blogging is weird

Ladies and that one guy:

I want to apologize for being sort of lackadaisical this last while. I even missed my two-year "blogiversary" (May 31)! I can't believe I've been rambling that long and nobody's pulled me off the stage with a hook yet! I don't have a great excuse for being kind of MIA. Just life. Things got busy with the book and then I got surgery and people were dying and all the while I was busting my ass at work, staying late and taking on extra projects in attempts to get a promotion. But, that's apparently not happening, like, ever, so now I can return to regularly scheduled programming. I'm just kidding. I still don't really feel like blogging all that much :) I don't know what it is. I have lots of things in my mind. It just seems like a lot of work to get them out on "paper" at the moment. And one thing I know is that it's not worth posting just because I feel like I "should." Those posts sound just like what they are: forced.

You know something else about blogging? I never know what's going to hit, and what isn't. For example, I'll post something that I think is just hysterical, and people are like, Meh. But then I'll write a post and sit on it for months because I think it's totally so-so (e.g., The Text That Almost Ended in Divorce), and I'll finally post it because it's been 2 weeks and I feel anxious about neglecting all 7 of my adoring fans, and then it totally goes off like gangbusters (and by gangbusters I mean 77 people read it instead of 7 ;))

Blogging is a very strange phenomenon. When I Still Just Want to Pee Alone came out, I finally came clean to my pops about the blog (he didn't have any idea about it before), and I was trying to explain what, exactly, a blog is and I was at a total loss. Me: "It's kind of like a personal website, sort of?" Dad: "And a lot of people do this?" Me: "Millions." Dad: "What do you write about?" Me: "Just random stuff. Life. Whatever." Dad: "And people actually read it?" Me: "Sometimes." And I'm in a continual state of awe that people do. Even my husband! He reads every word (well, most of the words), even though he never reads anything but legal stuff, and he says I'm only "funny for a girl." Which is why I feel bad when I slack, because I feel like people are counting on me, even if it's only a handful. I have so much love for you all. I don't want to let you down. But I also don't want to feed you bullshit fluff. And let's be honest, you'll probably survive without me ;)

And another thing - just FYI - if you're going to write an anonymous blog, you should ACTUALLY BE ANONYMOUS, or, alternatively, give zero fucks about whether or not people get ruffled tail feathers and/or chronic butt-hurt-itis (that's the medical term), because when people know who you are and you wish to stay married/friends/employed/a member of the family/out of jail, the list of topics from which you may comfortably choose is quite short. What I'm saying is, I can't share the good shit! Maybe I'll write it all down in some secret diary for my husband to publish posthumously. I apologize in advance for any butt-hurt-itis caused by the bestselling memoir published after my death.

Here are some other observations about blogging that I've made in the past 2 years:

1. Readers feel a certain ... ownership over you. Some feel entitled to regular, hilarious/poingnant/on-point content. And I can understand that. It's like how I feel when a favorite show ends or a favorite author hasn't written a new book in ages... personally let down. But it's this same reason that I sometimes get a little squeamish about pouring my heart and mind out on the internet. Once I put my thoughts out there, they're not really mine anymore. They become public property. And from time to time I have an almost physical sensation that I am giving away tiny little slivers of my soul. AND NOT EVEN GETTING PAID FOR IT. That's the real kicker. I would happily SELL my soul to the highest bidder. But this giving it away like spare change to the hungry homeless panhandler that is the internet, well, that's a different story ;) < Winky face to denote sarcasm. (Which reminds me of this great post by Renegade Mothering: People who can't read sarcasm are the antichrist.)

2. This ownership comes with expectations. This doesn't really happen to me very often or to a serious degree, because not that many people actually read what I write and the ones that do either agree with me, or are super gracious and don't disagree with me publicly, or disagree with me but don't care enough to say so. But now that I have some "famous" blogger friends I see it happen all the time - people are like, "Oh my God, how COULD you?!" Or "I thought you were better than this!" Or "I came here to see THIS sort of content, not THAT sort of content! Fall in!" And so on and so forth. I guess it happens when you have any sort of celebrity, no matter how large or small. And people seem to think it's justified - like, "You put yourself out there, so you should expect to get called names on the internet." Pretty sure Grandma and her Golden Rule would find some fault in that logic but whatever.

