July 31, 2004 | Detritus

I’ve just come across another blog that is referencing me as proof of why divorce is scary. “Please tell me it won’t happen to me!” she pleads.

In the words of my esteemed, dearly-departed grandmother: Oy. Vey.

Apparently, as I am highly educated and obviously brilliant (no, I never joined MENSA; those people have no sense of humor), it is just so wrong that my life didn’t work out precisely as planned. How do marriages go wrong when you’re so smart is the implication I get.

Last time I checked, there were precious few guarantees in this life. Would I have liked things to be different? Hell yes. Is this the way it worked out? Yup. Will I still be fine? Yup. Am I grateful for my blessings? Every day. Is my life a cautionary tale? Not particularly. It’s just a life. Do I know far too many people who’ve been forced to endure way more hardship? Sadly, yes.

I’m not scary. I’m human. And I’m going through exactly what I need to go through to get to where I’m supposed to be. I won’t claim I always do it with grace, but I’m doing the best I can. Sometimes I wish it were easier, but the truth is that I tend towards being an ungrateful pain in the ass… and I need a good smattering of difficult to juxtapose the good stuff and make me appreciate it. I have absolute faith that I’m where I need to be.

You can sit around being afraid of the things that might happen, or you can live. Seems like a pretty easy choice, to me.

July 30, 2004 | Friends

I believe I once characterized my town as “not exactly a Stepford community,” but something close.

I lied.

It is, in many ways, worse than Stepford.

Tonight I had a new friend over for dinner. D and I met through another dear friend, and upon discovering that we are both newishly (is that a word? she brought wine; consider yourself forewarned) divorced, we bonded instantly. So we’ve known each other a while, but it has taken some time to finally coordinate a get-together. We ran into her at the beach today… and when I discovered that we were both going to be kidless tonight, I invited her for dinner. I was thrilled when she came over.

D and I both know a third woman–also through the same friend who introduced the two of us–who is also newly divorced. This third woman, let’s call her Cleo (that’s short for Cleopatra, Queen of Denial), is quite something. She’s been separated and (I think) even legally divorced much longer than either D or I have, but downplays that fact quite a bit. And by downplay, I mean she boldface lies about it to most people. She’s told us the truth, because we’re divorced, and part of her really does want some acceptance and kinship with other women like her. But to watch Cleo in action at a party is mind-boggling. She pretends she’s still married. She cannot abide the thought of being rejected by anyone she perceives as the “elite” of our snobby little town.

Cleo also confessed to me and our mutual friend, one night, after quite a few drinks (her, not me) that she was sleeping with her divorce lawyer. Oooooh, classy! This was, mind you, after she’d insisted to me on multiple occasions that she was nowhere near ready to date. I guess I just misunderstood. Technically, she didn’t say she wasn’t ready to screw.

Needless to say, I wasn’t halfway through my glass of wine before I felt the need to share with D the story of Cleo spilling the beans about schtupping her lawyer. We laughed until we cried. D has also been present for many of Cleo’s long, intense soliloquies about how she just isn’t ready to get involved again. For some reason, dissing this poor woman over pizza and wine was a fabulous evening.

So, okay. We made fun of this woman who so desperately wants to fit in with our town’s “society” that she will lie, deny, and otherwise cloud the realities of her life to appear more acceptable to the ladies of the Junior League. I’m a very cheap date, and one glass of wine will do that to me. Mea culpa.

The reality? I feel so sorry for Cleo. I do. Life is too short to pretend to be someone you’re not.

Guess what? My marriage crumbled. I’m divorced. I’m still a worthwhile person, I still deserve to live here, and if you so much as look at me sideways like you feel sorry for me in any way, I will occupy myself elsewhere, thanks. This is my life. Good, bad, indifferent, it’s mine. I’m not going to lie about it or dress it up for anyone. You don’t like it? Fine. Enjoy your self-appointed time as judge and jury. But you’re not worth my time.

