Funny That My Eyes ARE Literally Green

 So I'm reading a book (shocker, I know)

I've been thinking lately about my brain. About how I'm weird now, but I was SO weird when I was younger, and about how even if things were like now and there were diagnoses available, would I have gotten one? I feel like I had features of Borderline Personality Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, even a few of Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder, although only a few and very much not the main ones. And would it have made things any easier? 

(This book - it's a book about parenting, sort of.)

I have chronically low self esteem. I don't know why. My parents weren't mean. I was bullied in a sort of desultory manner by a few people in elementary school, but not for anything that would cause low self-esteem, probably more because I already had it (I know, I know, it's not my fault, but I can see that I put off vibes that were like blood in the water to anyone with the mildest bullying streak). I seem to have just been born with it baked-in as a really dumb feature. 

(I went to the actual bricks-and-mortar library to get the actual paper-and-glue book because it wasn't available as an ebook.)

At this point in my life, I can recognize that my low self-esteem is not rational. I'm fairly smart and capable, I do several things quite well, I'm a pretty good mother and I have a lot of really good friends who are most likely not just friends with me out of some fervent charitable impulse. Although I'm sure you can imagine that being my friend and thinking I'm smart and funny and nice and dealing with my much-improved but still-present self-denigrating narrative is super fun. 

Now let's spare a thought for the poor sonofabitch who's married to me.

(I requested the book because I saw it mentioned on Facebook and recognized the author's name.)

You all know I adored - still adore - my mother-in-law. She was funny and spiky and adored her boys and had her flaws as jesus god, don't we all, and she was an intentionally wonderful mother-in-law. I think we would have been friends if we'd met under other circumstances. Recently I had my second birthday since she died, and Eve graduated, and I felt her absence in an achingly physical way. Even when Matt and I were just dating, she was never mean or cold, never tried to make me feel like I had to live up to some standard to be worthy of her precious boy. Once we had kids she was always fulsomely complimentary about how good a mother I was. Even introducing me to people with my other sisters-in-law, the brilliant English professor and the brilliant MD PhD (I know, sucks to be me, right? And I can't even hate them because they're sweet and amazing people, it's total bullshit), she never undermined me in any way.

Except once.

I have such a clear memory of this - we were all in Brockville, to watch my youngest brother-in-law (although Matt and I weren't married yet - yes, Steph, I did wear Docs, and yes there is photographic evidence, I'm working on finding it) figure skate. Matt's parents, his two brothers, his grandparents. I was not in a great place in my life - I was working at an audio publisher for a mercurial, sometimes-abusive Irishman and the office manager had taken a dislike to me and whenever we went to meetings she made me ride in her car and smoked the whole way even though she knew I was allergic so I couldn't breathe and was nauseated by the time we got there. And I was young and not yet medicated for anxiety and depression, so I thought the fact that I wasn't happy was a personal failing rather than an understandable reaction. At some point, we were in their hotel room talking, and the name of an old family friend came up. "Ashley. Oh my goodness, Ashley is the best. So beautiful" - she looked at me speculatively, as if comparing our looks and feeling really sorry about how short I came up - "so smart, and so talented, and SO pretty." I nodded agreeably. My middle brother-in-law piped up helpfully "oh, oh, AND her sister is even prettier!"

In my head, this went on forever, and my soon-to-be-husband nodded sagely as if acknowledging the inescapable fact of my unfortunate non-Ashley-ness.

Ashley probably would have gone with blue

I know what's in my head is almost certainly garbage (I say almost certainly because, from what I've learned, Ashley is one of those people that people talk about like this, because she's smart and talented and beautiful, so, you know, fair enough). It's a  hilarious memory now, just because of its sit-com-like unsubtlety and the way my insecurity probably coloured it so differently from the way it happened. I know my husband doesn't want to be married to anyone else (regardless of how much easier it would make his life). I know my mother-in-law loved me and didn't wish for a different partner for her son. But I still couldn't shake this vivid memory.

So three guesses who this book is by. And it's an important, well-written, rightfully-celebrated book about a really tough set of circumstances.

It's so weird how you can use your brain to think about your brain, isn't it? And yes, how funny that talking about my low self-esteem, I've made someone else's book about her harrowing experiences all about me. Whatever, it's my blog. 

All I'm saying is, I had a LOT to unpack before starting to read. And yes, yes it is exhausting being me, thanks for asking. 

Clothes Make the Blog Post

 Matt and I went on a date and did shots!

No, wait. 

Matt and I went on a date and got shots!

The day of my last shot, I sat around nervously all day terrified I would miss my time slot and left an hour early. The days I was driving my parents for their shots, same.

Yesterday I ran around with Eve all day trying to find some decent black shoes for her abbreviated graduation ceremony tomorrow evening because we realized she only ever wears boots or flip-flops (my kid, obviously) and other than some super-fancy shoes for prom, she had nothing. We could maybe be forgiven this lapse if this was the first time this had happened, but, um, it's not.