This reminds me of something I shared on Facebook recently - a post from Erin Brown by way of Pink Sky Serendipity in which she admits to hiding annoying Facebook posts (and friends) "liberally and happily." Nobody is pinning your eyeballs open and making you read this shit. As I said, I know we're not supposed to live in echo chambers, and I don't mean to discourage discursive exploration of important subjects, but sometimes you just have to shut the front door on that crazy ass jiggery pokery applesauce, for the love of god, my blood pressure, and everything that is holy. As Brown writes, "Do you. Whatever that looks like. Hold space for others to do the same. And if it bothers you, hide away. Sometimes good fences make good neighbors."

3. People believe that their opinions should have some bearing on your life. Listen, I (usually) like hearing what other people have to say, just for shits and giggles if nothing else. But I am not actually going to use a Facebook poll to determine whether or not to redshirt my son for kindergarten, or any other deeply personal decisions. Hey, thanks for playing, though!

4. People that don't know you think they do. I guess it doesn't take a world renowned psychiatrist to figure out why one creates a false sense of intimacy by over-sharing with complete strangers on the internet. But still. Dude. You don't even know my name. Well. Except the entire town of Calabasas and anyone who asks me three times.

5. People that do know you confuse The Real You with your online identity. Now, I'm pretty straightforward and honest in what I write, but I certainly hyperbolize for comic effect. And lately I've noticed that even people who do actually know me project the traits of Mackenzie Cheeseman onto The Real Me. So, let me just dispel some myths for you (ones that I may have helped to create):

* I do actually like a majority of vegetables. I mean, I'd rather eat bread, cheese, or fried tequila, but I don't trust anyone who wouldn't rather eat those things. I eat roasted root vegetables for lunch on a regular basis, and I only cry about it a tiny bit. And the tears are mainly just for the added salt. This whole joke came about because I DESPISE the two main vegetables that all vegetarians are supposed to love: Eggplant (“Hey, can I get a tiny purple pumpkin in the shape of human kidney that tastes like dirt?” ) and Portobello mushrooms (it's like a slimy fossilized chicken cutlet). Go to any wedding, or restaurant between California and New York, ask for the vegetarian entree, and what do you get? A kebab of viscous vegetables that taste like soil. Gag. Oh. And spaghetti squash. Hell no.

By the way. Today I ate a salad (of my own free will) and I didn't even finish the miniscule cuplet of dressing that was served on the side. But that last part's not a good example because The Real Me would never do that and I think I might be suffering from some mysterious blunt force trauma to my prefrontal cortex.

* I am not the worst cook in the world. I mean, I still abhor it with the strength of a thousand suns, make that a million suns since I had to start feeding tiny angry little food critics every night. And I am not a natural in the kitchen by any stretch of the imagination. But I am capable of preparing at least 5 different meals that will not cause severe gastric distress or get me banned from future potlucks.

* I do not sit rocking in the corner in social situations. Yes, I suffer from crippling anxiety leading up to any and all social events, but they are always way less stressful than I envision. Yes, I would rather pluck my eyelashes out one by one than engage in small talk with strangers at the park, but nobody but my closest loved ones (not even including my dad), and, well, all 7 of you, are aware of this. I have actual friends who don't just hang with me out of pity or as part of some sociological experiment (I think). And despite my little sister's assertion that I likely have Asperger's, people don't walk away from social interactions with me thinking, "Somebody get Temple Grandin her hug box." (No offense to Temple Grandin or anyone else on the spectrum, including my beloved nephew.) I may well have Asperger's. But I am extremely adept at pretending to be "normal."

* I claim to not like people, but I am actually quite nice. Like, too nice. Like, even when I don't want to be nice, accidental niceness bursts forth from my face like Athena, forceful and fully grown, from Zeus's forehead. "Omigod, I am so glad you finally got out of prison! That's such a bummer about the meth! Of course you can stay with us while you attempt in vain to pull your shit together! We've actually been looking for a new babysitter!" I'm exaggerating. This did not happen. But it totally could/would. However, I must admit, I probably reserve the least amount of patience and kindness for the ones I love the best. Sadly, isn't that always the way?

* I do not completely suck at life. Not to toot my own horn, but I'm probably more on top of it than most. This is not humble bragging. It's basically just plain bragging. But it is in the spirit of full disclosure and being real. I am an excellent friend. I am an above-average wife and mother. I am damn good at my job, such as it is. I get shit done. Sometimes. Granted, as I have lamented here before, motherhood has been an extended exercise in lowering my standards. But even still, I am at least 63% perfect Pinterest bitch. I plan over-the-top birthday parties, gift bags, soccer snacks, and teacher gifts. I just made jam and fruit-infused vodka from plums from our garden, for chrissakes.