Even here in Stepford, I’ve had no trouble finding myself a plethora of friends who love me for who I am. I think it’s beyond sad that Cleo is so unsure of herself (or is it of the rest of us?) that she dare not chance embracing her reality, lest she be rejected. And her inability to be honest infuriates me, because she’s condemning me and D and all the other imperfect women along with her, in her refusal to risk being herself. I want to shake her. I want to tell her that anyone who can’t deal with her reality–my reality–isn’t worth it.

But of course I have no control over her. So I will just make fun of her behind her back. All the while, reaffirming my decision to basically write off anyone who can’t deal with me on my terms.

I didn’t say it was rational. Or mature. But really? Pretending you’re not divorced? Continuing to wear your big-ass diamond? Lying to people so they won’t think less of you? It makes my skin crawl. Is there any greater self-hatred?

Hi, my name is Mir, and I’m divorced. I’m also a cheap date, and well-buzzed on a single glass of wine. I’ll make you a deal. You be yourself, and I’ll be myself. Flaws and all. Doesn’t that make it all more interesting?

About

We fought the beach, and the beach won. A sandy time was had by all. Monkey and I are still the whitest white people on the planet. (Chickadee has browned up a bit, but Monkey and I are still casting a fierce glare off of ourselves.) The children are now exhausted and “resting” in front of the TV, and I am finishing up your queries rather than looking in the mirror to see how badly burnt I became through the SPF 45 sunblock.

Genuine wants to know what we would be writing about, if we were collaborating on a book.

“You Too Can Overcome Your Obsession With Nudity,” by Genuine as told to Mir (fully clothed). (Fiction.)

Hmmmm, Gen, I dunno. Is that an offer? I think I could probably put some sarcasm into that Genuine Romance for you and double your readership ya know…. (Fact, maybe.)

Angela wants to know what superhero I’ve always dreamed of being or having.

Remember Gleek, the monkey on Superfriends? Mmmmmmm. (Fiction. Ewwwwww.)

As a child, I often dreamt of being part of the G-Force from Battle Of The Planets. I don’t know why that particular show caught my interest so much. I think I liked that they were a family and fought crime together. Or maybe it was just the part where the one guy would put out his magic watch (or whatever it was) and shout “TRANSMUTE!” and they’d all change. Who knows.

Now that I’m grown-up… hmmm… Spiderman is kinda cool (Monkey told me so). Tobey Maguire isn’t too hard on the eyes, either. (Fact. Heheheheh.)

Tonya wants to know the secrets of Target markdowns, like how do you know if the price is as low as it will go, and why would one size be red-tagged but another not.

Stick with me, grasshopper. I shall teach you the way.

First of all, there are scanners all over Target for a reason. Always scan everything. Items that are marked down corporate-wide will be reduced in the computer system regardless of whether the markdown team has gotten to them or not. Items are often lower than marked, if already red-tagged. So, scan, scan, scan.

Second, it used to be true that final markdowns at Target always ended in a 4. I’m not positive that that’s the case, anymore. But if something was $3.74 or whatever, you knew that was the last price drop. Those little red tags? Have a number in the upper right corner. That’s the percentage off. It’s usually 15, 30, 50, or 75. The stuff that hits 90% off rarely has time to be retagged before it’s sold. If you see something you’re dying to have and it’s at 50% and there’s an entire wall of them, you can probably wait. But if you want an item and there’s only a few left, it can be a gamble to wait.

As for some sizes being tagged and not others, sometimes that’s on purpose and sometimes it’s an oversight. Always ask. The day that my friend and I bought all the cute Sunny Patch Kids stuff, the entire display was clearly marked 75% off and several items my friend was buying were in the computer as 50% off. The cashier gave us the additional markdown with no problem. But occasionally they do intentionally not mark down everything in what seems like it ought to be a “set” of the same stuff.

I heart Target.

Alrighty, I think that wraps it up. Looks like everyone else is out enjoying their Fridays as well. My snippet of good news is that one of the resumes I sent out actually yielded a request for further info, so that’s sort of exciting. I’m trying to pretend it’s exciting and might actually turn into a job. Play along with me; it’s fun!

As always, thanks for playing Facts and Fiction Friday with me. Answers to your queries are crafted from organic materials right here in the good ol’ U.S. of A.

