BEST IMITATION OF MYSELF

"There's a big world out there. Bigger than prom, bigger than high school, and it won't matter if you were the prom queen or the quarterback of the football team or the biggest nerd. Find out who you are and try not to be afraid of it.”

Sometimes I have this nightmare, you know, the one where it's finals and there is a class that you've forgotten to go to and now you're totally screwed? For most people, the scary part of that dream is the failing grade. For me, it's being back in high school.

Now, before I go and blame my idiosyncrasies on high school, it's important to know I have never been a fan of the institution as a whole.  It didn't help that I was a fat kid in elementary school, tortured every day at lunch (I'm looking at you Gary-now-I'm-a-cross-dresser). Then, I was a chubby kid in middle school and was again tortured during lunch (I'm looking at you Clarke). I do have to give him some credit because he later apologized for treating me like Martha Dumptruck. Which is surprising for a guy that had once tried to shove me in a locker. Lucky for him I was too fat to fit. But he had done a great job of starting a case severe body dysmorphia- it's the gift that keeps on giving. Like Chlamydia, only you don't have fun getting it.

Body issues aside, by the time I actually got to high school I was painfully aware of my social status. Not all the way at the bottom, but nowhere near the top.* I figured this out the day I saw the girl in front of me filling out a "slam book." For those of you who aren't 500 years old, slam books were the 80s version of being mean on Facebook. As I looked over her shoulder I saw the question: "Do you like Ashlee?" It wasn't the fact that there were "no's" on the page that hurt my feelings, it was the fact I was a question at all. Questions like that were meant for kids who were booger eaters or wore headgear.

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"I got paid in puke."

I know by now, you probably think this very sad. I also know that you're also thinking "that poor girl had to wear headgear.” Let’s be clear, it was only at night, and sometimes during the day, and it wasn’t full headgear, yes it made me lisp, but not for long, because I “lost it.”  But before you start feeling bad for me, there is one thing to know. It was during this time that I was lucky enough to have a fantastic group of girls that I proudly still call friends. I doubt I would have made it through that long, dark rite of passage without them. They are all amazing women and put up with my crazy ass long before the medication, and still love me for the high-strung wack job that I am (an no, not the Heathers). 

So when I got a retina-searing email announcing my high school reunion, I was more than a little hesitant about going. It might have been the temporary blindness brought on by the purple text with the screaming yellow background, or the Humpty Dance that automatically played when you opened the website link (clearly whoever designed this thing has never done market research to learn that most people hate that shit, or they don’t have to worry about getting busted for opening personal email at work). I also got super irritated at the time I lost from my life trying to figure out the collage (yeah, that's what I said, collage) on the website. I mean, why in the world were there pictures of the 90210 cast when the show wasn't on until the October of 1990, after we'd graduated (for the record I graduated when I was 10)? Why was Nirvana on there? Nevermind came out in ’91, but more importantly what was the deal with the American Pie picture? Then there was the random picture of a Jeep. I dunno. I was so confused that for a minute I began to think that maybe I'd actually forgotten the year I graduated. Hey, it could happen. Sometimes I forget how old I am, which can be a good thing. 

Even though I could come up with a dozen or so other ways to a) spend a Saturday night (pins in my eyes and b) spend $70 (cookie dough), I succumbed to peer pressure and went. And before you can say "Proactiv" there I was standing in line to get my nametag. They had staff from the venue handing out the name tags, and I was truly disappointed that I didn't have the chance to say "fuck, off Toby" to anyone (see Romy & Michelle's High School Reunion).

Plus, what made this experience really awesome was that I had a baby five months ago and am still sporting multiple chin's and an inner tube that doubles as my waste.  Which might explain why I wasn't totally psyched to go. To make things worse, because of a lunch that I’d hosted earlier that day, and Tanner's feeding schedule, I had found myself with exactly 15 minutes to get ready. Also, I'd never found time to go get something to wear (that last part is my fault).  I mean, what girl hasn't imagined their high school reunion like that? Fat and in jeans (for the record, I told my friend Ashley that the only way I would go to this thing was if she made me a T-shirt that said "I just had a baby - cut me some slack." Sadly, the shirt never materialized). I mean, the whole point of those things is to show up everyone else and non-verbally express "I turned out better than you." Which sad to say, was a big FAIL.

