The Un-invention of Lying

Not too long ago I watched the movie “The Invention of Lying”.

It’s about the entire world being incapable of lying. There is no such thing as flattery or exaggeration. They can’t tell someone that they look nice when they really don’t think so, can’t blame work tardiness on traffic, or hide any thought, no matter how offensive or inappropriate. Until, that is, one man manages to somehow crack the code. He begins lying about everything and everyone simply has to believe him because to them, lying doesn’t exist.

Would that be so terrible? If we couldn’t lie? Some things are best kept to yourself and telling the absolute truth about everything at all times could be hurtful and awkward, right?

Let’s ignore the effect it would have on issues like crime and government, and focus on something more important: Me. What would a day be like if dishonesty didn’t exist for me or the people I encounter? If every single thought in my head was available to the public, simply by asking the right questions?

*****

My alarm goes off at 5am, but I doze intermittently until 5:30. I’ve been dreaming about sex again. I’d rather be late for work than end the only action I’m getting prematurely.

By the time I decide I’m going to get up, I can’t. My mom’s boyfriend is banging around the kitchen and I’m not wearing pants. I’m too lazy to pull them on before I go out. I resent not being able to walk around naked, even though I rarely do so – mostly just a dash here and there.

He’s finally gone. I stumble through the kitchen and make myself a cup of coffee. I poke my head in mom’s door. She’s still blissfully snoozing.

“It’s not time to get up yet”, I shout, “but I’m waking you anyway because it’ll piss you off. Last night you pissed me off. How does it feel?”

She jerks awake and mumbles “Go away."

My sister doesn’t have to go to school today because she’s been suspended. She was recently caught half naked in the school parking lot with her coma inducing boyfriend. She's supposed to be suffering. There’s no way I’m leaving her asleep. On my way out the door I stop by her room and turn on the light.

“Get up child whore. You’re supposed to be in trouble and there you are, lying on your back again. Your nostrils are enormous.”

“No one will date you because you're a shrew”, she replies turning her back to me.

“I told mom you had sex.”

“I have oral too.”

“You won’t get herpes and die, but you might get herpes and live, which is worse. Ask your cousin.”

On that note I head out the door.

When I arrive at work my boss beckons me into her office to tell me about her weekend. She sits behind her desk, waving her hands dramatically along with her monologue. The gesture most definitely doesn't fit the story. She pauses for my input, leaning back in her chair.

“I don’t care”, I say.

“I don’t care about yours either.”

"Good, because I wasn't going to tell you about it anyway." I'm relieved to be let off the hook and I retire to my office, happy.

Later she comes in to check on me. “What are you working on?”

“Nothing”, I reply. I've been staring at the horrendous blue wallpaper, making myself go crosseyed, which most definitely qualifies as nothing.

“Why not?”

“Because I can finish everything that needs to be done in one day and if I do it all now, I won’t have anything to make me look busy for the rest of the week.”

“Oh. That’s not good.” She can't punish me, I know, because she plays games and reads Danielle Steele novels in the afternoon when most everyone else has gone home.

“It’s fine. I like blogging better.”

“What’s blogging?”

“It’s where I write all of my personal business on the internet and some of yours too, and people laugh and leave comments about how awesome I am.”

“I don’t like that.”

I shrug. “I’m going to the dermatologist today. That one in the building down the street.”

“That doctor is a kiss ass. I’ll bet she’ll licky splity.” She makes a V with her fingers in front of her mouth and sticks out her tongue.

“When you say that phrase and make that motion it makes me want to fold my ears together, staple them shut and pour bleach in my eyes.”

“I know.” She grins on her way out the door.

I spend the rest of the day dicking off and not pretending to look busy. At 4:30 I leave for my dermatologist appointment. I know I read the map wrong but I’m too lazy to recheck. I make two wrong turns and almost cream a parked car. An old man, sitting in a dilapidated old lawn chair yells at me from his yard. My window is down, my left arm dangling out with a cigarette clutched in my fingers.

“You’d better slow it down, Missy!”

“You’d better stay on your lawn, old man”, I yell back, taking a drag.