About

(Apropos of nothing, I feel compelled to point out that BlogSpot has endorsed me for the position of Shoe Shopping Wife. My banner ads are now for shoe stores! Sweet.)

This week’s edition may be a bit briefer than usual (I can hear you cheering there, in the back!); the kids and I are getting ready for a jaunt to the beach. That pretty much means that they are busy piling up every toy in the house by the beach bag, and I am sitting here wondering if I remembered to shave. Anyway. Let’s get started!

Heather asks, what’s the most peaceful place I’ve ever been?

This one time? When someone locked me in the trunk of their car? It was nice in there. I fell asleep. Curled into the fetal position. (Fiction.)

I have never considered myself a terribly outdoorsy sort of person, but during my first cross-country drive I was seriously tempted to stay in Jackson Hole. My dad and I went horseback riding on a mountain, and I could’ve believed we (along with our guide, and his dog) were the only people in the universe that day. It was very Zen. (Fact.)

mc asks, would the people who know me in real life recognize the person I am here?

Well that’s easy, since my blog is triple-top-secret. No one else here at the correctional facility has any idea that I have a laptop stashed in my cell’s commode. (Fiction. Sorry for the visual.)

Quite a few folks from my “real life” read my blog, including my parents and several friends. I have been told on multiple occasions, “I could just hear you saying that!” I think I’m pretty true-to-life, here. The difference perhaps lays in my willingness to expound on my neuroses. Most of the time, when I get really tied up in something that’s bothering me, I will self-censor with my friends–at a point–because I realize I’m whining and I don’t want to drive them away with my incessant complaining. Here, this is for me, and you can read it or not. So I’m more likely to let it all hang out. (Fact.)

Jules asks a long, convoluted question about watermelons growing in my stomach and regenerating uterii, but points out that I don’t need to answer.

In the interest of soothing the minds of anyone who was worried after my post from last night: I posted about my spotting/cramping to a hysterectomy support board, and someone said it was probably internal stitches dissolving. Good enough for me. Also, so far so good, this morning. (Fact.)

Alektra wants to know my favorite babyword from my kids that we still use.

Sorry, there are no baby words around here. Both of my children popped out with 5,000+ word vocabularies and impeccable diction. (Fiction. Wasn’t that a really bad movie, once?)

I gave this one a lot of thought. Sadly, most of my favorite babyspeak has gone the way of the highchairs and diapers. Chickadee used to hold up her arms and say “Uppy doo!” when she wanted to be picked up. She never just said “up.” Cracked us up something fierce. And my favorite with Monkey has always been the various permutations of him pronouncing his sister’s name. She used to get so angry with his mispronounciation and I tried to tell her she’d miss it once he could say it properly. Now sometimes I catch them playing and her telling him to call her what he used to. Heh. We do still call Oreos “yo-ee-yos” just for fun! (Fact.)

Janet is sucking up to me something fierce, complimenting my intellect, visage, and feet, and wondering just how insane my ex is.

Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful. (BWAHAHAHAHHAAHAHA Fiiiiiiiiiiiiction….)

My ex went through a really difficult time, handled it badly, and I think now–as he puts his life back together–also realizes that we weren’t a very good fit for one another. We might’ve made it, had he not had such a huge crisis… but I’m one of those “everything happens for a reason” kinds of people, ya know? He’s not insane. He’s just really different than I am. I hope that in the final analysis we’ll appreciate our time together because of the two fantastic kids we got out of it, but that both of us will find greater happiness elsewhere. I was not the right person for him, nor he for me. (Fact.)

Marcia wants the dirt on the ex’s new woman.

She’s a mail order bride and rodeo clown. (Fiction. I hope.)

I know very little about her, and the ex is being very tight-lipped so I’m not asking. I know she’s working out-of-state on a 6-month assignment. I know she’s a chemist. I know she was nice to my kids. I know the ex seems much happier. I very much doubt I’ll learn more prior to hearing either that she left him or that they’ve set a wedding date. When I’m not feeling sorry for my pitiful single self, I’m very glad to know she’s around.(Fact.)

Kimberly wants to know where I would live if I could live anywhere in the world.