It was like the moment I put that sticky name tag on (which my boss would call passé), I felt it searing into my chest, branding me with my high-school identity. Within seconds I was magically transported back to the last place I ever wanted to be. Once was actually inside, I can’t say it got much better. Usually I can mingle just fine with people I don't know, I mean I can at least fake it. It probably didn’t help that I couldn’t really drink (thanks a lot Tanner). Because a nice martini usually gets those conversation juices flowin’. In hindsight no alcohol was probably a good thing, since it winds up usually going something like this: “hey you, yeah, you. Wanna hear what I really think about you?” Instead I stood there slack jawed watching grown people, wearing clothes I could neither afford nor fit in doing da Butt with each other.  It. Was. Awesome.  I stood there with my jeans and my fat and for the first time felt no envy. Yes, these women apparently have way more time to work out than I do. Yes most of them are probably more financially secure. But I bet that there are few among them, these “chosen ones” of yesterday, who honestly and truly know who they are, headgear and all. 

"You see us as you want to see us - in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. You see us as a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess and a criminal."


*that's what she said

I struggled with this entry for a couple of weeks. At first I had planned to go balls out and torch the proverbial bridge since I have absolutely no plans of ever going to another reunion. But when the venom began to spew (that’s a great word, isn’t it?), I realized how hypocritical it was of me to judge these people. Just because I once perceived them as assholes doesn’t mean that they aren't still assholes? Maybe they are super sweet adults. Hey if my middle school tormentor can apologize to me later in life, then anything is possible. However, the one thing I will say is that they should consider this epiphany a gift. Because when I chose to work in my medium of choice, acerbic wit and sarcasm, I’m fucking Picasso. Put that in your Humpty Dance and smoke it.

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SOPHIA, SOPHIA, SOPHIA

Remember in Sophia in The Color Purple? Well, if you ever read the book (or let's be honest, you just saw the movie - didn't you?) you either know her as the physically imposing, strong-willed wife of Harpo, or you just have some vague recollection about Oprah Winfrey something-or-other. Either way, you know who I'm talking about. Basically Sophia punches the Mayor, and becomes what can only be described as an indentured servant. In 1930s rural Georgia. Ahem. Ironically, Sophia is forced to work for the Mayor's wife, Miss Millie, and for some reason teaches her how to drive a stick. So, it kind of winds up being Driving Miss Millie. [Side note: while that sure is a snappy reference, rest assure that the best Driving Miss Daisy parody would have be Driving Miss Daisy Crazy. Don't look at me that way, a friend told me about it.]


So anyway, finally, after about a billion years of waiting on a bumbling old white lady, Sophia gets to go home on Christmas Day to see her family.Whoo fucking hoo. A whole day? For God's sake don't put yourself out Miss Millie. But I guess it's OK, because Millie does her a solid by giving Sophia a ride to see the family she was so cruelly torn from all those years ago. Yet before Sophia can even get her coat completely off, you hear the grinding of gears and cries of frustration from just outside the window. Yep, sure as shit, Miss Millie can't drive her dumb ass home and basically passive-aggressives her way into making Sophia do it. Sophia leaves crestfallen, her Christmas forgotten and her sadness ignored.


I think about this scene a lot. Particularly whenever I try to do anything. Ever. If I even think about going for a walk alone, I suddenly find myself with a three-year-old attached to my leg. Now, while you might be thinking "it's good to walk with a little extra weight," it's not so productive when that ankle weight is screaming "mommy, mommy!" There's also nothing relaxing at all about trying to spend some alone time with a chorus of "mommy, don't leave me!" in the background. I feel like I should make my walking destination DFACS.