“When I was your age I’d get my hide tanned for speaking to an elder that way.”

“When you were my age, people used hand signals and grunts.” I pull away before he can reply.

I finally arrive at the doctor’s office. The front lobby has a big wall of glass and there is more seating than is likely necessary. Wedged in with the regular chairs are two low, modern, grey leather sofas with leather throw pillows. They face each other and I have to pass between them to reach the check in window. I think they are ridiculous, but I want to sit on one anyway.

The girl at the counter has ugly, dyed blonde hair and a crooked smile. “Hello”, she says in a serious manner. I nod to her while I write my name on the clipboard. “What’s your name?”

“I just wrote it on the clipboard”, I say.

“I’m asking because I don’t always look at the clipboard. We only put it there for the people we don’t want to speak to. We can keep the glass shut while they sign, then open it when they walk away to check the name.”

“What if the person signing the clipboard that you decide to talk to, doesn’t want to talk to you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should think about that”, I say in monotone.

She grits her teeth in an unflattering manner. “I won’t. I need your insurance card and a picture ID.”

I hand them over. She glances at my ID then back at me. “You were thinner in this picture.”

“Your hair has probably always been ugly.”

"Funny you should say that, it has."

She copies my cards, returns them and I sit down to wait on one of the ridiculous sofas. There is a familiar looking girl sitting across from me on the matching seat. She looks up from her book and gives me a once over. I return her stare and she goes back to her novel. It’s a romance. She tries to hide the cover with her hand.

“He gives it to her good on page 78”, I say.

“I know. I’ve already read that part twice”, she says in embarrassment.

I nod knowingly.

They call my name before hers, even though she was on time and I was five minutes late.

“That pisses me off”, she says.

“I think it’s funny”, I reply with a grin as I head toward the inner door.

An assistant takes me to a room and asks me a list of medical questions. Then she hands me a folded paper placemat. “Strip down to your bra and underwear, cover yourself with the paper, and sit on the table with your legs to the side. The doctor will be with you in a minute.”

“Ok.”

I strip off my clothes and throw them in the visitor’s chair. Sitting down on the table as instructed, I notice there is a low mirror directly in front of me. I think it’s an odd place for a mirror, but I make use of it anyway. I make pouty faces and angry faces at myself. I swing my legs back and forth and watch my socked feet appear in the mirror. One, two, one two. My legs are ashy, but I can’t find any lotion in the room. I shrug. It’s a lady doctor. She won’t care.

There’s a brief knock at the door and a man comes in. He’s young and very good looking, wearing scrubs and an indifferent expression. “Hi”, I say brightly before I can stop myself. I thought it was the doctor. “Excuse me”, he says without looking at me directly. He grabs something off of the counter and backs out the door.

I am irritated. I find his intrusion rude and lacking in substance. I believe he might have just wanted to see me half naked. I smirk at myself in the mirror.

A few minutes later the doctor comes in, followed by the same man. She is short with a tight smile. They’re like wax figures in lab coats, stoic and off-puttingly professional. She introduces herself and shakes my hand.

“How are you”, she asks.

“Uncomfortable.” The papered table crackles as I wiggle to illistrate my statement.

“I don’t care”, she replies.

She starts going over my body, looking at my arms, legs, back, and chest. She finds two moles she wants to remove - one right above my ass and one on my right shoulder blade. I tell her about the one on my head and she decides to remove that as well. She instructs me to lie down on my side with my back to her. I clutch my paper placemat and turn, making a lot of crinkly racket.

“You’re going to feel a little sting.”

She inserts a needle in my back. “OW! FUCKER!”

“It’s only a little sting.”

“Maybe to you.” I look over my shoulder and the male assistant is looking at my ass. He’s chuckling under his breath. I suddenly realize that I’m wearing the most obnoxious underwear I own (other than the ones that aren’t really underwear at all). They are grey bikinis with pink, orange, and red lipstick prints all over them.

“You’re just jealous”, I say.

“I’m sleeping with her.” He smirks and jerks his head toward the doctor. She ignores this exchange.

“I’m glad I didn’t wear thongs”, I say with a sigh.