I believe someone asked this before, and I joked about Alaska (because really, someone who hates the snow as much as I do should just not be allowed to live where I do), but said I’d go to Maui. Weather-wise, that’s true. Culture-wise, I’m not sure. If price wasn’t an object, I think I’d move back to northern California. I miss it there, both for the weather and the culture. (Fact.)

Shelly wants to know how the job-hunting is going, and what’s the worst job I’ll settle for?

Well, I’ve just been hired as the new CEO of Victoria’s Secrets. Free thongs and angel wings for all my readers! (Fiction. Ow.)

Since resuming my search, I’ve sent out two resumes and felt out three possible contacts in addition. It’s slow going. Should I be unable to find something along the lines of what I really want (blogging for pay aside, I’d like to get back into technical writing), I will probably apply for a job at Target. I’m sure the job itself sucks, but it’s Target. And I’d get an employee discount. But yeah, it’s not exactly how I pictured my life. Maybe I can hang up my diplomas in the employee break room…? (Sad, sad fact.)

Aurora wants to know if I’m closer to my real-life friends or my blogger friends.

I don’t have any real life friends. Also? All the comments on my blog are just you, and my other personalities. (Fiction. No offense to Sybil.)

On the whole, of course I’m closer to those friends I can hang out with in real life. I do have a few “internet friends” from waaaaaay back, pre-blogging, with whom I have a very strong bond. I would say I’m as close with a couple of them as I am with my “real life” friends. But blogging friends? I’m meeting fabulous folks, here, but I’ve only been blogging for a few months. Relationships take time to build. (Fact.)

Jennifer asks how serious I am about working in daycare.

I am serious in the sense that I would like to pay less for daycare. I am not so serious in the sense that I do love children, but I have never felt “called” to work in childcare as a serious gig. I’m good with kids but I don’t see it being my career. (Fact. Thank you for the offer of advice, though!)

Jen wants to know where she can get a Wife application.

The form is about twenty pages long, and needs to be filled out in triplicate and notarized. Send me a self-addressed, postage-paid mailer and I’ll get it riiiight out to ya. (Fiction.)

I had no idea that my commune scheme was going to generate all of the enthusiastic interest that it did. And now I feel I’m caught with my pants down, completely unprepared to organize our progress as necessary. Who’s gonna be Paperwork Wife? This is her job. (Fact. Inasmuch as the commune becoming reality is fact, that is.)

My current time is up; the beach is calling! I will answer the rest of the questions later today. Enjoy your day and don’t forget the sunscreen!!

July 29, 2004 | Health is overrated

Well, the bubble burst a little. Surprise! But those few hours of contentment were nice.

So, you know how thrilled I’ve been about finally being on the right medications and hormones and all of that, and feeling pretty much myself again? It’s been great. Right up this evening, when I started cramping and spotting. And… uhhh… not to get too technical here, but that area is no longer connected to anything, supposedly; so I for one am kind of puzzled as to where that blood might be coming from, ya know? Plus… cramping? From what? Phantom cramps? Or maybe my uterus grew back? (This is when I totally need to have a Medic Wife on hand.)

Now don’t go getting all worried on me. I’m gonna ride out the evening and call my doc in the morning if anything weird is still going on. Right now? I’m practicing my denial skills. La la la!

So! In lieu of detailed discussion about my bizarre and embarrassing medical issues (whoops! too late!), let’s start getting in those questions for Facts and Fiction Friday. Ask away, and I will answer your queries with truth, or humor, or by scraping the bottom of the barrel in such a way that you wonder why you bother coming back here. That’s the excitement–wondering what you’ll get. You know you want to play. Leave your questions and prepare to be amazed! Or possibly perplexed! I cannot promise talking meatballs, but I can promise you… words. Lots of ‘em. (”Oh, I was totally hoping for talking meatballs, but lots of words sounds even better!”)

Oooookay, time for me to stop talking now. Ask away.

What do I do all day?

At last check, I had 50 58 comments on the “bloggerhood” post, many from folks I never would’ve “met” otherwise. Thank you again for coming in, hanging out, and being willing to share yourself with me!