I am THAT MOM. If you DID know The Real Me, you would probably hate me. (Or at least, you would want to, if I weren't so. damn. nice. ;))

The other day a friend wrote to me, "How do you do all this shit? And be a mom? And work? Tell me your secret, or I'm going to assume it's methamphetamines." The thing is, I'm really good at some things at the expense of others. I will spend hours, days even, painstakingly creating a scrapbook for a friend celebrating the impending arrival of a baby, or the loss of a loved one, but I have not gotten my teeth cleaned in 18 months. I write actual letters, religiously send thank you's, and make birthday cards by hand, but I have 20 unheard voicemails. I have completely designed and decorated my imaginary Mediterranean villa on Houzz, but I will leave towering piles of non-imaginary folded laundry in my garage for a month. I read for hours before bed, but I can't possibly find the time to pack lunches or meal plan ahead of time. I will cook an elaborate meal for someone in need, and feed my own kids chicken nuggets vaguely shaped like dinosaurs. I don't remember the last time I went to the market for anything other than a harried emergency run. Themed cupcakes and Oreo pops for every gathering? Hand-painted holiday mani/pedis? Absolutely! Regular excercise? Are you crazy?! Ain't nobody got time for that! I also SUPER SUCK at sleep, which is actually somewhat useful in the getting shit done department.

Anyway. At the end of the day, my priorities are FUBAR. And that's all there is to say about that.

One thing that is NOT a myth - I can't write something short and sweet to save my life.

not actually me, or my life, unfortunately.

Like this post? Then you'll love my essay in I Still Just Want to Pee Alone. Buy it HERE!

honest abe

warning: adult content. or maybe just WAY-TMI.

i remember when i was younger, i used to chide my mom about not regularly shaving her bikini line. growing up in sacramento where it is hot as bawlz every summer, we spent a lot of time in our swimsuits (also a lot of time in no swimsuits). i always cringed when moms strutted her "unmanicured lawn" loud and proud. especially in my teen years, i balked with embarrassment, and said something along the lines of, "like, omigod, mom, there are these things called razors?!" she assured me that, believe it or not, someday, keeping a perfectly trimmed bikini line would not be at the top of my priority list. my reply? "whatever." [insert teen eye roll here.]

of course, i also made a $50 bet with my mom that i would never, ever, under any circumstances (well, except maybe when i was pregnant) weigh more than 135 pounds. mom. wherever you are. i owe you $50, plus a shit-ton of interest. am i paying by the pound?

i'm still not brave enough to venture into public with wild bikini vegetation, but when i know the only people who are going to see it are legally obligated to love me, my standards deteriorate significantly. my girlfriend's story takes the cake though. she was already admittedly low maintenance, and has, apparently, let things slide a bit since having her first child. she recently told me about the time she and her husband were getting, ahem, "intimate" and he started to make his way down to her nether regions to do "the bizness." he pulled up short, stopping with his chin obscured by her topiary pink taco, and said "Four score and seven years ago..."

omg you guys. when she told me this story i definitely laughed and thought it was pretty funny but that was like, two months ago and i have to say at least once a week (mainly whenever i get around to trimming my own "lawn.") it pops unbidden into my head and i start snorting hysterically in the shower. so, sorry friend, that i think about your pubes on a regular basis :)

this is all reminding me of the time i went to a new waxing lady and she gave my hoohah a hitler mustache. it was not attractive.

apparently, prolific pubic hair is du jour. have you heard of the "reverse brazilian?"

i actually have a larger point here. we are busy. so busy. all of us. unless you live on an ashram in rural connecticut, in which case you are probably not reading this blog post about pubes, lucky you. but the rest of us, we are in the midst of a "time famine." not only do i not have time to keep my nether regions smooth as a baby's bottom, most days i don't have time or energy to shave both legs or make my hair not look like a homeless person's or remember to brush my teeth or actually fold the piles of laundry strewn about the house or ensure that my fridge is well-stocked with nutritional and delicious foodstuffs.