But this weekend, after a particularly shitty few nights with a baby that can't quite put his finger on what's bothering him, I decided that come hell or high water I was going to relax with a bath. Ahhhhh a bath. Not for everyone I know, but definitely for me. Due to the suspicious soft spot under the tub of our old house, I never dared to bathe in it for fear of winding up in the basement. Which means it's been over a year since I had a bath, and no you aren't allowed to say "yeah I can tell, you stink," like Mark did. I've bathed since then, just not in an actual bathtub.


But in the new house there's just one catch if you want to spend QT in an actual tub. It's is Piper's bathroom. That means to use it, you have to treat it like a covert military operation. She can not know your intentions. She can not be privy to when you enter or leave the bathroom. You must keep all movement in said tub to a minimum. This includes splashing, intentional or otherwise. If she even suspects that you are in her bathroom without her, you will come face to face with your worse nightmare. A three-year-old trying to get into the tub with you while simultaneously critiquing your ageing body. I love Piper, but sometimes I'm just not in the mood to share my quiet time with Tinkerbell bubbles and an army of Littlest Petshop bobble-headed "pets." OK, the Tinkerbell bubbles are really nice.


I was so serious about my anticipated soak, I prepared a statement beforehand. It basically consisted of "don't ask, don't tell, oh and I'm taking my fucking time." I even did something I never do which was to take a shower first. That way, I could cherish this stolen time by focusing all my energy on relaxing and not have to bother with all of that pesky cleaning. Mark promised to keep Piper downstairs, but before I could even get into our actual bedroom, I heard "mommy, can I come with you?" I literally ran into the bathroom and locked the door, hoping that she wouldn't come up and try to get in. That only makes her angry. And you wouldn't like Piper when she's angry.


I didn't hear tiny feet trying to kick in the bathroom door, so I figured that I was safe. After a shower, I cautiously headed toward Piper's bathroom, only to come face-to-face with...Piper. I called down to Mark that Piper was in her room (cock blocking me from the bathtub), and he responded, "yeah, I know. She's getting a toy." What he couldn't see though, was that she was on the floor trying to wrangle herself back into her underwear, which is never a good sign. It brings up too many questions, mainly "why are you out of your underwear?" I promptly did my Mom sigh, which I have to say is fairly good after only three years. You know, the sigh that says "kid, you are killing me and so is your Dad, because how could he not know this was going to end up in a way that was going to frustrate the shit out of me."


Instead of inserting myself into the situation further, I turned around and went back into the bedroom. I could hear that we had a situation brewing, and it had something to do with poop. I laid my head down on the bed and mentally began to let go of my bath. I felt like Sophia at the dinner table, minus the messed-up eye. Her coat half on, half off, glancing at Miss Millie driving like a spaz, knowing that she was going to have to go and fix the situation one way or another. Sophia had Miss Millie and I have Piper. And Tanner. And Mark. I often like to say that it's kind of nice being so important, but not really. As I got up and headed into the bathroom that had held such promise moments before, all I knew this was going to have nothing to do with driving and everything to do with poop.

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THE BOLD & THE FACEBOOK

Caveat: This isn't about any of you.

When my husband first joined Facebook, I made fun of him. LOTS of fun. It was mostly because he was using it when it was still only for college students and he’d “borrowed” a friend’s email address so he could play Scrabble online. What a dork! Then, Facebook blew up into a phenomenon that now includes social networking for users like Proactive and my Mom. Don’t get me wrong, I like it. It’s a good way to keep in touch with people and all that jazz, but my new favorite tool for Facebook is honing in on those “friends” of mine that have some serious problems and give the entire Facebook community a daily play-by-play. Now, I use the term "friends" loosely when talking about Facebook. Because let’s face it, some of these people aren’t really your friends, are they? Like my in-life friend Nicole says, “it’s not like you can call them in a jam.” Granted, there are some people on Facebook that I love reconnecting with, but most of them are located in exotic, faraway places, like North Carolina. So technically, I couldn’t call them in a jam. I mean, I could, but there probably wouldn’t be much they could do except keep me company on the phone while I waited for help to arrive. Like OnStar, but with embarrassing stories from my past. 