***
Chickadee asked me this morning, “Is my sandal supposed to do this?” This was the sole opening up from toe to mid-arch like an old leather taco. Um, not so much, hon. I was thinking of trying to glue it, but then I noticed her toes hanging off the edge, too. That kid just keeps growing. Ran out this afternoon to the same store where I’d gotten my strappy heels and found her the last pair of sandals in the next size on clearance. $5 I can do.

***
Zoot has generously offered up Mr. Zoot for the good of the commune. I figured it would’ve been too forward of me to ask for this, but now that she’s offered? I have only two words: HUBBA HUBBA. And he can build a deck! (Yeah, that’s why I want him… his carpentry skills.) (Don’t you love how Zoot loves me even though I blatantly drool all over her husband at every opportunity?)

***
My darling children are with their dad for the afternoon/evening. And speaking of him? I am being duly rewarded for my calm, adult attitude about his new paramour. He’s being downright nice to me. Which–I won’t kid you or anything–is a wee bit creepy, but on the whole, good. It also makes it easier to see that this is a Good Thing for everyone involved. It’s true that if he’s happy I end up happier.

***
Through one of the couponing boards I frequent, I signed up for a diaper study. I’m now getting about a month’s supply of pull-ups for free in return for filling out a few surveys about them. Sweet. (Yes, I have completely given up on the notion of getting Monkey nighttime trained, thanks for asking.)

***
Right now? I’m sitting on my deck, in the shade… it’s a beautiful day… I have my laptop and big soda… and I am so spoiled that you would hate me if you didn’t loooove me so much. There is clean, unfolded laundry upstairs calling my name. But I can’t heeeeaaaaaaar it!

This is the life.

Friends

I knew the wisdom of this idea would resonate with the thinking women out there (and with Genuine, who not only skipped over the bit about polyamory not being a requirement, but also forgot that I am also still on double-secret 6-week probation!).

Now all that remains is to figure out some of the particulars. To this end, I had a long and serious discussion on the phone with my friend Marcey this morning. She is also a single mom, and we have long toyed with the idea of merging our households, except for the part where it ends up being less like “Kate and Ally” and more like “Thelma and Louise” (cliff-diving optional, but not out of the question). We came up with some salient points I want to share, since everyone seems so interested.

1) There must be at least four wives. What two women get along 100% of the time? No one, that’s who. Only two, you still have some lonely times. Three wives, and two are talking smack about the third behind her back when she does something dumb. Once you reach four, everyone has a decent shot at having at least one confidante at any given time.

2) The husband is completely optional. As was pointed out in both the comments and by Marcey, with enough career wives, you have the money to pay for whatever man-related services (gutterbrained or not) you might need.

3) Women with undisciplined brats need not apply. Is there anything more aggravating than a mother who looks at her child whomping on another child and coos, “Oh Junior, play nice,” and then goes back to painting her nails? You must believe in firm discipline for your children. You must be perfectly okay with other women disciplining your child if you don’t catch an infraction immediately. And you must be willing to do the same for the other kids, too. It takes a village to keep a child from becoming a spoiled selfish brat.

4) Menopause Wife is not one of the positions. Marcey and I were arguing over this spot until we realized that, technically, that wasn’t going to be a position. Unless there are so many wives that it is decided by concensus that someone is needed to have hot flashes for the entertainment of the younger wives. But by the same token…

5) Some of the wives need to still be fertile (read: of sound mind) and not have killer PMS. It’s a known fact that women who live together tend to–after a while–cycle together. If everyone has bad PMS, there are going to be some very unhappy times at the commune. So those of you out there who say things like “I’ve never understood the big deal about PMS”? I hate you, and will talk smack behind your back, but come on over, because someone has to keep things running when everyone else is bawling into their ice cream and I’ve run out of hormone patches and am swinging from the chandelier.

6) Kira and I get the first turns with either the husband or the stud we hire. Just because. I’ll even let Kira go first.

7) Laundry Wife gets to scold the children for stained clothing left in bizarre places. (That one doesn’t even need further explanation, does it?)