“So am I”, says the doctor.

She finishes the appointment, jabbing the other needles a bit harder then necessary without apology. After a few instructions and a handout, they leave the room and I get dressed. I pay my copay at the check out counter. The girl with the ugly hair has already left for the day. Shame.

On the drive home I’m suddenly very tired. My phone is dead, but I’m glad because my mom is probably calling me right at that moment. I’m saved from a bothersome conversation, if only for another hour.

When I get home my sister is standing in the kitchen. “You got a package in the mail today”, she says.

I pick up the small box she's referring to and rip it open. It's the CD upgrade I ordered for the internet so we can connect using my phone again.

"I want to use it when you're done with the upgrade."

"No."

"Why not", she says, glaring and crossing her arms.

“Because I’m probably having phone sex tonight.”

“Gross!”

“Your boyfriend asked me to butter his biscuit.”

She sighs. “I know.”

The evening routine goes by quickly. Soon my sister is curled up in her dark room, whispering disgusting words of teenage love into her phone. The kid is slack jawed and splayed across her bed. Ray is snoring on the living room floor, taking up the walkway. And Mom is deceptively still and quiet. I know she's awake, being nosy as only she can. As I walk by her room, turning off the last light, she confirms her consciousness by saying, "I know you're up to something."

I sigh. It's always the same suspicious sentence. I could be on my death bed, gasping for air, and she would be there - questioning my motives until, and perhaps beyond, the last wheezing breath. Her face, disturbingly identical to mine, would be scrunched up, sharp nose pointing down in disapproval and brow furrowed with irritation. Always waiting for an admission that just isn't there to give.

I turn from the dark doorway and reply in the tolerant tone I usually reserve for the kid. "Go to sleep, mother."

"I love your sister more than you."

Dream Interpretation

I’ll go weeks or months without having a single dream and then all of a sudden I’ll be bombarded with them. It’s like my brain is trying to make up for lost time by cramming two or three in each night. I haven’t been able to figure out the trigger, though I’m sure there is one. There has to be.

I usually don’t remember dreams unless they’re reoccurring. They don’t last past the first fluttering of my eyelids and the thought, “Well that was strange”. I always said I’d make a dream journal, write them down the minute I wake. Unfortunately other things always take precedence: prying my eyes open with contact solution, pushing the kid off my head, shooting from the bed like a fired missile because I’m late again. Then, inevitably, when I have a moment of calm, I realize that I’ve missed the opportunity yet again and all I remember is that there was a dream and it was bizarre in some way.

Friday night I stayed home and turned in pretty early. I had three dreams that night and for once I was able to write them down. The first was an old, reoccurring dream, easy to remember:

I’m young, probably around five or six. I’m lying on the bed in my childhood room, white blonde hair spilling out across the pillow. I’m wearing an old, short sleeved nightgown with a ribbon at the neck. I’m half asleep, toying with the ribbon, when I hear a noise. I get up; my eyes are half closed slits.

In the middle of the dark room sits my red, white, and blue round plastic table and chairs. A small sliver of light appears in the middle of the table and I stare at the checked surface. I start to reach across the table and as I do, it seems to extend itself. I watch my arm pass over the top, fascinated. Then all of a sudden a snake appears on the other side, moving toward my hand with its mouth open. All I can see anymore is my arm, fist closed against the inevitable onslaught, the snake, and an endless expanse of red, white, and blue. It looks like a scene from Alice in Wonderland, surreal and slightly distorted.

I can’t seem to draw back my hand and the snake moves in quickly, snapping its jaws down on my small, closed fist. I feel no pain, only terror. Then I wake up.

Now comes the age old question: What does it mean?

I don’t know how accurate dream interpretation books and/or websites are, but this online dictionary pretty much confirms what I think the dream means:

I’m afraid of intimacy, commitment, and snakes. But I like sex. Orgasms complete me. I have an enormous ego that’s constantly attacked (bitches). Loosely translated, of course. I might have exaggerated on the ego bit.

I didn’t like this next dream at all, mostly because I come off a bit psycho:

I’m in a bridesmaids dress and I’m stumbling through a hotel hallway with a dark haired girl. We’re laughing, but even as I laugh and cling to her arm I know something is about to happen.