So we went to a few stores without any luck, until we realized she didn't really know what she wanted, she just felt like maybe wearing her Docs for grad wasn't completely appropriate. To which I said, hogwash (I did, I used a quaint and un-profane epithet, you weren't there, you can't prove otherwise). I wore Docs for my wedding. What you wear for grad should be an expression of who you are, and that's who she is. So then we went to Garage so she could look for jean shorts (she's been happy that they've finally come out with longer ones) and of course there was a line up, and of course it was three million degrees out and humid. She was apologetic, but we were spending time together in her last week of school, and I didn't LOVE that that time was sweaty and overly bright, but the clock is ticking on her departure, so I didn't hate it either.

We also went to get balloons for a grad get-together on Friday. She said after "I love when you go up to sales people and you're all nice and they keep their passive sales-person voice up and I'm like 'no, you can drop the act, we're cool'". 

So on the day of my second shot, I roamed around in the ovenish heat all day, got home barely half an hour before we had to leave, washed my face and ate a banana. 

Eve dashed over to her friend's place to drop off the grad robe and hat we had ordered. She wore her cute new outfit.

But because she was concerned about getting the car back before we needed to leave, the back of the outfit looked like this:

Then Matt came down and said "I guess maybe I should change my shirt if we're going to the vaccination centre?'

The girl checking me in at the vaccine centre asked if I was okay getting Moderna. I said I'd take Windex if that was all they had. I spent my time in line reading other people's t-shirts. One of them said "Curling is the Bacon of Sports". I couldn't figure out what this was supposed to mean? It's the best? It's the crunchiest? It's for people with high cholesterol? Vegetarians can't curl? Matt said "I guess it could mean whatever you want it to" but I didn't want it to mean whatever I wanted it to, I wanted somebody to tell me what it meant! But it seemed inappropriate to yell "Hey Buddy, what does your shirt mean?" across to the other side of the line. 

I will now end this post with a bit of irony. 

No wait, I'm just going to go get Eve's grad robe and iron it. So just irony in the sense of the opposite of wrinkly. (I stole that from a t-shirt I gave my brother-in-law). 

Sun Salutations and Upward Dog

 I'm so glad I decided to post every Monday during the pandemic, while keeping track of how many weeks in we are and telling you all what I'm reading every week. It's really helped keep me on track.

OH WAIT, ha ha, that wasn't me, that was Nicole (HI NICOLE). I, on the other hand, have maintained my usual scattershot approach, which means every now and then I look up and two weeks have gone by, and I still don't know what the hell to blog about. Oh well, being a hot mess is kind of my brand, it's a little late in the game to try to change it up.

Let's see, what's going on with me? Same shit, different day. Since Friday we can get together outside in groups of ten again. So Friday evening we got together in a group of ten, obviously. I kept looking around and giggling and saying "guys? I DON'T LIVE HERE." 

My allergies are still pretty bad although slightly improved. My neighbour is having the same issue and we sit outside and drink margaritas and talk about how much we're spending on Hydrasense and how this is really the least fun of all the ways we've heard to shoot money up your nose. Also, I've never seen a frikking dolphin once. 

I've been having problems with my right knee, which has been problematic in the past but I had done physio and if I did my stretching exercises religiously it behaved, until it didn't. Nicole often gently suggests yoga and I always mean to do yoga, but somehow I never get around to doing yoga, and poor Nicole beats her head softly against the wall, and I went to physio and the nice lady said that my hip and hamstrings and everything are very tight and pulling my kneecap out of whack, resulting in inflammation, and I should focus on stretching my hip flexors and hamstrings and lower back and glutes and I said "so like....yoga?" and Nicole laughed and laughed (actually she was completely lovely and helped me find a good beginners program AGAIN because she is The Nicest Person in the World even when I make it really difficult).

Eve turned in her last English essay, which was supposed to be 'in her own creative voice', so she titled it "Hamlet is a Weenie", with my full approval. 

I had something really weird happen the first time I sat outside with my friend Jody for a drink when we could see people outside our own household. I sat there talking and looking at her face for a couple hours, and then when I went to the washroom I looked in the mirror and was freaked out that I didn't look like her. I think Zoom might have warped my self-image forever. 

I'm preparing to apply for a couple of jobs for the fall so naturally getting a head start on freaking out. I haven't done a job interview in three years! I don't know how to run a library! What if they want to interview me before I can get a haircut? Omg, did you guys know Mark Harmon is married to Pam Dawber? Like, Mork and Mindy Pam Dawber? Since 1987? And she guest starred with him in NCIS this year with half-grey hair because she said she couldn't get it dyed because of Covid? Which sounds super sketchy to me, because I thought things in the U.S. were way more opened up than us and come on, tv actors MUST be able to get their hair done. Well actually she called her hair "Covid-19 Platinum", so maybe she just decided to let it go gray. Anyway, her episodes were good and the whole thing was just kind of trippy. 

Here is a picture of my friends' dog looking like a big happy muppet, and my friend Tony looking inexplicably angry. 

I realize that calling this a blog post is a reach. But I'm supposed to be stretching anyway, ha ha, get it? I'll just be over here trying to blog and bend like Nicole, look like Jody, and embrace life like Scout. 