of course, the issue of time, and "free" time, is complex. the other evening i pointed out to DM that it was interesting that he had time to read my blog, but didn't have time for other quotidia. he replied that he couldn't do those other things while he was on the toilet. ew. but fair enough ;) i'm guilty of the same multi-tasking and prioritization. i spend at least 30 minutes every night reading for fun. usually more. i could be using that time to do chores, or organize my life, or exercise, but honestly, i just plain don't want to. reading in bed, while contrary to the stern advice of my sleep doctor, is one of my favorite things. it's my happy place. and i'm not willing to give it up.

another area i have really let things slide is actual human correspondence. my sister sends me threatening texts because i'll write her something but then not answer my phone when she calls 2.5 seconds later. but i can send a quick text while juggling children and dull knives and "spill proof" sippy cups. i can't say the same about an actual conversation. i can barely pay attention to what you are saying when you are two feet in front of my face. over the phone while i'm doing 19 other things? forget it. people say "oh but you have time to read and write your blog and upload 13,000 photos of your children, etc." okay, you're right. listen, if you want to talk to me at 6:01 am or 10:59 pm, or on my lunch break while i'm sitting on a curb waiting for my fancy overpriced hipster food truck burrito (these are the times i do those other things), then hey, i'm here for you. i'm all ears for the next seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds.

all of that is a really long way of saying, something's gotta give. as i recently wrote, i used to sort of kick ass at life, but that is but a distant memory. i don't know exactly when or how it happened, but i have lost control of the situation. i was talking to DM about it the other day, about what i could get rid of to pare down, simplify, get ahold of the reins again. my kids didn't come with a return policy, so that's a no-go. and honestly, as much as i bitch about the trials and tribulations of motherhood, i don't want to spend any less time with them. i'm already away from them 50 hours a week. they sleep 70 hours a week. that gives me 48 waking hours with my children. even if i want to throttle them for 3 6 12 of those 48 hours, i'm not willing to give any more of them up.

OMG, that reminds me - we are never going on date night ever again (at least, until next week ;)) the other day, jack was looking at this lacquered tray i made one craft night with a girlfriend (an evening that resulted in said tray being lacquered to her garage floor. whoops. martha stewart i am not.) it has old hula girl postcards on it. he said, pointing to one of the hula girls: "Dis is you, Mama." and then a surfer dude: "And dat one's Daddy." me: "Oh, where are you?" jack: "I'm nowhere. I got left behind wif da babysitter." SOB. saddest. thing. EH-VERRRRR. i think my heart is still bleeding :(((

also when they play "ironing man babies," which is like a combination of house, star wars, super heroes, and "the road" by cormac mccarthy. colby calls the babies "2" and "3 1/2" and/or "little" and "big." jack has dubbed them "Braysick" and "Claysick," and their middle names are "Fat" and "Jet." ha! but i want to cry when they lie their babies down to sleep on their boogie board beds and jack says, "I'm sowwy Bwaysick-Cwaysick Fat-Zshet, I know you arwe sad and I wiwll miss you so much, but we has to go to woik! Buh Bye!" then colby echoes "Mish you sho much Big-Littow! Gotta go Littow-Big! Byeeeee!" my kids' primary interaction with their own "babies" are fire fights, loss of life and limb, and abandonment. i tell you what, i am feeling super about my influence as a parent right about now!

of course, i could completely check out, go off the grid with respect to social media. i've dialed it down on my personal facebook page and it's amazing how ... liberating it is. but, you lose something, too. for better or worse, this is how people communicate these days. i suggested just giving up blogging, because it's more work than it probably seems. but DM pointed out that blogging actually appears to be a useful way for me to get the crazy Gordian knot of thoughts out of my insane little brain. and he's right. here's the deal, though. i've been doing this almost a year (!) and i really enjoy it. but i've realized a few things. the market is completely saturated. it takes more than luck to make it work. "legit" bloggers? the ones with big faithful followings and book deals? they don't mess around. they are out there making connections, shaking hands, attending conferences, seeing and being seen. they post on a regular schedule, do product reviews, find sponsors, reach out, get it done.