We burst through a door and it appears to be an enormous living room. People are sitting on couches and chairs, the room is full. We stumble into the center and there is talking, though I can’t remember what it’s about.

That’s when I notice him sitting in the corner of a couch to my right, on the edge of the activity. He’s an old fling. Everyone is talking at once, but I don’t listen. He and I, we’re staring each other down. His face is cold and mocking, mine is defiant. I feel reckless and giddy. The girl is still holding my arm and I sling her away from me. She smacks into a wall.

The scene changes and I’m talking to him alone. I’m wearing a different dress and I’m bragging about how rich men want me. He’s not impressed.

That’s all I remember. I know there’s a bit missing, but that’s what I’ve got. It’s probably got something to do with ego and temper. Maybe it means that I’m an angry, closet lesbian that dresses well.

This last one is the most bizarre:

There’s a really fat blonde woman standing in front of a small brown house. Everything seems to be in shades of brown except for her. She’s wearing a black t-shirt with some band on it and shiny, neon green spandex Capri pants with fake pockets on the back. Her ass is the only flat thing about her and her hair is bleached and teased 80’s style.

As she’s standing there six punk rock guys come walking across the lawn. They are all wearing a lot of black and have Mohawks, etc. Some of them disappear inside the house and some stand around outside. One of them tells the woman that their car broke down. While he’s explaining the situation, another one shouts from the open front door, “We need to call The General now for a ride!” Then they all chime in and say in the TV commercial voice, “Call 1-800-General now!”

The blonde offers them a ride. One of the guys hugs her, wrapping his arms around her big body, attempting to slide his hands into her fake back pockets. They just keep slipping and he keeps trying for a ridiculous amount of time.

Then they all pile on to her MOTORCYCLE and drive off down the highway. They’re all piled around her like The Muppets. Except for the one she’s sitting on.

I can’t even begin to analyze that one.

So, what do you guys think? Let's have your opinion on some of these.

Party with the clit killer

Saturday night I went to a birthday party for a friend.

This friend has parties often and it’s usually the same old crowd. Therefore, I wouldn’t say I was excited about the party in particular. More that I was excited not to be sitting on the couch in my pajamas, yelling at the TV and swilling out of a large wine bottle. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, right?

My family drove me nuts all day so by 4pm I decided I was going to get ready and leave early. It took me even longer than usual because everyone had an opinion on what I looked like.

Mom: You’re not wearing your hair like that, are you?

Aunt C: What’s going on with your hair?

Mom: You have on too much make up.

Aunt C: No! I didn’t mean it like that!

Mom: I did.

Lee: There’s something wrong with the front of your head.

Mom: Are you wearing that? *attempts to button top up to my chin*

Me: ARRRRGH! FUCKERS!

I didn’t feel like straightening my hair because it takes a very, very long time. The only problem with going au natural is that sometimes things work out and sometimes they don’t. And by things, I mean my giant, curly fro.

I ended up pulling the front up in a barrette, which, coupled with my dress, leggings, and flats, made me look like a 13 year old from the 80’s. Radical.

I packed up my wine and went to my cousin’s house to hang out until the party. For two hours we discussed controversial issues like men’s double standards and the merits of ineffectual fathers. I finished the leftovers of one bottle and we went on our merry way.

It was rather cold and drizzly. I was cursing myself for wearing that ridiculous outfit when I’d have been far more comfortable in jeans and boots...like everyone else in attendance. I wandered around and greeted a few people then stopped to check out the refreshment table. Thankfully L and W (the two girls I’d come with, in a completely non-lesbian way) began stuffing their faces too. Except they were stuffing their faces with chips and ranch dip and I was more inclined to stuff mine with meatballs.

As I resumed my mingling I noticed several things:

1) It was only 9pm and there was already a drunken woman swinging from a bench press pole and making sexual innuendos to inanimate objects. Best part? It was the birthday girl’s 50 something year old mother.

