to collect change for the people in Haiti. Both places are reputable and reliable and will donate the money without a doubt. If they had any money to donate.

In one place, the jar is empty. In another, where it has been up for a week, it is nearly so.

I would like to think that all of my neighbors have driven their Porsche Cayennes and Ranger Rovers to their banks so that they can wire thousands of dollars to Haiti. I would like to think that they are all too busy using their credit cards to carry change to put in the jars. I would like to think that they just haven’t noticed the jars.

But the jars are rather obvious. In one case, there was even an email about the jar. And who doesn’t keep change in their car?

Every day, when I drop in all the change I can scrounge up, I keep hoping that the jars will be full. Maybe I’m obsessed with them because I can’t write a huge check or volunteer for Doctors Without Borders. Maybe they just seem so important to me because helping to fill them is all I can do. Maybe this is why I’ll never own a Range Rover – I can’t save money worth a damn.

Would this bother you? Does the idea of the empty change jars in what is literally one of the wealthiest counties in the country bother you? Or am I just being bitchy again?

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)?

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.

Leaves.

Specifically, leaves that have fallen. Onto the ground. All over people’s pristine lawns.

I like them there.

I especially like them there when the alternative is for some a**hole with a leafblower to spend an afternoon blowing them into the street. Where they pile up, only occasionally getting picked up by the town.

My parents’ town is the worst, which is odd considering that I think they pay the highest taxes in the county. Anyway, leaves are blown into the street, leaving precious lawns unlittered – but causing cars to slide on them after rains, blocking storm drains and just generally making driving kind of hazardous.

Though even if the huge piles of leaves were picked up regularly and/or didn’t cause driving hazards, I would still be against the whole leafblowing thing. Because seriously, is it really that bad to have leaves on the lawn?

I mean, people drive to the northeast just to look at the leaves while they’re on the trees, but once the leaves hit the ground they’re all of a sudden completely horrible?

I LIKE how they look on the lawn. It being fall and all, it seems rather appropriate. But scores of landscape guys and weekend warriors seems to disagree with me, as blowing them into the street seems to be some sort of county passtime. (And how come I have never, ever, seen a woman with a leafblower? I’ve seen them raking, but not one blowing leaves – and usually sticks, trash and toys – into kingdom come. Why?)

I suppose what really gets me is that after all the noise and air pollution to get rid of the leaves, they wind up blowing back into people’s yards from the piles in the street. So what’s the point?

I don’t think my family is good at fun.

Last night was the “Family Fun” night at the kids’ preschool. Hot Guy had to work, so I decided that ChunkyMonkey should stay at home with my mom, 2 kids being enough for one tired woman to keep track of at a gathering filled with sugar and small children.

Of course Ironflower was drawn to the painting activity like moth to flame. . .which meant that I spent a lot of the evening cleaning blue paint off of her costume.

And Lovebug hated the noise. He ran into classmates, but they were all shy with each other (as opposed to how they’d been at the hay ride the day before) and overwhelmed by the crowd. So he pretty much wanted to leave from the moment we got there.

I spent most of my night dragging Lovebug around in search of Ironflower. Until the reptile show. Which my kids had enjoyed at a small play date last year, but this year it freaked Lovebug out. And Ironflower claimed not to like it, but I think what she didn’t like was the large number of kids between her and the animals. Meanwhile I stood with some other preschool moms, having nothing to say while I fretted over my children’s unhappiness.

Somehow I’m reminded of some of  last events I attended in school gyms – junior high dances. Before every dance, I’d have this image in my head of how it would go – the boy I liked would ask me to dance, I’d look impossibly cool while dancing, my friends would all tell me how great I looked – and it NEVER went that way.

These family events seem to go the same way for me. Before we go, I have this image in my head of the fun we’re going to have – the kids will laugh and smile, I will chat amiably with acquaintances, the kids will behave – and it never works that way. Lovebug hates something about the event and clings, they both grab food and drink like mannerless heathens, I have brief conversations that I’m too preoccupied to pay attention to and at the end,  Ironflower says it wasn’t good enough anyway.

I guess I’m just not destined to live up to the images in my head. Maybe I should stop trying.

There’s a business in a nearby town that is almost entirely devoted to personalized birthday favors. Well, I think it is. I’ve never actually been in there. But the kids have gotten adorable gift bags with personalized frisbees and whatnot in them. As well as candy. All from a store that I’ve never heard anyone refer to in any other context.