I find it very interesting how Facebook as created a completely new set of weird etiquette. Who among hasn’t accidentally offended someone, setting off a string of events that could have had catastrophic consequences? Oh… that was only me. Seriously, hasn’t everyone made fun of Kirk Cameron to the point that someone un-friended them? Again, only me I guess. What about the “friends” that you get fed up with and un-friend them, only for them to try and re-friend you? Awwwwkwwward!  

I had friended this dude from high school that had apparently turned into a crazed-right-wing-nut-job in the years since I’d last known him. And frankly, I got tired of reading posts like “HOPE THAT ALL YOU FUCKING DEMOCRATS ARE HAPPY WITH YOUR SOCIALISM. HEIL OBAMA!” Really? Like you’ve never looked at my profile? Like you couldn’t possibly understand why I might not want to read that shit every single day. If I want to be abused I’ll just watch Fox News, thank you. So I hid his feed, but that didn’t help when he’d post some asinine response to a mutual friend, or that I’d seen he’d join the Glen Beck fan club. It is here that I should also mention that this is the same guy who posted a photo of himself with his wang hanging out.

Hey man, I’m sure that I post things that people dislike, but not every single fucking day. No wonder those teabaggers are so angry. Teabagging is all they think about. That, and having some guy’s ball’s slapping them about the face (if that confused you, I implore you to Google teabagging. Then you will see why everyone thinks the name is so funny. Oh and be sure to turn your safe search off). After I un-friended him. He again tried to friend me. I felt guilty and accepted. Then, after about a month, when I couldn’t take it anymore, I un-friended him again. That lasted a few days until his friend request notice popped up. So this time after some inner dialogue about being rude, I decided that it would be best for everyone if we parted ways. 

In a rash of uncomfortable Facebook moments, the girl that un-friended me for my Kirk Cameron remarks decided to forgive me and request that we once again be faux Facebook friends. Unfortunately for her, I was having a “fuck you” kind of day, and she too was denied the love. I look at it like this: If you truly know me, then you know I will eventually say something to piss you off. All you have to do is tell me, and I will be more than happy to apologize, admit my mistake, and then mock you behind your back. See? Everybody’s happy. On the flip side, are the “friends” that are unintentionally hilarious. I currently have someone that is unaware how much they brighten my day with their vast array of inappropriate disclosures. This person’s life is truly like a soap opera. I’m not talking about As The World Turns, either. They’ve long veered into Passions territory with warlocks and men having babies and shit. Their life is so riddled with drama, that Paul who has reunited with Emily only to reconnect with his daughter that he didn’t remember from when he had amnesia, only to come out of just in time to witness the death of this father, James who is super evil and no one likes – has nothing on them.

These posts have it all: Violence! Sex! Depravity! Just name your poison. And even though I have ever so gently posted replies to these insane status updates, my hinting has fallen on deaf ears, or screens. By now, I figure that I've done all I can do, so it's time to sit back and watch the fun. I also keep up with the updates because I figure one day they might come in handy providing evidence in the event their author ever follows through with the threats to do bodily harm to others. Now, I’m no big city lawyer, but even I think that’s not the smartest idea.

While I try not to judge, I do. I usually justify it by stating beforehand "I don't want to judge, but here I go." So here I go. People, just because there is an empty space by your name, doesn't mean that you have to fill it with the minutiae of your fucked-up life. Jesus, just get a blog.

** So I guess that I wasn't nearly as generic as I needed to be because Crazy must have caught wind of this post and I got unfriended this past weekend. Man alive! Now what am I going to do with my day? By the way, if you want to know who it is, just ask me 'cause I got nothing to lose now.

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