2) There was the token creepy old guy that shows up to every party within a 30 mile radius of the house he still lives in with his parents. This one happens to be about 7ft tall and sleeps with anything that breathes. He was clearly on the prowl.

3) The guy I ran into the last time I was out on the town was there. I was pretty wasted that night, but he regaled me with my violent antics. Apparently I punched him in the stomach. Hard. He was laughing about it, but I could see him eyeballing the drink in my hand and calculating how many I could have before he needed to disappear.

4) There was the gay guy swigging vodka out of a brown paper bag and doing some sort of air humping dance. If I were him, a gay man at a redneck shindig, I’d be swigging out of a brown paper bag too.

I had a good time at first. I drank my wine, danced a bit, took some shots. The party was half in their garage and half in their driveway where they’d set up two fire barrels that everyone was gathering around. (It’s the country, ok.)

I was standing with my back to one of the barrels, laughing with a few other girls, when a friend came running over.

“Ya’ll! Omigawd! Have you seen (insert first and last name)?”

Everyone but me turned and looked where she indicated.

“He’s so hot! You should go talk to him”, she said, addressing the girl on my left. “He’s got a great job and he’s really sweet...” She continued spouting his virtues to the single man eater, who didn’t appear the least bit interested.

I was well on my way to being drunk, so when I heard the name of the guy I’d hooked up with on New Years Eve, I quietly panicked. It couldn’t be the same one, I thought. He doesn’t hang out with these people.

“What did you say his last name was”, I asked my friend. She repeated herself. “What’s his mom’s name? Does she work at that Dr.’s office?”

She frowned at me. “I don’t know.” She called for her sister and relayed the question to her, who answered in the affirmative.

I must have looked a bit horrified. In fact I know I did.

She leaned toward me and whisper-shouted, “OHMIGAWD YOU FUCKING SLEPT WITH HIM DIDN’T YOU?!”

“SHHHHH! Shut up! Jesus fucking Christ!”

“YOU DID! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU SLEPT WITH HIM! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

I wasn’t exactly sure what the big deal was. The way she was acting you would have thought I’d slept with the mayor.

“But he’s so nice”, she said.

“So?”

“You don’t just sleep with a guy like that.”

“Well....” I didn’t know what to say. I’d expected him to call me. After all, he kind of owed me one. When two weeks went by and he still didn’t call, I chalked it up to a one night stand...a relatively unsuccessful one at that.

She continued to heckle me about it and the more she spoke, the more nervous I became. I knew he was standing several yards away in another group, but I couldn’t make myself turn around and look. I was positive he’d overheard her antics, especially when she motioned her sister back over, calling her a bit too frantically.

“She slept with him”, she said to her sister.

“NO WAY”, her sister shouted, dancing in place.

I sighed. There was no way I could casually speak to him now that the loud mouthed twins made it look like I was telling our business to the entire female population. I knew he was embarrassed enough about his performance without being made to think I was spreading the details around. I knew my face was beat red.

When pressed for details about him I simply smiled and shook my head, then wandered off to the kitchen in search of shots. I downed several and avoided going outside for awhile, waiting for them to move on to the next drunken topic.

When I finally returned to the group, I was facing his direction. For the rest of the night I followed him with my eyes, paranoid about what he may or may not have heard. He seemed ok, but I wasn’t. The more I drank and the longer I looked at him, the more disappointed I became.

Why hadn’t he called me? Why hadn’t he at least said hello? Why was he ignoring me? Should I go talk to him? I can’t. What if he heard all of that?

As the night wore on our group got smaller. I ended up standing around the fire with him and three or four other people. He was directly across from me and not once did he look at me. Finally, during a lull in the conversation, I said, “Hey, how’ve you been?”

“Pretty shitty”, he said without looking me in the eyes.

Fuck.

I said maybe one more sentence to him the rest of the night. Then I watched him mack on a girl that was barely old enough to drink (if she was).

Ok, get ready for the rant:

So we slept together. Ok, big deal. So he wasn’t great at it. Ok, big deal. I didn’t bad mouth him to anyone. I was even willing to let him try again sober, which HE suggested, not me. I can understand him being embarrassed. What I cannot understand is him treating me like I’m not there. Seriously? Fucking rude. If I can be nice to him, smile at him, and keep my mouth shut, the least he could do would be to do the same. A simple, “Hey, how are you doing” would have been nice. Or even a “sup” and a head jerk.