8) Cooking Wife is not allowed to utter the words Atkins, low-carb or wheatgrass. Tofu will be voted upon, and organic is fine. (Likewise.)

9) I totally get to be the Shoe Shopping Wife. But if there’s enough interest, maybe we can periodically rotate positions. Or not. Because it was my idea, dammit.

10) No Mormons allowed. Okay, I know that’s discriminatory. But they’d probably suck all the fun right out of it. And who wants to live in Utah, anyway? Just remember, this isn’t about serving men; this is about making our lives easier.

11) There must be babies. Part of the misery of being a single mom is the scarcity of delicious fuzzy infant heads to smell, and the knowledge that that part of your life is probably over. While I realize that most women with babies have husbands they actually like, this is about the good of the commune. We need some babies to keep the place happy. So come on over.

I think that about covers it, for now. Leave me suggestions for additional rules, or feel free to apply to join. Especially if you make lots of money.

I think we’re going to need a really big house.

July 28, 2004 | Friends

I feel the looooooove, people! *sniffle* I expected a few introspective, convoluted answers to my “bloggerhood” post below, and instead I found over three dozen “I like you! Lots!” comments. Aw, shucks. I like you, too! Don’t ever change! And special kudos to those of you who delurked just to say that. I cannot promise to never alienate any of you with some of my more bizarre ruminations, but I’ll do my darndest to keep y’all around.

Speaking of which, what do you suppose a small boy who manages to make “arrivederci” rhyme with “I have a wedgie” (ah-ree-va-DED-gie turns to ah-hav-a-WED-gie) does for an encore, just when you’ve decided he is perhaps a special kind of linguistic savant? Why, he listens intently to the bedtime story’s description of wolves howling at the moon and intones, “I think that may be their way of communicating.” Well alrighty then, Einstein. If we could just keep your fingers out of your nose and get you to stop peeing the bed, you’d be ready for college.

Anyway. This post is not about either of these things.

This post is about how polygamy has gotten a bum rap. (That promise? About not alienating people? See, now, why I am reluctant?)

Now I, probably not unlike you, had always assumed that polygamy was some weird Mormon sex fetish thing. Then I saw the story about Tom Green of Utah on Dateline NBC a few years back. They devoted an hour to the inner workings of this polygamist household. The topic of sex was touched upon, but only briefly (the “head wife” is responsible for scheduling the husband’s sleeping schedule). Most of the story centered on how the wives run their day-to-day lives with the kids.

Can I tell you? I’ve had extensive discussions about this with my girlfriends and (now ex) sisters-in-law, and we all agree. The concept is brilliant. How is it that the mainstream has shunned this possibility so? I think it’s all the men who couldn’t possibly handle multiple wives, who are walking around trying to convince every one that this is a bad idea.

Yeah, I see you, there, shaking your head. Just stick with me a minute here.

First of all, what struck me most about the Dateline special–other than the interesting sight of one “team” of children being driven into town in a van to go shoe shopping–was how much the women genuinely enjoyed one another. They referred to each other as sister-wives and had nothing but praise for one another. I don’t think it was an act. Picture it: you’ve got four girlfriends right there in the house with you. You don’t like to do laundry? Fine, hand it over to the sister-wife who loves her some Tide. Need a few minutes to yourself? Direct whichever of those twenty-five rugrats are yours to go bother one of the other moms so you can pee in relative peace. Stuck on a word in your crossword puzzle? The sheer volume of other adults in the house greatly increases the odds that someone will know the answer. (Okay, I doubt any of Green’s wives do crosswords. I’m just sayin’.) Once the kids are all in bed at night? You can stay home and actually hang out with other adults, or if you want to go out for something, there is never a need for a babysitter.

Secondly, can we talk about this nighttime scheduling thing? My guess is that the head wife is well-loved by the other sister wives. The ones with more libido slip her extra cookies and hand-wash her delicates for some extra nights with the love machine. The ones who are just as happy to sleep alone and not have to deal with a midnight grope put just the right amount of starch in her crisp blouses in return for more nights “off duty.” Who amongst us that have experienced long-term relationships haven’t relished a reunion after a few days or weeks apart? It probably keeps things interesting.

