One of my friends (who also happens to be a co-worker) who reads this blog
occasionally everyday (she reads it EVERYDAY?!) asked me today if I feel the need to edit myself when blogging. The answer? Yes. Yes I do. I don’t want to, and the point of this whole adventure was to not edit and, in fact, to be completely honest – it’s what I set out to do, but let’s face it. I’m a chicken shit. I’m afraid that if I write anything unflattering about my husband somebody will tell him and we’ll get in a big fight. I mean, c’mon, even if you’re in love and you just got married 3 months ago, you still have the occasional what the fuck moment – yeah? But do I write about them? Not here! And work? Work is one of my biggest problems, and I’d be willing to bet that at least 90% of people feel the same way about their jobs, but I’ve heard of folks getting fired for blogging/facebooking/twittering about work, so I’m deathly afraid of saying anything at all, be it disparaging or not, about where I work, who I work for or what I do there. Especially because a couple of months ago there was a round of layoffs. And since then a lot has changed ‘round those parts. And that’s all I’m going to say about it (until I get fired and then I will SPILL THOSE BEANS Y’ALL).
Anyway – it got me to thinking. I follow a couple of blogs, and these ladies don’t hold back (at least, I don’t think they do, I’m not sure how much more explicit they could get so I’m assuming they don’t) – so will I ever get to that point? Like, after a few months (years) will I just be all like “and then I farted”– you know? I guess we shall see. Until then, yes, I am editing. Lots of times I want to bawl about my weight problem and how mean my parents were when I was a kid and whine about how my husband talks on and on about guitars and guitaring and guitar players, but so far I haven’t. Until NOW. (in my head that was said in that creepy, deep, man-voice like the guy who does all the voiceovers for ridiculous shows on television – WHEN GOOD SNAKES GO BAD – JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT IT WAS SAFE TO GO BACK IN THE JUNGLE). Right. So here goes…
My weight? I hate my body. I hate it I hate it I HATE IT. I have gained 30lbs in the past year from eating too much and exercising very little (never, okay?! NEVER! I loathe exercising!!), and I hate it. I love it when I’m skinny and people notice it. I do! It’s awesome. But lately I just can’t get motivated. I also walk a very thin (ha! get it?) line between having an eating disorder and being normal. I know, I’ve mentioned it before, so I won’t go into details I’ll just direct you here, but this means that daily, seriously DAILY I obsess about my weight and dieting and not-dieting so I won’t binge and my weight and my huge pants and my huge butt and my torpedo tits and MY WEIGHT and not wanting to be seen naked (which, if I’m not editing I can tell you, sorta puts a damper on your sex life) and the voices never shut up until I go to sleep. If I could have every hour of my life back that I have wasted hating my body and comparing myself to other people and agonizing over every morsel of food that goes into my mouth…
My parents? They divorced when I was 9 years old. Up until that point my kidhood was gloriously kid-like – filled with Pound Puppies and Care Bears, Barbies marrying GI Joes, playing outside all summer with fafillions of neighbor kids, watching cartoons, homemade chocolate chip cookies all the time and a stay-at-home mom taking care of everything. Then – Divorce. Crisis. Gnashing of teeth. Renting of garments (oh God I just thought of a few horrible Mormon jokes I could throw in, but I am editing those). It was pretty much the end of the kidhood, really. My dad moved out to begin with, but after a couple of months my mom had a nervous breakdown (her words, not mine) so they switched places. All I remember about the next 3 years is being afraid of my dad. He had (has) mental problems (his words, not mine, and if you’ll recall, I myself have mental problems so I’m clearly not judging – he’s the first person I call when the horrible, black ocean starts edging in) and though I didn’t know this until much later, was suffering from such a horrible depression at the time that he contemplated suicide. Sadly, children neither know nor understand these things. We just thought he was mean with the yelling and the storming out and slamming the door and being gone for hours at a time. And my mom, well she decided it was time to be a teenager. Since she had married (at the tender age of 17) the only person she had ever dated and had been a stay at home mom (to FOUR EFFING KIDS) for 17 years, being divorced and suddenly unfettered was like a license to partay!!! for the first time ever. She tried on lots of different jobs, and lots of different men (not to say that she was a slut, I’ve probably slept with more people than she has – in fact, she probably wasn’t sleeping with any of them it was Orem effing UTAH for cripes sakes, but when you’re a child and your parents are dating it’s very bizarre and confusing). I’d go spend a weekend night at her apartment (which she shared with 2 much younger ladies who did not have or like children) and she’d go off to a church dance to hang out with her friends. So, I stopped going to her house. To me the whole experience was horrifying. I hated every minute of it. And I think it had a lasting effect on me, isn’t that what childhood is for? To fuck up the rest of your life? Just to be fair, I do have fond memories of those years as well, so it wasn’t all bad. My dad had neither the time nor the inclination to cook much, so we had Dominos pizza every Friday night, no exaggerating. It got to the point where he would call them, give his last name and say “the usual” and they’d bring it on over in 30 minutes. And I looooove me some pizza. I also remember shopping for a new bed for my room around Christmas time one year and the John Denver/Muppets 12 Days of Christmas song came on the radio in the store and my dad did the Miss Piggy “BA DUM BUM BUM!!” part really loud and both of us dissolved into a fit of laughter (please note: this was an especially awesome moment because my dad suffers from a great fear of anybody seeing him do anything remotely abnormal in public, the man’s motto is There’s A Time To Be Silly And A Time To Be Serious, and trust me, the silly times are not to be witnessed by strangers). And my mom eventually came to her senses. After a few years living with Dad I moved back in with her because I was 12 and had already been subjected to purchasing my first bra with a father instead of a mother and I figured the whole period/tampon conversation would pretty much kill both of us. For a long time it was just the two of us, me and mom. We were poor as fuck, sometimes subsisting only on generic Cheerios and tuna fish sandwiches for weeks at a time, but we had some good times. Occasionally she would decide we needed a “mental health” day and would let me stay home from school, we’d drive to Salt Lake to visit her mom or go to Wendy’s and get taco salads. Did YOUR mom ever let you sluff school? (sluff is a Utah word that means to ditch/play hookey). So yeah. It wasn’t all bad.
How’s THAT for not editing? Oh yeah, my husband is a musician, he talks about guitar a lot. Sometimes so much so that I want to put my hands over my ears and yell LA LA LA, CAN’T HEAR YOU, LALALA!!! That’s all I have to say about that. I’m still not ready to talk about my marital problems.
I wrote all of that stuff up there earlier in the day, and now that I’m re-reading I feel that I need to add a few paragraphs of clarification about my relationship with the ‘rents. My parents are awesome, and my separate relationships with both of them, and with the people they have chosen to marry are excellent. Occasionally my siblings and I engage in a little griping – you know, the usual stuff about how nutty they are and why can’t they hear anything on the phone anymore, but really. I am in awe of them sometimes. Neither of them had what anyone would consider a normal upbringing, both had divorced parents in the 1960s when it was even less usual and customary than when they did it to us in the 1980s, and the Utah towns they grew up in were even smaller than Orem, where I was reared. Add to that the fact that my mom’s little brother died when she was 16 (and yo, if one of my siblings died I’d pretty much flip the fuck out), and that my dad’s mom was even nuttier than he ever was with us, it’s a wonder they became functional adults. Plus, they got married in their teens and had kids in their early 20s- in my teens and 20s I was a selfish asshole, drinking, smoking, complaining, fucking up a lot and feeling sorry for myself. So they’re fantastic. Is what I’m getting at. And someday when I have lots of money I’m going to buy them both houses and force my dad to quit his job.