Am I overreacting? It was a bit of a blow to the ego, I’ll admit, but there’s just something wrong with the whole thing.

According to my mom he’s this really sweet guy that just picks the wrong girls. He’s really weary about involvement because an ex really broke his heart. According to my friends at the party that know him, he’s a really sweet guy that’s looking for something serious.

Ha. Really? I’ll bet he found that serious thing he was looking for in Miss Pre-Teen’s pants.

That wasn’t nice. Gawd bless him and his erectile dysfunction.

Anyway, I finally left a bit worse for wear. Unfortunately my car got stuck in the mud and had to be pulled out. I’d let my cousin borrow it a bit earlier to pick up a friend down the road and when he returned, he decided to leave the sunroof cracked open and sink my front end into a marsh. Nice. In hindsight I probably shouldn’t have screamed “goddamn it” repeatedly at him out my window. I’m sure I looked a bit psychotic.

On a positive note, that girl will probably be out of commission for the next week. That man is like the Edward Scissor Hands of the clitoris. Ouch.

Note:
I was going to make Erin’s video blog when I got home from the party, but trust me, it wasn’t really the best idea. Now it looks like I might have to do it sober. The horror!

Oddity, plus one.

I’ve been told plenty of times, past and present, that I’m “odd”.

As a child, being different was largely frowned upon, or so it seemed to me.

I wasn’t the girl that carried around a smartly dressed doll, mothering it and dreaming of the day the stork would bring her a live one. I didn’t nurture anything but my waistline. Plants died on my watch, pets were known to miss meals and plastic arms and legs were often found sticking out of a freshly dug grave, tattooed with Bic pen symbols best left unexplained. My female counterparts were always a bit more caring, a bit more responsible and subdued.

I was a bookish and insolent child, a winning combination. I preferred interacting with adults because I found them more accepting. I didn’t generally like other children, whether they were male or female, and they couldn’t often tolerate me.

I never was one to keep things simple. If I found myself in a confrontation that didn’t require I run away to avoid injury or the unwilling confiscation of my snacks, I’d purposefully make things worse (a regular heckler in the making). Rather than use an insult they’d understand like “your mom”, I’d use “that hag your (air quotes) biological father was fornicating with”, leaning forward as I air quoted with an Oh Snap! expression on my face. By gawd they might not be able to define biological or fornicating, but they could guess at hag, and air quotes were the Elementary school equivalent of a dodge ball to the genitals. Thus I ended up turning a simple argument into the very confrontation I would usually attempt to run from in the first place. But man, I loved air quotes.

I did have a few things in common with the rest of the germ breeding population, though. Imagination was one. What child didn’t like to play pretend?

While they were imagining hitting home runs, walking down aisles in white, cooing at a real live newborn or becoming a ninja turtle, I was imagining far more intricate, often strange, scenarios. A lot of it was due to reading. I didn’t watch nearly as much television as the average kid.

I used to imagine that I was Hester Prynne from The Scarlet Letter (a slightly altered version, of course). I would walk around the house in a sedate manner, quietly accepting the coldness of my family as my due. I considered her a martyr, just like myself, a slave to the indignities of social compliance. It was all very odd, I’m sure. I never actually told my parents that I was pretending to be a modern day version of a fictional adulterer. They probably just thought I’d eaten something that didn’t agree with me.

I also imagined I was an English girl. I had an affinity for accents even then and would make an effort to speak and think in an English accent at the oddest of times. (I was never very good at Irish, though I loved it too.) I would have long, random conversations with imaginary people and say thing like “jolly good” or “bloody” this or that. My cousin once caught me at it and I had to bribe him with a book report to keep his mouth shut. I could just hear the insults of my peers had he ever told. “Lookit, chee tanks cheez ferin.” (That’s southern for: Check it out, she thinks she’s foreign.)

Another thing we had in common: I was gullible.