Furthermore, who says polygamy must contain polyamory? I have had more strategy sessions than I should probably admit about how to set up a “sister wife commune” based on a friend’s happy marriage, where the rest of us put out in every way except in the bedroom. We sister wives would still be reaping 99% of the benefits of marriage, with an able-bodied male around to do things like bring in a paycheck, fix leaky faucets, and move heavy objects. That whole built-in babysitter thing is a huge plus for those of us who are mateless, you know. If I had a few sister wives hanging around the place, I’d feel way less guilty about going out on a date once in a while. (”Oh, I’m sorry, I’m not dating right now. I’m still looking for some additional wives to help me out.”)

The benefits for the husband are obvious, too. The beleaguered man who spends a day in the rat race, only to arrive home to no dinner, a frazzled wife, and wild children? He would be no more at the sister wife commune. Heck, I could have dinner on the table every single night if I had four other women there with me every day. No problem. And with five moms to tag-team even the most disobedient children? There wouldn’t be any Mommy Meltdowns. You could just hand off to the next in line while you went outside and ate some chocolate and counted to ten. Naturally the entire house would be in order by the time the husband arrived home. Everyone benefits!

I am full of good ideas, I tell you. Especially when I am dreading going back to work.

Detritus

A couple of posts down, where I confessed trying to Google information about my ex’s new ladyfriend, Jennifer asked if my ex reads my blog.

Hell no. That would be the short answer.

The long answer is more complicated, of course. Part of the reason that starting this blog and writing again after such a long hiatus has been so cathartic for me is that my ex never really “got” why I write, or appreciated anything I wrote. I’ve always found that puzzling, given that he is a bibliophile… but he doesn’t want real life in his readings, and I’m kind of a Real Life type. I don’t write sci-fi, therefore I write nothing that interests him. Shortly before our marriage started its final descent, a couple of years ago, I entered the American Mothers, Inc., yearly Arts Competition. My essay took first place in the state, second place nationally. “That’s great,” was his response. That was all.

So, no, he doesn’t read my blog. I doubt he reads any blogs at all. He doesn’t have a single inkling that I am writing again, and I won’t be the one to tell him. If I had to guess, I’d say that some of the stuff I write here might upset him. But the ratio of incriminating, embarrassing things I could reveal about him to the items I’ve actually shared herein is overwhelmingly in his favor. I think he’d realize that; and if he didn’t, I wouldn’t much care.

However, the deeper, implied question here is one I’m now considering. Who does read my blog, and how do I censor myself, if at all? Would I be horrified if, say, my ex somehow did find my blog? There are enough troublemakers in the world that it’s not impossible that someone will someday put together enough puzzle pieces and appoint themselves the Character Police and alert him that I’ve been talking about him. Would that devastate me?

Um, no. I talk about my ex here. I talk about my kids here. I talk about my friends here. Sometimes I talk about my parents here. I strive to censor as little as possible, but neither do I print anything that I would be horrified to have the people in question read. At the same time, I don’t use real names of people unable to consent to being discussed (either because of age or oblivion). If someone’s out there Googling me, they’re unlikely to find my blog. Despite my previous suspicions to the contrary, it turns out that I am not, in fact, the only Miriam in the world, or even in New England. But say someone hunts me down and finds my blog. They’ve found me. What then?

That’s great.

I’m grateful for every person that takes the time to read what I write. This blog allows me to keep my folks updated on the day-to-day, stay in touch with friends who are busy and/or far away, blow off steam, chronicle my journey, re-acquaint myself with my love of writing, and meet many amazing folks whom I otherwise wouldn’t even know existed. As far as I know, that’s why I‘m here writing.

According to my stats program, for every comment I receive there are over 10 readers who remain silent. So tell me, readers… you’re in my bloggerhood… why are you here reading?

Offspring: ecstasy and agony

TV: Thanks so much for your help!
Monkey: Thanks so much for your help!
TV: No problem!
Monkey: No problem!
TV: We need to go now.
Monkey: We need to go now.
TV: Okay, thanks again.
Monkey: Okay, thanks again.
TV: Arrivederci!
Monkey: I have a wedgie!