this blogging thing is, or can be, serious business. but i don't have the drive, the energy, or the hours in the day. still, i find myself stressing when i haven't posted in a week, or two, because the "blogging experts" warn that if you don't post regularly, you lose followers and interest. but i can't succumb to that. for me, blogging is just free therapy. and that's all i can afford for it to be. i want to write when i have time and have something to say, and not write when i don't. i love and appreciate each and every one of you who has come along for the ride - those of you who faithfully read and "like" and "share" each and every post, and those who visit only when they have absolutely nothing better to do. family and old friends who are obligated to at least pretend they read my ramblings, and new "friends" that i've never met "in real life" but i'm half in love with anyway. i hope you'll continue to accompany me on this adventure in whatever form it takes. but for year two, i'm clarifying my purpose: blogging to blog. hopes of a million dollar book deal, fame, world domination? out. making fun of myself, whining, catharsis, distillation of my frenetic thoughts? in. i want to keep loving it. i don't want to turn it into one more "should."

so, there you have it.

and, in honor of my impending one-year blogiversary, feel free to enter the giveaway, below! first prize of a $50 gift card to my Mecca - Le Tarszhay. second and third prizes - $25 amazon gift cards. the contest ends and winners will be announced on May 31, 2014, my official one year blogiversary!

thank you, friends!

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sorry not sorry

i read this article on slate a week or two ago. it was titled "'my life is a waking nightmare' - why do parents make parenting sound so godawful?" in case you can't tell from the title, the author ruth graham is complaining about the "uterus-shriveling posts" of "mommy bloggers" that she feels compelled to read while luxuriating in long, quiet bubble baths. and i get where she's coming from. i really do. before i had kids, the only thing i found more annoying than people gushing about the wonder of pregnancy, child birth and motherhood was people bitching about how hard it is to be a parent. i was like, hey, there's a pill for that! it's called birth control! (editor's note: said pill doesn't work unless you take it as instructed.)

graham also makes a decent point toward the end about the way that the faux "worst mom ever/parenting sucks/my kids are a-holes" genre, written primarily by "good" middle class moms, skews the public perception and draws attention away from real parenting problems. which kind of reminds me of an ex-boyfriend who would tell me, whenever i complained about anything, that i should be thankful i didn't have cancer and or lose my arms in a freak accident. and again. i get it. i've said it myself. we should "choose joy" when we can. but a gal can only step on so many legos before she snaps, you know? and the internet is kind of like your local indulgent late-night bartender, serving you another cold one, pretending to give a shit about your problems, and calling you an uber.

anyway, nobody is holding a gun to your head and making you read this crap. (the same can be said of me reading her post, i guess, or facebook arguments about how global warming is fake and obama is a knyan terrorist... and i know sometimes it's like watching a train wreck, you can't NOT read the stuff. but if it bothers you THAT much, maybe try? i know i do, for the sake of my own mental and physical health.) we'll leave for another day and/or professional therapy the issue of why any of us feel the need to write about our joys or sorrows at length in such a public forum.

this post was shared over 6000 times on facebook and has almost 1000 comments. it induced shock waves of "mom guilt" throughout the mommy blogger scene. (see, e.g., "you know it happens at your house too," whose author felt so bad after reading graham's article, she wrote a post of her own titled "parenting is," detailing the joys and challenges of parenting and attempting justify/explain the "inappropriate parenting humor and foul language" of the (anti)mommy-blog set.) and i get that too. one of my "child-free" friends once said that sometimes he wants kids but then he reads my emails and changes his mind. i felt sooooooo awful. my husband is always telling me to keep my yap shut around people who have yet to experience the "joys" of parenthood: "yeah, it's hard as f*ck, and they'll find that out soon enough. just let them live out these last halcyon days in ignorant bliss." i emailed all my friends who didn't have kids at the time, apologizing and trying to explain the simultaneous heaven-and-hell that is parenthood. (i discuss it at length in another post - the biggest mistake you will never regret.) one of my friends wrote back and said, "you are on crack. get off your high horse if you think your crazy ass ramblings have any actual bearing on our decision whether or not to have children." my other friend wrote, "have you always been this insane? or did the kids do this to you? i will add your points to my list of the pros and cons of procreation." ha. okay. point taken.

however, at the end of the day, you can take bubble baths and naps and buy pretty things with your expendable income and sit on the toilet without someone providing a running commentary of your bodily emissions and the "furriness" of your vagina, so i am unable to muster a whole hell of a lot of sympathy at this exact moment in time.

anyway. sometimes parenting can be difficult:

or disastrous:

or just plain shitty:

but it's not all bad. just look at the potential:

photo source: awkwardfamilyphotos.com