Children are gullible creatures, no matter how smart they are. If you can’t recall being duped when you were a child, I suspect you’ve had head trauma. My spawn is only 4 ¾ years old and I’ve tricked her enough to last a lifetime, yet have no intention of stopping.

My Papa was the most prominent duper during my younger years. He could make me believe the most ludicrous stories simply because he was Papa. He was very earnest, but in the most visibly insincere way. When I watch him pull the wool over my kid’s (and my cousin’s kid’s) eyes now, I think, “How the fuck did I ever believe that fat bastard?”

He used to tell me that my mother wore combat boots, holey underwear, and didn’t love Jesus. I was very upset about it all until my grandmother (on the other side) explained that if Jesus didn’t love anybody it would be Papa and my father’s uncouth side of the family, not any daughter of hers. I was placated and resolved to set him straight when he decided to heckle me again. He did, of course, and I gave him the spiel my grandmother gave me. He laughed uproariously and went on about his business.

A few days later I was watching my mom get dressed. I was bouncing up and down on the bed, going on about something or other, when she pulled a pair of underwear out of her drawer. They were full of holes. I stopped bouncing. She pulled out another pair, looked them over, shrugged and pulled them on. They had a tiny hole on one cheek.

“You have holey underwear!”

“Yeah...so?”

I immediately burst into tears. I was horrified that my Papa knew my mother had holey underwear. Hell, I was horrified that she would wear them, much less show them to anyone. I was also sure that she was going to hell. While we hadn’t gone through our “church phase” yet, my grandmother was still a strict driller of the “you could go to hell” speech. And if my mom had holey underwear that meant she didn’t love Jesus, and that meant she was going to hell.

When I explained all that to my mom, she laughed so hard she cried. When I went to my Papa’s house (next door) shortly thereafter, she must have goaded him into saying something behind my back because he immediately shouted, “Hey artist! You know what?”

Sour expression firmly in place I replied, “What?”

“Yer mama wears holey underwear, combat boots, and don’t love Jesus.”

“BUT HOW DOES HE KNOW, MAMA”, I wailed.

My Papa still delights in telling that story to people. In truth, he delights in telling any story that makes me sound like an ass or an idiot.

Anyway, now that I’m an adult and a parent, I find I haven’t changed as much as I expected I would.

I’m still insolent, probably more so. Children still can’t stand me and the feeling is still completely mutual. I still have a tendency to egg on an argument when it’s not in my best interests. I’m still not quite the feminine nurturer I hear you’re supposed to turn into once you’ve reproduced. I’m still odd.

There’s one thing, though, that I realized has changed. Where I once was innocent, I am now guilty.

Because oddness is obviously hereditary.

*While I do air quotes, she does blowfish face. We're quite the team.

The Write Stuff

Things have been relatively boring around here lately. Busy, but not in an interesting way. I can’t be interesting all the time, yet I have to post something. It’s been since last Thursday. If I don’t post often you might not come back. Right? Cue needy music.

Sometimes it’s hard to post because my blog is a closely guarded secret. Until recently the only person that knew about it was my best friend Rachel. I knew I could trust her not to go looking for it if I didn’t want her to, so I told her about it and let her read a few things I’d written. She wasn’t very impressed with my writing, but I didn’t take it personally. She’s very hard to impress and one of the reasons I like her is that she doesn’t do or say things just to make me feel better. I might not agree with her, but I value her honesty.

Things are changing around here though. My sister, mom, and aunt are now all aware that I’m blogging. The only person that I’m really bothered by is my mom. She has this habit of making fun of me and I wish I could say I was immune to it by now, but I’m not. It’s easy to be confident about little things like the way I look wearing blue or how well I do my job, but when you’re talking about my dream it’s a toss up. Some days are better than others.

I prefer to type because it keeps up with my thought process, but occasionally I’ll write down post ideas or random things in a spiral notebook. It drives my mother insane. Every time she sees it she says, “Oh! It’s the secret notebook again! Let me see it. Are you writing about me? Oooh it’s a secret!” I’d probably let her read it if she could be an impartial judge, but she can’t. She would read it as an extension of me, and she can’t often stand me, so I don’t see the point.