We’ve been to a birthday party that had a moonwalk, clown, hot dog cart and 4 cakes. And that was a first birthday party.Mostly, we’ve been to parties at indoor play places. But occasionally we’ve been to decked out yards, with visits from Dora and Diego. Once we went to a party that had a clown, a singer and a balloon maker.

I mention all this because Ironflower’s birthday is a scant 2 months away. And there are 19 kids in her class. So we’re looking at inviting 25 kids to the party, or thereabouts. That will pretty much double the exorbitant fee we’ll be paying for the party space in the first place.

When I relayed this to a Kansas City friend of mine, she was kind of horrified. Party spaces and personalized favors didn’t happen in her preschooler’s world.

And when I lamented to a New Jersey mom that I wished my kids had been born in the summer so I could have a party in my yard, she was horrified by the thought of the clean up and organizing involved.

All I can think is, isn’t celebrating a birthday supposed to be FUN? Why am I stressing about this 2 months ahead of time? Oh, right. Ironflower wants what all her friends have: her class at a party place where she will get to be the center of attention. And cute gift bags. And probably a new outfit for the event.

At least I’ll have  break until Lovebug’s birthday in March. And at least his class is small. And he probably won’t care about the outfit.

What about you? What are birthday parties like in your neck of the woods?

In my years away from Jersey, I missed some things. Great pizza. People who speak quickly. Bagels. Fellow Yankees fans. Delis. The shore. Diners. But I never missed the cramped movie theaters and I cringed at the thought of driving out here again.

They’ve fixed the movie theater situation, but I’m afraid the driving has only gotten worse.

It used to be that as long as I avoided the highways filled with aggressive speeders and tailgaters, I felt okay. One of the great things about Jersey is that there’s a back way to get pretty much anywhere, so this was not the problem it could have been. But since moving back, my knowledge of the back roads has not been enough.

The psychos are everywhere now.

Sometimes they’re like the bitch who followed me yesterday, two inches from my bumper, gesturing. I was going the speed limit AND there was a lane she could have used to pass me, but she preferred to stay behind me and risk rear-ending me.

Then there was the person today, going ten miles under the speed limit, braking at each (unlit and unsigned) intersection and flipping me off when I darted around her.

And you can’t forget the people driving their hulking SUVs (and I say this as a minivan driver) while talking on their hand-held cell phones (illegal here), who can’t park – or turn – for shit.

Of course there are also the douchebags who think that I too will be charmed by the fact that their car stereos can play R.Kelly very, very loudly. I mean really, why would anyone want to play R. Kelly at all?

Occasionally there seems to be cross-breeding, such as when a tail-gater needs to play his car stereo at full volume, or when a slowpoke is also talking on his cell-phone.

Finally there are the people who really scare me. The ones that think our little provincial highway is, in fact, a NASCAR track. They weave in and out of traffic at 100 miles per hour, as though they were playing a videogame. And I swear it’s not only bitterness because I happen to suck at any videogame that requires driving – though I think it’s really odd that even though I’ve never caused an accident in real life and hardly even get honked at I can’t drive an imaginary car worth a damn – it’s because it’s fucking dangerous.

So here’s a little message, lousy drivers of the world: Get OFF my ASS.

You didn’t think this would be about exercise, did you?

When I said that I read a lot, or mention that I blog, or say something about writing some web content, people seem impressed. Not, you know, because they’ve read my brilliant writing but because they note that I have three small kids. And no nanny, cleaning lady or daycare. (I realize that this is perfectly normal in most parts of the world. But not so much around here.) They wonder where I find the time.

I’ve recently made room in my world for exercise again. And I do read a lot. And blog (though not as much lately). And write. And sometimes I play with my children. And I feed them. And I make sure they don’t kill each other. I realized, as I incorporated exercise into my life again, that it’s possible to fit in the things I really want to do.

What I don’t really do is clean. I mean, there are clean dishes (a trick since our current dishwasher seems to have died recently), clean clothes and clean sheets. There’s usually not any mold growing in the toilet. I try to sweep after every meal, if only to prevent ChunkyMonkey eating food from the floor. But I’m not a cleaner. I have to be inspired to mop, or to dust or to clean under the couches.

I LIKE it when things are clean, but given a choice between reading and vacuuming, the book is going to win.

But I never know how to answer people when they seem to be impressed with what I can do in a day. Do I admit that my house is messy and cluttered? That my kids ask me what I’m doing every time I mop? That my kids watch too much TV? Or do I just give them a smug smile?