So Meta

 When Nicole (HI NICOLE) mentioned that her blog host was dumping smaller blogs and she had to find a new one, it reminded me of that time a few years ago when my blog got hacked and every time anyone entered the URL it sent them to some Russian art selling website. I had given passing thought to figuring out how to save blog posts before that - I knew that even though it seems like anything you put on the internet can be permanent when it might destroy your life, if it's something you actually want to have access to forever you can't necessarily count on it always being there. Anyway, it was a horrible feeling not being able to get to my blog. I went to the Blogger help forums and actually figured out how to find the bad code and erase it - I still can't actually believe it worked. Thank goodness it happened before perimenopause, because if the same thing happened now I think I'd just cry for a week and let it all go. Wait, no, I'd cry for a week, make my husband try to fix it, THEN let it all go.

Blog Picture from 2009

So I started saving blog posts, a month at a time. I've been blogging since January 2009, so that's, like, a hundred and... okay, twelve times... a lot of months. Plus, man, I used to blog a lot of times in a month back when I was all new and bright-eyed, with ideas and energy and a pre-menopausal vocabulary. 

Blog picture from 2010

I've said before that rereading my old blog posts makes it abundantly clear that I made the right call picking up blogging rather than continuing trying to write fiction. When I read my old fiction I am a literal convulsed ball of cringe. When I read my old blog posts I actually want to make friends with myself. Mostly. There are a couple of times where I clearly thought I was being terribly witty and it fell flat, and a couple of not-entirely-un-racist things I had to fix. But often I laugh literally out loud at myself, which is breathtakingly egotistical and yet hugely gratifying. 

Blog Picture from 2012

There were also a few broken links, and I was a bit chagrined about that at the time - like, how dumb was I, thinking they would be there forever? Then recently I read one of those really long internet essays by Anne Helen Petersen, the kind I usually see and save to read later and never do because, well, they're very long, and I don't love reading on a screen for that long. But I did read this one - exhaustively, followed all the links, went down a major Taylor Swift rabbit hole, watched a video for this song, which apparently was 'faux empowerment', and I guess I can see why, but damn it's catchy. And what do you know, some of the links went nowhere. I decided that it's kind of just part of the whole internet experience, and sometimes blogging reaches into the future and sometimes parts of it are of-the-moment and fleeting. The only time it made me really sad was when it linked to new winter pajamas I'd bought for the kids and I couldn't see what the patterns were anymore. I fixed the links I could and moved on.

Get it? It's a picture of a picture of my blog.

Sometimes I moved paragraphs around so there weren't big blocks of text. Sometimes I fixed a typo (I pride myself on being a good proof reader, but I also know it's really difficult to effectively proof read yourself, and omg, so many damned typos, wah, no, terrible). Sometimes I edited a bit to be more clear or funny, and then sometimes I wondered if I was creating anachronisms. I said "spoiler alert" for something in a post in 2009, and was 'spoiler alert' a thing in 2009? How married am I to maintaining authenticity? Well not at all if that means not fixing the typos. 

Blog Picture from 2013

Then there were the comments. Omg, the comments! Seventeen on one post sometimes! I had to double check that none of them were spam - NONE OF THEM WERE SPAM. This was where the broken links were really upsetting - there were these fabulous, funny, supportive people that I used to interact with weekly, and they would leave awesome funny comments and they would comment on each other's comments and it was so convivial and now they're just... lost to me forever? WTF is up with that? Honest Betsy? I LOVED Honest Betsy. And Gwen. And Bridget. Where did they go? And how could they not leave a forwarding address? Do these people not get how codependency works? Why are they so bad at it?

Blog Picture from 2014

It's a strange experience, going over the high points (or low points, or weird points, whatever was bloggable) of the last twelve years of your life. Some posts I remember clearly the minute I read the first few words. Some I have zero memory of at all - like one of my other personalities guest posted on my blog. 

Blog Picture from 2015

The blogging landscape has changed immensely between that first post and this, my -- holy shit -- one thousand four hundred and forty-eighth. That's okay. A lot of other things have changed too. It's easy to catch up on all the blogs I read regularly now, even if I fall behind, where it used to be almost impossible. Five comments or more is a bounty nowadays, and I am completely happy with that. As much as comments gladden my heart, I never wanted to be one of those giant blogs that gets hundreds of comments on every post. Or if I wanted it, I knew it wouldn't really make me happy. I would try to answer every single comment and make myself insane. I would say something stupid and go viral for stupidity. I would get tired and stop blogging and my hundreds of adoring commenters would turn on me. 

Blog Picture from 2016

I keep writing one more paragraph thinking I'll eventually lead myself to some sort of conclusion, but I don't actually want my 1448'th post to be my longest (although if I went a few more paragraphs we wouldn't be ending on a soft-core frog porn pic. Sorry.) At the risk of sounding like a Grey's Anatomy voiceover, I'm still here. With the rest of you who are still here. And it's a good thing. It's a beautiful thing.