I’m not misguided enough to think that everyone will like the way I write or appreciate my brand of humor. I know for a fact that my mom just wouldn’t “get it”. She would think it vulgar, tasteless, and self indulgent. Constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated, but she just isn’t capable.

When she found out about my blog she said, “Why are you wasting your time writing crap on the internet? Write a book.”

I could’ve given her a list of reasons why, but I didn’t. She makes me feel defensive and I don’t want to be defensive about this.

Her next statement was, “You better not be writing shit about me on there.”

Snort. Ok.

If I ever do write a book she’d better get used to the idea of being in the limelight. I’ve pretty much decided that I’d like to write a humorous collection of short stories about my life and those in it.

Then there’s my sister.

She was nosing around and found a hand written post. According to her she doesn’t care about finding my site, she’d rather read my diaries. She’s welcome to them. They’re too magniloquent to hold her interest for long, I imagine. Besides, I tell her most of my “exciting” news when we’re having one of our sisterly bonding sessions. I’m beginning to love those more and more, even if I occasionally have to hear something that makes me cringe and/or want to sock her boyfriend in the nutsack. She’s surprisingly supportive of my blogging, writing, etc. She thinks it’s good for me.

However, she seems to be under the impression that blogland is an undercover dating thing. She made the comment “maybe you could find someone on there”. I got a good laugh out of that. I didn’t tell her that the only offers I’ve had for anything have been from women. Not that I’m complaining, of course. I’m not using this as a means to hook up with anyone, male or female. If I wanted to use the internet for dating, I’d join a website specifically for that (but they kind of freak me out, so I'd likely never do that).

I also didn’t tell her just how involved I’ve gotten with this. When I started I never thought of it as a way to make friends or gain support. I started because I was bored and just wanted to write. Once I began getting real feedback and interacting with some of you, I got a taste of what it would feel like to be what I’ve always wanted. I don’t presume to know what if feels like to be an accomplished author, but I would find it difficult to believe that they don’t need validation too.

I know for a fact that I’ve gotten better since I started. I’ve gotten more and more critical of my writing and consequently, I’ve improved. Though I know that and can admit it unashamedly, I’ve come to crave the comments and compliments from my readers. It’s a crutch I’m ok walking with for now.

Then, last but certainly not least, there’s my Aunt.

She began looking for my blog, at first without my knowledge. She’s a nosy sort, but she gets it honest (as do I). When she couldn’t find it she asked for the URL. At first I refused. I thought she would surely go back and tell the rest of my family about all the crazy shit I write. Then she switched tactics and just asked that I email her a post or two.

Naturally I realized the possibilities there. With an actual post it would be much easier for her to search keywords and find the whole blog. But confessed addict of validation that I am, I emailed her two posts anyway.

She liked them and asked for “access” to my site again. I confess I found it a tad amusing, a little terrifying, but more flattering than anything. After thinking about it for a bit, I decided that I would go over all of my archives and if there was something I didn’t want her to know, I’d remove it, then give her the URL. So if you notice some of my archives missing, that would be why. I didn’t even really mind deleting them. I’ve been doing this for a long time, after all. It’s not like starting completely fresh (which I would hate to do), it’s more like revamping. I think I needed to do it and after I started, I realized I didn’t much care if she knew more secrets than I had originally intended to share.

Now I have a reader that’s capable of bitch slapping me for writing something untoward, but it won’t have much of an effect. Don’t think that her reading will stop my open book policy. I warned her before she showed up that there might be things on here that could possibly make her uncomfortable. If she now knows more about my sexual activities than she’d like, it’s her own damn fault.

She’s had “access” for about a week now and so far there’s been no backlash. She might be alright after all. She thinks I’m funny, which isn’t really news to me. Of course I’m funny, Auntie.

Everyone say hello and welcome to my Aunt, will you? *Waves*

Anyway, as for the rest of you...

I’d like to say thank you for reading, commenting, lurking, stalking, and following. It means more than you know. Unless you’re being, you know, creepy about it.

Regularly scheduled nonsense will resume shortly.