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| I do feel like I owe an explanation to those of you who still read me at Xanga. I am not sure what to say. I am trying to not be too dramatic. I am trying to figure out what type of an internet life I want to have. I love Xanga. I love blogging. I have been here for years now and have for the most part found this to be really healthy interaction. I have people that I consider to be my friends. We send each other CDs, or cards, we meet for drinks when we're in each other's town. It's nice. I have felt threatened just once. It was by a guy who wanted me to read his blog. He would comment on my blog and expect me to comment on his. And I didn't want to. He became verbally abusive and left nasty comments on my blog, which I deleted. I think my writing has improved by blogging. I think that the therapeutic benefit of journaling has been realized. I think that I have an amazing record of my life here. I love that. A few months ago I knew that things were changing for me and for Xanga. And then in the midst of that, I was led to this site. The reality of commercial blogging became apparent to me. I was floored. Women who make THOUSANDS of dollars a month. Writing a blog. Writing no better than me or anyone I read. Women who attract hoards of followers that rabidly defend them if anyone criticizes them. It's weird, to me. I have kept a family blog for a couple of years now. I often cross posted things here on Xanga. Right now I am writing exclusively over there, and I think that will continue. I also use Facebook. I enjoy using my name. Using my kids' names. Not worrying about commenting so much. Not trying to be a forced community, but just being me. I still come here and read. I don't comment much. If y'all had ads you would get paid whenever I clicked on your site and it wouldn't matter if I commented or not. In the words of a Mega Blogger, I guess what I am trying to say, is that I am choosing to "keep it real." I am still figuring out what real looks like to me on the Internet. | | |
| 1. I'm going to Seattle April 3-6. Cues and Tattoos Belly Dance Festival. Yay! Let's meet for coffee. Come watch some belly dancing. Get a tattoo! Whatever! 2. I'm making an LED hoop on Monday and I am super excited about it. I am learning more about electricity than I ever imagined. 3. I have two Andrew Wyeth prints hanging in my house. How about you? | | |
| It was one of those mornings. We have a lot of them at my house, but not always, so today was typical, I guess. Lots of scurrying around, lots of not eating breakfast, lots of complaints about packing gym clothes and lunch and homework. We finally made it to the car and the windows needed to be scraped. Argh. I actually broke my ice scraper this winter and I have not replaced it. I have been using a CD of some crappy female pop star that ended up in my car. So I grabbed it, scraped the windshield and got back in. "That's not my CD is it?!" complained the middle school kid in the back seat who was pissed at me because I had not made her a lunch that day. "No. It's not," I said, trying to be calm. Infants have screaming fits where they are inconsolable - diaper changes, feedings, walking, nothing makes a difference. You get to the point that you are ready to toss them out the window (I did not understand child abuse until I had my own child.) and then the infant falls asleep for four hours or smiles at you and you forget it all. Toddlers are unreasonable and will stick their hand in the peanut butter jar and smear a fistfull of peanutbutter on the floor or scream or tear a book that you love and you will consider walking out the door and never coming back, and then they wrap their chubby arms around you and say, "I wuv you, Mommy," and you are filled with a love that overwhelms you and makes you feel bad for ever being fed up with the toddler. Teenagers will make you crazy with their eye rolls and smart mouths and complaints and bad attitudes. And then they say, "Can we listen to my Ramones CD?" And my heart begins to thaw. I slide it in. The punk rock fills the car. We sing along. "I wanna be sedated..." And although 1 minute ago I wanted to be sedated? Now I am happy and singing and smiling. "Have a good day, kiddo," I say outside the middle school. "You too, Mommy." And I hit "back" so I can listen and sing along to the song again. | | |
| Sometimes you don't want the "before" measurements, right? I mean, I know that it would be encouraging and stuff eventually, but mostly I just want my skirts to fit again and I will know when they fit. So who cares how fat I got, I just want to slim down. I looked like I was in my first trimester. If I was pregnant I am pretty sure I would give birth to cheese and I would call it "Breanna" which would be short for "brie" of which I ate a lot of over the holidays. There really is something about the beginning of the year that inspires changes. A big one is that I am taking the month off from alcohol. I have a plan I am following. I wrote out concerns in the areas of health (weight gain and inability to lose when I drink wine) and social (drinking too much around friends and family and trying to break that "need" to overindulge) are the big ones for me. Things are super, super, super stressful at our house right now. I am concerned that I have begun to manage stress with alcohol and I don't want to go down that road. I don't mean in a "relax" kind of way, I mean in an "escape" kind of way. I need to be present for my kids and my husband. I need to deal with some crazy shit with my stepdaughter. And to do those things I need to not have any alcohol. I will reassess in a month. Last night was pretty grim with Bill. He is pretty low right now, but our conversation last night at bedtime had a surprising turn to it. I was very touched by a vignette he shared about author William Styron who was too depressed to have sex with his wife "though he loved her very much." And even though the story was not about us, it was in a way, and I was very moved by it. I do think that my sober state helped me navigate what may have been a difficult conversation otherwise. I was able to stay calm and be reasonable. That feels good. I can already feel the effects of the "after" and I want to remember them long after the New Year. | | |
| Chided by my son who reminded me, "Mom, you promised.", we made a quick dash to the YMCA yesterday evening even though we were expecting company and had a few chores to complete before they got there.
I fumbled for the YMCA cards. The desk clerk looked quizically with me and my giant hula hoop and my son with his baseball glove. "Are you going to use the gym?" she asked with concern, "Because we have a basketball tournament in there tonight."
"No. Not the gym." I smiled and handed her our membership cards and she scanned them. She watched us walk to the elevator.
On the fifth floor of the downtown YMCA is a maze of hallways connecting racquetball courts. Racquetball seems to have fallen out of favor in recent years. The courts are frequently completely empty. Last night there was a lone game going on in Court One. We followed the hallway to Court Four, our favorite and my son played catch with himself off the wall while I hula hooped.
It is hard to be a summer sport in Nebraska in January.
After 30 minutes of "court time," we took the elevator back down and walked past the confused desk clerk.
"Have a good night!" she called after us.
"You too!" we said. | | |
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